studia etymologica cracoviensia 18

Transcription

S T U D I A
ETYMOLOGICA
CRACOVIENSIA
S T U D I A
ETYMOLOGICA
CRACOVIENSIA
18 (2013)
CONDIDIT ET MODERATUR
MAREK STACHOWSKI
KRAKÓW 2013
Editorial Board:
Marek Stachowski (Chief Editor)
Barbara Podolak (Secretary)
Tomasz Majtczak
Marzanna Pomorska
Michał Németh
Kamil Stachowski
Advisory Board:
José Andrés Alonso de la Fuente (Vitoria-Gasteiz)
Michael Knüppel (Göttingen)
Jadwiga Waniakowa (Kraków)
Robert Woodhouse (Brisbane)
Viktor V. Levitskiy (Chernivtsi)
András Zoltán (Budapest)
Daniel Petit (Paris)
This volume appears thanks to the financial support of the Faculty of Philology and the
Institute of Oriental Studies of the Jagiellonian University of Kraków.
Please note that the abbreviation of Studia Etymologica Cracoviensia is SEC.
The contents and style of the articles remain the sole responsibility of the authors themselves. The editor declares the on-line version to be the original one.
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On editorial matters please contact the Chief Editor: Prof. Dr. Marek Stachowski,
ul. Barska 1/4, PL – 30-307 Kraków; e-mail: [email protected];
fax: (+48) 12 422 67 93.
Books for review and contributions for publication should be sent to the editor.
ISBN 978-83-233-3552-8
ISSN 1427-8219
Copyright © 2013 by Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego
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It is with great sorrow that we have to report
the death of our friend and colleague
VIKTOR VASILYEVICH LEVITSKIY
(02.04.1938 – 06.09.2012),
who died after a long battle with cancer.
A devoted linguist of exceptionally broad horizons,
a diligent writer and a helpful colleague,
he will for ever stay in our thoughts
and we will constantly miss him.
CONTENTS
Articles
John CONSIDINE: English guides to etymology from Skeat to
Durkin ..........................................................................................
Przemysław DĘBOWIAK: Le fou est-il vraiment fou ? Les noms des
figures d’échecs dans les langues romanes ..................................
Piotr GĄSIOROWSKI: Gruit grus: The Indo-European names of the
crane .............................................................................................
Guillaume JACQUES: La racine * h2 - en Sanskrit : vāma-, vāra-°,
vayati ............................................................................................
Viktor LEVICKIJ : Lat. servus ‘Diener, Sklave’, slav. *orbъ ‘Sklave, Waise, Kind’, slav. *sirota ‘Waise’ .......................................
Michał NÉMETH: New perspectives in Karaim etymology? The origin of Lutsk Karaim kemec ‘1. soldier; 2. Russian (person)’.......
Dariusz R. PIWOWARCZYK: The story of Caesar revisited ............
Luciano ROCCHI: Vormeninskische Ergänzungen zu Stanisław Stachowskis “Beiträge zur Geschichte der griechischen Lehnwörter im Osmanisch-Türkischen” ....................................................
Kenneth SHIELDS, Jr.: Linguistic typology and the Indo-European
causative .......................................................................................
Magnús SNÆDAL: Gothic balsagga* ................................................
9-40
41-49
51-68
69-82
83-90
91-103
105-110
111-145
147-152
153-159
Polemics and review articles
Michael KNÜPPEL: Stellungnahme zu V. Blažeks Besprechung eines Beitrags zum “Makro-Altaischen”.........................................
Marek STACHOWSKI: David L. Gold’s English, Jewish and other
etymologies ..................................................................................
161-166
167-195
Studia Etymologica Cracoviensia
vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.001.0938
John CONSIDINE (Edmonton)
ENGLISH GUIDES TO ETYMOLOGY
FROM SKEAT TO DURKIN
Abstract. This paper examines six guides to the etymology of English, written for nonspecialist readers between 1887 and 2009. Four are by etymological lexicographers (two
by W. W. Skeat and one each by Anatoly Liberman and Philip Durkin) and two by philologists with strong etymological interests (A. S. C. Ross and W. B. Lockwood). The
paper seeks to present their contents, to compare them with each other, and to contextualize them both in the internal history and in the social history of scholarship.
Keywords: etymology, non-specialist guide, English, history of linguistics.
i. m. Patrick Considine
1. Introduction
The social history of the etymological study of English has never been
written. This paper seeks to sketch one narrative thread in this unwritten history,
by examining the series of non-specialist guides to English etymology which
begins with W. W. Skeat’s Principles of English etymology (1887-1891) and
continues to the present day with Philip Durkin’s Oxford guide to etymology
(2009). They do not comprise a large set; after Skeat’s major work and his
shorter Science of etymology (1912) came A. S. C. Ross’s Etymology (1958)
and, after another long interval, W. B. Lockwood’s Informal introduction to
English etymology (1995); then in 2005, Anatoly Liberman’s Word origins …
and how we know them: Etymology for everyone, and four years later, Durkin’s
Oxford guide.1 This list could have been lengthened by including Alfred Bammesberger’s English etymology, published by Carl Winter of Heidelberg in 1988,
but this is very much an undergraduate text rather than an introduction for a
larger public (there are also, of course, many other specialized books on aspects
of English etymology for academic readers). It could also have been lengthened
by including collections of word histories in which relatively little is said about
1
The ellipsis in the title of Liberman’s book is present in the original.
10
JOHN CONSIDINE
etymological principles, such as Ernest Weekley’s The romance of words
(1913); books about the etymology of languages other than English, notably
John Peile’s early Introduction to Greek and Latin etymology (1869); very elementary texts for schoolchildren, such as James Martin’s little Scholar’s handbook of English etymology (1877); or introductions to etymological dictionaries.
It might have been supported interestingly with an account of guides to the etymologies of other languages (cf. Malkiel 1993: 38-39). But as it stands, it gives
a sense of some of the themes and tensions in the study of English etymology as
presented to non-specialists in England.
There were, of course, English etymological dictionaries and etymological
speculation about English before Skeat (for the dictionaries, see Liberman
1998a: 24-42, 54-55). As early as Stephen Skinner’s Etymologicon linguae anglicanae of 1671, English readers with moderate fluency in Latin could study 66
pages of “prolegomena etymologica,” beginning with the demoralizing statement that “All the vowels in all languages are readily interchangeable … Nearly
all the consonants sometimes substitute for each other in this language or that:
but this latter case is much less common than the former.”2 In the next two centuries, works like James Parsons’ Remains of Japhet (1767), Jacob Bryant’s
Analysis of ancient mythology (1774-1776) and Horne Tooke’s Diversions of
Purley (1786-1805) offered their readers a wealth of highly imaginative etymological argument.3 But the work of this period has very little to do with that expressed in Skeat’s Principles and its successors. A turning point in the social
history of the etymology of English can in fact be located around the 1870s.
This period may seem rather late. As early as 1792, Sir William Jones had
protested “against the licentiousness of etymologists” – he had Bryant particularly in mind – “in transposing and inserting letters, in substituting at pleasure
any consonant for another of the same order, and in totally disregarding the
vowels.” He proceeded to make up an example:
for such permutations few radical words would be more convenient
than CUS or CUSH, since, dentals being changed for dentals, and palatials for palatials, it instantly becomes coot, goose, and by transposition, duck, all water-birds, and evidently symbolical; it next is the goat
worshipped in Egypt, and, by a metathesis, the dog … (Jones 1792:
489)
2
3
Skinner 1671: sig. D3r, “Vocales omnes in omnibus Linguis facile invicem commutantur … Consonantes fere omnes sibi in gac vel illa lingua aliquando cedunt, hae
autem longe rarius quam illae.” For Skinner, see Considine 2009a: 124-132, and for
the bon mot which developed from statements like this about the places of the vowels and consonants in etymological research, see Considine 2009b.
For Horne Tooke’s, see Aarsleff 1967/1983: 54-76.
11
This invented example was not, as Hans Aarsleff has remarked (1967/1983:
130), “an extravagant specimen of eighteenth-century etymology” – nor would
it have been out of place in much of the nineteenth century. In 1828, Noah
Webster explicitly rejected Jones’s argument in this passage (Micklethwait
2000: 164-166). The best English dictionary of the first half of the nineteenth
century, that of Charles Richardson (serialized 1818-1845, and published in two
volumes 1836-1837), was informed by Tookean etymological principles.4 Schoolchildren in the 1850s were told that “In seeking the origin of words, we seek
their source in nature” (Handbook 1854: 302). Some later writers show a retrogression from the positions of Webster and Richardson, let alone the more advanced position of Jones. Here is an etymology, comparable to Jones’s facetious
invention but seriously advanced, from A. Tuder’s My own philology, published
in 1866 by the perfectly reputable Trübner & Co.:
The statue of Janus holds in his hand a key; we must not accept
of any given meaning for this “sign” … we shall repeat that the key is
held as “a sign,” “le signe,” “le cygne,” “the swan,” “Anas,” “Je Anas,”
“J’anus.” The key, therefore, appears to be a hieroglyph denoting the
name of the holder. (Tuder 1866: 10)5
The title of Tuder’s little tract does suggest that its author knew its argument to be idiosyncratic, but six years later, Trübner published an almost equally adventurous piece, The Hebrew or Iberian race, including the Pelasgians, the
Phenicians, the Jews, the British, and others, which was advertised as being
“based on a comprehensive view of a great number of connected and unquestionable facts,” and forming “a master-key to theology, religion, ethnology, and
philology.”6 Its author, Henry Kilgour, had written a pamphlet in the previous
decade with the object of proving that nitrogen was not an element but a form of
carbon dioxide; this claim had not been generally accepted, and he had turned to
ancient history and etymology instead. Typical of his etymological arguments is
the claim that
The Br in Bretagne, like the Br in Bruttii or Brettioli in Italy, is, it
is submitted, a contraction of Eber … It may be further observed as to
Bretagne that the Veneti, who were a commercial race of obvious de4
5
6
For Richardson and Tooke, see Aarsleff 1967/1983: 249-252; for the publication
dates of Richardson’s dictionary, see Considine 2010: XVII.
Tuder’s identity is obscure. With Frederick Tennyson, brother of the poet, he prepared a work of esoteric Masonic speculation, Henry Melville’s Veritas, for its posthumous publication in 1872.
NQ 5th ser., 4, 28 August 1875, verso of preliminary leaf.
12
JOHN CONSIDINE
scent from the Phenicians, lived there in Caesar’s time, showing that
the Brets or Veneti were the same people, and clearly proving their
common origin from the Hebrews or Phenicians. (Kilgour 1872: 13)
This, like Kilgour’s arguments about physical chemistry, fell flat. The only
reference to his book which I have found anywhere is in a Chilean publication
of 1873, where a summary of its argument is followed by the remark “No me
parece necesario refutar un idea tan estraña” (Philippi 1873: 434).
Expert opinion, then, was against arguments like those of Tuder and Kilgour by the 1860s and 1870s. But having said that, we should note that in those
decades, expert opinion had its own divisions. The best recent English etymological dictionary of English available to Kilgour would have been that of Hensleigh Wedgwood, published – by Trübner again – in 1859-1865, with subsequent editions in 1872, 1878, and 1888.7 This
enjoyed considerable popularity in the pre-Skeat epoch, but the philologists found fault with it from the start, and for a good reason.
Wedgwood, quite consciously, ignored sound laws and concentrated
on sound symbolism and onomatopoeia. However, the success of
comparative philology made recourse to such impressionistic theories
of word origins obsolete. (Liberman 1998a: 37)
Wedgwood’s clashes with Skeat are mentioned by Liberman, and not without sympathy: his Contested etymologies in the dictionary of the Rev. W. W.
Skeat (1882), dismissed by a contemporary critic as appearing, unforgivably, to
show “no notion of the phonetic laws of the Indo-Germanic languages” (Zupitza
1883: 253), is for Liberman “an insightful criticism” (1998a: 37; repeated idem
2005: 241). But it is not Wedgwood to whom I now wish to turn as a foil for
Skeat, but Kilgour. Skeat’s Principles were not written exclusively for members
of the Philological Society, as he and Wedgwood were, but for a larger readership, the educated non-specialists of later Victorian England who read widely
popular books like R. C. Trench’s On the study of words (1851; 15th edition
1874) or Max Müller’s Lectures on the science of language (1861; 7th edition
1875) or Wedgwood’s dictionary, and, in Skeat’s opinion, needed help in the
direction of their real but ill-informed interest in etymology. Henry Kilgour was
an articulate representative of that extensive class.
7
Of the first edition, Vol 1 (A–D) is dated 1859 and was available by 24 December
1859 (NQ 2nd ser. 8: 524); Vol 2 (E–P) is dated 1862 and was likewise released in
December (Allibone 1859-1871, s.n.); Vol 3 part 1 (Q–S) is dated 1865, and part 2
(T–Z) is dated 1867.
13
2. Henry Kilgour and W. W. Skeat:
the old and new schools of English etymology meet in 1875
Kilgour’s encounter with Skeat took place in the pages of Notes and Queries. Since its foundation in 1849, contributors to this journal had used its pages
to ask learned or antiquarian questions, to answer those which had been posed
by others, or to put small items of useful information on record.8 On 30 January
1875, the Irish antiquary and lexicographer of dialect William Patterson published a note on the word fangled, remarking that it is variously explained in
dictionaries and glossaries, and that in the north of Ireland it is used to mean
“caught up” (NQ 5th ser. 3: 85-86). On 13 February, Skeat published a short
reply, explaining the relation of fangled to OE fangen “catch hold of” (cf. Ger.
fangen), and the development of new-fangled “displeasingly novel” < newfangel “apt to catch at new things” < new + fangel “apt to catch” < fang- + -el, a
suffix forming deverbal adjectives which signify aptness to perform the action
of the verb (NQ 5th ser. 3: 133). On 27 March, Henry Kilgour replied that the
“asserted connexion” of fangled with the sense “to catch” was “not very apparent” and asked “Is ‘fangle’ and ‘fangled’ not, therefore, essentially the same as
‘fashion’ and ‘fashioned’?” His point was that new-fangled contrasts with oldfashioned as new-fashioned does not, and that there is no form *old-fangled, so
that fangled would appear to be a variant of fashioned used only after the word
new. He went on to add condescendingly that “What may be termed ‘neat and
ingenious’ ideas are somewhat dangerous things in philology” (NQ 5th ser. 3:
258). This, understandably, irritated Skeat (who had, by the way, not used the
form of words “neat and ingenious”). On 17 April, he replied with a longer note
than his first. This began by reprising Kilgour’s argument, and continued with
steely politeness:
I beg leave to assure MR. KILGOUR that I most heartily agree with
him in his excellent suggestion that “neat and ingenious ideas should,
in etymological questions, be sparingly indulged in.” I would even go
further, and say that etymologists have no business with ideas of their
own at all … We do not want ideas, but facts. (NQ 5th ser. 3: 310)
Skeat then demolished Kilgour’s point economically, pointing out the robustness of the evidence for his own etymology of 13 February, and adding that
“I scrupulously avoided being influenced by ‘ideas,’ and contented myself with
merely tracing the history of the formation of the word” (ibid. 310-311). His
comments on the relationship of “ideas” and “facts” were surely directed to8
An overview of the journal in its early years is given by Leary 1999.
14
JOHN CONSIDINE
wards the argument of the moment: by no means was Skeat a mindless empiricist, but in this particular polemic his target was Kilgour’s taste for groundless
speculation. “This brings me,” he continued,
to the great principle I wish to draw attention to, viz., that the publications of the Early English Text Society, the investigations of Mr. Ellis,
the strictly scientific methods pursued at the present day in Greek and
Latin etymology, and other similar aids, are fast tending to revolutionize, none too soon, the whole study of English etymology. (ibid. 311)
Skeat had some professional connection with all three of the aids to English etymology which he named (by professional I refer to his contributions to
philology rather than the mathematical lectureship which he held until his election to the professorship of Anglo-Saxon at Cambridge in 1878). The Early
English Text Society had since 1864 been publishing editions of Old English
and Middle English texts, several of them edited by Skeat; the first four parts of
A. J. Ellis’s On early English pronunciation (co-published by the Early English
Text Society) were now available; Skeat himself had published his Hand-list of
some cognate words in English, Latin, and Greek, with reference to the pages in
C rti s’s “Gr ndzüg ” in 1871. Contributing to English etymology, Skeat implied, was no longer the business of amateurs capable of noting a similarity between two forms: it was that of trained scholars, with access to and an understanding of an increasing body of published material in Old and Middle English,
and with some understanding of phonetics, and with a fair acquaintance with
continental European comparative philology as practiced by Georg Curtius and
his peers.
3. W. W. Skeat’s Principles of English etymology (1887-1891)
However, the revolution in English etymology which Skeat saw as under
way in 1875 – in effect, its professionalization – was not meant to withhold an
understanding of etymological work from the interested amateur as represented
by Kilgour. Providing that understanding could hardly be done in a series of ad
hoc exchanges; indeed, Skeat’s remarks of 17 April 1875 did not crush Kilgour,
who replied within a month that he was not convinced (NQ 5th ser. 3: 392).
Skeat’s great etymological dictionary was published in four parts between 1879
and 1882.9 It was enriched with a number of prefatory notes and appendices in9
Part 1, A–Dor, was reviewed by Henry Sweet in the Academy on 12 July 1879; part
2, Dor–Lit, had been published by 29 November 1879 (NQ 5th ser. 12: 439); part 3,
Lit–Red, was newly available on 31 July 1880 (NQ 6th ser. 2: 100); part 4 was ad-
15
cluding two pages of “canons for etymology” (XXI-XXII). This liminary material
(on which see Malkiel 1993: 31-32) suggested the editor’s interest in going beyond the presentation of a basic wordlist, and led naturally to his compilation of
a full-scale companion work, his Principles of English etymology, in two volumes, “The native element” (1887) and “The foreign element” (1891). Never
before or since has the subject of English etymology been discussed with such a
degree of personal authority, for Skeat was the first person to write a complete
etymological dictionary of English which was founded upon good scientific
principles, and therefore to have thought clearly about the etymology of almost
every significant word in the language, and he was the last person to undertake
such a dictionary without having a scientifically adequate predecessor to rely on.10
Just as Skeat’s Etymological dictionary “was undertaken with the intention
of furnishing students with materials for a more scientific study of English etymology than is commonly to be found” (Skeat 1882: V), so the preface to the first
volume of the Principles began with the remark that “The present volume is
intended to serve as a help to the student of English etymology” (Skeat 1887: V).
That student was not defined further, but he need not have been in statu pupillarii: the word might refer to a person who studies at any level, and Skeat must
have had students like Henry Kilgour in mind. (To be sure, etymologically inclined correspondents of Notes and Queries did not always read the Principles
once they had been published: “I have explained all this in my ‘Principles of
English Etymology,’” Skeat wrote in a reply to a claim that English could not
be connected with Angle in 1889, “but I suppose I must repeat some of the instances” [NQ 7th ser., 7: 190].)
The student who did read the Principles was introduced to the subject of
English etymology by gradual steps. Native and borrowed words were discriminated in the first two chapters, and the third and fourth sketched the dialects of
Middle English and Old English respectively: no subsequent guide would be as
scrupulous in foregrounding the diversity of English at the outset (Skeat had
used dialect material for the purposes of comparative philology as early as his
Hand-list of some cognate words of 1871, and was the founder of the English
10
vertised as newly available in The Times, 6 May 1882, together with the dictionary
as a whole, and also Skeat’s Concise etymological dictionary. An appreciation is in
Liberman 1998a: 42-45.
The principles on which the first edition of the Etymological dictionary was founded
were not, it may be added, perfectly developed. The American philologist Albert S.
Cook, who had lately been a student of Sievers at Jena (see Cook 1885: VII), noted
that at his worst, Skeat was “defiant of progressive and regular sound-change” and
that he “shows too marked a leaning toward the onomatopoeic theory of which
Wedgwood is one of the foremost expounders” (Cook 1880: 204, 206), and similar
criticism is in Sweet 1879: 35. So, Malkiel 1993: 31, “taking into account whatever
had in the meantime been accomplished on the European continent,” is generous.
16
JOHN CONSIDINE
Dialect Society). The material on Old English dialects concluded with discussion of a passage from a late West Saxon gospel translation, which begins with
the OE word sóþlic “truly” (cf. ModE sooth). The shift exemplified here from
OE /oː/ to late modern /uː/ led Skeat into a fifth chapter on the OE long vowels
and diphthongs and the medieval and modern English vowel systems; then a
sixth on the Germanic languages and the Germanic origins of the OE vowelsystem; and then a seventh on the wider Indo-European context of the Germanic
languages, and on Grimm’s Law. The eighth and ninth chapters continued the
treatment of Grimm’s Law and introduced Verner’s Law; the tenth and eleventh
turned to ablaut; the twelfth handled prefixes and suffixes of Germanic origin;
and the thirteenth and fourteenth turned to suffixes for which fuller sets of IndoEuropean cognates could be traced. Having examined the Indo-European etymologies of derivational suffixes, Skeat proceeded in the fifteenth chapter to a
quick sketch of the reconstruction of PIE roots, of which a list had been presented as an appendix to the Etymological dictionary; Malkiel (1993: 32) notes
the inheritance of this feature by the late twentieth-century American heritage
dictionary. A change of direction saw modern English spelling being treated in
the sixteenth chapter, with remarks on etymology and spelling which were appreciated by reviewers (e.g. in The Academy, 24 December 1887, 427; NQ 7th
ser., 4: 338-339). Phonetic alphabets, namely A. J. Ellis’s “glossic” and Henry
Sweet’s “romic,” were presented in the seventeenth chapter. The eighteenth
treated the consonant system of English. The nineteenth, twentieth, and twentyfifth dealt largely with phonological change and its effects, and the twenty-first
to the twenty-fourth with early loanwords from Latin, and with loanwords from
Celtic, Scandinavian, and Low West Germanic languages.
The emphasis on phonological material was not idiosyncratic: we may
compare Malkiel’s observation (1993: 19) that in Curtius’ Gr ndzüg d r gri chischen Etymologie, “the collocation of … etymological anecdotes has been so
planned as to illustrate not the various patterns of lexical transmission … but the
scheme of sound shifts.” Skeat was providing his reader with a toolbox for the
tracing and linking of forms, rather than with a full and balanced account of etymology in which semantic development would be proportionally represented,
and he was reacting against would-be etymological associations of form and
sense which could be shown to be impossible on etymological grounds. A similar sort of toolbox had been provided to a different set of students in the form of
the Introduction to Greek and Latin etymology of Skeat’s colleague at Christ’s
College, Cambridge, John Peile, whose help in the writing of the Principles
Skeat acknowledged (1887: IX). But there is a difference between the two
books. Peile’s Introduction is lucidly arranged: after an introductory chapter on
the principle of phonetic change, the concept of PIE is introduced; there is a
chapter on “the Indo-European alphabet,” i.e. PIE phonology; “dynamic
17
change,” consisting of reduplication and ablaut, is distinguished from “phonetic
change,” and both are treated in that order, the long section on phonetic change
being divided into treatments of the vowels and then of the consonants. By contrast, Skeat’s ordering of chapters was, as we have just seen, associative rather
than systematic.
Indeed, the whole first volume of the Principles had a relaxed and even
genial quality. In it, and particularly in its footnotes, Skeat’s voice is to be heard
as if in a public lecture. He offers obiter dicta: “The true student of etymology
expects to be able to explain all changes in a word’s form by help either of
economy of effort or of mental association” (350). He anticipates his students’
reactions to what he says: the statement that Chaucerian spelling is “not greatly”
different from that of the late nineteenth century “may seem a little startling at
first” (307). He admits small mistakes and limitations of his own, acknowledging that in the PIE forms he cites from Fick’s V rgl ich nd s Wört rbuch der
indogermanischen Sprachen “the vocalism, as there given, needs reform, and I
do not know that I have always set it right” (126 n 2), remarking that although
“a list of over 100” OE words beginning with p and at least possibly of native
origin has been compiled, “I have lost the reference to this article” (118 n 1),
and noting again as he cites inmake as an early variation of inmate that “I have
unfortunately lost the reference for this form” (357 n 1).11 He notes the mistakes
of others with fairly good-humoured indignation: when “Webster’s Dictionary”
(i.e. the etymologies contributed to the edition of 1864 by C. A. F. Mahn) derives OE fóda < fédan, “how are we to trust an etymologist who does not even
know this elementary lesson, that the A. S. [OE] é is a mutation of a preexistent
ó, and who thus ignorantly reverses the true order of things?” (211). He excuses
a mistake by the scholar who endowed his own professorship of Old English: “I
owe so much to the bounty of Dr. Bosworth that I wish to clear him from blame
in this matter” (47 n 1). The tone of these passages, combined with the great
wealth of valuable material which Skeat sets out, suggests why the Principles
should have been dear to readers – as it was to my father, the comparative philologist Patrick Considine, who said as he gave me his copy towards the end of
his life that it had been one of his favourite books.
The second volume of the Principles is similar enough to the first in quality for us to treat it more briefly. Its first twelve chapters cover the French contributions to English, including a detailed and pioneering treatment of Anglo11
The list of words beginning with p may have been Scott 1882, though this only marshals 15 native and Scandinavian-derived OE words beginning with p plus 48 of uncertain origin, which as Scott notes (l) “offer a tempting challenge tu [sic] the etymologist.” Skeat had doubtless seen inmake in 1884, in NQ 6th ser. 9: 183, where it
appears in an article immediately before one which takes issue with his etymology
of scullery.
18
JOHN CONSIDINE
Norman: Skeat hoped that his work on this subject would “stand hereafter in the
record of my few good deeds” (NQ 7th ser. 10: 98). They are followed by chapters on Latin, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Greek, and by one on affixes
from Latin and Greek, with brief references to their PIE antecedents; then come
chapters on words from the Slavonic, Iranian and Indic, and Semitic languages,
and from other languages of Eurasia and Oceania, the languages of Africa, and
the languages of the Americas. A penultimate chapter “On some false etymologies” is followed by “Canons for etymology” which reprise those of the Etymological dictionary, ending with a strikingly heartfelt personal statement: in etymology, “we seek to give an account of the TRUE origin of a word,” and
you can only assist etymological research by carefully refraining from
all suggestions of what is false. “Brilliant invention” is to be carefully
eschewed; it is only another name for lying. But patient investigation,
with a resolve to come at the truth, is a training that at once instructs
and ennobles; and is in absolute harmony with the highest aim even of
religion itself, which can offer mankind no greater reward than to
guide us all, in due time, to a perfect knowledge of the whole, the living, and the eternal TRUTH. (1891: 462)
The reviewer of the first volume of the Principles in The Academy (24
December 1887, 427) – can this have been Henry Sweet, who had reviewed the
second edition of Wedgwood’s Dictionary of English etymology and the first instalment of Skeat’s Etymological dictionary for that journal? – thought well of
the book, but was critical of some of its treatment of sound-changes. Compared
to their presentation in the dictionary, “the laws of vocalism have become far
stricter,” but they are still not always noted as clearly as they might be, and
account is not taken of recent work by Brugmann (vol. 1 of the Grundriss) and
Saussure (the Mémoir s r l systèm primitif d s voy ll s). So, for instance,
Skeat sees Lat. grān m as < *gar-num, evidently (as in the Etymological dictionary) < √GAR, i.e. *gar-no-m (cf. Curtius 1858-1862/1879: 176), rather than
< *gr-no-m (see Brugmann 1886: §533; Saussure 1879: 262-263). It is only fair
to say that Skeat was first and foremost a student of medieval English literature,
and not an Indo-Europeanist.12 So, his Principles were designed to ensure that
future statements about English etymology, whether made by the authors of
learned publications or by contributors to semi-popular ones such as Notes and
Queries, were consistent with the history of the English language – consistency
with the best Indo-European comparative philology was really another matter.
Almost the converse criticism to that printed in The Academy was made in a re12
The best account of his life is in Brewer 1996: 91-112.
19
view of the second volume in Notes and Queries, whose author felt that Skeat’s
treatment of etymological conjecture was unduly harsh: “We are inclined to believe that to the etymologist, as to other scientific discoverers, a chastened but
vivid imagination is a decided advantage” (NQ 7th ser. 11: 439).
Skeat’s Principles and its offshoots remained the standard work in their
field for more than half a century. A drastic abridgement of the first part was
published as A primer of English etymology in 1892, selling at 1/6 in contrast to
the 10/6 of each volume of the Principles.13 Another very slim volume, A primer of classical and English philology, had some basic material on Lautlehre, and
was used many years later by the lexicographer Eric Partridge, who will be
mentioned again shortly, as a guide to the “general principles” and “problems”
of etymology (Partridge 1963: 89): a strange choice. A new work, The science
of etymology, appeared in 1912, the year of Skeat’s death. It is directed at a less
ambitious kind of student than the Principles: “My great object, in the present
work, is to show how to make use of an English etymological dictionary” (1912:
35). So, rather than providing the reader with the information which is needed
by an active etymologist, the Science uses select examples to establish basic
principles in its first ninety pages, and to illustrate the relationship of English
with other Indo-European languages in its longer second moiety. It makes reference to the successive editions of the Etymological dictionary, to the Principles,
and even to the Primer, and makes no claim to originality of material: Skeat
supposedly said of it that “he hoped there was not a single new statement in the
book” (NQ 11th ser. 7: 39).14 In contrast to the Principles, it ends abruptly: so
much so as to suggest that Skeat may, at the end of a long life, and with his Placenames of Suffolk (posthumously published in 1913) to finish, not have found the
time or energy to put the finishing touches to his last book on etymology.
4. A. S. C. Ross’s Etymology (1958)
and W. B. Lockwood’s Informal introduction to English etymology (1995)
More than half a century passed before a successor to Skeat’s Principles
was attempted. This should not be surprising. There was only one realistic hope
of writing an etymologicon which would surpass the fourth and final edition
13
14
In the pre-1971 British currency, 1/6 was 0.075 British pounds and 10/6 × 2 was
1.05 British pounds. To put the sums in real terms, Roberts (1888) gives 1/6 as the
price of three weeks’ supply of tobacco, and 10/6 as the price of a pair of boots: a
poor man could have bought the Primer, but not the Principles.
Dictionary: Skeat 1912: 5-6, on the improvement of the etymology of cark between
the first edition and the second; 9, citing the list of words of Latin origin as presented in the fourth edition; 10, citing the lists of words of French and Greek origin;
etc. Principles: ibid. 1-2, 14, 20 n 1, 25, 36, etc. Primer: ibid. 19.
20
JOHN CONSIDINE
(1910) of Skeat’s Etymological dictionary. This was to draw on the very fine
etymologies of the Oxford English Dictionary, the Supplement to which had
been published in 1933. Just this project was undertaken by C. T. Onions, one
of the two surviving editors of OED. In 1933, he expected to complete an etymological dictionary based on OED evidence in three years, or perhaps five.
Over the next thirty-five years, the intermittent progress of Onions’s work on
what would finally be published in 1966 as the Oxford Dictionary of English
Etymology blocked any rival project (Brewer 2007: 8-60; cf. Partridge 1963:
93). Perhaps this explains what Malkiel calls “the failure of any British school
of etymologists to arise” after Skeat (1993: 32). The etymologica which were
produced in England between 1910 and 1966 – those of Ernest Weekley in 1921
and Eric Partridge in 1958 – were not major original works, and their makers
did not proceed to writing guides to etymology, although both published popular historical studies of English words, and Partridge’s slim Adventuring among
words of 1961 was described by him (1963: 89) as “a tailpiece to my etymological dictionary.”15
So it was that the publication in 1958 of Alan S. C. Ross’s Etymology, with
especial reference to English broke a long silence. This book was, its author
understood (7), “primarily to be addressed to the Second Year student at the
University”; nor was it “unsuitable for the non-academic public, a body of persons among whom I have long observed a very considerable interest in etymological questions.” It falls into three sections: a general introduction of 55 pages,
“an apparatus for English etymology” of 70, and a chapter of selected English
etymologies of 25. It was, therefore, dramatically terser than the Principles.
The first section begins forbiddingly, “Etymology is an esoteric subject”
(15). It then turns away from strictly etymological considerations for longer
than one would expect in such a short book, providing an introduction to synchronic descriptive linguistics for a dozen pages (15-27). When comparative
philology is introduced, it is said to comprise
all consequences arising from a consideration of the following two
Axioms.
15
For Weekley’s dictionary and his “collections of notes tastefully phrased and easily
assimilable,” see Malkiel 1993: 33, and for Weekley’s and Partridge’s dictionaries,
see Liberman 1998a: 48-51. Weekley’s is, according to Liberman, more scholarly,
and this is what one would expect; he had studied under Kluge at Freiburg im Breisgau, whereas Partridge had had a literary training, and was, as far as etymology goes,
an autodidact: it took him, he recalled (1963: 85), “some thirty years to transcend the
stage of the purest amateurism.”
21
Axiom I. “Two languages are related if, and only if, they were
once one language.” Thus, French and Spanish are related because,
and only because, they were both once Latin.
Axiom II. “The word congruence in application to parts of two related languages is to be understood in precisely the sense in which the
word relationship is applied as a consequence of Axiom I to the two
languages themselves.” Thus, English stone and German stein are
congruent because, and only because, they were both one word in the
language which English and German both once were – that is, they
were primitive Germanic *staeina-. (27-28)
The concept of the language family is then introduced, and kinds of linguistic change and relationship are considered. After a digression on the formal
presentation of statements about linguistic relationship, to which we shall return
below, Ross makes one striking point in passing: “it is, perhaps, rather a criticism of present-day Etymology that too little notice is taken of the meanings of
words” (39). We shall return to this too. After some discouraging remarks on
the expertise in sound-changes which will be necessary before the student can
“attempt much in the way of constructing etymologies for himself” (42), Ross
presents substantial etymological extracts, with terse commentary and, where it
is needed, translation, from no fewer than 23 etymological dictionaries, starting
with the Oxford English Dictionary (he calls it the New English Dictionary, as
had been common earlier in the twentieth century) and ending with a Finnish
etymologicon, Yrjö Toivonen’s Suomen kielen etymologinen sanakirja. This
last begins with forms from three dialects of Finnish and proceeds through material in Lüd (i.e. Ludian, a Karelian language variety), Veps, Vatya (i.e. Votic,
perhaps an offshoot of Estonian, moribund in 1958 and now extinct), and six
dialects of Sami: this material, certain to be highly exotic to the great majority
of English readers, gives Ross a good opportunity to put such readers in their
place, which he does in a three-part assault. First, he remarks that etymology “is
not, in any sense, a subject for the amateur” (68). Second, he returns to the axioms quoted above, remarking if a popular belief about etymology “is deducible
from the Axioms, it is not nonsense, but, if it is not so deducible, it is nonsense”
(68).16 In other words, all etymological statements worth making are statements
about the descent of one language or word from another, or of two languages or
16
I wonder if this passage is a conscious or unconscious echo of Ayer 1936/1990: 24,
“We may accordingly define a metaphysical sentence as a sentence which purports
to express a genuine proposition, but does, in fact, express neither a tautology nor an
empirical hypothesis. And as tautologies and empirical hypotheses form the entire
class of all significant propositions, we are justified in concluding that all metaphysical assertions are nonsensical.”
22
JOHN CONSIDINE
words from a common source, and such statements need have nothing to do
with the formal similarity of languages or words which might be perceived by
an inexpert person. Third, he concludes, “It will thus be seen that … an etymology cannot ever be matter for discussion between a philologist and a non-philologist” (69).
The second section of the book is much less argumentative: it introduces
the IE language family, sets out a phonology of PIE, and discusses “the fate of
the Indoeuropean phonemes” in some attested non-Germanic languages; in
proto-Germanic, in some attested Germanic languages other than English, and
in English. (Winfred Lehmann’s review of the book in Language commented
damningly on the weakness of the treatment of the PIE material.) “Some remarks upon the Morphology” occupy two pages at the end. The English etymologies in the third section are chosen for their interest. Some at least represent
words on which Ross had worked, for instance ginger, on which he had published a monographic tour de force. A fairly short example, which had in fact
previously been used by Skeat (1912: 173-174), is
DOUGH < OE dāg = Gothic daigs Ic deig MnSw deg MnDanish
dej OHG teic (> MHG teic > MnHG teig) MLG dêch MDutch dêch (>
MnDutch deeg) < PrGmc *đaiʒa- to IndE *dheigh- ‘to smear, knead,
mould’ as in Gothic digan Latin fingo, figulus, figūra Oscan ap. f íhúss
‘wall’ Greek τείχος Russian dezha Skt deha- (m. and n.) ‘body’ Av
pairi-daēza- ‘enclosure’ “Tocharian A” tseke ‘carving.’ (145)
Footnotes point out the relations between Avestan pairi-daēza- and Eng
paradise, between Proto-Germanic *đaiʒa and the second element of OE hlǽfdige (> ModE lady), and between dough and the second element of ModE
(plum-)duff. Clearly implicit in Ross’s presentation of this material as the final
section of his book is that although a “non-philologist” cannot hope to make
etymologies, he or she can, by reading the book, hope to understand etymologies like this one, down to the “customary inverted commas” (72) which mark
Ross’s awareness that the languages called Tocharian were not actually spoken
by the people whom Strabo calls Τόχαροι.
Ross’s Etymology was published in the series “The Language Library,”
edited by Eric Partridge, which had been launched in 1952 with a clutch of
semi-popular books: Wilfred Granville’s Dictionary of theatrical terms, Partridge’s own pseudonymous Chamber of horrors: A glossary of official jargon,
Weekley’s The English language (the first edition had appeared in 1928), and
George Vallins’s Good English: How to write it. Partridge was at the time try-
23
ing to raise the tone of the series.17 He intended his next contribution to it to be
called Mediterranean: The basis of the Indo-European, Semitic and Hamitic
languages, and would have advanced a quasi-Nostratic comparativism in it (he
noted the similarity with Nostratic himself, at Partridge 1960: 159), more ambitious if less useful than his work on English slang. He was, in the 1950s, commissioning work for the series by G. L. Brook, Professor of English at Manchester; by James Hulbert, co-editor of the Dictionary of American English,
whose Language Library book Dictionaries: British and American is still worth
consulting; and by Oswald Szemerényi, then lecturer in comparative philology
at University College London, and identified in the front matter of Etymology as
author of a forthcoming “Indo-European philology.”18 This helps to explain the
self-conscious narrowness and technicality of Ross’s book; Partridge wanted
something more technical than his first titles.19 Ross, for his part, can have had
no wish to produce a good-natured middlebrow book like Partridge’s or Vallins’s. Nor can he have had much sympathy with the attitude to philology which
would lead Partridge to pronounce confidently that
Rather than entrust myself to the quicksands of fanatical phonetics or to the raging seas of parochial philology, I prefer, when I confront a difficulty insoluble by ordinary means, to enlist the aid of history or, if I’m desperate, to resort to imagination. (Partridge 1961: 33)
Ross’s “bleak doctrine” (Burchfield 1960: 228) that philologists and nonphilologists simply have nothing to say to each other about etymology was his
way of asserting that he was not writing the book which Partridge would have
written.
This accounts for two striking features of Ross’s book which we noted
above. The first is his use of mathematical formulae. One feature of Skeat’s dictionary on which an early reviewer had remarked had been “the use of algebraic
signs to indicate, on the one hand the direct or successive generation of forms,
and on the other mere side relationship or remote cognation” (Cook 1880: 204).
17
18
19
In a sympathetic memorial essay, Randolph Quirk (1980: 23) noted of the Language
Library that “some of the volumes have been of so low a standard as to risk damaging the series as a whole.”
No contribution by Szemerényi was to appear in the Language Library, though
“Indo-European philology” was still being advertised in Partridge 1961; but work
carried out in London found its way into his Einführ ng in die vergleichende
Sprachwissenschaft (1970).
Having said that, Ross had recently achieved wide public recognition for a non-technical work on class-markers in contemporary English (see Stanley 2004 for details):
did Partridge hope for something a little more like this than Etymology turned out to
be?
24
JOHN CONSIDINE
These signs – the now-familiar < for instance – may owe something to Skeat’s
mathematical background, and something to the influence of continental European conventions for notation such as August Schleicher’s development of the
asterisk for conjectural forms (Malkiel 1993: 17). Ross, who was a good mathematician, made much of the possibilities offered to etymology by mathematical
notation: writing on the formal presentation of statements, he proposed that all
etymological statements could be reduced to formulae of which the simplest
(37) begins A0 x0 [‘z0’] < A x (> Ai1 xi1 [‘zi1’] Ai2 xi2 [‘zi2’] … Aim xim [‘zim’]).
Lehmann (1959: 352) had no time for this, although it appealed to a few etymologists (see Kiss 1964/1975).20 For the purposes of Etymology, such formulaic presentation was a statement of precision and esotericism against the easygoing vulgarizing tendency of the Language Library series and of popular etymological writing. Malkiel (1962/1975: 354-355) has described Etymology as a
“telling instance” of the “attempts to press etymological research into the mould
of mathematical formulae” under the influence of “that mathematical styling
which has in recent years become a hallmark of the social sciences at their most
ambitious,” and has noted that such attempts “are periodically balanced by
spells of completely reckless impressionism.”21
The second feature to which we drew attention above was Ross’s very limited expression of interest in meaning. “Lack of space,” he said to excuse this,
“would, indeed, render any other procedure impossible” (39-40): but would it?
In the year of publication of Ross’s Etymology, Kurt Baldinger pointed out at
the Congrès de l’Association Internationale des Études Françaises that since
about 1900,
La notion même d’étymologie est devenue ambiguë. Désormais il
y aura deux sortes d’étymologies: d’une part l’étymologie au sens
phonétique, traditionnel, au sens du XIXe siècle: l’étymologie-origine.
D’autre part, l’étymologie au sens sémantique, moderne: l’étymologi histoire du mot. … L’étymologie, au sens moderne, c’est donc la biographie du mot. (1959: 239)
Baldinger cited the words of a series of earlier etymologists who had made
this point: Hugo Schuchardt in 1897, “Was wir eine Etymologie nennen, ist
20
21
Cf. the opening words of Anna Morpurgo Davies’ obituary of Szemerényi (The Independent, 17 January 1997): “Oswald Szemerenyi once asked all participants in an
international conference of Indo-Europeanists and historical linguists what they
would have wanted to be if they had had a free choice; three-quarters of them replied
‘a mathematician.’ He commented wistfully that to a certain extent he shared that
feeling.”
Malkiel calls Etymology a “booklet,” but this should not mislead the reader: this was
his usual word for short books (see Cosinka 2006: 90-92).
25
nichts als eine mehr oder weniger abgekürtzte Wortgeschichte”; Antoine Meillet in 1918, “Ce qui est essentiel dans un dictionnaire étymologique, c’est de déterminer l s voi s q ’ont s ivi s l s mots”; Jules Gilliéron, in an undated piece
of the early twentieth century, comparing the products of the former conception
of etymology to a biography of Balzac consisting only of the words “Balzac,
assis sur les genoux de sa nourrice, était vêtu d’une robe bleue, rayée de rouge.
Il écrivit la Comédi h main ” (Baldinger 1959: 239-241). A couple of years
later, Oswald Szemerényi made the same point, citing Baldinger: “Etymology
in the modern sense is the biography of the word; its origin is merely a point of
departure” (1962/1975: 290). Ross knew that the biographies of words are
important. Every entry in the Oxford English Dictionary is the biography of a
word, and Ross had learned his philology at Oxford in the years 1927-1929
from C. T. Onions, who was in those years reader in English philology as well
as co-editor of the dictionary (Ross 1958: 7). He had also studied under J. R. R.
Tolkien, formerly of the OED staff, and his wife had worked on the 1933 Supplement, which Ross had reviewed for Neuphilologische Mitteilungen (Brewer
2007: 161). At the end of his short preface (1958: 8), Ross thanked Robert
Burchfield “for all the care and hard work he has lavished upon this book” and
E. G. Stanley and Mrs Ross “for advice upon the most diverse points”: Burchfield had just been appointed as editor of a new supplement to OED, and Eric
Stanley and Stefanyja Ross were important early contributors to this project.22
Rather than being unaware of the importance of the biography of words, Ross
was in 1958, as he had been since his undergraduate days, extremely well aware
of it.
However, the example of OED may have narrowed his sense of etymology
even though it gave him a broad sense of the importance of the history of
words: OED etymologies were, and are, set off within square brackets before
the main treatment of the sense-development of each lemma, and the etymologies in the first edition of the dictionary tended to be very largely devoted to
tracing the ancestry of a given word and identifying relevant cognates. James
Murray, the editor who established the form of published OED entries, referred
to this part of each entry as “The Morphology or Form-History” (quoted and
discussed in Durkin 1999: 2). One interpretation of the structure of a firstedition OED entry would, then, displace semantic considerations from the etymology to a separate category of word history. If that was Ross’s interpretation,
I doubt that it was Burchfield’s, and I think that Burchfield’s phrase “bleak doctrine” does suggest quite a fundamental difference in the two men’s approach to
etymology.
22
For Mrs Ross, see Brewer, loc. cit.; for Eric Stanley, whose work for the dictionary
continues to the present day (has any other person ever given more than fifty years
of continuous support to OED?), see Burchfield 1989: 8.
26
JOHN CONSIDINE
The Language Library series continued for many years, and Ross’s book,
as a single-volume treatment of an important subject by a recognized authority,
made available by a mainstream publisher, was widely disseminated (the library
of my own university had at least six copies at one time). W. B. Lockwood’s Informal introduction to English etymology has circulated less widely, at least
partly because its publisher, the now-defunct Minerva Press, appears to have
been a vanity press, which charged authors to have their books published and
was not always assiduous in promoting them (see e.g. Jackson 1997). The book
itself is indeed informal, but it deserved a better publisher: its author, latterly
professor of Germanic and Indo-European Philology at the University of Reading, had previously published with Oxford University Press and respectable
trade publishers such as Hutchinson. It will be treated briefly here.
According to its short preface, Lockwood’s Informal introduction “is
addressed to anyone and everyone who, at some time or other, has wondered
about the origins of the words that make up the English language” and gives an
account of etymology “which, it is hoped, will enable the reader to appreciate
more fully, and in given cases to judge more critically, the pronouncements of
the etymologists” (VII). This immediately suggests an intellectual world in
which an etymology might be a subject for discussion between a philologist and
a non-philologist – and this reflects a development in the social history of etymology which took place since 1958, the increasing availability of discursive
non-specialist etymological dictionaries and other writings, such as the “sporadic attempts” identified by Malkiel (1993: 120) “made … by present-day weeklies and monthlies of wide appeal to reserve a page or two of each issue for
exercises in ‘neo-etymology,’ couched in an easily assimilable, non-technical,
but nevertheless tasteful style.” This development was part of a wider extension
of interest in language, for which the Language Library was, at least in the
United Kingdom, partly responsible (Quirk 1980: 23).
After a quick sketch of the history and prehistory of English, the Informal
introduction offers an etymological commentary on two ME versions and a late
West Saxon version of the Lord’s Prayer: Lockwood must surely have had
Skeat’s similar introductory use of a late West Saxon gospel translation in mind.
Brief etymological remarks on Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit versions follow, and
introduce notes on ablaut, umlaut, the First and Second Sound Shifts, and initial
s-.23 A third chapter covers early loanwords in OE from the Celtic languages
and Latin, and a fourth, illustrated with some good examples, turns to Scandinavian loanwords. The next three cover French, Latin and Greek, and non-IndoEuropean languages, and are likewise heavily illustrated with examples, fuller
23
The Sanskrit Lord’s Prayer is from the Yates–Wenger translation of the New Testament into Sanskrit, made in the nineteenth century for converts or potential converts
from Hinduism, for whom Sanskrit was a language of holy writings.
27
than Skeat’s and better integrated into a chronological narrative than Ross’s.
The penultimate chapter ranges over “some items of special interest” – the apparent Neolithic origins of Eng. hammer “tool for driving in nails” and Norwegian hammer “rock”; the relationship between Eng. hen and Lat. canere (cf. Gk.
ἠικανός “cock,” lit. “dawn-singer”); the relationship between clan and plant
(clan < OIr cland < OWelsh plant “children” < Lat. planta “seedling”); and so
on, recalling in aim, though not in content, the “philological ramble” which is
the antepenultimate chapter of Skeat’s Science of etymology.24
Lockwood’s final chapter presents a number of previously published etymologies of his own, under the heading “Discovery,” offering the reader at least
the encouraging hint that she or he might be sufficiently well-informed and fortunate to make independent etymological discoveries. So, for instance, he begins
his claim that rake in as thin as a rake (first attested 1387 or later) is cognate
with Norwegian rak “very lean animal” (ON hrak) with the words “Perhaps it
was on a summer’s day as we were raking together the cuttings on the lawn …”
This is the familiar, attractive topos of the inspiration which comes in pleasant
places: Archimedes in the bath, Newton in the orchard, the etymologist in the
newly-mown garden. I am not personally convinced by this etymology, in fact:
the simile “as thin as a very thin animal” strikes me as implausibly pedestrian,
and although I am willing to follow Lockwood as far as seeing the vowel of a
final element [rak] lengthened by folk-etymological analogy with rake, I would
prefer to explain that element as rack “vertically barred frame for holding animal fodder” (first attested 1343-1344), the bars of which stand out like the ribs
of a skeletally thin animal or person. But Lockwood’s hypothesis has impressed
readers of his book (Mugglestone 1998: 197; Durkin 2009a: 258-259), and it
certainly inspires critical thought.
Lynda Mugglestone’s review of the Informal introduction in the Review of
English Studies identified a weakness in the book: although it can by no means
be accused of wilful obscurity, it is still hard to follow. She sees it as “perhaps
hampered by the very nature of its subject” (1998: 197), and observes that a
slightly longer book would have given Lockwood room to explain some technicalities. This is true, and it is consistent with criticisms of Lockwood’s much
earlier Indo-European philology of 1969 (see Ford 1970). An additional problem is the high proportion of examples to framing argument, which makes the
24
Two of the three examples given here are in fact mentioned by Skeat. He had been
unsure about the etymology of hammer (Etymological dictionary, s.v.), and therefore
did not use it as an example; he did comment on hen and canere (1887: 130; 1912:
63 and 98), though without mentioning the elegant Greek cognate, which is transmitted only in the Lexicon of Hesychius; he likewise commented briefly on clan and
plant (1887: 449), which he knew from a passing reference in Rhys 1877: 373. A
different perspective on hammer would be provided ten years later by Liberman
(2005: 141).
28
JOHN CONSIDINE
Informal introduction a book to browse in rather than to work through. As such
it is something of an outlier in the tradition which runs from Skeat via Ross to
Durkin and Liberman.
5. Anatoly Liberman’s Word origins (2005)
and Philip Durkin’s Oxford guide to etymology (2009)
By the time of the publication of Lockwood’s Informal introduction in
1995, two extremely important developments in the study of English etymology
were under way. In the United States, Anatoly Liberman, professor in the department of German, Scandinavian, and Dutch at the University of Minnesota,
had since 1987 been gathering material for a new dictionary of English etymology (an early announcement is reported by Dor 1988: 91), which would take
explicit account of everything which had ever been published on the etymology
of every word it registered. By 1998 he was able to announce that the “field
work” for this dictionary “is drawing to an end” (Liberman 1998b: 459). A
specimen volume of the dictionary and the huge project bibliography (Liberman
2008, 2009) have since been published. In England, the conversion to machinereadable form of the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, together
with the four-volume Supplement edited by Burchfield, had resulted in the publication of an under-revised second edition in twenty paper volumes, but had
more importantly made it possible for an editorial team to undertake a global revision of the dictionary by manipulating and adding to text in the form of a
structured database. The revision of function words, etymology, and pronunciation was assigned to Edmund Weiner, co-editor of the second edition of OED,
and two assistant editors appointed in 1995, Simon Hunt and myself. Neither of
us remained in our positions for long, Simon leaving in 1996 to work for a
charity and I in the same year to join the staff of the University of Alberta.
Philip Durkin, who had been appointed as one of the assistant editors working
on the revision of non-scientific entries, then began work on etymologies instead, to admirable effect. In July 1998, he submitted a paper on the revision of
OED etymologies to the Transactions of the Philological Society (published as
Durkin 1999): he and Liberman were, therefore, both writing early programmatic statements about their respective projects in etymological lexicography in
the same year. Their guides to English etymology were both published by Oxford University Press in the following decade.
Liberman’s appeared first, in 2005, under the title Word origins … and how
we know them, the subtitle Etymology for everyone being printed above the
main title on the dust jacket but below it on the title page. “Part history, part
how-to manual,” reads the publisher’s jacket copy, “Word Origins draws back
29
the curtain to show how etymologists perform amazing feats of word archaeology.” Another part of the jacket copy, signed by Liberman, begins with the claim
that “Millions of people want to know the origin of the words they use” and
ends
if someone explained to them that, compared to the drama of words,
Hamlet is a light farce, they might develop a more informed attitude
toward philological research and become students of historical linguistics rather than gullible consumers of journalists’ pap.
The contrast with Ross’s bleak words could not be more marked. The gap
is no longer between philologists and non-philologists but between students and
consumers: and everyone is urged to be a student.
Word origins begins, like Skeat’s Principles, with an example, and like
Lockwood’s discussion of thin as a rake, with the etymologist in a pleasant
place – in this case, reading a description of a dialect from the German province
of Hessen by way of light relaxation after midnight.25 The example is regional
Ger. Hette “goat,” which, Liberman recalls, set him thinking about Old Scandinavian H iðr n, the name of a goat in a myth. Could these two forms be related? They are not, remarks Liberman in passing – but, he continues, thinking
about them led him to consideration of heifer “young cow,” sometimes seen as
< OE heahfore “high-farer.” Half a year later, he had collected “an insufficient
bibliography of heifer” (3), and at that point, far from his initial burning of the
midnight oil, Liberman leaves his reader. Later, his narrative returns to heifer,
now citing a dialectal heckfore, and noting that its first element might be compared with OE haga “enclosure” (cognate with Eng. hedge), and its second with
-fare in the bird name fieldfare, which may mean “occupant” (79-80). An endnote identifies Wedgwood as the first etymologist to suggest that the first element means “enclosure.”26 This is a philological ramble indeed, an even more
associative progress than that of the Principles, and calculatedly so: Liberman is
a brilliant conversationalist in person (and now converses online too, in his
Oxford Etymologist blog), but Word origins is more than an artless exercise in
raconteurship. Implicit in the structure of the treatment of Hette / H iðr n /
heifer, which is characteristic of the structures of Word origins as a whole, is a
response to Skeat’s distinction between “Brilliant invention,” dismissed as “only another name for lying,” and its ennobling opposite “patient investigation.”
25
26
Perhaps there is an echo here of the story of Karl Verner’s famous reading of a soporific book, Bopp’s Vergleichende Grammatik, which led him as he was falling asleep
to formulate Verner’s Law (Jespersen 1897/1933: 13-15).
There is now a much fuller treatment in Liberman 2008, s.v., and a bibliography of
27 items in Liberman 2009: 625 (where heifer is accidentally glossed as “a pig”).
30
JOHN CONSIDINE
The six months’ patient work to put together an insufficient bibliography is part
of the same story as the brilliant spark jumping from Hette to H iðr n in the
night. Moreover, the book closes with the invitation to re-read it: the first-time
reader will be surprised that the story of heifer is apparently dropped in the first
chapter, but the re-reader will remember that it reappears.
The basic macrostructure of Word origins, after the introductory chapter
which introduces Hette and H iðr n and sketches etymology as a field of inquiry, is not obscure. A second chapter, on “The thing and the sign,” is followed
by one on imitative words (the first example is cuckoo) and one on sound symbolism. Successive chapters from the fifth to the twelfth treat folk etymology,
reduplication, infixation (e.g. the dy / de of gobbledygook and the rarer slubberdegullion), “disguised compounds” (Sunday, holiday, breakfast), affixation and
blending, the relevance of proper names (Charles Macintosh and macintosh),
coinages by known individuals (Van Helmont and gas), and loanwords. The
apparent haphazardness of this order, and the disproportion which, for instance,
makes infixation the nominal topic of a whole chapter, is again not artless: the
implicit argument is that the etymologist is concerned with the whole field of
the vocabulary of English, and that one part of the field can hardly be prioritized
over another. “Mastering a language, even one’s own, especially such a rich
language as English, is a gallant deed” concludes Liberman at the end of the
chapter on loanwords (156). Although there are important subtexts in this sentence – it follows from a discussion of the native and non-native members of the
semantic field which includes doughty (< OE dohtig), stout (< AN stout, OF
estout < a cognate of Ger. stolz “proud”), and brave (< Fr brave), and it will
remind some readers that Liberman’s mastery of English is that of a non-native
speaker – its primary meaning is non-ironic: mastering a language really is an
extraordinary achievement, all the more so if mastery implies some degree of
etymological knowledge. The reader who has travelled over the etymological
territory mapped in the first twelve chapters of the book is being praised for “a
gallant deed,” a word which evokes the knight-errant, and it is hardly fanciful to
say that the winding path by which Liberman has led the reader is the winding
path of romance.27 Romance was evoked at the very beginning of the book by
its frontispiece (and only illustration), an image of a unicorn from a Flemish
tapestry, with the cryptic caption “This is not a squirrel” and a reference to a
discussion of Ger. Eichhorn “squirrel,” lit. “oak-horn” (< OHG eihhurno, in
which -hurno is not Horn “horn” but an element originally meaning “squirrel,”
cognate with the reduplicated Farsi varvarah, Lith. vaiverẽ etc.).
The thirteenth chapter occupies a pivotal position between these discussions of individual word-formation processes and four chapters on wider topics,
27
Cf. The romance of words, the title of a book on word histories by Ernest Weekley,
to whom Liberman pays tribute in Word origins (106, 111).
31
and it offers “a few principles of etymological analysis” (164-166), presented as
a bulleted series of paragraphs, without the numbering or the epigrammatic formality of Skeat’s “canons.” The opening words of the first of these, “Etymology
does not depend on look-alikes” (164), would have met with the approval of
Skeat and Ross – but it ends by evoking “the possibility that someone without
any training in linguistics may know a story or a local custom of real value to an
etymologist,” as in the case of chucks, a kind of basketball shoe whose name is
obscure until one learns that they were promoted by the celebrity salesman
Chuck Taylor. Here again, the possibility that the non-philologist may have
something to say to the philologist is of the essence. Likewise, there is an exciting suggestion latent in the last principle, “As a general rule, a good etymology
is simple (only finding it is hard)” (166).
The four chapters on wider topics which follow it begin with one on phonetic change, which explains what regular sound laws are, interweaving apparent exceptions (e.g. Gk. πλατύς / Eng. flat / Ger. platt) into the exposition,
then turns to ablaut and again considers apparent exceptions, before looking at
further problems such as the puzzling apparent sporadic devoicing called for by
the derivation of Eng. hobble < hop + frequentative -le and exhibited by the
variant forms Eng. nipple, neble, nible and the even more puzzling relationship
of Eng. pig, Dutch big “pig,” Low Ger. pogge “toad, frog,” Swedish bagge
“ram, wether” etc. This last case leads Liberman to postulate “a sound complex
b–g … meaning approximately ‘puffed up’” (185). A chapter on semantic change
follows, closing with Schuchardt’s famous investigation of the relationship of
Fr. trouver and Lat. t rbār and the phonological problems which deriving
trouver from t rbār poses. An antepenultimate chapter surveys attempts such
as those of N. Ia. Marr to investigate the ultimate roots of human language; in
the penultimate, “The state of English etymology” is surveyed, with the conclusion that “The last edition of Skeat’s dictionary (1910) marks a peak that English etymological lexicography never transcended” (246). In the conclusion of
Word origins, Liberman remarks that “my aim has been to say as little as possible about the things that can be found in other popular books on English
words. Therefore, I devoted minimal space to the Scandinavian and the Romance element in English” and, on the same page, expresses the somewhat inconsistent hope that “If this book stimulates someone to teach the history of
English words, it may perhaps serve as the main text” (251).
“My main reservation,” wrote one reviewer of Word origins (Coates 2007:
833), “is that key ideas lack adequate grounding.” This is a fair point: no guide
to English etymology is more brilliantly suggestive than Liberman’s, but it is
neither a systematic account of the methods of etymological research nor of the
origins of English words. Some of the ideas which it throws out are disconcert-
32
JOHN CONSIDINE
ing: at the end of the second chapter, after a reference to the Cratylus, Liberman
remarks that “the watchword of etymological research” is that
original “names” were conventional (for other sounds could have expressed the same meaning) but not arbitrary (the speakers who chose
those sounds had a reason to do so). The entire science of etymology
is centered on finding that reason. (14)
This suggests an entire science of etymology directed towards establishing
the remotest roots of attested forms, and only in Chapter Sixteen is it made clear
that that is not what is meant here. Likewise, the status of sound complexes
such as b–g is not made as clear as it might be, though Liberman is clearly open
to considering such complexes as a way of establishing relationships between
groups of words. This is part of a wider openness to speculation about the role
of sound: he picks up with relish on Jespersen’s suggestion (1922: 313-314) that
Lat. plumbum “lead” was originally an onomatopoeic word for a plummet, and
notes that in that case, Wedgwood’s identification of plunge as an onomatopoeic form when it apparently derives from a late Lat. *plumbicare (< plumbum)
may be an “unpardonable shortcut” rather than, as Skeat argued, a mistake (Liberman 2005: 34-35). Liberman’s sympathy with Wedgwood has been noted above:
there is something in Wedgwood’s undisciplined, even whimsical, brilliance
which speaks to him. The powerful aversion to Wedgwood’s thought expressed
by A. S. C. Ross’s colleague and memorialist Eric Stanley in his response to a
paper of Liberman’s at the 5th International Conference on Historical Lexicography and Lexicology in Oxford in 2010 suggests a significant faultline in the
field in which Ross’s Etymology and Liberman’s Word origins are landmarks.
Philip Durkin’s Oxford guide to etymology is, as Roger Lass puts it in a
jacket blurb,
unique in at least two ways. First, because it is the only dedicated textbook on the market as far as I know entirely devoted to etymology,
and second because it is by an etymologist working on the OED, the
best and fullest etymological dictionary of any language currently
available.
The latter point is surely questionable in part – is OED really a fuller etymological dictionary than the Französisch s tymologisch s Wört rb ch? – but
Lass’s points are both valuable in defining the intended readership of the book.
The Oxford guide is certainly a textbook, capable of being used in university
courses (as it has been, by Gabriele Knappe at Bamberg and by me at Alberta),
and this accounts for the highly methodical structure at which we shall look
33
shortly.28 However, it is “addressed most centrally to someone who has an interest in historical linguistics” (Durkin 2009a: IX), and this someone is not expected to have access to an academic library (X). The chapters are not followed
by exercises as is usual in textbooks for the North American market, although
Durkin has composed a set (I am grateful to him for sending me a copy), and
these will be made available online, giving students helpful material without
orienting the book explicitly towards students and away from a more general
readership. One way to define the reader imagined by Durkin would be as
someone who has read some of the revised etymologies in OED and wants to
learn more; this dictionary is readily available online in public libraries in the
United Kingdom, and its readers have never been confined to academic institutions.
Durkin begins by introducing the concept of etymology, giving two examples, one native and one borrowed (friar < OFr frere, and sad, cognate with
Ger. satt “full” and more distantly with Lat. satis “enough,” Lith. sótus “filling,
full”), commenting on the regular sound changes to be seen when sad and its
cognates are examined, and turning to the question “why study etymology?”
and to an overview of “what an etymologist does.” This last point leads to the
“ultimate aim” of etymology, defined in a quotation from Walther von Wartburg:
Today the task of etymology is no longer solely to look for the
root of a word or group of words. It must follow the group in question
throughout the whole period during which it belongs to the language,
in all its ramifications and all its relations to other groups, constantly
asking the questions appropriate to etymology in the strict sense of the
word. (quoted Durkin 2009a: 33)29
This aim sets Durkin’s Oxford guide apart from Ross’s much narrower Etymology – it is, in fact, a considerably larger book than Ross’s, and can afford
greater breadth – but also from Liberman’s Word origins, in so far as we are to
take Liberman’s statement about the origins-directed goal of the “entire science
of etymology” seriously.
28
29
On the other hand, Roberge 2011: 187 states that it “does not have the theoretical
grounding and precision that would make it suitable for use in a linguistics curriculum.”
Durkin gives the original in a footnote (he does not expect readers to know other
languages than English): “Die Erforschung des Radix eines Wortes oder einer Wortgruppe ist heute nicht mehr die einzige Aufgabe der Etymologie. Sie hat die zu betrachtende Wortgruppe in ihrer Verästelung und mit all ihren Beziehungen zu anderen Gruppen während der ganzen Zeit, da sie einer Sprache angehört, zu verfolgen,
ohne jemals die etymologisierende Fragestellung aufzugeben.”
34
JOHN CONSIDINE
The second chapter asks the fundamental question “What are words?” with
reference to English, points out that etymologists take an interest in multi-word
lexical units, and sketches enough questions of word-formation and productivity
to make sense of the question “Which words need etymologies?” This is, interestingly, not an OED-related question, since every entry in that dictionary has
an etymology: it would be highly relevant to the planning of a new Oxford dictionary of English etymology to succeed that of Onions. A third chapter takes up
the question of whether words are coherent entities, examining cases of homonymy and polysemy, merger and split. It opens with a case which might have
been taken further, that of poke “bag, small sack,” which has a set of forms with
a short vowel, spelt poc, pok, pokke etc. How sharply can these forms be distinguished from pock “vesicle”? OED explains that there is an etymological distinction – ME poke < AN and OF poke or perhaps the unattested etymon of this
word in Old Dutch, whereas pock is a native OE word cognate with Middle
Dutch pocke, poc – but it seems reasonable to ask whether the short-vowel
forms of poke imply a merger of poke and pock in the judgements of some
speakers of ME, just like the merger of corn “grain” (native word, cognate with
Lat. grān m) and corn “hard growth on the foot” (< MFr corn < Lat. cornū) in
the judgements of some speakers of ModE.30
The next three chapters cover word formation (including a brief discussion
of ablaut) and borrowing. The material on word formation is inevitably fairly
straightforward for the most part. Most interestingly, the chapter ends with a
guarded discussion of phonaesthesia and phonosymbolism, concluding that
“this topic … is one that no etymologist can completely ignore” and that “it is
important for etymologists … to be wary of setting too much store by arguments based on phonaesthesia or iconicity without investigating all other possibilities very carefully” (131). Here the tone is more explicitly that of a guide for
etymologists than is usual in this book, and the conclusions are less open than
Liberman’s to the explanatory possibilities of sound symbolism. Indeed, Durkin
has commented explicitly on the openness to sound symbolism in Liberman’s
dictionary: the argument that fuck is “part of a large group of loosely related
verbs having the structure f + vowel + stop” (Liberman 2008: 78a; cf. idem
2005: 234), elaborated extensively in the entry for that word, is acknowledged
as a “daring hypothesis,” but evidently does not fully satisfy Durkin: “we are
told very little about the mechanism by which these words are taken to be related” (2009b: 97). Borrowing is surveyed in two magisterial chapters, drawing
heavily on the range of OED entries which had been revised as Durkin worked
on the Oxford guide (by December 2008, M–reamy had been published, and this
30
The latter case is discussed by Durkin (78); for evidence of the merger in ModE perceptions, cf. Google hits on the phrase “Called corns because of their frequently
yellow coloring.”
35
must correspond fairly closely with the range available to him): so it is that the
first examples discussed in these two chapters are prêt-à-porter, milord, panchway, mama-san, phase, pioneer, and plumber.
The next two chapters deal with sound changes and semantic change respectively, with special attention, as in Liberman, to difficult cases. These are
treated thoroughly, with ample ancillary data, and different tastes will be satisfied by Liberman’s throwaway invitation (2005: 187) to “compare Engl. pudding with its French synonym boudin” in his discussion of words for swollen
things which might belong to the pig family he identifies, and by Durkin’s more
sober analysis (2009: 213-214) of the difficulty of reconciling the initial consonant of ME podding, poddyng etc. (he lists 11 spellings) with that of AN
bodeyn, bodin, a case which he compares not to pig but to the similar problem
of deriving late OE purs from post-classical Lat. bursa. Similarly, Liberman’s
chapter on semantic change ends with a brief inspiring reference to the journal
Wört r nd Sach n, “a joy to read” (2005: 216), but gives us nothing like
Durkin’s analysis (2009: 261-264) of the puzzles presented by the etymology of
plough and the possibility that technological progress might contribute to the
solution of some of these. Of course, Liberman knows all about plough, which
(as plow) has an ample entry in his Bibliography (2009: 733-734); the difference is between the style of Word origins and that of the Oxford guide. Durkin’s
final chapter turns to the topic of Liberman’s tenth, words and names, and includes a discussion of the onomastical evidence for Eng. big, which is rather
puzzling: if it is from an Old Norse word connected with regional Norwegian
bugge “mighty man” and bugga “rich, mighty, powerful,” then how is it that
“From the first half of the eleventh century onwards we find a by-name or surname of the form Bigga, Bigge, earliest in southern counties, especially Kent”
(278)?31 Again, the contrast with Liberman’s work is vivid: in Word origins, the
problem presented by big is that it has a high front vowel but means “large,”
and “Engl. dialectal bug (big) (compare Norwegian dialectal bugge [a strong
man]) and bog (boastful) set the record straight” (184; square brackets in original).
Skeat ended Principles by saying that etymology leads us to truth, and
Ross concluded the first section of Etymology by saying that it was not the business of non-philologists. Lockwood’s book has no conclusion, and Liberman’s
last sentence directs the reader back to the beginning of the book. Durkin concludes that
Etymology is a crucial tool for investigating the language and
thought of the past. It opens up a field of research where a very great
31
Roberge (2011: 186-187) notes the evidence for an ON by-name buggi “fat man,”
which adds a new complication.
36
JOHN CONSIDINE
deal remains to be discovered. And like all the best intellectual pursuits, once the bug is caught, it is likely to remain with one for life.
(287)
The reader being addressed here is surely a recognizable figure, in the
British Isles at least: educated, interested in the past, fond of intellectual pursuits for their own sake, with an appetite for problems: someone very like the
Victorian readers of Notes and Queries.
6. Conclusion
A long paper calls for a short conclusion. The guides to etymology of
Skeat, Ross, Lockwood, Liberman, and Durkin represent a wide range of approaches to the non-specialist reader interested in English etymologies: those of
the first three might be grouped together as comparative-philological, and those
of Liberman and Durkin seen as speculative and historical respectively. More
striking than these contrasts, interesting as they are, is the fact that the class of
reader with whom Skeat engaged combatively in Notes and Queries and genially in the Principles of English etymology and the Science of etymology, is still
seeking and being offered guidance today. Etymology continues to be a matter
of broad general interest, even after a period in the mid-twentieth century when
etymological work on the English language seemed to be stagnating. In particular, the connections which it makes satisfy readers: all five authors offer case
studies showing, for instance, how puttee “cloth wound round the lower leg” (<
Hindi paṭṭī “bandage”) is cognate with Eng. fold (Skeat 1912: 69), or how the
cognates of Eng. ginger can be traced in a series of borrowings from east Asia
across the whole of Eurasia (Ross 1958: 146-148), or how the synonymous Eng.
full and Welsh llawn can be shown to be cognate (Lockwood 1995: 143-144),
or what Assyrian word is relevant to the history of cane, canyon, and channel
(Liberman 2005: 138-139), or how the present sense of Eng. quaint relates to
the first recorded sense, “wise” (Durkin 2009: 229). Despite occasional claims
to the contrary, all five authors appeal explicitly or implicitly to the imaginations of their readers. The title of Skeat’s chapter “A philological ramble” is
echoed by a reference of Lockwood’s (1995: 146) to a “voyage of discovery”
and by Liberman’s to a chapter “in which the author meanders a little (as is his
wont)” (2005: 217), and this verbal image is implicit in the photograph on the
dustjacket of Durkin’s book, which sums up the invitation to explore of the
whole book and the whole tradition in which it stands. It shows a woodland,
with dry leaves underfoot and growing leaves overhead, and the possibility of a
way forward between the trees.
37
John Considine
Department of English
3-5 Humanities Centre
University of Alberta
Edmonton, AB T6G 2E5
Canada
[[email protected]]
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Saussure, Ferdinand de. 1879. Mémoir s r l systèm primitif d s voy ll s
dans les langues indo- ropé nn s. Leipzig: B. G. Teubner.
Schmitt, Rüdiger, ed. 1975. Etymologie. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft.
40
JOHN CONSIDINE
Scott, Charles P. G. 1882. On initial p in Gothic and Anglo-Saxon. Transactions
of the American Philological Association 13 (Appendix): XLIV-L.
Skeat, W. W. 1871. Hand-list of some cognate words in English, Latin, and
Gr k, with r f r nc to th pag s in C rti s’s “Gr ndzüg d r gri chisch n Etymologi ” (third dition), in which th ir tymologi s ar discussed. London and New York: Macmillan.
———. 1879-1882. An etymological dictionary of the English language. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
———. 1887. Principles of English etymology, first series: The native element.
Oxford: Clarendon Press.
———. 1891. Principles of English etymology, second series: The foreign element. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Skinner, Stephen. 1671. Etymologicon linguae anglicanae, seu explicatio vocum anglicarum etymologica ex propriis fontibus. London: typis T[homae]
Roycroft, et prostant venales apud H[enricum] Brome [et al.].
Stanley, E. G. 2004. Ross, Alan Strode Campbell (1907-1980), linguist. Oxford
dictionary of national biography, ed. H. C. G. Matthew and Brian Harrison. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Sweet, Henry. Review of Skeat 1879-1882, part 1: A–Dor. The Academy (12
July): 34-35.
Szemerényi, Oswald. 1962/1975. Principles of etymological research in the
Indo-European languages. In: Schmitt 1975, 286-346.
Zupitza, Julius. 1883. English etymology in 1881 and 1882. Transactions of the
Cambridge Philological Society 2 (for 1881 and 1882): 243-259.
vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.002.0939
Przemysław DĘBOWIAK (Kraków)
LE FOU EST-IL VRAIMENT FOU ?
LES NOMS DES FIGURES D’ÉCHECS
DANS LES LANGUES ROMANES*)
Abstract (Is French fou ‘bishop’ really fou ‘demented’? Chessmen’s names in Romance languages). The purpose of the paper is to present and explain the etymology of
some chess terms (‘chess’, ‘checkmate’) and the chessmen’s names (‘king’, ‘queen’,
‘bishop’, ‘knight’, ‘rook’ and ‘pawn’) in seven Romance languages. Numerous words
referring to chess in Portuguese, Galician, Spanish, Catalan, French, Italian and Romanian are analysed and compared so as to show their common history and some interesting linguistic facts that occurred during their formation.
Keywords: etymology, Romance languages, chess, chessmen, borrowing.
Le but du présent article est de présenter les noms des figures du jeu
d’échecs dans sept langues romanes (portugais, galicien, espagnol, catalan, français, italien, roumain) et d’expliquer leur étymologie. Ainsi prétendons-nous
compléter le travail effectué par Maciuszak 1 qui a passé en revue et analysé
l’origine des noms des figures d’échecs en persan, en arabe et dans quelques
langues européennes (y compris l’anglais, l’allemand, le polonais et le russe).
Cependant, son étude ne s’était pas voulue exhaustive pour les langues romanes : les désignations françaises, italiennes, espagnoles et portugaises n’y sont
mentionnées que partiellement, et quant au roumain, elles n’y figurent point.
*) En 2007, encore étudiant, nous avons publié un article sur les noms des figures
d’échecs dans différentes langues : Le fou est-il vraiment fou ? (Zroz mi ć szachy)
[Le fou est-il vraiment fou ? (Compr ndr l s éch cs)], dans la revue du Cercle des
étudiants romanisants de l’Université Jagellonne Roman, n.o 7, Kraków, pp. 22-27.
Nous avons décidé de reprendre le sujet dans une version modifiée et complétée,
mais limitée aux langues romanes, à cause d’un caractère intéressant, croyons-nous,
de quelques phénomènes linguistiques que nous avons observés.
1
Kinga Maciuszak (2003), Persian Checkmate – ‘Th King is Oppr ss d’ ; on the
Origin of th Ch ssm n’s Nam s, [dans :] Studia Etymologica Cracoviensia, vol. 8,
Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, Kraków, pp. 91-101.
42
PRZEMYSŁAW DĘBOWIAK
Échecs
Le mot moyen-persan čatrang ‘échecs’, d’où l’arabe šaṭranǧ ‘id.’, est issu
du sanscrit catur-aṅga- ‘quatre membres, parties’, désignant les quatre composants de l’armée indienne des temps védiques : éléphants, cavaliers, chars et
fantassins, servant de modèle aux figures d’échecs (Utas 1992 : 395, Maciuszak
2003 : 91). Parmi les langues romanes, ce même nom, appliqué au jeu d’échecs,
n’est directement continué que dans les langues ibériques : port. et gal. xadrez,
noté au XVIe s. (DELP : s.v., Machado 1991 : s.v.), 2 esp. ajedrez, depuis le
XIIIe s. (DCECH : s.v.).3
Les appellations en usage dans les autres langues romanes ont une origine
différente. Aussi :
e
 cat. escacs, XI s. (DE : s.v. escacs),
e
4
 fr. éch cs, XI s. (DHLF : s.v. éch cs, TLF : s.v. éch cs),
e
 it. scacchi, XIII s. (AEI : s.v. scacco, DELI : s.v. scacco),
 roum. şah ← allem. Schach (DELR : s.v.),
 ancien esp. escaques (DCECH : s.v. ajedrez),
viennent-ils tous, par l’intermédiaire de l’arabe šāh,5 du mot persan šāh ‘roi,
shah, souverain’. Ceci est dû à l’expression persane šāh māt, utilisée pour désigner la situation dans le jeu d’échecs où l’un des rois ne peut plus être aucunement défendu et où la partie se termine, le joueur possédant ce roi étant le vaincu. Ladite expression, qui signifie non pas ‘le roi est mort’, comme le veulent la
plupart des explications répandues dans la littérature étymologique,6 mais ‘le roi
est opprimé, paralysé, en embuscade’, est passée telle quelle, à travers l’arabe,
2
3
4
5
6
À noter aussi les anciennes formes : acedrenche, jusqu’au XIVe s. (DELP : s.v., Machado 1991 : s.v.), axadrez, axedrez, exedrez, XIVe s., enxadrez, XVIe s. (DELP : s.v.
xadrez, Machado 1991 : s.v. xadrez).
Anciennes variantes relevées : axadrezes, aç dr j s, aç dr x, arcidriche (DCECH :
s.v. ajedrez).
Formes anciennes : eschecs, XIe s., eschac, eschas, XIIe s. (DHLF : s.v., TLF : s.v.).
Au cours du temps, le champ sémantique du mot éch c s’est élargi en français :
son nouveau sens de ‘défaite, insuccès’, apparu au XIII e siècle (ibidem), s’est popularisé tellement qu’aujourd’hui on ne sent plus le lien sémantique avec sa signification primitive. De plus, le substantif éch c est souvent associé au verbe écho r,
dont le sens de ‘ne pas réussir à une entreprise’ ne date que du XVII e siècle ; ce dernier est d’ailleurs de provenance latine, bien que son étymon ne soit pas certain
(DHLF : s.v. écho r, TLF : s.v. écho r).
Cf. aussi latin médiéval scac(c)us ‘pièce du jeu d’échecs’, XIe s. (DCECH : s.v. jaque,
DE : s.v. escac, DHLF : s.v. éch c, TLF : s.v. éch c).
À titre d’exemple : AEI : s.v. matto 2 ; Dabīrsīāqī 1992 : 396 ; DEHF : s.v. mat ; DELI :
s.v. scacco ; DELP : s.v. xá ; DEO : s.v. scacco ; DHLF : s.v. éch c, mat ; Machado
1991 : s.v. xequemate ; TLF : s.v. mat.
43
aux langues européennes et, plus ou moins profondément altérée,7 ce terme a
donné naissance aux termes désignant le jeu entier (Utas 1992 : 395, Maciuszak
2003 : 94-95).
Pièces d’échecs
Les noms des pièces d’échecs constituent partiellement l’héritage des désignations de leurs ancêtres du catur-aṅga- indien, du čatrang persan et du
šaṭranǧ arabe. Ainsi, les contemporains : roi, dame, fou, cavalier, tour et pion
sont-ils les équivalents de leurs prédécesseurs datant de l’époque où le jeu se répandait en Perse : roi, conseiller, éléphant, cheval, char de guerre et soldat (cf.
Utas 1992 : 395), ceux-ci développés, rappelons-le, à partir des figurines symbolisant les quatre éléments qui formaient l’armée indienne. Certaines analogies
se laissent observer tout de suite – quelques figures sont identiques, ayant subsisté tant dans leur forme que sous la même désignation.
Roi
Cette figure, le symbole du souverain suprême au sommet de la pyramide
sociale, est la pièce centrale des échecs, son sort conditionne le déroulement et
le résultat du jeu. De son nom persan šāh proviennent, comme on l’a vu, les désignations du jeu d’échecs dans plusieurs langues romanes. Néanmoins, son influence se termine là : pour le nom de la pièce, chacune des langues en question
utilise tout simplement son propre mot signifiant ‘roi’ : port., gal., cat. rei, esp.
rey, fr. roi, it. re, roum. rege ← lat. rege- ‘souverain’.
Dame
Il existe, dans toutes les langues romanes prises en compte, deux séries de
noms pour cette pièce :
 fr. dame (→ port., gal., esp., cat. dama, roum. damă), it. donna ← lat. domina- ‘maîtresse (de maison), souveraine’ ;
 port. rainha, gal. raíña, esp., cat. reina, fr. reine, it. regina, roum. r gină ←
lat. regina- ‘reine’.
Les anciennes formes esp. alfér z, alfi r ç, alf riç, alferez, alferiz, alferza,
Xe-XIIIe s. (cf. DCECH : s.v. alfér z, DLE : s.v. alferza), révèlent le caractère
7
Port. xeque-mate, gal. xaque mate, esp. jaque mate, cat. escac i mat, fr. éch c t mat,
it. scacco matto, roum. şah mat.
44
primitif de cette figure. Ce sont des mots venus, à travers l’arabe, du persan farzin ‘dame, reine (pièce d’échecs)’, qui étymologiquement signifie ‘(personne)
sage, savant(e), intelligent(e)’, la pièce symbolisant à l’origine non pas la compagne ou la femme du roi, mais son conseiller, ministre, chancelier (Maciuszak
2003 : 95). Ce changement de nom est dû à l’occidentalisation du jeu : les désignations nouvelles correspondaient probablement mieux à la structure et aux
caractéristiques de la société européenne.
Fou
Cette pièce symbolise un officier de l’armée, un fonctionnaire de moyenne
importance ; dans la variante occidentale des échecs, chaque joueur en possède
deux. Son nom ne pose aucun problème dans les langues orientales : en persan
fil, pil ‘éléphant’, en arabe fil ‘id.’, d’autant plus que la figure représentait effectivement un éléphant. Toutefois, en Europe, on y a attribué des désignations
nouvelles. Dans la forme héritée de l’arabe, soudée avec l’article défini (al-fil),
on retrouve ce grand mammifère toujours en esp. alfil, XIIIe s. (anciennement
aussi arfil, orfil ; DCECH : s.v.) et cat. alfil, XIIIe s. (DE : s.v.) ‘fou’. La même
forme agglutinée a donné divers noms de la figurine, aujourd’hui déjà oubliés,
dans différentes langues romanes, à savoir :
e
 port. alfil, alfim, alfir, XVI s. (DELP : s.v., Machado 1991 : s.v. alfim),
e
e
 fr. alfin, aufin, notés aux XI -XV s. (DHLF : s.v. fou),
e
e
e
 it. alfino, XIII s. et alfido, XVI s., évincés par la forme alfiere, XVI s., résultat du rapprochement sémantique à alfiere ‘porte-drapeau, enseigne’8 (DELI :
s.v. alfiere, DEO : s.v. alfiere).
Curieusement, le mot français fou n’a rien à voir avec la folie : aujourd’hui
homonyme de l’adjectif fou ‘déraisonnable’,9 il est pourtant le résultat de l’évolution phonétique toujours du même terme arabe, après le découpage de l’article
défini arabe al- (fil > fol > fou). Ce développement irrégulier10 a peut-être été favorisé par la comparaison de la position de la pièce sur l’échiquier avec celle
d’un fou de cour11 auprès du roi et de la reine (TLF : s.v. fou), ainsi que par le
8
9
10
11
Emprunté à l’esp. alfér z ‘sous-lieutenant’ ← ar. al-fāris ‘cavalier, chevalier’, cf. cidessous, cavalier.
Celui-ci du lat. classique follis ‘soufflet pour le feu ; outre gonflée ; ballon’ qui en
bas latin a pris, par métaphore ironique, le sens de ‘sot, idiot’ en emploi adjectival
(DHLF : s.v. fou, TLF : s.v. fou).
Cependant, cf. le développement analogue : fr. fo gèr ← lat. vulg. *filicaria ‘fougeraie’ (Mańczak 1985 : § 59 ; Lausberg 1981 : § 724/4/a ; DHLF : s.v. fo gèr ; TLF :
s.v. fo gèr ).
Dont le nom dérive effectivement de l’adjectif fou ‘insensé’ : « Autrefois le substantif masculin, dans fou du roi ou fou de cour (1580, Montaigne), désignait un bouffon
45
déplacement de la figure en diagonale, donc considéré comme singulier par rapport aux mouvements des autres pièces (DHLF : s.v. fou). Quoi qu’il en soit, il
paraît que la personne qui a nommé cette figurine dans la langue roumaine, en
imitant sûrement son nom français, n’en était pas du tout consciente : le mot
roum. nebun veut dire effectivement ‘fou (figure d’échecs)’, mais sa signification primitive était celle de ‘personne qui a des troubles mentaux ; insensé,
dément’12 (DELR : s.v. bun). Ses acceptions secondaires, à savoir ‘bouffon’ et
‘pièce du jeu d’échecs’, sont sans aucun doute des calques du français.13
On rencontre aussi d’autres désignations de cette figure, constituant une innovation occidentale (Maciuszak 2003 : 97), liées peut-être à sa forme conventionnelle en mitre d’évêque : 14 port. et gal. bispo ‘évêque’ ← lat. episcopu‘chef de communauté chrétienne, évêque’ ← gr. episkopos ‘surveillant, inspecteur ; chef ecclésiastique’ (DELP : s.v.).
Cavalier
Il représente la cavalerie, au nombre de deux pour chaque joueur, selon les
règles occidentales. En persan, on l’appelle asb, asp ‘cheval’, et en arabe faras
‘id.’ ou fāris ‘cavalier, chevalier’. Ces termes, clairs du point de vue sémantique
(d’autant plus que la pièce a toujours eu la forme d’une tête de cheval), ont été
littéralement traduits dans les langues romanes. Ainsi retrouve-t-on cavalo en
portugais, cabalo en galicien, caballo en espagnol, cavall en catalan, cavallo en
12
13
14
attaché à la personne d’un haut personnage dont il parodiait le comportement et
celui de son entourage. Ce sens se rattache sans doute à des pratiques anciennes,
comme la Fêt d s fo s, fête bouffonne au moyen âge où étaient parodiés les offices
religieux (cf. pour l’Antiquité, les Saturnales). » (DHLF : s.v. fou).
En fait, nebun est un composé du préfixe négatif ne- et de l’adjectif bun ‘bon’ (←
lat. bonu-).
Il convient d’ajouter que le sens ‘fou (pièce d’échecs)’ du mot nebun est relativement récent. Dans le dictionnaire de Şaineanu (1922, 4 e édition), on ne retrouve pas
cette acception sous l’entrée nebun. En revanche, on apprend qu’à l’époque le fou
était appelé spion ‘espion’ (ibidem : s.v. şah). Le changement de nom a donc probablement eu lieu dans la 1re moitié du XXe s., vu que le DLRM, publié en 1958 (s.v.
nebun, spion), note déjà les significations identiques à celles données par les dictionnaires contemporains.
Dans ce cas-ci, il y a probablement eu une confusion : la mitre, c’est-à-dire haute
coiffure conique, était portée par les prêtres et les souverains en ancienne Perse, d’où
la forme caractéristique de la pièce d’échecs. En Europe, la mitre s’est généralisée
dans la mode vestimentaire des ecclésiastiques, les évêques en charge pastorale étant
privilégiés de la porter sur la tête. C’est peut-être là qu’il faut chercher la source de
l’association du fou avec le haut prélat de l’Église catholique et, par conséquent, de
ce changement de nom.
46
italien, cal en roumain ← lat. caballu- ‘mauvais cheval ; cheval hongre ; cheval
de travail’ (DCECH : s.v., DELI : s.v., DELP : s.v., DHLF : s.v., TLF : s.v.).
Fr. cavalier, chevalier15 ont été introduits à l’instar de l’ar. fāris ‘cavalier,
chevalier’.
Tour
Deux pièces de ce type apparaissent chez chacun des adversaires. Ses
autres désignations en français et en espagnol, respectivement roc et roque, sont
les continuateurs du terme persan (rox ‘char’) puis arabe (rux)16 (DCECH : s.v.,
TLF : s.v.).
Les noms de cette pièce signifiant ‘tour’ : port., gal., esp., cat., it. torre, fr.
tour (→ roum. t ră), roum. turn (← allem. Turm) ← lat. turre- ‘id.’ (DCECH :
s.v., DE : s.v., DELI : s.v., DELP : s.v., DELR : s.v., TLF : s.v.), s’expliquent
par le fait qu’anciennement, elle représentait le char de guerre ou, tout simplement, une fortification, et ledit char de guerre avait souvent la forme d’une tour
d’assaut mobile, fixée sur des roues (cf. Maciuszak 2003 : 98).
Pion
Il symbolise un soldat d’infanterie, le plus faible de toute l’armée des
pièces ; les joueurs disposent de huit exemplaires de ce type. Son nom original
persan piyād , passé ensuite en arabe et adapté sous les formes baydaq, bayzaq,
signifie ‘fantassin’ (Maciuszak 2003 : 98). En Europe, on a tout simplement traduit les dénominations orientales pour redonner le même sens (gardant ainsi le
caractère de la figurine), quoique pas toujours de la même façon. Les langues
romanes ont toutes recouru à leur ancêtre commun : port. p ão, gal. et esp.
p ón, cat. p ó, fr. pion (→ roum. pion), it. pedone ← lat. pedone- ‘(soldat) qui
va à pied’ (DCECH : s.v. pie, DELI : s.v., DELP : s.v. pé, DEO : s.v., DHLF :
s.v., TLF : s.v.).
15
16
Les deux viennent du bas lat. caballariu- ‘cavalier, guerrier à cheval’, cavalier constituant un emprunt de l’it. cavaliere ‘id.’ et chevalier étant indigène en français (TLF :
s.v. cavalier, chevalier, DHLF : s.v. cavalier, cheval).
Bien que dans plusieurs langues ce mot se soit perdu, on en retrouve la racine dans
les termes comme fr. roque, roquer, port. roque, rocar, gal. et esp. enroque, enrocar,
cat. enroc, enrocar, it. arrocco, roum. rocadă, désignant un mouvement simultané
spécifique du roi et de la tour, inventé en Europe beaucoup après l’apparition du jeu
dans le continent.
47
En guise de conclusion, nous constatons que les noms des pièces d’échecs
dans les langues romanes ont été :
 calqués d’après les termes arabo-persans (les désignations du roi, de la dame
/ reine et du pion ; fr. cavalier / chevalier),
 attribués dans les langues respectives à partir de la forme des figurines (port.,
gal. bispo ; les désignations du cavalier signifiant ‘cheval’ et celles de la tour
dans toutes les langues en question),
 empruntés directement à l’arabe (esp., cat. alfil, fr. fou, it. alfiere ; esp.
roque, fr. roc).
Pour être plus précis, nous pourrions ajouter que dans le cas des port., gal.
esp., cat. dama, roum. damă, t ră, pion il s’agit d’emprunts au français ; à son
tour, le roum. turn a été emprunté à l’allemand. En ce qui concerne le roum. nebun, c’est un calque du fr. fou, terme à l’origine arabo-persan qui est devenu homonyme de fou ‘insensé, dément’ par l’action de l’étymologie populaire.
Voici un tableau récapitulatif présentant les termes mentionnés dans l’article :
portugais
xadrez
xequemate
roque
rei
dama,
rainha
bispo
galicien
xadrez
xaque
mate
enroque
rei
dama,
raíña
bispo
espagnol
ajedrez
jaque
mate
enroque
rey
dama,
reina
alfil
catalan
escacs
escac
i mat
enroc
rei
dama,
reina
alfil
cavalo
cabalo
caballo
cavall
torre
torre
p ão
p ón
torre,
roque
p ón
Przemysław Dębowiak
Instytut Filologii Romańskiej UJ
ul. Reymonta 4
PL – 30-059 Kraków
[[email protected]]
torre
p ó
français
éch cs
éch c
et mat
roque
roi
dame,
reine
fou
cavalier,
chevalier
tour,
roc
pion
italien
scacchi
scacco
matto
arrocco
re
donna,
regina
alfiere
roumain
şah
cavallo
cal
torre
pedone
şah mat
rocadă
rege
damă,
r gină
nebun
turn,
t ră
pion
48
Références
AEI = Devoto Giacomo (1979), Avviamento alla etimologia italiana, Felice Le
Monnier, Firenze.
Dabīrsīāqī Moḥammad (1992), Chess Terminology [dans :] Yarshater E., Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. V, Mazda Publisher, Costa Mesa, California, pp.
396-397.
DCECH = Corominas Joan, Pascual José A. (1980), Diccionario crítico timológico cast llano hispánico, Editorial Gredos, Madrid.
DE = Bruguera i Talleda Jordi (1996), Diccionari timològic (amb la coŀlaboració d’Assumpta Fluvià i Figueras), Enciclopèdia Catalana, Barcelona.
DEHF = Dubois Jean, Mitterand Henri, Dauzat Albert (1993), Dictionnair étymologiq
t historiq d français, Larousse, Paris.
DELI = Cortelazzo Manlio, Zolli Paolo (1979-1988), Dizionario etimologico
della lingua italiana, Zanichelli, Bologna.
DELP = Machado José Pedro (1952-1959), Dicionário Etimológico da Líng a
Portuguesa, Confluência, Lisboa.
DELR = Ciorănescu Alexandru (2002), Dicţionar l timologic al limbii române, Editura Saeculum I. O., Bucureşti.
DEO = Dizionario Etimologico Online (version web du Vocabolario Etimologico della Lingua Italiana de Ottorino Pianigiani) : [http://www.etimo.it/].
DHLF = Rey Alain (2006), Dictionnair historiq d la lang français , Dictionnaires Le Robert, Paris.
DLE = Diccionario de la lengua española de la Real Academia Española (Vigésima segunda edición) : [http://www.rae.es/rae.html].
DLRM = Macrea Dimitrie (dir.) (1958), Dicţionar l limbii romîn mod rn ,
Editura Academiei Republicii Populare Romîne, Bucureşti.
Lausberg Heinrich (1981), Ling ística Românica (Tradução de Marion Ehrhardt
e Maria Luísa Schemann ; 2.a Edição), Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian,
Lisboa.
Machado José Pedro (1991), Vocab lário port g ês d orig m árab , Notícias,
Lisboa.
Maciuszak Kinga (2003), Persian Checkmate – ‘Th King is Oppr ss d’ ; on
th Origin of th Ch ssm n’s Nam s [dans :] Studia Etymologica Cracoviensia, vol. 8, Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, Kraków, pp.
91-101.
Mańczak Witold (1985), Phonétiq
t morphologi historiq s d français
(Wydanie piąte), Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, Warszawa.
Şaineanu Lazăr (1922), Dicţionar niv rsal al limb i român (A patra ediţiune
revăzută şi adăogită), Institutul de Editură « Scrisul Românesc », Craiova.
49
Sloan Sam (1985), The Origin of Chess, Sloan Publishers. Le texte entier est disponible sur : [http://www.anusha.com/origin.htm] (accès le 2 avril 2011).
TLF = Le Trésor de la Langue Française informatisé : [http://atilf.atilf.fr/].
Utas Bo (1992), The History of Chess in Persia [dans :] Yarshater E., Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. V, Mazda Publisher, Costa Mesa, California, pp. 394396.
vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.003.0940
Piotr GĄSIOROWSKI (Poznań)
Gruit grus: THE INDO-EUROPEAN NAMES OF THE CRANE
Abstract. The purpose of this article is to show that the variety and irregularity of the
Indo-European ‘crane’ words is apparent rather than actual, and that their derivational
history is in fact quite simple. In brief, they can be reduced to only a couple of related
PIE lexemes, rather than a whole constellation of “dialectal” forms.
Keywords: etymology, Indo-European, crane.
[ETYMO`LOGY]
Th d ſc nt or d rivation of a word from
its original; th d d ƈtion of formations
from th radical word; th analyſıs of
compound words into primitives.
Samuel Johnson
0. Introduction
A large, gregarious, highly vocal and easily identifiable bird,1 the common
crane (Grus grus) has for millennia been familiar to people living close to its
northern Eurasian breeding sites, its southern winter quarters, and along its
routes of migration.2 It is, indeed, one of the few bird species whose Proto-IndoEuropean names are reconstructible with any accuracy. 3 However, the cognate
set on which a reconstruction could be based looks disturbingly inconsistent. At
1
2
3
Which does not rule out occasional confusion with other large waders, especially
storks and herons.
For a detailed description of the species, see Johnsgard (1983: 227-237).
The role of the crane in Indo-European mythology is discussed by Greppin (1976;
1997); see in particular the widespread ancient tale of warfare between cranes and
the Pygmies (Gk. Πυγμαῖοι), famously mentioned by Homer (Iliad 3.6). Greppin’s
suggestion of root-cognacy between Skt. Garuḍa- and Gk. γέρανος is formally implausible, but the symbolic and behavioural parallels he points out (including Garuḍa’s reputation as a snake-eater) are intriguing.
52
PIOTR GĄSIOROWSKI
first glance, it allows one to recover only a root morpheme (*gerh2-)4 and the
suffixes which accompany this root in several different IE branches (*-no-, *- -,
etc.). The exact shape of the words made up of those building blocks depends
on their vocalism, which seems to vary from branch to branch, making exact
comparison problematic. For example, while Greek γέρανος and Proto-Celtic
*garano- match each other quite satisfactorily, Proto-Germanic *krana- is not
directly reconcilable with either of them: despite having a compatible consonantal skeleton, it cannot be derived from their common ancestor (*gérh2-no-) via
sound changes known to have operated between PIE and Proto-Germanic. Similarly, Proto-Slavic *ž ravjь ~ *ž ravь perhaps contains the same sequence of
morphemes as Latin grūs (plus a *-io- or *-i- extension), but its vocalism does
not seem to match the Latin form; moreover, the closely related Baltic words
(Lith. gérvė, etc.) show the accentual reflex of a laryngeal originally following
the rhotic, but no long vowel as required by the Slavic cognate.5 One would have
to assume an ad-hoc ablaut alternation like *gerh2- -i(o)-s : *gerh2- -i-ah2 :
*gruh2-s to account for all these variants.6 This variability is sometimes blamed
on the onomatopoeic character of the word (imitative of the crane’s call) and its
low-register (“popular”) stylistic value. The purpose of this article is to show
that the variety and irregularity of the IE ‘crane’ words is apparent rather than
actual, and that their derivational history is in fact quite simple. In brief, they
can be reduced to only a couple of related PIE lexemes, rather than a whole constellation of “dialectal” forms.
1. The root *gerh2The opinion that the ‘crane’ etymon is onomatopoeic is based on the observation that roots containing dorsal-rhotic combinations often seem to have a
sound-symbolic value (cf. e.g. *gar- ‘tönen, rufen’, *g (w)erd h- ‘hören, tönen’,
?
*g (w) Rg h- ‘klagen’ in LIV2), and that some of the best-known vocalisations of
the common crane can reasonably be represented as /K(V)r(V)K/ (where K =
any dorsal obstruent) in terms of human articulations producing a comparable
acoustic effect. Of course this may well be coincidental, and the semantic value
of *gerh2- could be independently confirmed only if we knew any other derivatives of this root. Unfortunately, there is no unambiguous attestation of such a
4
5
6
Often cited with an initial *g, which is plainly ruled out by the Balto-Slavic evidence; for an initial satem reflex in Iranian, see section 4 below. The identity of the
laryngeal is securely established on the testimony of Greek.
Or even an overlong one, see section 5.
The possibly related Armenian ‘crane’ word, kṙownk, presents problems of its own,
see section 8.
53
root apart from the ‘crane’ word.7 Thus, while from the strictly formal point of
view, Ved. gīḥ, gen. giráḥ ‘hymn, song of praise’, grṇāti ‘sings, proclaims,
praises’ and Lith. gìrti ‘praise’ might all contain the root *gerh2-, it is more customary to derive them from *g werH- (*g werh1-?) ‘praise, welcome’ mainly on
the strength of the attractive comparison between the Indo-Iranian collocation
*grHas d haH- ‘offer songs of praise’ (preserved in Vedic and Avestan) and
Celtic *bardos ‘poet, bard’, if from *g wrH-d hh1-ó- (Campanile 1980).8 On the
other hand, considering that the Sanskrit word also means ‘voice’, Indic *grHmay well reflect a homophonic merger of two originally distinct roots, *g werH‘praise’ and *gerh2- ‘cry, sing, call loudly’ (possibly with a nasal present:
*grnáh2-/*grnh2-´).
Needless to say, there is more to the crane’s behaviour than its ability to
produce noisy calls. The bird could have been named after any other characteristic trait, for example its spectacular dancing display. To be sure, we do not
know any PIE roots with the specific primary meaning ‘dance’ (rather than, say,
‘twist’ or ‘jump’), and it is perhaps too much to expect that such a root should
have survived only in the name of a bird species; but it should be noted that a
similar objection applies to the interpretation of *gerh2- as ‘cry’ (vel sim.). Most
of the PIE animal names are etymologically obscure anyway, and the reason
why it makes sense to decompose the name of the crane into simpler parts is the
existence of at least two different variants sharing the same morphological core
which looks like a verb root even if it cannot be securely identified with one
known from elsewhere. I shall tentatively accept the communis opinio that the
shape of root is sound-imitative mainly because there are phonetically similar
words for cranes (not necessarily the same species) in other language families,
such as Proto-Dravidian *kor-Vnk-/-nkk- (Krishnamurti 2003: 13) and ProtoUralic *karke. These are probably independent echoic formations rather than
inter-family loans, let alone distant (“Nostratic” or “Eurasiatic”) cognates (pace
Bomhard–Kerns 1994: 445).
2. The *gérh2-no- word-family
Since the development *gérh2-no- > *gerəno- > *gerano- > *garano- is
phonologically regular in Celtic (assuming the correctness of Joseph’s assimilation rule9), there can be little doubt that Gk. γέρανος and PCelt. *garano- (or
7
8
9
Lat. gr , gruere ‘cry like a crane’ is obviously denominative, and so does not reflect the primary verb.
Cf. Schrijver (1995: 143-144), Uhlich (2002: 414) for the discussion of the formal
difficulties and how to overcome them.
*eRa > *aRa (Joseph 1982: 55; Schrijver 1995: 75-93).
54
PIOTR GĄSIOROWSKI
*garanu-, cf. Gallo-Lat. trigaranus ‘having three cranes’) > MWel. garan,
OCorn., Bret. garan reflect the same protoform. The most parsimonious reconstruction that captures both of them is *gérh2-no- (treated variably as feminine
or masculine in both branches). A noun of such a shape could be derived in
several different ways. However, if *gerh2- is in fact a verb root, we would expect the suffix to express some kind of active semantics (‘crier, singer’), like
that of the active participle, rather than a typical deverbal adjective in *-no- or
the thematic derivative of a deverbal neuter noun in *-mn-/*-men-.10
One path worth exploring is the derivation of *gérh2-no- from a nasal stem
(in *-én- or *-on-). Deverbal stems of this type (e.g. PGmc. *xan-an- ‘cock’ <
*kán- (n) ‘singer’, PIE *tétk- (n) ‘carpenter’) etc. function as agent nouns and
may even be etymologically connectible with the *-e/ont- participles (Olsen
2004: 219-229). It is therefore possible to posit a hysterokinetic stem, *grh2-én-,
or an amphikinetic one, *gérh2-on-. An adjective of appurtenance could be derived from either of them by adding the thematic vowel to the zero grade of the
ablauting noun and infixing a full vowel (*e) in the root; the substantivisation of
this adjective (often signalled by the retraction of the accent from the thematic
vowel) would have produced an effectively endocentric derivative (comparable
with *d r o- ‘tree’  *dór -/*dér -; *d i o- ‘divinity’  *dié -/*di -´, etc.).11
Supposing that the original meaning of *gerh2- was ‘to cry’, the derivational
chain would then look as follows: *grh2-én- or *gérh2-on-/*grh2-n-´ ‘crier’ 
*gerh2-nó- ‘characterising a crier, strong (of a voice)’  *gérh2-no- ‘(bird with)
a powerful voice’.12 In fact, the nasal stem required by this scenario may be
directly (albeit marginally and accidentally) attested in Greek, provided that Hesychius’ γέρην ‘female crane’ is authentic and old.13 Both ‘crier’ and (synecdochically) ‘strong voice’ would be plausible names to give to a bird notorious
for its vocal performance. To be sure, one would expect the Greek reflex to be
*γαρήν (or *γέρων), but the form cited by Hesychius may have been contaminated with the more familiar γέρανος.
10
11
12
13
For the possibility of *-no- < *-mn-o- after a laryngeal, cf. Melchert (2007/2008
[2010]), Nussbaum (2010: 271-272).
The full vocalism of the root reflects a PIE (or in some cases post-PIE) vrddhi process, occurring also in more complex morhological structures, cf. *h2 i h3 n-ó‘young’ (OCS junъ, Lith. já nas)  *h2 iú-h3 on-, in this case deriving one adjective
from another with practically the same meaning (Rasmussen [1985] 1999: 177-178).
Perhaps with a u-stem variant *gérh2 -nu-, common in this type of noun, and possibly attested in Celtic and Germanic (*garanu-, *kranu-ka-), cf. Delamarre (2003:
175).
The accent marking of the surviving manuscript is particularly unreliable, so oxytone γερήν is also possible.
55
3. Gmc. *krana- etc.
While the Celtic cognates present no special difficulties, the Germanic
ones are baffling. Beside the a-stem *krana- (OE cran ~ *cron, MHG kran)
there are weak nouns (*kran-an-: OSax. krano, OHG chrano) and forms with a
velar suffix (perhaps diminutives that have lost their expressive semantics):
*kran-u/ika- (OE cranoc,14 OHG chranuh, MHG krenich, etc.). In North Germanic, the weak-noun variant occurs with an irregular substitution of *t for the
initial *k: ON trani (m.), trana (f.). All these derivatives can be regarded as
inner Germanic developments; the suffixes they involve are common in animal
names. 15 Even the occasional long-vowel variant *kr n-a- (OSax. kr n, cf.
Kroonen 2011: 307-308) can be derived from *kran-anas a Germanic pseudovrddhi parallel to *xan-an-/*x n-a- (Ger. Hahn vs. Huhn).16 The real mystery is
how *krana- arose in the first place. It cannot directly reflect the e-grade visible
in Greek and Celtic; nor can it contain a nil-grade *grh2-no-, which would have
yielded PGmc. *kurna- (cf. PIE *grh2nom ‘corn’ > Goth. kaúrn, OE corn). Antiquarian reconstructions like *grəno- > *krana- cannot be reconciled with what
is known today about the PIE phonological system. Interconsonantal laryngeals
certainly do not show up medially as *a in Germanic – they were simply lost in
that position (as in the ‘corn’ word above). To sum up, PGmc. *krana- cannot
represent a regular development of *gérh2-no- by straight-line historical descent.
Let us therefore consider the possibility that the Germanic word is a loan,
mediated by a language in which the *a between *r and *n reflects a vocalised
*h2 (*ə2). One fairly obvious candidate is Celtic: Germanic has numerous loanwords of Celtic origin (including several that were borrowed before the operation of Grimm’s Law), and since the crane evidently played some interesting if
poorly understood roles in Celtic religion and magic,17 its Germanic name is a
14
15
16
17
Also, in two instances, with rhotic metathesis: cornuc, cornoch.
OE *bula ‘bull’ and bulluc ‘bullock’; duce*, gen.sg. ducan ‘duck’; rudduc ‘robin’,
and many others.
In my opinion, the lengthening in these words reflects the development of a secondary geminate *-Vn-n- in thematic derivatives of nasal stems formed to roots ending
in *n: *-an-n-a- > *-āna- > PGmc. *- na-. It should therefore be distinguished from
the inherited vrddhi pattern seen in *s ék ro-  *s ēk ró- > PGmc. *swēɣura(pace Darms 1978: 130-133). Of course such degemination with compensatory
lengthening could only have taken place at a time when geminated nasals were not
permissible in the language, so it must be older than the familiar Germanic assimilation *-nw- > *-nn-.
Suffice it to mention the celebrated Gaulish image of Taruos Trigaranus ‘bull with
three cranes’ (cf. Greppin 1997) and the Irish ritual of corrguinecht, a form of
“magical wounding” which involved adopting a crane-like posture while chanting
satirical verse (Koch 2006: 484; Bernhardt-Hose 2009: 9-10).
56
PIOTR GĄSIOROWSKI
possible Kulturlehnwort of the north European Iron Age. The loss of the original root vowel is still puzzling, but not inexplicable. Little as we know about
word accentuation in early Celtic, there is some toponymic evidence of penult
stress in Gaulish, especially in conservative or peripheral areas (Schrijver 1995:
19-21). Since a root seemingly containing two identical full-grade vowels
would have appeared aberrant in terms of pre-Germanic morphological structure, the pretonic *a of *garános may have been re-interpreted as an intrusive
(phonologically invisible) “copy vowel” and consequently ignored upon borrowing. Across languages, the syncope of an initial syllable occurs most readily
if it results in the creation of an unmarked obstruent-sonorant (CR) onset. Numerous familiar examples can be quoted from later Germanic (OIc. glíkr <
*ga-līkaz ‘similar’, ME croune  Anglo-Norman corūn ‘crown’, Ger. bleiben
< OHG bi-līban ‘remain’), from Vulgar Latin/Romance (drectu- < directu‘straight, right’), and even from Modern English (p’lic < police). As a mirror
image of this process, vowel intrusion is likely in the same type of onset (Hall
2006: 391); cf. the svarabhakti treatment of CR clusters in some early Runic inscriptions (e.g. harabana = H arabanaz for *Hrabnaz on the Järsberg Runestone). It is therefore thinkable that an early Gaulish *garános was borrowed
into Pre-Germanic as *grános, which then developed regularly into PGmc.
*kranaz (and further gave rise to suffixed derivatives).
4. Iranian * arna- (~ *-nu-ka-)
In Iranian, a possible cognate of *gerh2no- occurs in Oss. (Iron) zyrnæg ~
zærnyg and Pash. zāṇa- < *zarna- (Abaev 1989: 304). Abaev derives zyrnæg
from zærnyg via vowel metathesis; the latter form presumably goes back to PIr.
* arnu-ka-. The variability of the stem-forming suffix, apparently reflecting
*-no- ~ *-nu-, is reminiscent of what we see in Celtic (and Germanic). The
match would be satisfactory if it were not for the initial * in Iranian, pointing to
PIE *g, whereas other satem branches agree in showing a reflex of PIE *g in the
‘crane’ word-family. Abaev suggests root variation *ger- ~ *gar- already in
PIE, 18 but it seems more parsimonious to propose that Iranian inherited the
‘crane’ word as *ǰar(H)na- (~ *-nu-ka-) and replaced the initial *ǰ with *
through contamination with the root * ar- (Oss. zæl- ‘sound’, zar- ‘sing’), found
in some common bird-names, e.g. in the Iranian terms for ‘swallow’ and ‘partridge’, discussed in Abaev’s entry for Oss. zærvatykk | zærbat g ‘swallow’ (p.
305).
18
The latter = LIV2 *gar- ‘tönen, rufen’.
5. BSl. “*ger
- ~ *ger
57
-”
It is far from clear how the prototype of the Balto-Slavic ‘crane’ word
should be reconstructed. The extended stems found in Baltic (Lith. gérvė, Lat.
dzērv , OPr. Gerwe, as if from *g rH -iiā) and in the Slavic variant *ž rav(l)jь
(as if from *g r(H) -io-) look like secondary thematicisation in comparison
with the simpler i-stem reflected in the Slavic variant *ž ravь. The curious difference between the vocalism of the Baltic and Slavic forms is hard to explain
in terms of Indo-European ablaut, especially if the i-stem is original. However,
we could be dealing with the scattered relicts of an amphikinetic o -stem (Kortlandt 1985: 120; Kroonen 2001: 260, 307-308), transformed into a Balto-Slavic
i-stem. To be sure, the very existence of o -stems as a declensional type in PIE
is uncertain; the alternation is isolated in Balto-Slavic and its shift to the i-stems
can hardly be due to the usual reason – namely, the resegmentation of acc.sg.
*-m > PBSl. *-im as *-i-m – because the PIE acc.sg. would have been *- m by
Stang’s Law rather than *-o m. The potential advantage of assuming a pattern
like *gérh2-o -/*grh2- -´ is that the weak allomorph seems structurally close to
Lat. grūs.19 On the other hand, the analysis of grūs as the reflex of a generalised
weak-case stem *grh2-u- is problematic in itself: the required laryngeal metathesis *-h2u- > *-uh2- is not normally expected after a syllabic segment.
These difficulties are compounded by the bewildering variety of accentual
variants within Slavic. Thus, we have SCr. ž rāv, which apparently reflects PSl.
*ž rāvь (Stang’s type c), with a hard-to-explain non-acute vowel in the second
syllable (an acute would have produced a short vowel in Serbo-Croatian); but
we also have reflexes poiting to an old acute *ž ravь (type a) in the SCr. byform žèrav, Sln. ž rjàv; and there is a neoacute *ž rãvjь (type b) in Cz. ž ráv,20
Russ. ž rávl, gen. ž ravlá (Kapović 2006: 155-156 [§104]). SCr. ž rāv is one of
Kortland’s (1985: 112-113; 1997: 26; 2004) showcase examples of a
Balto-Slavic circumflex in what he takes to be an inherited lengthened grade.
The length of the suffix vowel would have been generalised from the nom.sg.
*gérh2- (asigmatic in Kortland’s reconstruction) before the word was transformed into an i-stem. Jasanoff’s (2004) critique of Kortland’s views about accentual distinctions in Balto-Slavic casts doubt on this explanation. However,
Jasanoff’s own view (according to which PIE long vowels as well as vowellaryngeal sequences yield the Balto-Slavic acute in typical circumstances) fails
to explain ž rāv, no matter if the vowel goes back to PIE * or to *VH: in either
case we should expect an acute and, consequently, a short vowel in SerboCroatian. Jasanoff (2004: 176) proposes (without a detailed scenario) that the
19
20
The full grade of the root in Baltic would have to be analogical.
In Czech, as opposed to Serbo-Croatian, the old circumflex yields a short vowel.
58
PIOTR GĄSIOROWSKI
word has a secondary circumflex somehow acquired on the analogy of root
nouns or of nom.sg. forms of sonorant stems like Lith. akm õ ‘stone’.
Is it possible that the circumflex in question is regular? I believe it could be
if it originated from vowel contraction. Let us suppose that the word is an old
compound in which the final syllable of the first member eventually coalesced
with the initial syllable of the second. PSl. *ž ravь would then have to go back
to something like *gerh2 o-(H)V i-.21 The first component is clearly a thematic
derivative of the root *gerh2-. For semantic reasons, it seems attractive to equate
the second component with PIE *h2 á i-s/*h2 éi- ‘bird’.22 Such an identification
was in fact proposed by Szemerényi (1967: 16), who however did not consider
its full ramifications. The reconstruction can therefore be rewritten with more
precision as *gerh2 o-h2 a i- – an endocentric compound with an apophonically
invariant first and a potentially ablauting second member: *gerh2 o-h2 a i/*gerh2 o-h2 ( )i-. Assuming a split of the original PIE paradigm into a pair of
Balto-Slavic variants based, respectively, on the allomorphs *gerh2 ó-h2 a i- and
*gerh2 ó-h2 i- (with the “missing” case-forms supplied analogically and a static
accent on the thematic vowel imposed by the first member), we can account for
both *ž rāvь and *ž ravь. The former would reflect *gèrã i- < *g rHaHa i-, a
form affected by the regular retraction of the PIE ictus from a light medial syllable (by Saussure-Pedersen’s Law in early Proto-Balto-Slavic, see Jasanoff
2008: 349-350) and subsequently by the contraction of *-aHa- into an overlong
(circumflex) vowel. The variant *ž ravь is the expected outcome of the weak
allomorph *gerṓ i- < *g rHoH i-, with an acute vowel from laryngeal lengthening. Furthermore, any suffix-stressed derivative of the circumflexed form
(e.g. thematicised *g rã i- + *-a-) would have produced a late Common Slavic
neoacute when the suffix lost its stressability (hence *ž rãvjь). The Baltic reflexes could have arisen through the haplological reduction of the weak allomorph extended with a suffix (independently of the Slavic thematicisation, cf.
Larsson 2002: 209-210): *gerh2 ó-h2 i- (+ *-ah2) > *gér(H) iiaH > Lith. gérvė
etc.23
21
22
23
The variant *žьravjь (> SCr. ždrȃl) has a reduced vowel of Slavic origin, as in
*vьč ra ‘yesterday’ vs. *v č rъ ‘evening’.
A proterokinetic pattern is usually assumed for *h2 a i- on comparative grounds
(Lat. avis, Ved. viḥ, gen.sg. veḥ), pace Schindler (1969), although the evidence for it
is indirect and the original alternations are not fully attested in any branch.
The “composition vowel” is often absent from Baltic compounds anyway (cf. Larsson 2002: 212-213, where the accentual consequences of this deletion in determinative compounds are also discussed).
59
6. PIE *gerh2 ó-h2 a iIn stark contrast to the commonly occurring bahuvrīhis and verbal-governing compounds, determinative compounds of the blackbird/ἀκρόπολις type are
so rare in the oldest Indo-European literary traditions that doubts have been
raised as to their very occurrence in the protolanguage (Clackson 2002: 166).
This rarity, however, may be due to preservation bias dependent on stylistic factors. Even if simple descriptive determinatives were avoided in poetic texts – as
though their trivial semantics had offended the taste of the Indo-European
“word-weavers” – they may have been common enough in more prosaic usage.
Indeed, the type must be as old as anything in PIE if the obviously archaic
suffix *-sor-, as in *s -sor- ‘sister’ or *t(r)i-sr-es ‘three (f.)’ is a once independent word meaning ‘woman, female’. Some of the reconstructible endocentric compounds are mere univerbations – loosely articulated juxtapositions of
words, sometimes even retaining their inflectional endings. The showcase example is *dems-potis, literally ‘house-GEN.SG. master’. It is easy to see why the
underlying phrase should have undergone lexicalisation: the reason was its frequent use as a fixed term referring to an important social institution. Lat. hospes
< *ghosti-pot(i)- ‘host, guest-master’ illustrates the next step in the formation of
descriptive determinatives, with the first member stripped of its inflections.
Although there were many bird species with dark plumage in mediaeval
Britain, apparently only one, OE sl (Turdus merula), was so regularly characterised as “black” that the descriptive by-name blacbrid had become an established synonym by ca. 1350,24 later taking over from ousel and gradually reducing the latter’s status to that of a rare poetic or specialist term. By the same
token, it seems that among the numerous noisy birds of Eurasia only one was so
prototypically clamorous that the λευκός-type adjective *gerh2 ó- ‘loud’ was
conventionally applied to it by PIE-speakers. 25 The fixed phrase *gerh2 ós
h2 á is was lexicalised as *gerh2 ó-h2 (a) i-, synonymous with *gérh2 nos.26 The
morphological structure of the compound eventually lost its transparency, leaving a post-PIE *gerṓ i- as the starting-point for further developments in the
branches that lost not only the laryngeals but also any contrast between plain
vowel length and overlength resulting from contraction in hiatus.
24
25
26
As witnessed by the Nominale sive Verbale glosses (see the entry for blāc in MED).
E-grade thematic adjectives such as *l kó- ‘shining’ and *l b hó- ‘dear’ refer to a
quality connected with the action/state described by the verb from which they derive, hence the reconstructed approximate meaning of *gerh2 ó-.
For a neat parallel, cf. Abaev’s (1989: 305) etymology of the Ossetic ‘swallow’
word as *zær-fatyg- < *zara-pāϑuka- (literally, ‘chirping-flier’).
60
PIOTR GĄSIOROWSKI
7. Lat. grūs
The patterns of vowel reduction and syncope in Latin and Sabellic indicate
that the whole Italic branch must have passed through a stage of word-initial
stress. However, as in the case of Germanic, there is evidence of an older stage
of Proto-Italic when at least some remnants of PIE accentual distinctions were
retained. The most persuasive case for such a stage has been offered by Vine
(2006), who shows that the operation of Thurneysen-Havet’s Law (*o V >
*a V) was conditioned by the location of the PIE mobile accent rather than the
penult/antepenult stress of Classical Latin. More recently, Vine [in press] has
extended his demonstration to the vocalism of the Latin reflexes of the suffix of
iterative-causative verbs in *- i /o- and o-stem denominatives in *- -i /o(yielding *-ii /o- if the first vowel was unaccented). Vine also suggests that accentual mobility in early Italic may sometimes have resulted in initial-syllable
syncope, and adduces several possible examples of such a process.
As noted above, the vowel of an unstressed initial syllable can be syncopated most readily if its deletion produces a permissible obstruent-sonorant
cluster. This may explain some problematic correspondences, e.g. Lat. gl s,
gen. gl ris ‘husband’s sister, sister-in-law’ : PSl. *zъly, gen. *zъlъv , Gk. γάλως
(< γαλόως*, Hom. pl. γαλόῳ, thematicised in Greek for unclear reasons, see
Meissner 2006: 130-132). If the oldest reconstructible form of the stem was
something like *glH-ó - (or possibly *glH-ós-), we would expect *gal- rather
than gl- in Latin, but if the initial syllable was unstressed in early Proto-Italic,
the C_R environment was favourable for vowel syncope. Thus, gl s can be
added to Vine’s list of possible examples. Compare also PSl. *ž lǫdь, Lith. gìlė,
Gk. βάλανος, Arm. kałin, Lat. glāns, gen. glandis ‘acorn’. Whatever the stemforming suffixes, the root morpheme shared by the extra-Latin cognates is reconstructible as *g welh2 -, so depending on the vocalism of the protoform we
should expect Lat. *ve/ol- or *val-. The actual reflex indicates that a vowel was
lost very early between *g w and *l (resulting in the delabialisation of the stop
before a liquid).
The ‘crane’ word is another possible case of initial-syllable vowel deletion.
If the pre-Italic protoform was *gerṓ i-, syncope could have yielded *grṓ i-, if
not by fully regular sound change, then at least via a process known to operate
frequently in similar environments. The question now is whether Lat. grūs can
plausibly be derived from such a form.
The change * i > *o > ū (with the syncope of *i) has precedents in
Latin, cf. *pr - id- > *pro d- > prūd- in prūdēns ‘foreseeing’. The loss of *-iin a final syllable is likewise a familiar phenomenon. To be sure, it is fully regu-
61
lar only in the i-stem endings *-ri-s, *-r-ti-s, *-n-ti-s.27 Still, Lat. grūs (almost
always feminine, like avis) has third-declension case-forms which could with
equal ease represent relics of a uH-declension (cf. sūs ‘pig’), or those of an old
i-stem. Nom.sg. gruis is in fact used by Phaedrus (1st c. CE, in the fable Lupus
et gruis), though this is surely a secondary development, resulting from the formal ambiguity of words belonging to convergent declension patterns.28 Actual
or alleged uH-stems are practically indistinguishable from old i-stems in Classical Latin. Even potentially diagnostic forms cannot be trusted, as nouns easily
vacillated between synchronically similar types. The archaic Latin reflex of a
hypothetical Proto-Italic form such as dat./abl.pl. *g(e)rṓ i-βos ‘to/from cranes’
would have lost its *i via regular syncope in a medial syllable (becoming
*gro bos > *grūb s), only to acquire a new /i/ restored after those i-stems that
had resisted medial syncope (ovis ‘sheep’, dat./abl.pl. ovibus  gruibus).29 Cf.
sūbus ~ suibus ‘to/from pigs’ in a paradigm which is specifically not that of an
inherited i-stem.30
The comparison of novus < *no os < *né os ‘new’ and iūs < *io s <
*io os < *ié os ‘law’ shows that words containing the same segmental sequence may diverge with respect to vowel syncope, presumably because of their
different morphological structure and, consequently, different inflectional properties. It is likely that the trisyllabic case forms of the es-stem *ié os (*ié -es-)
were more susceptible to phonetic contraction than the invariably disyllabic
forms of the o-stem *né o-, hence different analogical pressures exerted on the
nominative singular. Throughout the history of Latin, from Proto-Italic to the
post-Classical period, vowel reduction and deletion operated in a number of
waves, targeting short vowels in different prosodic and segmental environments
at different chronological stages, sometimes in a regular fashion, sometimes
sporadically (Nishimura 2008). Syncope affected *i more often than any other
vowel, and the position after a liquid or semivowel was its frequent locus.31 I
therefore posit the development of *gr is to *gro s and eventually grūs, either
directly or with the help of analogy. If such a scenario is plausible, Lat. grūs is
not a special development of an old (o)u-stem with unusual vocalism and/or la-
27
28
29
30
31
For example, uter ‘leather bag’ < *ud-ri-s, mors ‘death’ < *mr-ti-s, mēns ‘mind’ <
*mn-ti-s; but also e.g. in d s ‘dowry’ < *doh3-ti-s.
Note the prescription grus non gruis in the Appendix Probi, castigating what was
doubtless a virally expansive pattern at the time (Palmer 1987: 161).
The preferred environment for medial syncope in archaic Latin was the position after a heavy syllable, according to Mester (1994: 37-43).
Of course, the widely generalised dat./abl.pl. of i-stems is also the source of
Lat. -ibus in consonant-stems (rēgib s, hominibus, operibus, etc.).
Note plūs ‘more’ < OLat. plous, possibly from *plo is < *pl is- < *pleh1 u- + *-is(Weiss 2009).
62
PIOTR GĄSIOROWSKI
ryngeal metathesis, but a straightforward cognate of the Balto-Slavic ‘crane’
word.
8. Arm. kṙownk
The hypothetical outcome of *gerṓ i- (or any of its predecessors) in Armenian is difficult to predict in detail, given our incomplete knowledge of phonological and morphological developments between PIE and Proto-Armenian.
Applying the uncontroversial sound changes, however, one would expect a
pre-Arm. stem like *k rú i- or rather *k rú -, following Schindler’s suggestion that * i > * (cf. the shift of PIE *h2 a i- to the Armenian u-declension).
The pretonic *e of the first syllable would have been retained. An intervocalic
* normally yields Armenian /g/, but according to a proposal made by Rasmussen ([1984] 1999: 151-152; [1987] 1999: 227) this “hardening” occurred earlier
in the environment after *u than in other positions – in fact, before the Armenian Consonant Shift, so that the resulting stop eventually changed into /k/.32 If
Rasmussen is right, we might expect PArm. *k rúki/u- > *k rúk. This is as far
as the known “regular” changes can take us. The outcome is reasonably similar
to the actual word for ‘crane’ in Armenian, but there are two problems with the
latter: the unexpected nasal before the final stop and the attested kṙ- vs. predicted *ker-.
Because of the general phonetic reduction of unstressed final syllables in
Armenian, processes operating near the end of the word are notoriously hard to
reconstruct. A seemingly unetymological /n/ appears in a number of Armenian
nouns and in several cases may conceivably go back to the PIE acc.sg. ending
*-m, generalised in some paradigms at the time when the accusative singular
was becoming syncretic with the nominative in Proto-Armenian.33 The metathesis of final /-kn/ does occasionally happen in Armenian. For example, Class.Arm.
armowkn ‘elbow’ has modern cognates which, in most dialects, reflect metathesised *armunk. 34 Though in such cases the ultimate origin of the excrescent
32
33
34
In this way, Rasmussen accounts for the puzzling /k/ in words such as mowkn
‘mouse’ and jowkn ‘fish’.
There is currently no consensus on what exactly happened to final nasals in different
environments in the prehistory of Armenian, and the extra /n/ can be explained in
various ways (for example, as a trace of a derivational suffix such as *-nt). However, it is possible that PIE *-m/-m was reflected as a nasal not only after consonants
(as in ewtʿ n ‘7’ < *s ptm) but also after high vowels (including those resulting from
post-PIE sound changes, as in Arm. jiwn ‘snow’ < *ʒi( )un < PIE *g hii m), cf. Olsen (1999: 794).
As an example of nasal anticipation and metathesis in a similar context, cf. Class.
Arm. krowkn ~ krownkn ‘heel’, with modern dialectal forms derived from *krunk.
63
nasal may be unclear, there are enough parallel examples to show that we are
dealing with an inner Armenian innovation. Consequently, there are no unsurmountable obstacles to positing *kṙúk as the hypothetical Proto-Armenian shape
of the ‘crane’ word.
The initial cluster presents two difficulties. First, the rhotic here is a fortis
trill (Arm. ṙ = IPA [r]) rather than the normally expected tapped or approximant
outcome of intervocalic *r (that is, Arm. r = IPA [ɾ ~ ɹ]). Secondly, the nonhigh vowel of *k rúk could be expected to survive (only pretonic *i and *u
were regularly lost). As for the trill, its usual sources in Armenian are the clusters *-rs- and *-sr- (with the sibilant subsequently lost) and *r followed by *n
(with the nasal preserved in most positions). Neither of these possibilities seems
available in the case of the ‘crane’ word. However, we have one other potential
source: there is fairly solid evidence that the Armenian outcome of PIE intervocalic *-rh2 - (specifically with *h2 rather than just any laryngeal) is -ṙ- (Olsen
1989: 16-20; 1999: 780). If so, not only is the -ṙ- of kṙownk expected: it also
furnishes additional proof that a vowel was lost between the consonants of the
initial cluster (which we may independently infer from the observation that the
onset did not change to *erk-). Incidentally, the trilled reflex militates against
reconstructions like *g(V)ruh2 -, with laryngeal metathesis.
The last remaining obstacle to analysing Arm. kṙownk as a reflex of
*gerh2 o-h2 a i- is the missing vowel of the initial syllable. A zero grade *grh2 would not mend the reconstruction (it would yield *kar- or perhaps *kaṙ- prevocalically, but PArm. *a is normally retained in this position). A lengthened
grade might work formally (*gērh2 -/*g rh2 - > *kiṙ-/*kuṙ- > kṙ-), but there is no
independent extra-Armenian evidence for a PIE lengthened grade in the ‘crane’
word (pace Szemerényi 1967: 16). We are left with two possibilities. Either, as
in Latin, the loss of pretonic *e occurred sporadically in CeR-type sequences
(contrary to communis opinio), or the *e became PArm. *i or *u via irregular
vowel assimilation (e.g. * … > * … ). The latter solution is problematic because Proto-Armenian high vowels were affected by a process of dissimilatory
umlaut ([+high] > [-high]/__C[+high]) which operated between the syncope of
final syllables and the loss of pretonic high vowels (Olsen 1999: 801-805). A
hypothetical *kuṙúk would have become *koṙúk, and the lowering of the vowel
would have protected the initial syllable from syncope. Instead, I suggest that
*keṙúk(u) became *kəṙúk and then *kṙuk. A similar development can be proposed for several other Armenian words that show an unmetathesises CR-onset
(such as glowx ‘head’ and srownkʿ ‘leg, shank’).35 According to this scenario the
35
Olsen (1999: 43-44) proposes that an original dorsal-liquid onset (which she reconstructs in these words) was broken up with a weak anaptyctic vowel which was subsequently syncopated (*KRu > *KVRu- > *KRu-. The only purpose of this vowel is
to make a deus ex machina appearance just at the right time to block liquid metathe-
64
PIOTR GĄSIOROWSKI
Armenian development was more or less as follows: *gerh2 o-h2 (a) i- >
*g rr i- > *g rrú - > *g rrúg - > *keṙúk - > *kəṙúk > *kṙuk.36 The “epenthetic” nasal may have originated in the pre-Arm. acc.sg. *g rrúg m > *keṙúk n
> *kəṙúkn > kṙownk.
The purpose of this section is to point out that Arm. kṙownk is a possible
direct cognate of the ‘crane’ term found in Balto-Slavic and Latin. The relative
insecurity of some aspects of reconstructible Proto-Armenian makes it impossible to clarify every detail, so the proposed derivation must be regarded as tentative. A large dose of scepticism is recommended in such cases, especially
when the words we attempt to etymologise come dangerously close to being
cross-linguistic onomatopoeias. For example, Modern English used to have the
now-obsolete verb crunk (also crunkle), cf. OIc. krunka ‘croak’. It is defined in
Samuel Johnson’s dictionary (Johnson 1785: TO CRUNK – TO CRU`NKLE) as ‘To
cry like a crane’, and the Renaissance lexicographer Withals (1608, quoted by
Nares 1859: 210) thus illustrates its use: ‘The crane crunketh, gruit grus’ (note
the pervasive alliteration). While Eng. crunk can hardly be cognate with Arm.
kṙownk, their striking resemblance is a cautionary reminder of the possibility
that the Armenian word might be a mere onomatopoeic coinage of no great antiquity. Still, if kṙownk is of PIE age, there is no need to multiply reconstructions beyond necessity: the protoform reconstructed on the basis of Balto-Slavic
evidence accounts for the Armenian data as well.
9. Conclusion
As has been shown, the attested Indo-European names of the crane can be
traced down to two protolanguage variants:
(a) *gérh2 -no(b) *gerh2 ó-h2 a i-.
The two lexemes seem to have been fully synonymous: they referred to the
same species of bird and apparently ignored any intraspecific differences (including biological sex). The existence of other synonymous by-forms (*grh2 -én- and
*gérh2 -nu-) already in the protolanguage is possible and supported (though not
conclusively), by some of the comparative evidence. The shorter variant
36
sis (*KR > *eRK). In my analysis, the second step (the syncope of a weak vowel) is
the same as in Olsen’s but the KR-onset does not date back to PIE, so the zig-zag
derivation is avoided. This facilitates external comparison with, say, Slavic *golva
‘head’ and *ž rav(j)ь.
The weakening of pretonic *e could have taken place earlier than suggested here.
The complete loss of the vowel must postdate CR-metathesis, but other than that, the
relative chronology of this reduction is not critically important for the proposed scenario.
65
*gérh2 -no- is reflected not only in Greek and Celtic, but also in Iranian, where,
as a result of semantic contamination, the reflex of *g replaced that of *g (palatalised before a front vowel) at an early date. The Germanic term is related but
best explained as a loan from Celtic. The compound variant has left reflexes in
Balto-Slavic, Latin and Armenian. Such a geographical distribution cuts across
identifiable language clades and areal clusters, so it probably results from the
accidental retention of either the one or the other variant in the proto-branch
languages. In a situation where two synonyms competed for the same meaning,
with little room for semantic differentiation, the long-term survival of both in a
single branch would have been unlikely. The evolution of the compound variant
has produced some difficult comparanda because of the cross-linguistic tendency for compounds to undergo phonetic compression and morphological fusion.
To complicate matters further, the second member was an ablauting stem (the
PIE ‘bird’ word), highly prone to analogical levelling and reshaping.
Here is a summary of the proposed derivations within Proto-Indo-European
(ignoring, for simplicity, some of the alternative possibilities discussed in the
text):
Root:
*gerh2 - ‘cry loudly’
*grh2 - n/*grh2 -n-´ ‘crier’
*gerh2 n-ó- ‘strong (of a voice)’
*gerh2 -ó- ‘loud’
*gerh2 ó-h2 a is/*gerh2 ó-h2 ( )i- ‘loud-bird’
*gérh2 nos ‘(bird with) a strong voice’
‘crane’
I hope to have shown that in the case of the Indo-European ‘crane’ words
we can go beyond a vague “root etymology” and reconstruct the exact form of
the etyma in question, complete with their derivational history.
Piotr Gąsiorowski
School of English
Adam Mickiewicz University
PL – 61-874 Poznań
[[email protected]]
66
PIOTR GĄSIOROWSKI
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vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.004.0941
Guillaume JACQUES (Paris)
LA RACINE * eh2 - EN SANSKRIT : vāma-, vāra-°, vayati *)
Abstract (The root *ueh2- in Sanskrit: vāma-, vāra-°, vayati). This article discusses
the remnants of the root * h2 - ‘to turn’ in Sanskrit. First, vāma- ‘left’, an etymon
which we analyse from a typological point of view, bringing comparative data from
various languages; the etymology of its synonym savyá- is also discussed. Second, the
noun vāra-° ‘prostitute’ which, although isolated in Sanskrit, presents an exact Latin
cognate. Third, the verb vayati ‘to weave’, whose paradigm and derived noun include
some forms that must originate from * h2 -.
Keywords: etymology, Sanskrit, Indo-European, typology, left, prostitute, weave.
Introduction
La plupart des langues indo-européennes expriment le sens de ‘tourner,
effectuer une rotation’ au moyen de la racine * rt-, qui donne notamment le
sanskrit vartate, et le vieil-anglais w orðan ‘devenir’.
Les langues anatoliennes présentent toutefois une racine différente, illustrée par le hittite wēḫzi, waḫḫanzi (* h2 -ti, * éh2 -nti) ‘se tourner’. Cette racine
a laissé des vestiges dans d’autres langues, en particulier le slavon *vyja ‘cou’ <
*uh2 -ieh2 - (LIV : 663) et le latin ār s ‘cagneux’ < * éh2 -ro- (Walde et Hofmann 1954 : 734-5).
Dans cet article, nous montrons qu’au moins trois étymons indépendants en
sanskrit peuvent aussi s’expliquer au moins de cette racine : vāma- ‘gauche’
(que nous étudions dans le contexte général de la typologie désignant les noms
de la droite et de la gauche), vāra-° ‘prostituée’ ainsi que vayati ‘tresser’ et sa
famille étymologique.
*) Je remercie Romain Garnier pour ses commentaires sur cet article. Je reste seul responsable des erreurs qui pourraient y rester. Les gloses employées sont les suivantes : ACC accusatif, AOR aoriste, BAHUV bah vrīhi, F féminin, IMPF imparfait, INSTR
instrumental, LOC locatif, M masculin, MEDIO médiopassif (ātman padam), N neutre,
NOM nominatif, PARF parfait, PART participe, PRES présent, LIV Lexikon der indogermanischen Verben (Rix et al. 2001).
70
GUILLAUME JACQUES
1. Vāma- ‘gauche’
Afin d’étudier en détail l’étymologie de l’adjectif vāma- ‘gauche’, nous allons tout d’abord présenter des considérations typologiques générales sur les
termes relatifs à la droite et à la gauche en indo-européen, puis aborder le synonyme savyá- ‘gauche’, pour enfin analyser en détail l’origine de vāma-.
1.1. Droite et gauche en indo-européen
L’étymologie des termes désignant la droite et la gauche présente des similarités typologiques remarquables à travers diverses familles non apparentées.
Les noms et adjectifs signifiant ‘côté droit’, voire parfois ‘main droite’ dérivent systématiquement de termes positifs dans les langues où une étymologie
est possible.
En indo-européen, le nom de la droite est relativement stable, et le dossier
étymologique est solidement étudié (voir en particulier Beekes 1994). On peut
reconstruire une racine *deks- ‘être habile’ (LIV : 112), attestée sous forme verbale uniquement par le sanskrit *déks-e-toi > dákṣate, mais présente dans la plupart des branches de la famille sous la forme d’adjectifs et de noms dérivés.
D’après Benveniste (1973 : 98), il faut poser le locatif *déks-i ‘à droite’ d’un
ancien nom racine *dóks-/déks- qui apparaît dans le latin dexter. A partir de ce
locatif, on forme des adjectifs en *-no- (sanskrit *déks-i-no- > dákṣiṇa-), *- o(gotique taihswa) ou au moyen du comparatif *-tero- (grec *deks-i-tero- > δεξίτερος).
L’emploi ancien de la formation adjectivale comparative du type δεξίτερος
était d’opposer un adjectif à un autre dans une construction contrastive (Benveniste 1975 : 116-7, Garnier 2008a : 142). Dans les phrases de ce type, seul le second adjectif apparaît à la forme comparative, le premier est à la forme neutre :
(1) καὶ λάϐε
γούνων
σκαιῇ,
et
prendre.AOR.3SG genou.GEN.PL gauche.F.SG.INSTR
δεξιτερῇ
δ᾿
ἄρ᾿
ὑπ᾿
droite.F.SG.INSTR CONSTRASTIF ainsi sur
ἀνθερεῶνος
ἑλοῦσα
menton.SG.GEN
prendre.AOR.PART.F.SG.NOM
‘Elle s’accroupit à ses pieds, de sa gauche saisit ses genoux, de sa droite le
prend au menton.’ (Iliade A.500-1)
Ce type d’évolution sémantique n’est pas proprement indo-européen et se
retrouve dans d’autres familles linguistiques. Par exemple, en tangoute (langue
sino-tibétaine éteinte au XVème siècle), ‘droite’ 偖 tɕier 1.78 (Li 1997 : #2547)
dérive du nom ‘avantage, intérêt’ 悶 tɕier 1.78 (Li 1997 : #2341).
LA RACINE * h2 - EN SANSKRIT : vāma-, vāra-°, vayati
71
Pour le nom de la ‘gauche’, on trouve deux types d’origines étymologiques
opposées à travers les langues.
L’origine la plus courante est un sens négatif, en particulier ‘tordu’, ‘courbé’, ‘malhabile’, voire même simplement ‘mauvais’. Ces sens sont amplement
attestés en indo-européen (voir Beekes 1994). On peut citer par exemple le celtique *klēyo- ‘gauche’ (Matasović 2009 : 207), vieil irlandais clé, breton kleiz,
qui dérive de *klēi-o-, degré *-ē- de la racine *kl i- ‘être incliné’.
Par ailleurs, certains de ces termes, tels que latin laeuus, grec λαιός ‘gauche’
ou latin scaeuus, grec σκαι(ϝ)ός ‘gauche’, sont connus pour leur vocalisme -apopulaire, courants dans les termes liés aux défauts physiques. Ces deux formes
à l’étymologie obscure ne dérivent pas de racines verbales attestées.
Une deuxième origine, moins fréquente, est la dérivation euphémique d’un
terme positif pour désigner la gauche (Beekes 1994). Le grec en présente plusieurs exemples. On trouve ἀριστερός ‘gauche’ comparatif formé sur ἄριστος
‘meilleur’ (sur l’usage du comparatif, voir la section précédente sur δεξίτερος)
ainsi que εὐ ν μος, terme signifiant littéralement ‘ayant un nom auspicieux’.
Hors du domaine indo-européen, le développement de ‘tordu, malhabile’ >
‘gauche’ est bien attesté. On peut citer, parmi les langues d’Eurasie, le tibétain
g.yon ‘gauche’, qui dérive par préfixation en g- et suffixation en -n de l’adjectif
yo ‘tordu’ (noter également les noms g.yo ‘tromperie’ et g.yon-ma ‘prostituée’)
et le mongol b r ’ буруу qui signifie à la fois ‘irrégulier, faux, méchant’ et
‘gauche’. Hors de l’Eurasie, on trouve également des exemples de ce type de
d’association sémantique, comme l’illustre l’expression nahuatl tla p chcopa
catqui ‘faux, qui est à la main gauche’ (Wimmer 2006), ce qui illustre le fait
que le sens négatif du côté gauche n’est ni spécifiquement indo-européen, ni
même restreint aux langues du continent Eurasiatique.
En revanche, nous ne connaissons pas d’exemple de désignation euphémique de la gauche dérivant dans une autre famille ; il s’agit d’une idiosyncrasie non triviale des langues indo-européennes.
1.2. Savya, terme euphémique
En sanskrit, le terme le plus anciennement attesté pour ‘gauche’ est savyá-.
Outre le fait qu’il apparaît dans le Rigveda, son antiquité est assurée par la présence de cognats en iranien, comme l’avestique haoiia- ‘gauche’ et même en
slave š jĭ (Meillet 1961 : 380). La cognat slave est d’une grande importance, car
il prouve que la proto-forme avait un vocalisme *e. On doit supposer les étapes
suivantes pour parvenir à š jĭ : *s io- > *syauyas > *š jŭ > š jĭ. On ne peut
donc poser une reconstruction *sa io-, supposant un *a populaire comme dans
les étymons grecs λαιός et σκαι(ϝ)ός cités plus haut.
Mayrhofer (1996 : 716) propose comme protoforme *(H)s io-, la laryngale étant basée sur l’hypothèse d’une relation étymologique avec l’adjectif
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GUILLAUME JACQUES
*h1 és - ‘bon’ (grec ἐΰς), savyá- étant donc une désignation euphémique de la
gauche comme les exemples grecs présentés dans la section précédente. Nous
allons reprendre et développer ici cette étymologie.
*h1 és - et sa dérivation ont été élucidés en détail par Watkins (1982 : 261)
et Pinault (2003 : 162-3). Il faut partir d’un nom neutre acrostatique *h1 ós-u /
*h1 és-u- ‘bon, bien’ directement attesté par le hittite ašš , ašš waš. On dérive
ensuite un adjectif protérokinétique *h1 és-u-s / *h1 s-é- -s (hittite ašš , aššawaš,
grec ἐΰς). De cet adjectif est également dérivé le préfixe au degré zéro *h1 su-°
(grec ἐυ-, sanskrit su-).
On considère généralement que le nom *h1 ós-u lui-même dérive de la racine *h1 es- ‘être’, qui incluait originellement les nuances ‘être vrai, être adéquat, être important’ (Lamberterie 1990 : 800).1 L’hypothèse de la dérivation de
*h1 és-u-s / *h1 s-é- -s à partir de la racine *h1 es- est le cas particulier d’une
théorie plus générale de la dérivation indo-européen, développée à l’origine par
Jochem Schindler, et systématisée par Pinault (2003 : 169-173). La chaîne de
dérivation inclut les quatre étapes suivantes :
1
*C¹ C²
racine verbale
*h1 es
*pek
2
*C¹óC²-u /
*C¹éC²-u-
nom d’action
acrostatique
*h1 ós-u /
*h1 és-u-
*pók-u /
*pék-u-
adjectif
*h1 és-u-s / *pék-u-s /
protéro*h1 s-é- -s
*pk-é- -s
kinétique
4 *C¹C²-é- -s / collectif
*h1 s-é- -s / *pk-é- -s /
*C¹C²-u-é-s
hystéro*h1 s-u-é-s
*pk-u-é-s
kinétique
Tableau 1 : Modèle de dérivation des types flexionnels.
3
*C¹éC²-u-s /
*C¹C²-é- -s
‘arracher la
laine’
‘produit de
l’arrachage’ >
‘laine’
‘celui à la
laine’ > ‘bétail’
‘ensemble du
bétail’ > ‘troupeau’
Un nom d’action neutre acrostatique en *-u est tout d’abord tiré d’une racine verbale (type δόρυ). Ensuite, le génitif de ce nom *C¹éC²-u-s est hypostasié
en adjectif, à partir duquel un génitif *C¹C²-é- -s est innové. Finalement, ce génitif est à nouveau réanalysé comme le nominatif d’un nom collectif *C¹C²-é- -s
ou *C¹C²- - -s. Cette chaîne de dérivation n’est à proprement attestée telle
quelle dans aucune langue, mais elle permet de rendre compte d’une quantité
considérable de formation dans diverses langues indo-européennes. Seuls les
types 2 et 3 vont nous intéresser ici.
1
Cette hypothèse est soutenue par l’existence d’un parallèle typologique en sino-tibétain : la copule ŋ du Rgyalrong Japhug, ŋw ¹ du tangoute et *ŋwa¹ du proto-lolobirman sont apparentés au tibétain ngo.bo ‘existence, essence’.
73
A partir du nom *h1 ós-u ou de l’adjectif *h1 és-u-s, on dispose de trois modèles explicatifs pour rendre compte de savya-.
Premièrement, le locatif de *h1 ós-u ‘chose bonne, adéquate’ serait *h1 s-é-i (type sān -, sānavi ‘crête d’une montagne’). On pourrait donc poser un adjectif d’appartenance en -o- basé sur ce locatif *h1 s-é- -i-o- ‘celui qui est dans
la chose adéquate (= la main gauche, par euphémisme)’.
Deuxièmement, on peut poser un féminin *h1 s-é -ih2 ‘la bonne > la bonne
main > la main gauche’ par euphémisme, en supposant que la désignation de la
main était féminine en indo-européen. On peut en tirer un adjectif d’appartenance *h1 s- -ih2 -ó- ‘celui qui est pourvu d’une main gauche’ (type *g wih2 -ó‘pourvu d’une corde d’arc > arc’, grec βιός). La laryngale est ensuite régulièrement simplifiée à l’intervocalique d’où *h1 s- -ih2 -ó- > *h1 s- -i-ó-, ce qui
donne la forme ancestrale à l’indo-iranien et au slave. Le sens de *h1 s- -ih2 -ódevait être originellement soit ‘gaucher’, soit ‘côté gauche’, mais il est devenu
un adjectif général pour la ‘gauche’.
Troisièmement, on peut considérer un dérivé en *-io- sur *h1 ós-u ou *h1 ésu-s, suivant le modèle de pa ú- ‘bétail’ > pa avyà- ‘relatif au bétail’, (nom
neutre) ‘troupeau de bétail’, íṣu- ‘flèche’ > iṣavyà- ‘habile au tir à l’arc’ etc
(Whitney 1924 : §1212h). Les dérivés de ce type proviennent normalement de
noms, donc il faut supposer soit un dérivé direct de *h1 ós-u, soit que *h1 és-u-s
ait été substantivé.
Dans cette hypothèse toutefois, il est nécessaire pour rendre compte du
degré zéro de poser que cette formation présentait à l’origine une alternance de
type *h1 és-u-s > *h1 s-é- -io-. Pour pa - > pa avyà- par exemple, il faudrait
donc supposer *pék-u-s > *pk-é- -io-. On attendrait une forme †kṣavya- par les
lois phonétiques régulières, mais le degré guṇa dans pa avyà- a pu avoir été refait à une date indienne : la productivité de cette formation en sanskrit se manifeste par le fait que l’on peut créer un adjectif apsavyà- à partir du locatif pluriel
apsú ‘dans les eaux’.
Il est difficile de déterminer laquelle de ces trois hypothèses est la plus
vraisemblable, mais quel que soit le chemin de dérivation exact, le sens originel
euphémique de *h1 s ió- a dû devenir opaque très tôt, et n’était sans doute plus
analysable en védique ou même en proto-indo-iranien. Le composé védique
suṣavya ‘à la bonne main gauche’ (Indra) réfère indirectement à la gauche
comme côté malhabile, que les héros et dieux, contrairement au commun des
mortels, parviennent à utiliser avec autant de dextérité que la droite. Ce composé est de date indienne (sans quoi on attendrait †sūṣavya < *h1 su-h1 s ió- avec
un allongement du -u- dû à la laryngale).2 Les deux éléments qui le forment,
*h1 su-° et *h1 s ió-, proviennent tous deux de *h1 és-u-s.
2
Cf. āsat- ‘monstre’ < *nh1 snt.
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GUILLAUME JACQUES
(2) yáḥ suṣavyáḥ s dákṣiṇa inó yáḥ s krát rgṛṇé
yá ākaráḥ sahásrā yáḥ atāmagha índro yáḥ pūrbhídāritáḥ
y s
su-ṣavy s
su-dakṣiṇ s
qui.M.SG.NOM bonne-gauche.BAHUV.M.SG.NOM bonne-droite.BAHUV.M.SG.NOM
in s
y s
s - r t s
puissant.M.SG.NOM qui.M.SG.NOM forte-volonté.BAHUV.M.SG.NOM
gṛṇé
y s
ā ar s
louer.3SG.MEDIO.PRES qui.M.SG.NOM qui_distribue.M.SG.NOM
sah srās
y s
atā-maghas
mille.PL.ACC qui.M.SG.NOM centaine-récompense.BAHUV.M.SG.NOM
ndras
y s
pūr-bh t
Indra.M.SG.NOM qui.M.SG.NOM forteresses-brisant.M.SG.NOM
ār tas
loué.M.SG.NOM
‘Celui dont la main gauche est habile, dont la main droite est habile, le
puissant, celui à la forte volonté, il est loué, celui qui distribue par millier
et qui offre des récompenses par centaines, Indra, loué comme destructeur
de forteresses.’ (RV 8.33.5)
Dans les textes plus tardifs, on retrouve également ce motif, avec l’épithète
d’Arjuna savyasācin- ‘qui (peut) tirer à l’arc de la main gauche’.
On forme de nombreux dérivés de savyá- au moyen de préverbes directionnels, en particulier prasavya- qui signifie aussi ‘gauche’,3 avasavya- ou apasavya- ‘non situé à gauche, à droite’. Là encore, l’absence d’allongement garantit
que ces composés sont de date tardive, sans quoi on devrait obtenir †prāṣavya <
*pro-h1 s ió-.
On retrouve les préverbes pra- et ava- dans les formes prasalaví ‘vers la
droite’ et avasalaví / apasalaví ‘vers la gauche’, qui sont selon Plath (2000) d’anciens locatifs (type sān -, sānavi ‘sommet’) tirés d’un thème *salu- < *selh2 -u-.
Les deux paires prasavya- ~ apasavya- d’une part et prasalaví ~ apasalaví
d’autre part illustrent l’usage des préverbes pra- < *pro- et apa- < *apo-, qui indiquent le mouvement dans deux directions opposées, soit vers l’avant (pra√GAM ‘avancer’), soit l’éloignement ou la séparation (apa-√GAM ‘s’éloigner,
disparaître’).
1.3. Vāma, terme péjoratif
Mayrhofer (1995 : 543) rapproche vāma- du hindi bāwā, mais aussi du
waigali awām d š ‘bras gauche’, ce qui suggère que ce mot n’est pas une innovation proprement indienne. Pourtant, il n’est pas attesté dans le Rigveda, où
3
Concernant la forme problématique prasavi- attestée dans le Śāṅkhayana-Śrautasūtra, il s’agit vraisembablement d’une corruption selon Hoffmann (1960 : 12).
75
seul son quasi-homonyme vāmá- ‘charmant, beau’ apparaît. La première attestation se trouve dans un passage identique dans le Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad
(4.2.3) et le Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa (14.6.11.3) :
(3) áthaitádvām ’kṣíṇi púr ṣarūpam ṣāsya pátnī virāṭ
táyor ṣá saṃstāvo yá ṣò ’ntárhṛdaya ākā ó
atha etad
vāme
akṣ ṇi
p r ṣa-rūpam
alors cela.N.SG.NOM gauche.N.SG.LOC œil.SG.LOC homme-forme.BAHUV.N.SG.NOM
eṣā
asya
p tn
virāṭ
cela.F.SG.NOM cela.N.SG.GEN épouse.SG.NOM Virâj.VOC
t yos
eṣ s
saṃstāv s
cela.DU.GEN cela.M.SG.NOM
louange_commune.M.SG.NOM
y s
eṣ s
antar
hṛdaye
ā ā s
qui.M.SG.NOM cela.M.SG.NOM intérieur cœur.M.SG.LOC espace.SG.NOM
‘Ce dont la forme est celle d’un homme dans l’œil gauche, c’est son épouse, Virâj. Leur louange commune est l’espace dans le cœur.’
C’est également le seul passage de ce type dans un texte védique accentué,
qui permet de déterminer que l’accent de cet adjectif était radical vāma- par opposition à vāmá- ‘charmant’.
Dans les textes plus tardifs, comme les épopées, les exemples sont nombreux. Vāma- s’y oppose à dakṣiṇa- ‘droite’ :
(4) vām na sītāṃ padmākṣīṃ mūrdhaj ṣu kareṇa saḥ
ūrvos t dakṣiṇ naiva parijagrāha pāṇinā
vāmena
s tāṃ
padma-akṣ ṃ
gauche.M.SG.INSTR Sîtâ.NOM lotus-yeux.BAHUV.NOM.F.SG
mūrdhajeṣu
kareṇa
sas
cheveux.PL.LOC main.SG.INSTR il.M.SG.NOM
ūrvos
tu
dakṣiṇena
eva
cuisse.DU.GEN donc droite.N.SG.INSTR aussi
parijagrāha
pāṇinā
attraper_en_entourant.PARF.3SG.ACT main.SG.INSTR
‘Sa main gauche saisit la chevelure de Sîtâ aux yeux de lotus et sa dextre
lui entoura les deux cuisses.’ (traduction Garnier 2008b : 125)
Mayrhofer (1995 : 543) reprend l’étymologie communément acceptée, et
suggère qu’il s’agit d’une forme dérivée de vāmá- ‘charmant’ par euphémisme :
“dann ist vāma- ‘link’ wahrscheinlich mit vāmá- ‘lieb, wert’ als Euphemismus
ursprungsgleich”. Vāmá- est quant à lui analysé comme un adjectif sur degré
zéro * nH-mó- de la racine * nH- ‘aimer’ (LIV : 682), qui donne le sanskrit
vánat ‘aimer’.
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GUILLAUME JACQUES
Il convient de noter que la racine * nH- ‘aimer’ doit être distinguée de
* n- ‘vaincre, gagner’ (LIV : 680, Gotō 1987 : 283-4). Il est exclu pour des
raisons phonétiques d’envisager une dérivation de vāmá- < * n-mó-, car on attendrait sanskrit †vamá- avec un a court.
Une possibilité alternative pour expliquer l’étymologie de vāma- serait de
partir de la racine * h2 - ‘se tourner’ (LIV : 663), et de postuler une forme
* oh2 -mó- > vāma-, un nom *CoC-mó- du type gharmá- < *g hwor-mó- ‘chaleur’. Le passage de nom à adjectif a dû s’effectuer par la cassure d’anciens
composés bah vrīhi.
Cette racine * h2 - est connue principalement grâce à l’anatolien, en particulier le présent acrostatique hittite wēḫzi, waḫḫanzi (* h2 -ti, * éh2 -nti) ‘se
tourner’. On en trouve une trace en vieux-slave vyja ‘cou’ < *uh2 -iéh2 - (LIV :
663). C’est toutefois le latin qui permet de comprendre l’étymologie de vāma-.
Dans cette langue, on trouve selon Garnier (2010b) les traces suivantes de
* h2 - :
(a) ār s ‘cagneux’ < * éh2 -ro-, adjectif en *-ro- sur degré *e. Cette idée a
déjà été suggérée par Walde et Hofmann (1954 : 734-5).
(b) * ătis ‘courbure’, nom féminin de type *CC-tí- non attesté dont l’existence
est supposée par l’adjectif dérivé ăti s ‘aux jambes courbées’. Devrait
dérivé d’un verbe non-attesté * ā-re < * éh2 - (pour d’autres exemples du
même type, voir Garnier 2010a : 470). On attendrait pour le dérivé nominal
**ūti- < *uh2 -tí-, mais une réfection apophonique de date italique du type
*Cā- : *Că-ti- a supprimé le saṃprasāraṇa. Cette réfection est basée sur
l’alternance ā/ă paradigmes venant de racines à obstruente suivie de laryngales, comme stār ‘être debout’, stătim ‘sur le champs’, ancient accusatif
devenu immotivé du nom *sth2 -tí-, correspondant exact du sanskrit sthitiet du grec στάσις ‘fait d’être debout’.
Les dérivés nominaux et adjectivaux de cette racine * h2 - ‘tourner’ en latin ont développé le sens de ‘courbure’, s’appliquant en particulier à des défauts
physiques. On doit supposer le même cheminement sémantique en sanskrit.
L’étymon proposé ici * oh2 -mó- n’est pas attesté dans les autres langues de
la famille, mais suit le modèle général des noms en *CoC-mó- qui est extrêmement productif en indo-iranien. Le sens original devait être ‘le membre tordu’,
d’où ‘le bras gauche’, réanalysé comme adjectif ‘gauche’. L’accentuation radicale est secondaire, comme dans kāma- ‘amour’ < *koh2 -mó-.
2. Vārā ‘prostituée’
Si l’on admet l’existence de traces de la racine * h2 - en indo-iranien, il
devient possible de proposer un étymologie nouvelle pour le nom féminin vārā
77
‘prostituée’ (Mahabharata 6.116), qui apparaît également comme vāra-° premier membre de nombreux composés : vāra-kanyakā, vāra-yoṣit, vāra-s ndarī,
vāra-strī ‘prostitutée’ (le deuxième membre signifie ‘jeune fille’ ou ‘femme’) et
vāra-s vā ‘practice of harlotry or a set of harlots’.
(5) kiṃt sā kila vārakanyakā gaṇikāsvadharmapratīpagāminā bhadrodār ṇā ay na samagirata g ṇa lkāham na dhana lkā
kiṃtu sā
kila
vāra- anya ā
mais cette.F.NOM.SG apparemment prostituée-jeune.fille.NOM.SG
gaṇi ā-svadharma-prat pa-gāminā
prostituée-nature.propre-contraire-allant.INSTR.SG
bhadra- dāreṇa
ā ayena
samagirata
vertueux-noble.INSTR.SG disposition.d’esprit.INSTR.SG déclarer.IMPF.MEDIO.3SG
guṇa- l ā
aham na
vertu-prix.nuptial.BAHUV.NOM.F.SG moi
NEG
dhana- l ā
richesse-prix.nuptial.BAHUV.NOM.F.SG
‘However, rumour has it that your harlot maiden has taken a vow manifesting a goodness of character quite the opposite of what one expects from a
prostitute. She has announced: “My bride-price will be counted in virtues,
not riches.”’ (Daśakumāracarita 2.2.208.1)4
Le dictionnaire Monnier-Williams analyse cette forme vāra- comme équivalent à vāra- ‘moment, fois, jour de la semaine, tour’, un dérivé de la racine
* el- ‘tourner’ qui dufait des changements phonétiques n’est plus distinguable
en sanskrit de * er- ‘entourer, empêcher’. Selon le dictionnaire, ce serait mot à
comprendre comme ‘girl (taken) in turn’. Cette explication est possible. Toutefois, il n’est pas moins vraisemblable de voir en vāra- un ancien adjectif en *-ro
sur degré *e de * h2 - : * éh2 -ro- ‘tordu > dépravé’, d’où ‘prostituée’.5 Cette
formation appartient à la même catégorie morphologique que le germanique
Hure < *kéh2 -ro- ‘cher’, adjectif tiré de la racine *keh2 - ‘begehren’ (LIV : 343).
L’absence de vāra-° ‘prostituée’ dans les textes védiques peut s’expliquer par
son sens peu religieux ; l’attestation tardive d’un terme de ce type n’est pas un
obstacle contre l’hypothèse d’une origine indo-européenne.
Selon cette idée, la forme sanskrite vāra- remonte donc à trois étymons distincts selon ses différents sens : * or-ó- ‘qui bloque, qui couvre’, * ól-o- ‘tour’
et * éh2 -ro- ‘dépravé’.
4
5
Traduction Onians (2005).
A titre de parallèle typologique, on se rappelle que le tibétain g.yon-ma ‘prostituée’
dérive étymologiquement de l’adjectif yo ‘oblique’.
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GUILLAUME JACQUES
Contrairement à l’étymon * oh2 -mó- qui est isolé, * éh2 -ro- apparaît à la
fois en sanskrit (vāra-) et en latin ( ār s). Même si sa signification a évolué
dans des directions différentes dans ces deux langues, il ne fait aucun doute que
cet étymon peut être reconstruit, car ces formes sont parfaitement superposables, et l’absence de racine verbale vivante exclut la possibilité de deux innovations indépendantes.
3. V yati ‘tisser’
Le LIV (p. 224) reconstruit pour le sanskrit váyati ‘tisser’ une racine *H -,
citant également comme cognats possibles mais incertains le lithuanien á dži
‘weben’ et l’albanais ven ‘weben’.
Toutefois, une étymologie alternative rapprochant cette forme sanskrite de
la racine * h2 - est aussi présente dans la littérature (voir par exemple Iturrioz
1978 : 574). Le changement sémantique de ‘tourner’ à ‘tisser’ n’est guère problématique : il faut considérer un stage intermédiaire où le sens de cette racine
aurait été spécifiquement ‘tourner la quenouille’ ou ‘torsader les fils’. Le seul
problème avec cette hypothèse est l’attestation plus tardive des formes en ū- et
en vā-, qui sont plus rares dans le RV.
Chacune de ces théories permet d’expliquer une partie des formes du paradigme :
Sanskrit
*H * h2 sens
váyati RV
*H -éi -ti
*uh2 -éi -ti
‘tisser’ (présent)
ót m RV
*H -tu(infinitif)
tá- RV
*Hu-to(part. passé)
ótu- m. RV
*Hé -tu‘trame’
ūti- f.
*uh2 -tí‘action de tisser’
vātav AV
* éh2 -t i
(infinitif)
ūyat Br.
*uh2 -ié-toi
(passif)
ūta*uh2 -tó(part. passé)
Tableau 2 : Origine des différentes formes du paradigme du verbe váyati.
Toutefois, ces deux hypothèses ne sont pas mutuellement exclusives. Il est
possible que la racine *H - que le LIV postule ait existé, mais que les formes à
voyelles longues telles que ūta-, vātav etc. soient malgré tout dérivées de
* h2 - : la proximité sémantique autant que phonétique de ces deux racines les
auraient rapprochées et fusionnées en un seul paradigme, de la même façon que
les racines *g wem- ‘venir’ et *g weh2 - ‘poser le pied’ se sont confondues dans le
paradigme du grec βαίνω ‘marcher’.
79
Notons que *uh2 -tí- ‘action de tisser’ correspond parfaitement à l’étymon
que Garnier (2010b) avait posé en latin pour expliquer l’adjectif ăti s ‘aux
jambes courbées’ (voir section 1.3).
Le paradigme de váyati contient aussi des formes qui semblent basées sur
une racine √VAYi, telles que le futur vayiṣyati, et le nom vema- ‘métier à tisser’. Hoffmann (1974 : 23) les considère comme analogiques.
Toutefois, il n’est pas absolument exclu de les analyser comme dérivées de
la racine * i h1 - ‘se tourner, envelopper’, qui donne aussi le sanskrit vyáyati
‘tresser’. Il faudrait, suivant Garnier (2010a : 175), poser un thème 1 * ih1 -si -ti pour le futur (on attendrait †veṣyati, vayiṣyati serait refait). Pour le nom
vema-, on pourrait envisager soit un nom *CoC-mó- * oih1 -mó- pour le ‘métier
à tisser’, soit la réanalyse en nom thématique d’un ancien *CéC-mn- * éih1 mn-, à peu près comparable au latin īm n ‘osier’. Si cette hypothèse est valide,
le paradigme de váyati proviendrait de trois racines à l’origine distinctes mais
rapprochées de façon fortuite par les lois phonétiques.
Le verbe ‘tisser’ s’emploie souvent dans les textes védiques dans un sens
métaphorique, où la composition d’un poème est assimilée à un ‘liage’, un ‘tissage’ ou une ‘couture’ des paroles :
(6) sāmāni cakr s tásarāṇy ótav
sāmāni
cakrur
t sarāṇi
ótave
chant.ACC.N.PL
faire.PARF.3PL navette.ACC.N.PL tisser.INF.DAT
‘Avec les navettes à tisser, on a fait les mélodies.’ (traduction Renou, RV,
10.130.2)
On trouve quasiment la même phrase sāmāni cakr s tásarāṇy vātav avec
la forme infinitive basée sur * h2 - dans AV.10.7.44.
Il s’agit là d’un motif littéraire indo-européen bien connu. Le sanskrit
sāman- ‘chant’ < *séh2 -mn- provient lui-même de la racine *seh2 - ‘attacher,
composer’ (voir le LIV : 544, où cette racine apparaît comme *sh2 i-). De cette
même racine sont dérivés l’avestique hāiti- < *seh2 -tí- ‘chapitre de l’avesta’, le
premier élément du nom d’Hésiode Ἡσίοδος < *seh2 -tí- et le grec οἶμος ‘chant’
< *sh2 -oi-mó- (Bader 1993 : 82-3). Parallèlement, le nom ῥαψῳδός ‘rapsode’
est un composé dont le premier membre dérive du verbe ῥάπτω ‘coudre’.
Il est intéressant de remarquer que la racine indo-européenne habituelle
* bh- pour ‘tisser’ n’existe qu’à l’état de vestiges en sanskrit. On la retrouve
dans le nom de l’araignée ūrṇavābhi- ‘celui qui tisse la laine’ et dans la racine
indienne √UMBH ‘lier, ligoter’ qui se apparaît dans des formes telles que
l’imparfait de seconde personne singulier sans augment unap < * -né-bh-s (voir
LIV: 658) :
80
GUILLAUME JACQUES
(7) arajja
d syūn
s m
unab
dabh taye
sans.corde.INSTR Dasyu.ACC.PL ensemble ligoter.IMPF.2SG Dabhîti.DAT
‘Sans corde, tu as ligoté les Dasyus pour Dabhîti.’ (RV.2.13.9)
Le développement de * eh2 - dans le sens de ‘tisser’ est donc concomittant
avec la marginalisation de la racine * bh-, qui ne survit que dans des sens secondaires.
4. Conclusion
Cette étude montre que la racine * h2 - est bien mieux attestée qu’on ne le
croyait jusqu’ici hors du domaine anatolien : outre le slave et le latin, on en
trouve des traces nettes en sanskrit.
Alors que * h2 - signifie bien ‘se tourner’ en anatolien, tous les sens attestés dans ces trois langues sont secondaires : cette racine n’y existe plus qu’à l’état
de reliques. A l’exception de certaines formes du paradigme de váyati ‘tisser’ en
sanskrit, on ne retrouve guère que des formations nominales fossilisées :
Sanskrit
vāmavāra-°
ūti- f.
étymon
* oh2 -mó* éh2 -ro*uh2 -tí-
sens
‘gauche’
‘prostituée’
‘action de tisser’
équivalent latin
ār s ‘cagneux’
* ătis ‘courbure’ > ăti s
‘aux jambes courbées’
vātav AV
* éh2 -t i
(infinitif)
ūyat Br.
*uh2 -ié-toi
(passif)
ūta*uh2 -tó(part. passé)
Tableau 3 : Formes dérivées de la racine * h2 - en latin et en sanskrit.
Dans le cas de ūti- et de * ătis, le sens du nom dérivé est resté lié à celui
des verbes váyati ‘tisser’ et le verbe non-attesté * ār ‘courber’ d’où ces noms
sont dérivés. C’est dû au fait que les formations nominales en *-tí-, très productives, sont indexées sur les formes verbales et indéfiniment refaites.
La présence de ces étymons, dont certains sont communs aux latin et au
sanskrit, montre que la racine * h2 - a certainement dû avoir existé dans l’ancêtre commun des langues non-anatoliennes. Son remplacement dans le sens général de ‘tourner’ par la racine productive * rt- est vraisemblablement l’une
des nombreuses innovations communes à l’indo-européen non-anatolien.
81
Guillaume Jacques
21 rue de la Glacière
F – 75013 Paris
[[email protected]]
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vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.005.0942
Viktor LEVICKIJ (Černivci)
LAT. servus ‘DIENER, SKLAVE’,
SLAV. *orbъ ‘SKLAVE, WAISE, KIND’, SLAV. *sirota ‘WAISE’
Abstract (Latin servus ‘servant, slave’, Slav. *orbъ ‘slave, orphan, child’, Slav. *sirota ‘orphan’). The oldest names for ‘slave’ in Indo-European languages are connected
with the notions ‘captive’, ‘prisoner’, ‘tied’. Taking into consideration this typology we
can assume that Lat. servus ‘servant, slave’ might go back to PIE *ser- ‘to tie, to bind’.
PIE *or-bho-s, to which Proto-Slav. *orbъ ‘slave, child, orphan’ goes back, may have
been formed from *er-/or- ‘to cut, to separate’ > ‘orphan’. The Proto-Slav. word *sirota
‘orphan’ may also have been formed after this pattern.
Keywords: etymology, Latin, Slavonic, typology, slave, servant, orphan.
1. Semantische Typologie der Be eichnungen für ‘Sklave’
Die Geschichte der Sklaverei und der Bezeichnungen für ‘Sklave’ in verschiedenen Sprachen ist Gegenstand zahlreicher Untersuchungen und Diskussionen in wissenschaftlichen Publikationen zur Geschichte, Archäologie und
Linguistik. Der linguistische Aspekt dieses Problems ist kurz, aber gleichzeitig
ziemlich umfassend in den Arbeiten von E. Benveniste dargelegt – s. u.a. sein
Buch “Le vocabulaire des institutions indo-européennes”, 1970 (wir haben die
russische Übersetzung dieses Buches benutzt – s. Бенвенист 1995).
Die Überlegungen von E. Benveniste kann man auf Folgendes zurückführen:
Die Sklaven waren zuerst Vertreter eines fremden Stammes, die in gegebene Gesellschaft als Kriegsgefangene geraten sind. In den indogermanischen
Sprachen ist ein Sklave unbedingt ein Fremder und wird mit einem Fremdwort
(gr. δoῦλoς, lat. servus) oder einem Wort, das ein anderes Volk bezeichnet, benannt (fr. esclave < ‘Slawe’). Etwas später wird der Sklave zum Gegenstand
von Kauf und Verkauf (Бенвенист 1995: 233-243). Die historische Literatur
enthält einige genauere Angaben, die die Verwandlung der Kriegsgefangenen
zu Sklaven näher erläutern.
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lVIKTOR LEVICKIJl
Die Kriegsgefangenen anderer Stämme, die Fremden wurden früher entweder in den Stamm aufgenommen oder getötet. Im Neolithikum (der Jungsteinzeit) benutzten bereits Stämme, die sich mit primitivem Ackerbau beschäftigten,
manchmal die Arbeit dieser Gefangenen, waren aber noch nicht imstande, eine
allzu große Zahl von Sklaven zu ernähern und zu unterhalten; deshalb tötete
man die Gefangenen sehr oft (Жуков 1956: 321).
Es ist verständlich, dass sich die Sklaverei angemessen der Entwicklungsstufe der Arbeitskräfte und entsprechend dem Verfall der Gentilordnung zunächst noch bloß von Kriegsgefangenen, auf die Versklavung der eigenen Stammesgenossen ausgeweitet hat. Gerade in dieser Periode wurde der Verkauf von
Kindern in die Sklaverei möglich, eine Tatsache, die mit geschichtlichen Daten
übereinstimmt. Im Lateinischen gab es sogar spezielle Termini (vernae, alumni)
für die Bezeichnung der Sklaven, die aus verwaisten Kindern rekrutiert wurden.
Die ältesten Bezeichnungen für ‘Sklave’ gehen entweder auf die Wörter
mit der Bedeutung ‘Kriegsgefangener’, ‘erfasst’, ‘genommen’, ‘verbunden’
oder auf ethnische Namen zurück. So lässt sich kymr. caeth ‘Sklave’ mit dem
lat. captus ‘gefangen’ vergleichen. Altiran. banda ‘Sklave’ bedeutet buchstäblich ‘gebunden, gefangen’ (s. Бенвенист 1995: 234). Lat. mancipia – die allgemeine Benennung für die ganze Klasse der Unfreien – bedeutet wortwörtlich
‘mit der Hand Ertapptes’ (< manus ‘Hand’, capere ‘fassen’). Die älteste Bedeutung des Wortes war wahrscheinlich ‘Eigentumserwerb durch Griff mit der
Hand im Krieg’ (Ernout/Meillet: 554). Analoge Benennungen finden sich auch
in nicht-indogermanischen Sprachen. So geht das türk. esir ‘Sklave’ auf das
arab. asara ‘gefangennehmen, fesseln’ zurück und bedeutet wortwörtlich ‘Kriegsgefangener’. Ähnliches kann man in den kaukasischen Sprachen bezeugen. So
vereint das ubych(isch) гъыр in sich die Bedeutungen ‘Gefangener, Sklave’,
abas(inisch) гъар ‘Gefangengenommener’ (s. Шагиров 1977: 126).
Eine beachtliche Zahl von Wörtern mit der Bedeutung ‘Sklave’ stellen
ethnische Namen dar. Zu solchen zählt E. Benveniste, wie oben gezeigt, das gr.
δoῦλoς und lat. servus (das letzte ist nach Benveniste etruskischer Herkunft – s.
Бенвенист 1995: 235).
Ai. dāsá ‘Sklave’ bedeutete zuerst ‘Nicht-Arier’, seinerseits konnte arya‘Arier’ auch ‘Fremder’ bedeuten (Абаев 1958: 114; Абаев 1958а Bd. 1: 101).
Türk. kul ‘Sklave’ hat Bedeutungen: 1. ‘Sklave, Unfreier’ und 2. ‘Kämpfer aus
den Sklaven (von nicht muslimischen Kriegsgefangenen)’. Oft assoziiert man
den Begriff ‘Fremder’ mit der Benennung eines anderen Volkes. So ist vermutlich auch das russ. чужой ‘fremd’, urslav. *tjutjь, entlehnt aus dem G. (got.
þiuda ‘Volk’ – s. Фасмер 4: 329).
Gut bekannt ist noch ein Beispiel der Herkunft der Benennung ‘Sklave’ aus
den ethnischen Namen: ae. wealh ‘Sklave’, wortwörtlich ‘Kelte’. Zu dieser semantischen Typologie zählt, vermutlich, auch das gr. εἴλωτες ‘Sklaven der Spar-
LAT. servus ‘DIENER, SKLAVE’
85
taner, Heloten’, aus lakon. *ηλωτες aus *ε-ϝελ-ω-τες (< * el- ‘brechen, reißen’)
– s. Walde/Hofmann 2: 744-745.
So gehen die ältesten Bezeichnungen von ‘Sklave’ in den indogermanischen sowie nicht-indogermanischen Sprachen entweder auf die Begriffe ‘Kriegsgefangener’, ‘gefangen’, ‘gefasst’, ‘gebunden’, oder auf die Benennungen anderer Stämme zurück.
2. Lateinisch servus ‘Diener, Sklave’
Die Herkunft vom lat. servus ‘Diener, Sklave’ bleibt bis heute unklar. In
den meisten Arbeiten, die der Etymologie dieses Wortes gewidmet sind, ist servus mit dem Verb s rvār (‘erhalten, bewahren, (unversehrt) erretten, beobachten’) verbunden, das seinerseits mit dem avest. haurva ‘beschützend, hütend’,
harətar ‘Hüter, Wächter’ verglichen wird. Daher rekonstruiert man für servus
als ursprüngliche Bedeutung ‘derjenige, der Acht hat auf etw. > Hirt > Diener,
Sklave’. Diese Version ist bspw. in de Vaan 2008: 559 dargestellt (PIt. *serwo‘shepherd’, *s rwā- ‘observation’).
Gegen eine derartige Annäherung von servus mit s rvār trat jedoch, wie
oben angesprochen, E. Benveniste entschlossen auf. “Es bestehen keine Gründe”, schreibt er, “zu vermuten, dass servus eine Ableitung von s rvār und das
Ganze so darzustellen, als ob servus ‘derjenige, der auf etwas aufpasst’ sei”
(235). “Die ig. Völker”, unterzeichnet E. Benveniste, “haben nur die Exodulie
gekannt”. Lat. servus war für E. Benveniste, wie oben bereits erwähnt, eine ethnische Benennung.
Die schwächste Stelle der Hypothesen, die vermuten, dass die ursprüngliche Bedeutung von servus ‘derjenige, der aufpasst’, ‘Hirt’ war, ist der semantische Übergang ‘Wächter, Hirt > Sklave’.
Doch Versuche, die Begriffe servus und s rvār miteinander zu verbinden,
kommen nach wie vor vor. Eine der letzten Arbeiten, in denen dieser Versuch
unter Berücksichtigung der Meinung von E. Benveniste unternommen wurde,
ist der Beitrag von Parvulescu (s. Parvulescu 2010). “Benveniste was perfectly
right and one must add that no linguistic analogy to the presupposed semantic
development ‘guard, shepherd’ > ‘slave’ has been presented so far” schreibt
A. Parvulescu (p. 191), der gerechterweise die Schwäche des semantischen
Übergangs ‘Wächter > Sklave’ angemerkt hat.
Doch im Endeffekt verbindet A. Parvulescu servus und s rvār , indem er
vermutet, dass, erstens, servus eine Ableitung vom Verb (postverbale) s rvār
sei, zweitens, dass diese Ableitung auf den Rahmen der lateinischen Sprache
beschränkt sei und auf keinerlei ig. Urform zurückginge, und drittens, dass man
als ursprüngliche semantische Komponente in der semantischen Struktur von
86
lVIKTOR LEVICKIJl
s rvār nicht ‘beobachten, hüten’, sondern ‘erretten, erhalten’ bezeichnen sollte.
In diesem Fall konnte servus ‘den für weitere Dienste Erhaltenen’ (“someone
retained for service”, p. 192) bezeichnen. Zur Unterstützung dieser Hypothese
verweist A. Parvulescu auf einige Werke, in denen servus als ‘saved’ interpretiert wird, “because the slaves were believed to be originally prisoners of war
whose lives had been spared” (p. 90). So kann man die etymologische Lösung
von A. Parvulescu als zufriedenstellend gelten lassen, weil er es schafft, auf der
einen Seite die verbreitete Hypothese bzgl. des Vergleichs servus und s rvār
nicht wegzuwerfen, und auf der anderen Seite zu berücksichtigen, dass Sklaven
ursprünglich Gefangene waren.
Nichtsdestotrotz kann der Vergleich servus und s rvār bezweifelt werden.
Dieser basiert darauf, dass die ursprüngliche ig. Wurzel, auf die s rvār zurückgeführt wird, eine homonyme Wurzel *ser- hat, die bei Pokorny unter
Nummer 2: *ser- ‘sorgend Obdach geben, schützen, bewahren’ angegeben wird.
Insgesamt werden bei Pokorny 5 Homonyme angeführt: 1.*ser- ‘strömen, sich
rasch und heftig bewegen’; 2. *ser- ‘sorgend Obdach geben, schützen, bewahren’;
3. *ser- ‘rot’; 4. *ser- ‘aneinander reihen, knüpfen’; 5. *ser- ‘Sichel, krummer
Haken’. Klarerweise konnten die Homonyme 3. und 5. kaum einen Ursprung
für die Entstehung des Begriffs ‘Sklave’ bedeuten. Was *ser- betrifft, das bei
Pokorny als ‘strömen, sich rasch und heftig bewegen’ ausgelegt wird, so wurde
servus bereits von K. Brugmann (s. Brugmann 1906: 382) auf diese Wurzel
zurückgeführt, der versucht hat, folgende Gesetzmäßigkeit festzustellen: Wörter
mit der Bedeutung ‘Diener, Sklave’ gehen auf die Begriffe ‘beweglich’ ‘emsig’,
‘flink zur Hand’, ‘Wege laufend’, ‘hin und her laufend’ zurück. Nach dieser Gesetzmäßigkeit verbindet K. Brugmann das gr. δoῦλoς mit dem Begriff ‘eilen’.
Des Weiteren schließt K. Brugmann nicht aus, dass das arm. arbaneak, aksl.
рабъ, got. arbaiþs auf die Wurzel *er- ‘rudern, Ruderer’ über die Stufe ‘Arbeitsgehilfe > Diener’ (p. 384) zurückgeht. Obwohl man in germanischen Sprachen typologisch ähnliche Bildungen bezeugen kann (aisl. þræll ‘Diener, Sklave’, ahd. drigil ‘Knecht’ wird auf das g. *þrahila-/þreǥila- ‘der Laufende’ zurückgeführt), scheint die Deutung von servus als ‘Laufender’ nicht überzeugend
zu sein. Wir glauben, dass, typologisch gesehen, das ig. *ser- ‘aneinander reihen, knüpfen’ (ai. sarat- ‘Faden’, lat. serere ‘fügen, reihen, knüpfen’, got. sarwa
‘Rüstung, Waffe’, aisl. sørvi ‘Halsband’, lat. series ‘Kette, Reihe’, alit. sèris
‘Faden, Pechdraht’) am ehesten zutrifft. Wenn das heth. šar - ‘Beute’ auch
hierher gehörte, so könnte man für servus die Bedeutung ‘gebunden, erfasst,
Kriegsbeute’ rekonstruieren.
87
3. Urslav. *orbъ ‘Sklave, Waise, Kind’, urslav. *sirota ‘Waise’
Urslav. *orbъ (> russ. раб) wird, auf gesicherter Basis, mit dem ai. árbha‘schwach, klein, Kind’, gr. ὀρφανóς ‘verwaist’, arm. orb ‘Waise’, lat. orbus
‘einer Sache beraubt, seiner Eltern beraubt, verwaist, seiner Kinder oder Gatten
beraubt’ verbunden und geht auf das ig. *orbhos (s. Трубачев 32: 132-133) zurück. Für das urslavische *orbъ wird die Bedeutung ‘Waise, Kind’ rekonstruiert
(s. Фасмер 3: 427), und für das ig. *orbhos – ‘verwaist, Waise’ (Pokorny: 781).
Den Bezug zwischen den Begriffen ‘Waise’, ‘Kind’, ‘Sklave’ erklärte als
einer der Ersten Meringer (Meringer 1904-1905): “die schwierigen Bedeutungen, die gewissen sozialen Verhältnissen, die wir nicht kennen, entstammen,
mögen so zu deuten sein, dass das verwaiste Kind zu späteren Dienstleistungen
in einem anderen Hause herangezogen wurde”. Gleiche Erklärungen finden wir
in den Arbeiten von Нидерле (1956: 299), Порциг (2003: 182), Фасмер (3:
427, 453), Гамкрелидзе/Иванов (2: 479).
Unklar bleibt, ob die semantische Entwicklung von ‘Waise, ein verwaistes
Kind > Sklave’ durch gewisse soziale Bedingungen bestimmt war, infolge deren
die Verwandlung Gleichstämmiger zu Sklaven passierte, oder ob diese semantische Entwicklung den Brauch widerspiegelt, die verwaisten Kinder und Frauen
(nach der Ermordung erwachsener Männer) unter den Kriegsgefangenen in
Sklaven zu verwandeln. Beide Versionen werden vermutlich nicht ausgeschlossen sein. Die Sitte, Kinder in die Sklaverei zu verkaufen, existierte allerdings
nach einigen historischen Quellen bereits in den Hochkulturen (z.B. bei den
Sumerern).
Unklar bleibt bis heute die morphologische Struktur von ig. *orbhos. Der
Versuch, das aksl. rabъ, got. arbaiþs ‘Bedrängnis, Not, Arbeit’ mit der Wurzel
*er- ‘sich bewegen’ (s. oben: Brugmann 1906) oder *ar- ‘pflügen, ackern’ zu
verbinden, wurde längst als semantisch und formell fragwürdig oder gar falsch
widerlegt.
Nichtsdestotrotz erscheint es möglich, die vorsichtige Hypothese zu
äußern, dass *orbho- morphologisch in zwei Komponenten zerlegt werden
kann: *or- und *bho-, dabei ist *bho- ein Suffix, mit dessen Hilfe Namen einiger jungen Tiere, sogar vermutlich – breiter gefasst – einiger jungen Wesen gebildet wurden (nach diesem Modell ist germ. *lambaz < ig. *lon-bho-s ‘Lamm’
gebildet). Die erste Komponente verbinden wir mit dem ig. *erə-/re- ‘schneiden, reißen, zerteilen’. In diesem Fall könnte man erwarten, dass in der ig.
Ursprache Derivate dieser Wurzel *er(e)bh- oder zu mindestens *rebh- bezeugt
werden – doch bei Pokorny werden mit so einem Derivat nur Wurzeln mit der
Bedeutung ‘sich rasch bewegen’ fixiert (die Hypothese über die Verbindung von
rabъ und ‘sich rasch bewegen’, wie oben erwähnt, wurde längst zurückgewiesen). Wenn diese Wurzeln, als solche, Derivate vom Begriff ‘schneiden’ sind
88
lVIKTOR LEVICKIJl
(‘schneiden’ und ‘rasch, rasche Bewegung’ sind miteinander eng verbunden – s.
Левицкий 2010: 27-28; Левицкий 2001: 95-96), so könnte man vermuten, dass
einige indirekte Bezeugungen, die unsere Hypothese bekräftigen, bestehen. Indirekte Beweise der Existenz der ig. *erə- ‘schneiden, zerlegen, reißen’ sind die
bei Pokorny fixierten Wurzeln *ereb-/orob- ‘bohren, ein scharfes Werkzeug;
*erek- ‘aufreißen, spalten’; *ere - ‘aufreißen’; *eres- ‘stechen’; sowie lit. ardyti
‘abteilen, zerlegen’, aksl. oriti, russ. разорить ‘zerstören’, die von ihm auf die
Wurzel *erə- ‘lose, undicht; abteilen’ (Pokorny: 332) zurückgeführt werden.
Die letzte Bedeutung ‘abteilen’ ist im heth. harp- ‘abteilen, abreißen’, das J.
Kuryłowicz (zitiert nach Трубачев 32: 133) zur Sippe *orbho- zählt. Die Heranziehung des hethitischen Wortes ermöglicht die Rekonstruktion für *orbhos
einer der zwei Linien der semantischen Entwicklung: ‘schneiden > klein > Junge, Waise, junger Mann > Diener, Sklave’ oder ‘schneiden > abteilen > Waise >
Sklave’. Die erste semantische Linie wird von vielen Beispielen zur Entwicklung der Wörter mit der Bedeutung ‘junger Mann’ > ‘Diener’ (oft aus der Bedeutung ‘schneiden’) unterstützt, vgl: aksl. chlapъ ‘Sklave, Knecht’, russ. холоп, ukr. хлопець ‘Bursche, Knabe’ < ig. *skol- ‘schneiden’; russ. раб ‘Sklave’
und ребенок ‘Kind’ < ig. *orbho- ‘Waise’; ae. mago ‘Knabe, Sohn’, ‘Diener’,
got. magus ‘Knecht, Knabe’; ahd. scalch ‘Sklave, Diener’, got. skalks ‘Knecht,
Diener’, aisl. skalkr ‘Diener, Sklave’, dt. Schalk, aber aisl. skalkr ‘Schwert’ <
ig. *skel- ‘schneiden, zerspalten’; dt. Knecht < wgerm. *knehta- ‘Jüngling’
(Kluge/Seebold 2002: 502).
In den türkischen Sprachen untersuchte M. Stachowski (Stachowski 2010)
eine ähnliche Gesetzmäßigkeit, als er das türk. kul ‘Sklave’ und kulun ‘Fohlen’
verglich. Die semantische Entwicklung ‘schneiden > trennen’ ist ebenso in der
Komparatistik gut bekannt (s. Левицкий 2010: 27-28). Der Übergang ‘trennen,
abreißen > Waise’ ist in der Semantik von lat. orbus gut dargestellt (s. oben).
Im Lichte des Gesagten können wir die Herkunft des slav. *sirota konkretisieren. Dieses Wort, ein Derivat vom *sirъ, russ. сирый, wird mit dem lit. š irỹs ‘Witwer’, avest. saē- ‘verwaist’ (s. Фасмер 3: 627) verglichen. Der Zusammenhang der Begriffe ‘Waise, verwaist’ und ‘Witwer, verwitwet’ ruft keinen
Zweifel hervor. Gemeinsame semantische Komponente für beide Bedeutungen
ist ‘trennen, getrennt’.
Die gleiche semantische Relevanz beobachten wir zwischen ‘trennen’,
‘Waise’ und ‘Witwe’ in der semantischen Struktur der ig. Wurzel * eidh-/ idh‘trennen’ (aus * i- ‘auseinander, getrennt’) > ig. * idhe ā- ‘Witwe’ – s. Pokorny: 1127-1128, wo unter anderem folgende Vergleiche angegeben sind: lat.
vidua ‘Witwe’, lat. viduus ‘beraubt, leer von etwas’ (vgl. mit der oben erwähnten lat. orbus ‘einer Sache beraubt’). Hierher zählt J. Pokorny auch das g.
*waisan (< ig. * oidh-son) ‘Waise’.
89
So sind ‘Waise’ und ‘Witwe’ typologisch betrachtet Derivate vom Sem
‘abtrennen’; die ursprüngliche Bedeutung für beide Wörter ist ‘abgetrennt, einsam’. Daher rufen die obengenannten Vergleiche für das urslav. sirъ (lit. š irỹs
‘Witwer’, avest. saē- ‘verwaist’) keine Zweifel hervor. Allerdings finden wir in
den etymologischen Quellen keine ig. Wurzel, auf die dieses urslav. Wort zurückgehen kann. Aus unserer Sicht ist die wahrscheinlichste Wurzel in diesem
Fall das ig. *kei-ro-/kei-n- ‘schärfen, wetzen’: avest. saēni ‘scharf’ (vgl. oben:
avest. saē- ‘verwaist’), arm. sur ‘Schwert, Messer’, aisl. hein ‘Wetzstein’ (s. Pokorny: 541). Wenn dieser Vergleich stimmt, so kann man folgende semantische
Entwicklung vermuten: ‘schneiden > trennen > einsam > Witwe, Waise’.
Es ist interessant zu bemerken, dass die ig. Wz. *k i- die Bedeutungen
‘spitz, scharf’ (< ‘schneiden’) und ‘schnell’ vereinigt; vgl.: *k i-bh- ‘schnell,
heftig’, *k i-gh- ‘schnell, heftig’, *k ipo- ‘Pfahl, spitzes Holz oder Stein’ (Pokorny: 542-543). Wenn die angeführten Formen Derivate derselben Wurzel
sind, dann wird in dieser Wurzel der Wechsel e/ē beobachtet; als Grundbedeutung könnte man ‘schneiden’ ansetzen.
Literatur
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Абаев В. И. 1958а. Историко-этимологический словарь осетинского языка. Том 1. – М./Л.: Академия Наук СССР.
Бенвенист Э. 1995. Словарь индоевропейских социальных терминов. Перевод с французского. Общая редакция и вступительная статья академика Ю. С. Степанова. Комментарий Ю. С. Степанова и доктора филологических наук Н. Н. Казанского. – М.: Прогресс – Универс.
Гамкрелидзе Т. В., Иванов Вяч. Вс. 1984. Индоевропейский язык и индоевропейцы. – Тбилиси: Изд-во Тбилисского университета.
Жуков Е. М. (ред.). 1956. Всемирная история в 10 томах. Том 1. – М.:
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Левицкий В. В. 2001. Семантический синкретизм в индоевропейском и
германском. – Вопросы языкознания, 4, 94-106.
Левицкий В. В. 2010. Этимологический словарь германских языков. ТТ. 1-2.
– Винница: Нова Книга.
Нидерле, Л. 1956. Славянские древности. Перевод с чешского. – М.: Иностранная литература.
Порциг В. 2003. Членение индоевропейской языковой общности. Перевод с
немецкого. – М.: Едиториал УРСС.
Трубачев О. Н. (ред.). 1974 и сл. Этимологический словарь славянских языков. Праславянский лексический фонд. – М.: Наука.
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Фасмер М. 1964-1973. Этимологический словарь русского языка. ТТ. І-ІV.
– М.: Прогресс.
Шагиров А. К. 1977. Этимологический словарь адыгских (черкесских) языков. – М.: Наука.
Benveniste E. 1932. Le nom de l’esclave à Rome. – Revue des etudes latine, 10,
124-130.
Benveniste E. 1970. Le vocabulaire des institutions indo-européennes. – Les
étudions de Minuit.
Brugmann K. 1906. Zu den Benennungen der Personen des dienenden Standes
in den indogermanischen Sprachen. – Indogermanische Forschungen, 19,
377-391.
de Vaan M. 2008. Etymological Dictionary of Latin and the Other Italic Languages. – Leiden / Boston: Brill.
Ernout A., Meillet A. 1939. Dictionnair étymologiq d la lang latin . –
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Meringer, R. 1904-1905. Wörter und Sachen. II. – Indogermanische Forschungen, 17, 100-166.
Parvulescu A. 2010. Lat. servus. – Indogermanische Forschungen, 115, 190-197.
Pokorny J. 1959-1969. Indog rmanisch s tymologisch s Wört rb ch. Bd. 1-2.
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Stachowski, M. 2010. Türkisch kulak ‘Ohr’, kul ‘Sklave’, kulun ‘Fohlen’. –
Studies on the Turkic World. A Festschrift for Professor Stanisław Stachowski on the Occasion of His 80th Birthday. Ed. by E. Mańczak-Wohlfeld, B. Podolak. Kraków: Jagiellonian University Press, 233-239.
Walde A. 1928. V rgl ich nd s Wört rb ch d r indog rmanisch n Sprach n.
Hrsg. von J. Pokorny. Bd. 1-3. – Berlin / Leipzig.
Walde A., Hoffmann J. B. 1938. Lat inisch s tymologisch s Wört rb ch. 3.
Aufl. Bd. 1-2. – Heidelberg: Winter.
vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.006.0943
Michał NÉMETH (Kraków)
NEW PERSPECTIVES IN KARAIM ETYMOLOGY?
THE ORIGIN OF LUTSK KARAIM kemec
‘1. SOLDIER; 2. RUSSIAN (PERSON)’*)
Abstract. According to KRPS, kemec ‘1. soldier; 2. Russian (person)’ is native Lutsk
Karaim. Since the word lacks any cognates on Turkic ground, in the present paper an attempt is made to link the word to Germ. Kamasche ‘gaiters’ and to explain its phonetic
shape as being a consequence of the influence of the language of Polish Jews.
Keywords: etymology, Lutsk Karaim, Eastern Yiddish, Polish, Russian, soldier, gaiters,
borrowing.
1. The word is not native Karaim
Since Turkologists are not lucky enough to have an etymological dictionary of Karaim at their disposal, the first instinct when checking the origin of a
certain word is to open the trilingual Karaim-Russian-Polish dictionary and
hope that a one-letter qualifier will bring us at least one step closer to the answer.
The entry of KarL. kemec ‘1. soldier; 2. Russian (person)’ (KRPS 304) does not
contain any etymological qualifier and therefore the impression we get is that
the word is of Turkic origin.
The issue at stake is, however, that KarL. kemec lacks any Turkic cognates,
which makes the claim of its native provenance dubious. Obviously, for semantic reasons we cannot consider Kipč. k m č ‘ungesäuert’ (Radloff 1887: 32, s.v.
кäмäц) as etymologically related to it. Apparently, neither can the analysed
word be linked to k m či ‘boatman’ (= keme ‘boat’ + -či suffix building agent
nouns) as is attested in a number of Turkic languages, a good example being
Kirghiz or Karachay-Balkar (KirgRS 371; KBlkRS 322).
*) I would like to express my sincere thanks to Professor David L. Gold (New York)
and Dr. Tomasz Majtczak (Cracow) for their professional advice, and to the anonymous reviewers of the present paper for their beneficial suggestions.
92
MICHAŁ NÉMETH
What is more, the word is absent from the other two Karaim dialects,
namely from Trakai and Crimean Karaim, which is an even stronger argument
than the above-mentioned one against ascribing the word to the inherited lexicon. The dictionaries in which the word is attested are KRPS, KSB (41), R (II/2
1208, s.v. кäмäц (‫))כֵי ֵמיצ‬, and the glossary published in Németh (2011b: 294).
Parenthetically we may add that the oldest attestation of the word in southwestern Karaim that we know of is to be found in a manuscript that dates back
to the period between 1841 and 1852 (Németh 2011b: 189) and was sent to
Lutsk from Zhytomyr (present-day Ukraine).
2. If not Karaim, what then?
Obviously, if kemec is not a native word or derivative, then it must have
been borrowed from some other language. But from which one?
Various articles, dictionaries and monographs published inform us that
there are four main layers of loanwords in Lutsk Karaim: Arabic, Hebrew, Persian, and Slavonic (Polish, Russian, Ukrainian). Additionally, we find a group
of words of Mongolic and (ultimately of) Turkish origin.
But when we looked at most of the available dictionaries of these languages or language groups we failed to find a “candidate” for the Karaim
word’s etymon. Curious as it may seem, its etymology involves a far more complex scenario.
a) The western etymological thread
We assume that the ultimate source of the word is Ar. ‫ ﻏداﻣﺴﻲ‬ġadāmasī, an
adjective derived from the place name ‫ ﻏداﻣس‬ġadāmas ‘Ghadames (an oasis
town in south-western Libya)’. The word has been loaned into several European
languages.
The borrowing routes of the final etymon into the “main” European languages are settled (cf. e.g. Lokotsch 1927: 51, s.v. ġadāmas), but let us recapitulate them in a few words, since we will use some of this information in our further argumentation on semantic changes.
Leatherware from Tripolitania, in particular from the Oasis of Ghadames,
became popular in the Iberian Peninsula during the years of Arab rule. In Castilian Spanish, this kind of leather was called cuero guadamecí ‘leather from
Ghadames’ (Corominas 1967: 306), and was a translation of Ar. ‫ جلد ﻏداﻣﺴﻲ‬ǧild
ġadāmasī ‘leather of Ghadames’. Over the course of the years the Spanish construction has been shortened into Sp. (before 1140) g adam cí ‘tanned, embossed or dyed leather’ (Corominas 1967: 306) and later entered French in this
shape, via Occ. gamacho id. (cf. e.g. Dauzat et al. 1964: 332). The meaning of
LUTSK KARAIM kemec ‘1. SOLDIER; 2. RUSSIAN (PERSON)’
93
Fr. (17th c.) gamache is ‘guêtres, couverture de bottes’. The word thus gradually
began to denote the products made of this material. The French word was the
source of Eng. arch. dial. gamash ‘a kind of leggings or gaiters, worn to protect
the legs from mud and wet’ (OED IV G: 34) and also of Germ. (1615) Gamasche ~ dial. Kamasche ‘gaiters, buttoned up the sides, used also to protect
rider’s leg, made of twill or leather’ (Grimm, J. / Grimm, W. IV 1208, XI 95;
Kluge 1960: 230). From German and French our Wanderwort entered a number
of eastern European languages.
b) The eastern etymological thread
As we can see, the k ~ g alternation appeared first in German dialects and
was reflected later by alternating variants in several languages, cf. e.g. Hung.
(1895) gamásli ~ (1789) kamásli (-li < Austr.-Bav. -l diminutive suffix) ‘buttoned gaiters made of leather or broadcloth’ (for further forms and meanings see
TESz II 333). In turn, in some other languages, the existence of such alternants
is a result of repeated borrowings from German and French, cf. e.g. Russ. гамáша ~ камáша ‘gaiters, a sort of boots leg with fastening’ (for further meanings
see SRNG VI 128, XIII 15; ÈSRJ I 391; Dal II 268), or later probably from
German and Russian, as is the case in Belarussian or, possibly, in Ukrainian, cf.
Bruss. гамáшы [h-] ~ камáшы (pl.) ‘men’s boots’ (TSBLM 142, 268; sg.: гамáш ~ камáш), Ukr. гамáша [h-] ~ камáша ‘warm stocking without sole worn
over shoes’ (ESUM I 464-465, II 357; SUM II 24).
In Polish we have only the word kamasz attested in the meaning, broadly
speaking, of ‘a broadcloth cover worn over low shoes protecting a person’s leg
against the cold (up to one’s ankles or knees)’ or ‘a close-fitting trousers-like
clothing for infantrymen covering a person’s leg from ankles up to the knees’
(for further meanings see SEJP II 31-32; SW II 216; Linde I/2 941, I/1 356, s.v.
czechczery), and it is of German origin.
It is important to mention from our point of view that not only the initial k-,
but also the semantic field of Pol. kamasz points to its German origin. German
gaiters, die Gamaschen, became very popular in Prussia in the late 17th and 18th c.
due to its widespread use in the army (see Grimm, J. / Grimm, W. XI 95).1 This
military connection is strongly reflected in Polish, where one of the first attested
meanings of kamasze (18th c.) was ‘a kind of military trousers made of broadcloth’ (SEJP II 36). Also in common use was, and still is, the collocation (1849)
1
The dictionary compiled by the Brothers Grimm contains an interesting description
of the “role” the Gamaschen played in the Prussian army. Let us cite here the following short fragment (in the original orthography): “In allgemeinerem gebrauch
waren sie zuletzt beim militär und dienten da sprichwörtlich als zeichen der alten
steifen, zopfigen soldatenzucht” (Grimm, J. / Grimm, W. XI 95).
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MICHAŁ NÉMETH
oddać w kamasz ‘to recruit by force’ (SJP III 488), wziąć w kamasz ‘to be recruited’, and pój ć w kamasz ‘to join the army’.
3. The Karaim etymological thread
Our aim is to examine whether KarL. kemec ‘soldier’ is closely related
with this word – possibly with its *kamaš-type form attested in Polish and Belarussian. At this point, it seems that such a form would stand the closest phonetically to kemec ‘soldier’ for the lost of the final vowel. The apocope occurred
most probably on Polish ground due to reinterpreting the word’s morphological
boundaries.2
Still, the three significant phonetic differences (a – a vs. e – e, and š vs. č),
and the change in the word’s meaning (‘soldier’s boots’ → ‘soldier’) are conspicuous and require a detailed explanation. Let us deal with these changes step
by step below.
3.1. Phonetics – part 1
It must be stated at the outset that an a > e change could not have occurred
in Karaim, i.e. in a language which has an operating vowel harmony and both a
and e noted as phonemes. Even though we can find very few Lutsk Karaim
word pairs, which have variants with both velar and palatal vowels, such as,
e.g., cekic ~ cokuc ‘hammer’ (KSB 19, 20), they definitely cannot serve as an
analogy for a *kamac > kemec change. Firstly, because there is no trace of KarL.
*kamac. Secondly, this type of alternation has deeper historical roots (although
its mechanism has not yet been explained), well-known in Turkology (for cekic
~ cokuc see VEWT 103, s.v. čäkük).
Furthermore, we do not know about any relevant language or dialect in
which ka > ke would be a characteristic change or in which a word like *k m š
or *k m č would be attested. Seen in this light, we cannot treat the Belarussian,
German, Polish and Ukrainian literary forms with ka- as the direct etymons of
the Karaim word. A feasible explanation must be sought elsewhere.
As far as we know, the only phenomenon which allows us to explain a
velar-to-palatal shift in this case is the relatively frequent ky- ~ kė- alternation
2
Namely, the Germ. (e) Kamasche (sg.) entered Polish as kamasze, where it has been
interpreted as the plural form of a hitherto nonexistent kamasz. Importantly, the
grammatical gender of the word has changed, too (it is a masculine form in Polish).
The same process is evident e.g. in: Fr. galoche ‘overshoe’ > Germ. [Galosche ~]
Kalosche id. (Grimm, J. / Grimm, W. IV 1198, XI 74; Kluge 1960: 229-230) > Pol.
kalosze (pl.) → kalosz (sg.) ‘galosh; overshoe’ (SEJP II 31-32). Nota bene, neither
Pol. kamasze nor Pol. kalosze are discussed in de Vincenz / Hentschel (2010).
95
(of Ukrainian origin) attested for south-western Karaim.3 This observation seems
especially promising if we assume an Eastern Yiddish4 influence here, the question of which has never been raised in Karaim studies before. The reason why
such an influence seems tempting is that in this language an unaccented a is
regularly reduced to ə (see e.g. Beranek 1958: 50). This, in turn, would allow us
to assume the following chain of changes: ka- > E Yidd. kə- > KarL. ky- > kė(the k > k change in front of ė is regular in Karaim).
The relevant Yiddish linguistic material available is as follows:
The word is attested, among others, in the dictionaries compiled by Strack
(1916: 168), Harkavy (1928: 440) and Weinreich (1977: 435/358) on the one
hand and in RussEVS 102 on the other. It is noted as ‫ קַאמַאש‬kamaš and, in the
plural, as ‫ קאמאשן‬kamašn, respectively, and is explained with Germ. Gamaschen,
Eng. gaiter, spat, low laced boot and Russ. гамаша. It seems to be either a loanword or a Fremdwort of Polish origin, first of all because it is, similarly to Pol.
kamasz, a masculine form – as opposed to German and Russian (see Weinreich
1977: 435/358), and because it lacks a final vowel. Harkavy (1928: 440) derives it
from Polish, too. A regular E Yiddish plural form of a Polish or Belarussian
kamaš-type word would be *kamašn.
Lifšic" (1876: 182) and Harkavy (1928: 440) also record ‫ קאמאש‬kamaš, but
explain it with Russ. кумáч ‘cotton fabric, usually of red colour’. We do not
think, therefore, that the word is a cognate of the etymologized word; it is rather
a loanword from Russ. (or from Ukr.) кумáч. We shall, however, make use of
this word in our argumentation below.
In light of the widely ranged vowel reduction process in Yiddish, two
closely related questions remain: what was the actual pronunciation of the word
and where did the stress fall in it. RussEVS 102 and Weinreich (1977: 435/358)
answer the latter question by noting that the word was accented on the second
syllable. Hence, it was most likely pronounced as kəmášn. The question remains
where the accent fell in the word quoted by Strack (his dictionary’s corpus was
based on linguistic data collected in Poland). Oxytonic accentuation is probable
in light of the general remark we find in the dictionary’s introductory notes
3
4
The close-mid ė in south-western Karaim is a complementary variant of e, and is
never distinguished from the latter in writing. The alternation is characteristic above
all of Karaim spoken in Halych, but is also reported for Lutsk Karaim. Besides, the
process is attested for western Ukrainian dialects – predominantly, but not exclusively, for the Upper Dniestrian dialect (for a detailed analysis of this alternation see Németh 2011: 73-74). The a > e change, which appears in certain positions and is noted
in some western Ukrainian dialects, is not noted in the Volhynian dialect (Žylko
1958: 144).
Lutsk lies near the borderline dividing north- and south-eastern Yiddish (see e.g. Beranek 1958: 80), thus it is difficult to say clearly which type of the language the local
Jews (SE or NE?) spoke.
96
MICHAŁ NÉMETH
saying “der Ton ruht gewöhnlich auf der letzten Silbe; auf der vorletzten nur bei
einigen Flexionsendungen” (Strack 1916: IX). We cannot be sure, however,
whether this remark also concerns Slavonic loanwords. If stressed on the last
syllable, its actual pronunciation must have been kəmáš.
If initially stressed – which is possible not only because the word is initially stressed in Polish, but also because the accent in SE Yiddish words of Slavonic origin happened to be shifted to the first syllable (Weinreich 1958: 21),
then the ‫ קַאמַאש‬spelling should most probably be interpreted as káməš, even
though the vowel signs below both alephs (ַ‫ )א‬point to [-a-] in the literary language. This is because E Yidd. a could not appear in a post-accentual position,
either, and was mostly replaced by a reduced ə (see e.g. Weinreich 1958: 21).
We can draw an important conclusion from the above data, namely that the
etymon of the Yiddish word must have been stressed on the second syllable (as
is e.g. in Belarussian) or that the stress has been shifted to the second syllable
on Yiddish linguistic ground if we are to explain the first syllable of the Karaim
word by Yiddish influence. But before endeavouring to settle the origin of the
Yiddish word, at this point it is much more important to answer another question: does the impact of Yiddish explain the other phonetic changes?
There are two major difficulties. First of all, we cannot explain the š > c affricatization on Yiddish, Karaim, let alone Slavonic ground. Even if we agree
that in light of the mazuration-like *š > s and *č > c replacement in south-western Karaim such a shift is obviously to be explained by a two-step process,
namely by š > s > c or š > č > c, the problem of affricatization remains.
What we may suggest here is a blend with E Yidd. *kəmáč ‘cotton fabric’
< Russ. (or Ukr.) кумáч id., a trace of which may be seen in the form with -š
that we have mentioned above noted by Lifšic" (1876) and Harkavy (1928: 440).
Interestingly, we encounter a č ~ š alternation in the Russian cognates of this
word, too, cf. Russ. кумач ~ (adj.) кумашний (Šipova 1976: 207) or Russ. dial.
кумачка ~ кумашка ‘dress, women’s outerwear’ (SRNG XVI 80). This alternation (and the word itself) in eastern Slavonic is, however, of Turkic origin and is
not surprising (cf. also KarL. kumas ~ KarT. k maš ‘fabric, textile’, KarK. q maš
‘silk fabric; cotton cloth’ (KSB 46; KRPS 346, 374; Harviainen/Halén 2010:
279)). What is more, we even find Russ. камач ‘dress, women’s outerwear’
(SRNG XIII 15; genitive: камача) as the variant of кумачка ~ кумашка, the
first-syllabic a of which strongly resembles Russ. камаша. If we add that over
the course of time the meaning of gaiters and the material they were made of has
varied (cf. 2a) – primarily they were made of leather, but already in the 18th century several types of textiles were used in their production (twill, broadcloth, wool,
and linen cloth at least; see Linde I/2 941, I/1 356, s.v. czechczery, and SW II 216)
– we realize how close the meanings of these two loanwords were to each other.
97
Furthermore, there may be some doubts about the a > e change in the final
syllable. The most pressing idea would be to explain it by the impact of vowel
harmony. Even though the idea should not be entirely dismissed, there are two
serious counterarguments against it. Firstly, the overwhelming majority of Slavonic (but also e.g. Hebrew) loanwords in south-western Karaim are not adjusted to vowel harmony. Secondly, in native words the ky- > kė- change did not
cause a velar-to-palatal shift in the subsequent syllables, cf. e.g. kyjyn > kėjyn
‘torment’ (Zajączkowski 1931: 7).
Equally plausible, or so it may seem, is the idea of explaining the a > e
change in the second syllable as being due to the palatalizing influence of č, a
phenomenon that is well-known in Turkology (see e.g. Räsänen 1949: 58). The
alveolar pronunciation of -č in Slavonic loanwords, Fr mdwört r, and family
names was common in the 19th century, as we argued in Németh (2011a: 87-88;
2011b: 26-27). Examples of an ač > č change are also known in Crimean
Karaim, cf. e.g. sač > s č (Jankowski 2003: 122).
If this is true, the -č > -c change must have been the final step in the phonetic adaptation process.
The sketch below presents what we have said so far (F = ‘cotton fabric’, G =
‘gaiters’, R = ‘Russian (person)’, S = ‘soldier’; ↔ = blend; → = borrowing or
internal phonetic development):
Pol. kámaš G
E Yidd. kəmáš G
E Yidd. *kəmáč F ~ kəmáš F
Russ. кумáч F
E Yidd. *kəmáč G
KarL. *kymáč ~ *kėmáč
*kėméč
kėméc S, R
Difficulties:
The ky ~ kė alternation is characteristic mostly of Halych Karaim.
E Yidd. *kəmáč is not attested.
The question of the ač > č change is problematic.
The etymon of the Yiddish word: the only word which fits here is Bruss.
kamáš (stressed on the second syllable, two-syllabic structure). The Belarussian origin of a word used in a territory where Pol. kámasz was widely
spread (in the area around Lutsk) is, however, dubious. We must assume,
then, that the stress has been shifted to the second syllable already in Yiddish.
5) It is difficult to explain the ‘gaiters’ → ‘soldier’ semantic shift without quoting the Polish material as the Yiddish word has no military connection.
1)
2)
3)
4)
98
MICHAŁ NÉMETH
3.2. Semantics – part 1
The latter semantic shift can be easily explained if we adduce the military
connotations of Germ. Kamasche and Pol. kamasze we mentioned in section 2b.
The ‘gaiters worn by soldiers’ → ‘soldier’ metonymy could have been caused
by the simultaneous use of two widely spread Slavonic collocations: Pol. wziąć
w kamasze ‘to induct into the army’ and Russ. взять в солдаты id., both using
the same verb (‘to take’) and the same government (‘into’). This could have
easily led to a reinterpretation of the meaning of kamasze as ‘soldiers’, all the
more so as this change must be seen in the context of the trilingual (i.e. Russian-,
Polish-, and Karaim-speaking) milieu of Lutsk Karaims.5
Seen in this light, we should rather expect the word to be of Polish origin in
Karaim. See, however, the next two sections.
3.3. Semantics – part 2
In our view the appearance of the meaning ‘Russian (person)’ in Karaim
allows us identifying the source of the Karaim word with greater accuracy.
Namely:
KRPS is the only source which notes this additional meaning. Thus it must
have been added by the authors of that dictionary.6 Still, we do not have any
reasons to doubt that such a meaning really existed. Moreover, the ‘soldier’ →
‘Russian (person)’ shift seems highly probable if we take into account that in
Imperial Russia Karaims and Jews had the right to pay the so-called rekrutowe
in order not to be inducted into the army. More precisely, rekrutowe was a kind
of a tax imposed by Jewish and Karaim communities on their members and collected for the purpose of exempting them from the army or to pay non-Karaims
and non-Jews in order that they replace them in the army (see e.g. SW V 508;
Németh 2011b: 314). It seems obvious then that from the point of view of Karaims soldiers were those people who were recruited not among them, but rather
tended to be viewed as ‘foreigners’. In other words: ‘soldiers’ were ‘those who
served the Tsar’ – and therefore, by way of generalization, were ‘Russians’.
This would suggest that the contacts between Karaims and Jews must have
been relatively close, at least when it came to matters connected with soldiery.
Interestingly, the meaning of KarL. kemec could have been influenced by
KarLT. javan ‘1. soldier; 2. Greek (person); 3. Russian (person); 4. member of
the Orthodox church’ (KSB 34; KRPS 214) < PBHebr. ‫ יָוָן‬jāvān ‘1. Greek; 2.
5
6
The Russian collocation was certainly known by Lutsk Karaims; it was even calqued
by them as kemecł rǵ ałma (Németh 2011b: 221).
The sources shown in that dictionary are Mardkowicz’s KSB and Radloff’s Versuch,
but in these works we only find ‘żołnierz | Soldat’ and ‘солдатъ | der Soldat’, respectively.
99
non-Jewish soldier’ ~ EAHebr. jovon id. (Even-Shoshan II 687) > E Yidd. jovn
‘soldier’.7
3.4. Phonetics – part 2
In light of the word’s semantic development, perhaps the most feasible approach would be to assume that KarL. kemec is a loanword from Pol. (pl.) kamász (stressed on the second syllable) used in the collocation wziąć w kamasze, but was spoken as it was pronounced by the milieu of Polish Jews. This is
all the more likely as the language that Karaims and Jews used to communicate
with each other on every day basis must have been some of the local Slavonic
languages; Hebrew was rather the language of liturgy and theology among
Karaims. Let us take a closer look at such a scenario below.
First of all, the coexistence of Pol. kamász and E Yidd. kəmášn could have
easily lead among Polish Jews to a reduced articulation of the initial syllable of
the Polish word. A reduced ə in place of a would also certainly not be surprising
given that a reduced articulation of unaccented vowels has been noted for the
local dialects of Ukrainian and Polish, too (Zilynśkyj 1979: 190-192; Kurzowa
1985: 416; see also Brzezina 1979: 105-106). Again, this reduced vowel could
have been overtaken as y in Karaim and could have resulted in a ky ~ kė alternation.
Secondly, the idea that the š > č change occurred in the language of Polish
Jews as a result of a blend of Pol.J. kəmáš ‘gaiters, etc.’ with a coexisting E
Yidd. kəmáš ~ *kəmáč ‘cotton fabric, etc.’ remains valid. Importantly, the Yiddish equivalents of Pol. wziąć w kamasz (see 3.1.) are araynshtekn [yenem] in
layvnt ‘liter. to stick [somebody] into linen’ and araynshtekn [yenem] inem
sharn gevant ‘liter. to stick [somebody] into the gray cloth’ (Gold, D. L., personal communication), which could have easily triggered such a blend.8
Besides, the idea that the process occurred in Karaim and was due to a
blend with Russ., Ukr. кумáч ‘cotton fabric’ should not be dismissed entirely,
either, especially in light of the trilingualism mentioned above.9
7
8
9
Noteworthy is the fact that, similarly to kemec, KarLT. javan is not classified in
KRPS as a loanword, either, which has already been pointed by Altbauer (19791980: 214; mistakenly noted as йабан). The -a- in the Karaim form shows that the
word cannot be of immediate Yiddish origin.
A similar one occurred in Swedish between damast ~ arch. damask ‘damask, reversible figured fabric’ and the word etymologized in our paper, see damask(er) ‘gamash’
(Hellquist 1970: 133).
We found a short description of a rare phenomenon consisting in an alternation of alveolar affricates and fricatives (š ~ č) in Polish spoken by Jews in Brzezina (1979:
61, 108) and Altbauer (1931: 12). The very modest number of examples, however,
did not convince us enough to postulate it here.
MICHAŁ NÉMETH
100
The apocope of the final -e is to lesser degree problematic, as it could have
happened on Karaim ground due to the same process as in the case of Germ.
Kamasche > Pol. kamasz. In other words, Polish-speaking Karaims must have
been aware of the word’s morphologic boundaries, and surely also knew that
the -e indicates plural as well as how to derive its singular form.
However, the question of the a > e change in the final syllable remains
open. We cannot propose any other feasible explanation for it than the one presented in section 3.1.
Thus the sketch offered in section 3.1. could be modified according to this
scenario as follows:
Pol. kamasze G
Pol.J. *kəmášə G
E Yidd. *kəmáč ~ kəmáš F
Russ. кумáч F
KarL. *kymáč ~ *kėmáč
*kėméč
kėméc S, R
Difficulties:
1) The question of ky ~ kė alternation in Lutsk Karaim remains valid here.
2) E Yidd. *kəmáč is not attested.
3) The question of ač > č change remains problematic.
4. Conclusions
Regardless of the fact that some details of this word’s etymology remain
debatable and that Polish influence seems far more plausible here than that of
Yiddish, the list of languages usually mentioned when it comes to Karaim etymology should certainly be augmented to include Yiddish (cf. e.g. the lack of
such qualifier in KRPS). Interestingly, David L. Gold (New York) has recently
drawn our attention to KarL. ćiring ‘jewellery’ (KSB 20; KRPS 614), which is
undoubtedly of immediate Yiddish origin. Even though it ultimately originates
from Germ. Zierung ‘ornament, decoration’ (Grimm, J. / Grimm, W. XXXI
1224ff.), the u > i change is to be explained only by SE Yiddish mediation (for
the history of the u > i change see e.g. Joffe 1954: 118), cf. E Yidd. ‫ צירונג‬cirung
‘decoration’ noted by Strack (1916: 166).
Michał Németh
Katedra Filologii Węgierskiej Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego
ul. Marsz. Józefa Piłsudskiego 13
[[email protected]]
101
Abbreviations
adj. = adjective; Ar. = Arabic; arch. = archaic; Austr.-Bav. = Austro-Bavarian
dialect of German; Bruss. = Belarussian; Cz. = Czech; dial. = dialectal; E =
eastern; EAHebr. = Eastern Ashkenazic Hebrew; Eng. = English; Fr. = French;
Germ. = German; Hung. = Hungarian; KarL. = Lutsk Karaim; KarLT. =
Lutsk and Trakai (= western) Karaim; Kipč. = Kipchak (Codex Comanicus);
liter. = literally; Occ. = Occitan; PBHebr. = Post-Biblical Hebrew; Pol. = Polish; Pol.J. = Polish pronounced by Jews (in south-eastern Kresy); Russ. = Russian; SE = south-eastern; Slav. = Slavonic; Sp. = Spanish; Ukr. = Ukrainian;
Yidd. = Yiddish.
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vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.007.0944
Dariusz R. PIWOWARCZYK (Kraków)
THE STORY OF Caesar REVISITED
Abstract. This article investigates the story of the origin and the expanse of the term
caesar in the Indo-European languages. A hypothesis on the non-existence of the diphthongs /ai/ and /au/ in Gothic is used to show that the borrowing into Gothic occurred
from Greek and renders the Greek spelling practice. Due to additional facts concerning
the monophthongization of the diphthong /ai/ in Greek and Latin it is hypothesized that
they might already represent not a diphthong but a single vowel. Counter-evidence is
also stated, as the precise way of the borrowing still remains unknown.
Keywords: etymology, Latin, Indo-European, Caesar, diphthong, monophthongization,
spelling, borrowing.
1. It is obvious that the widely known Roman cognomen Caesar, the exact
etymological source of which remains obscure, was the source of the later term
for ‘emperor’ in the European languages. Even more obvious is the story of the
very influential man who bore this cognomen, Caius Iulius (101-44 BC). Following Caesar’s death and the beginning of the rule of Octavianus Augustus
(i.e. Caius Iulius Caesar Octavianus, later Augustus) the term became the usual
name assumed by his successors and further, around the middle of the 1st century AD, the official imperial title for the ruler of the Roman Empire. After its fall
in 476 AD, the term became synonymous with the word ‘emperor’ and spread
within the languages of Europe and even further into Arabic and Turkish.
2. However, the linguistic origins and wanderings of this term do not seem
as clear as the historical ones. The name originated in the 3rd or even 4th century
BC with Numerius Iulius Caesar from gens Iulia, who probably first bore that
cognomen (Caesar’s father was also named “Iulius Caesar” and his predecessors
had commonly used the cognomen Caesar, cf. Safarewicz 1986: 84), and several etymologies have been proposed – either a derivative of the adjective caesius
‘grey-eyed’, or connected with the word ca sariēs ‘long hair’ as ‘hairy’ or ‘having long hair’ (*kaikro-kseh2 -es- ‘having a combing of the hair’ > *kaik rksās> *kairksās- > *kairsās- > ca sār-, cf. de Vaan 2008: 81, r-stem derivative after
Pinault 1998 but with doubts), or perhaps connected with the verb ca d ‘to cut,
106
DARIUSZ R. PIWOWARCZYK
fall’ (Ernout-Meillet 1951: 148) as the Ancient writers did: “a caeso matris utero” (Pliny 7,47). Safarewicz points to the fact that the vowel /ă/ is unchanged in
the name Ca săr, gen. sg. Ca săris like in anăs ‘duck’, gen. sg. anătis, contrary
to the expected weakening to /ĕ/ as in can ‘I sing’ but tībīcĕn ‘flute player’,
and considers the forms as dialectal (Safarewicz 1953: 90).
3. From Latin it made its way to Greek, giving the form καῖσαρ, with the
velar pronunciation of the Latin C and probably the diphthongal value of AE
/ae/ (coming from earlier /ai/ AI, cf. Old Latin AIDILES but 2nd century BC
AEDEM, Meiser 1998: 58), which was later monophthongized in Latin
around the 1st century AD. But the process of monophthongization was even
earlier in Greek koiné where we find discrepancies in spelling between ε and
αι in papyri as far as the 2nd century BC (Lejeune 1972: 230-231) and such
forms like ἐκτέτατε instead of ἐκτέταται1 (cf. Rix 1976: 46). It is then thinkable
that the αι in καῖσαρ was already a monophthong by the time of the borrowing.
In rural Latin the monophthongization of /ai/ is also very early, cf. inscriptional
2nd century BC attested CEDITO for CAEDITO 2 (Meiser 1998: 61-62).
However, the exact and ultimate monophthongization was carried out later,
probably at the beginning of our era,3 though some would like to see it even
later, e.g. Safarewicz 1953: 47 would opt for 3rd or even 4th century AD for final
monophthongization in cultural Latin. We also have an inscribed coin attested
from around 27-23 BC with CAISAR written on it (OLD: 254). I cannot say if
it is historical writing, an error or rendering of an actual pronunciation. Therefore I am not sure if that single form could be used as counter-evidence for early
monophthongization of /ai/ in Latin. We have to bear in mind that the sign AE
did not denote strictly phonetic /ai/ but probably /ae/ as evidenced by the change
in spelling from AI to AE at the beginning of the 2nd century BC (Meiser
1998: 58).
1
2
3
The process of monophthongization was even earlier in Greek dialects – in Boeotian
already in the 4th century BC we find forms like χῆρε, compare Attic χαῖρε (Rix
1976: 46).
The process of monophthongization of both /ai/ and /au/ was quicker outside Rome,
both in Latin and in the other languages of Ancient Italy, cf. Umbrian PRE, OTE and
Latin prae, aut (Meiser 1998: 61). Consider also the famous pun of the satirist Lucilius about the praetor Caecilius, who pronounced / / instead of /ae/: Cecilius pretor
ne rusticus fiat ‘Let Cecilius not be a rustic praetor’, cf. Weiss 2009: 474.
There is a Welsh word praidd ‘booty’ attested as a borrowing from Latin praeda evidencing the diphthongal pronunciation of the Latin ae grapheme. The date of the
borrowing could probably be around the 1 st century AD since then Romans conquered the south of Britain.
107
4. The term went then further into Germanic as we have such forms like
first and foremost Gothic kaisar, later Old English cās r , Old High German
keisar, keisor, cheisur, Old Frisian keiser and Old Saxon kēs r, kēsar (cf. Feist
1939: 305). It has been widely assumed that the Gothic word kaisar has been
borrowed directly from Latin with its diphthongal pronunciation (so e.g. Lehmann 1986: 214 after Corazza 1969: 35-38, and Szulc 1991: 76-77). Yet, the
claim about the existence of diphthongs in Gothic (cf. the modern transliteration
of Gothic diphthongs as ái and aí found especially in German handbooks) is
based strictly on etymology. Gothic follows the orthographic practice of late
Greek in using the grapheme ai for /e/ and additionally au for /o/ which is an
innovation of Wulfila’s writing system. Examples include the renderings of
Greek words like ἐκκλησία as Gothic aikklesjo /ekkl sjō/ ‘church’ or ἀπόστολος
as apaustaulus /apostolus/ ‘apostle’. As Jasanoff has put it in his excellent sketch
of Gothic: “there is little basis for the view, rooted in a coincidence of Germanic
etymology and Greek orthography, that ‘long’ ai and au actually represent synchronic diphthongs in Wulfila’s Gothic. The only true diphthong is /iu/” (Jasanoff 2004: 886 in Woodard 2004).4 It might then be possible that Gothic borrowed this term from Greek with its peculiar spelling (so already Meillet: “Le
got. kaisar peut être une simple transcription de gr. καῖσαρ”, Meillet 1924: 110),
rather than directly from Latin at the time when the diphthong was still pronounced. The later West Germanic forms surely attesting the diphthongal phonetics (cf. Modern German Kaiser from Old High German keisar just like Modern German heil from earlier */ai/, cf. Gothic hails) would then have to be either
written borrowings (so already Luft: “Die Westgermanen ihrerseits können
cheisar, keisar erst relativ spät entlehnt haben, wobei sogar gelehrte einflüsse
mitspielen können”, Luft 1897: 295-296) or very early borrowings from Classical Latin into West Germanic, independent of East Germanic, all of course after
the operation of Grimm’s Law5 (cf. Szulc 1991: 76-77). Another scenario would
include the preservation of the archaic pronunciation of this word due to the fact
that it denoted a very high ranking official but that is also doubtful. Meillet presents a very compelling hypothesis that the West Germanic form became fixed
in the kingdom of the Franks where Charlemagne, viewing himself as the heir
4
5
But we also have to reckon the Runic Gothic forms hailag (Ring from Pietroassa, ca.
401-450) and u(n)thf(i)nthai (Charnay, ca. 551-600) as arguments in favour of the
diphthongal value of ai, at least in Gothic written with runes. On these forms and
the phonetic value of the diphthong, see now Nedoma 2010: 43-44, 58, but note also
the counterarguments of Braune-Heidermanns 2004: 40. I am grateful to Stefan
Schaffner (Brno) p.c., for turning my attention to those facts.
If it had come to Germanic before Grimm’s Law, it would have gone through it and
we would have a form like *χaisar instead of the attested Gothic kaisar. As Schmidt
points out: “kein einziges lat. Lehnwort im Germ. ist von der ersten Lautverschiebung betroffen worden” (Schmidt 1976: 37).
108
to the Roman Empire, called himself ‘emperor’ in the Roman imperial tradition
(Meillet 1924: 110). The West Germanic form *kaisar with the diphthong preserved would thus be explained as a written borrowing at the time of the Carolingian Renaissance, a period during which multiple attempts were made to recreate and revive the previous culture of the Roman Empire. Rix, on the other
hand, postulates that the term went into Germanic around 37-41 AD, during the
reign of Caligula, who had Germanic warriors in his guard (Rix 1993: 13-14).
The fact is further complicated by other borrowings from Greek or Latin into
Gothic like Kreks ‘Greek’ (from Greek or Latin Graecus) or paida ‘tunic’ (most
probably from Greek βαίτη and this from Anatolian, Lehmann 1986: 221). Several different ways were suggested for the former word, including a possible
Illyrian or even Etruscan middle source (cf. the discussion in Lehmann 1986:
220-221). I would opt for Kreks as being borrowed from Latin and paida from
Greek, just like kaisar, witnessing the same rendering of the underlying diphthong. Whereas it is not impossible that the term caesar was borrowed into Germanic (both East and West) around the beginning of our era as many scholars
would like to pose, I would like to point out that it is only in the 3 rd century AD
that the Roman army started to rely heavily on barbarian troops, especially from
the Germanic tribes, who in the course of the 4th century assumed command of
some of the senior posts in the Roman military (Todd 1992: 59). They must
have learnt Latin and borrowed certain terms into their own languages. The borrowing might have also occurred earlier but certainly on a smaller scale. I find it
impossible to decide. But the Gothic form seems to me a perfect borrowing
from Greek with the spelling included.
5. It has been widely assumed that the word went further into Old Church
Slavic. Gothic is here mentioned as the possible direct source (cf. Lehmann
1986: 214). It could either be borrowed with the diphthongal pronunciation and
then the dipthong was monophthongized and the word underwent the second
palatalization: Goth. kaisar → Sl. *kaisarĭ > *kěsarĭ > *cěsarĭ > OCS cěsarĭ or,
if we deny the existence of the diphthong /ai/ in Gothic, then the borrowing occurred after the first palatalization and monophthongization of diphthongs but
before the second palatalization. The /k/ was then automatically palatalized before / / to /c/.6 A different form *cĭsarĭ, occurring in South and East Slavic with
shortening as Old Russian carĭ, is usually explained as a second variant of the
borrowing or with irregular reduction of the vowel due to the frequency of occurrence in official titles (cf. Boryś 2005: 52, SP II: 82-83).
6
I owe this remark to Zbigniew Babik (p.c.).
109
Dariusz R. Piwowarczyk
os. Szklane Domy 1/204
[[email protected]]
Bibliography
Boryś, Wiesław. 2005. Słownik tymologiczny języka polski go. Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie.
Braune, Wilhelm / Heidermanns Frank. 2004. Gotische Grammatik. 20. Auflage. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag.
Corazza, Vittoria. 1969. Le parole latine in gotico. Roma: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei.
Ernout, Alfred / Meillet, Antoine. 1951. Dictionnair étymologiq d la lang
latine. Paris: Klincksieck.
Feist, Sigmund. 1939. V rgl ich nd s Wört rb ch d r gotisch n Sprach . 3rd ed.
Leiden: Brill.
Jasanoff, Jay. 2004. “Gothic”, in: Th Cambridg Encyclop dia of th World’s
Ancient Languages, ed. R. Woodard. Cambridge: University Press. Pp.
189-214.
Kluge, Friedrich. 1924. Etymologisch s Wört rb ch d r d tsch n Sprach .
10th ed. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter.
Lehmann, Winfred. 1986. A Gothic Etymological Dictionary. Leiden: Brill.
Lejeune, Michel. 1972. Phonétiq historiq d mycéni n t d gr c anci n.
Paris: Klincksieck.
Luft, Wilhelm. 1897. “Die umschreibungen der fremden namen bei Wulfila”.
Z itschrift für v rgl ich nd Sprachforsch ng 35. Pp. 291-313.
Meillet, Antoine. 1924. “Review of Feist S., Etymologisch s Wört rb ch d r
gotischen Sprache, 2nd ed., 1922”. B ll tin d la Société d Ling istiq d
Paris 24. Pp. 109-110.
Meiser, Gerhard. 1998. Historische Laut- und Formenlehre der lateinischen
Sprache. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft.
Nedoma, Robert. 2010. “Schrift und Sprache in den ostgermanischen Runeninschriften”. NOWELE 58/59. Pp. 1-70.
OLD = Oxford Latin Dictionary. 1968. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Pinault, Georges-Jean. 1998. “Analyse de latin caesaries”, in: Moussyllanea.
Mélang s d ling istiq
t d littérat r anci nn s off rts à Cla d Mo ssy, eds. B. Bureau and C. Nicolas. Louvain – Paris: Peeters. Pp. 15-30.
Rix, Helmut. 1976. Historische Grammatik der griechischen Sprache. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft.
110
Rix, Helmut. 1993. “Latein – wie wurde es ausgesprochen”, in: B iträg z r
mündlich n K lt r d r Röm r, ed. G. Vogt-Spira. Tübingen: Gunter Narr
Verlag. Pp. 3-17.
Safarewicz, Jan. 1953. Zarys gramatyki historyczn j języka łaciński go. Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe.
Safarewicz, Jan. 1986. Zarys historii języka łaciński go. Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Polskiej Akademii Nauk.
Schmidt, Wilhelm (ed.). 1976. Geschichte der deutschen Sprache. Leipzig:
Volkseigner Verlag.
SP II = Słownik prasłowiański, vol. 2 (C – D). 1976. Ed. F. Sławski. Wrocław:
Ossolineum.
Szulc, Aleksander. 1991. Historia języka ni mi cki go. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN.
Todd, Malcolm. 1992. The Early Germans. [Reprint from 2000]. Oxford:
Blackwell Publishers.
de Vaan, Michiel. 2008. Etymological Dictionary of Latin and the Other Italic
Languages. Leiden: Brill.
Weiss, Michael. 2009. Outline of the Historical and Comparative Grammar of
Latin. Ann Arbor – New York: Beech Stave Press.
vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.008.0945
Luciano ROCCHI (Trieste)
VORMENINSKISCHE ERGÄNZUNGEN
ZU STANISŁAW STACHOWSKIS “BEITRÄGE
ZUR GESCHICHTE DER GRIECHISCHEN LEHNWÖRTER
IM OSMANISCH-TÜRKISCHEN”
Abstract (Pre-Menins i addenda to Stanisław Stachows i’s “Beiträge z r Geschichte
der griechischen Lehnwörter im Osmanisch-Tür ischen”). Stanisław Stachowski’s
“Beiträge zur Geschichte der griechischen Lehnwörter im Osmanisch-Türkischen”, published in Folia Orientalia 13 (1971 [1972]), 267-298, started a long series of historicallexicographical studies which the great Polish scholar devoted to foreign elements
found in the Turkish Transkriptionstexte. Since then a number of scientific editions of
these texts have however come out, particularly, in recent years, Filippo Argenti’s
(1533), Pietro Ferraguto’s (1611) and Arcangelo Carradori’s (1650) very important
handwritten lexicographical works, which had been but little or not at all known so far.
As the aforementioned as well as other publications provide much material on the European loanwords in Ottoman-Turkish, which are mostly Graecisms, this paper aims to
supplement Stachowski’s work both by adding data to original entries and presenting
new words of Greek origin. It has to be pointed out that all the material comes from
Transkriptionstexte dating from before Meninski’s Thesaurus (1680).
Keywords: etymology, Ottoman Turkish, Greek, borrowing, Transkriptionstexte.
Die “Beiträge zur Geschichte der griechischen Lehnwörter im OsmanischTürkischen” von Stanisław Stachowski wurden 1971 [1972] in der Zeitschrift
Folia Orientalia 13, S. 267-298, veröffentlicht. Dies war die erste Studie, die
das Material der Transkriptionstexte ausdrücklich berücksichtigte, und gilt immer noch als exemplarisches Vorbild für historisch-lexikographische Untersuchungen, wie übrigens alle Arbeiten des großen polnischen Gelehrten. Nach der
Veröffentlichung des Artikels Stachowskis erschienen aber weitere wissenschaftliche Editionen von sehr wichtigen Transkriptionstexten aus dem 16. und
17. Jahrhundert: die “Colloquia” von Jakab Nagy de Harsány (1672), zwei kleine in Italien gedruckte Sprachbücher (1525-30, 1574), das türkische Sprachmaterial aus verschiedenen Reisebüchern und vor allem in den letzten Jahren die
handschriftlichen lexikographischen Werke von Filippo Argenti (1533) und Pie-
112
LUCIANO ROCCHI
tro Ferraguto (1611) (bislang, aufgrund der Arbeiten Bombacis,1 nur teilweise
bekannt), sowie Arcangelo Carradori (1650). Dieses neue Material hat unser
Wissen über den osmanischen Wortschatz erheblich bereichert, insbesondere
das europäische Lehngut, das zum größten Teil ganz offensichtlich griechischen
Ursprungs ist. Die neuen Beiträge zu den Gräzismen sind in der hier vorliegenden Arbeit als Ergänzungen zu Stachowskis Aufsatz zu betrachten. Sie beruhen
nicht nur auf den oben erwähnten Quellen, sondern auch auf anderen, schon bekannten Werken (z.B. die Wörterbücher von Molino und Mascis), die genauest
überprüft worden sind. Alle hinzugezogenen Quellen sind allerdings ausnahmslos (lateinschriftliche) Transkriptionstexte, die aus den Zeiten vor Meninskis
Thesaurus (1680) stammen.2
Bei der Auflistung des Materials wird nach den folgenden Kriterien vorgegangen:
1) Die Stachowskis Einträge einfach ergänzenden Belege werden unter dem ursprünglichen Stichwort übernommen, das mit dem Symbol ° gekennzeichnet
ist. Die von Stachowski gegebenen Etymologien werden nicht wiederholt.
2) Die neuen Einträge folgen Stachowskis Struktur, wobei jedoch zwischen
Syntagmen, Komposita und Ableitungen präzise unterschieden wird. Wenn
die angeführten Angaben Varianten einer (osmanisch-)türkischen Standardform sind, wird diese als Stichwort in eckige Klammern gesetzt.
3) Unter Voranstellung des Symbols • wird falls erforderlich zu manchen Einträgen ein kurzer Kommentar hinzugefügt.
°aforos: afaros/afaroz (1677). ‒‒ 1677: afaros/afaroz (affaros) ‘scomunica’ (Masc. 190).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1677: afaros/afaroz etmek (affaros etmech) ‘scomunicare’
(Masc. 190).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1677: afaroslı/afarozlı (affarosli) ‘scommunicato’ (Masc.
190).
agarikon (1641), akarikon (1677) ‘Blätterpilz’ = agr. ἀγαρικόν ‘ds.’ (Meyer
30, wobei nur Zenkers Angabe garikun erwähnt ist). ‒‒ 1641: agarikon (agaricon) ‘agarico’ (M. 25); 1677: akarikon (acaricon) ‘agarico’ (Masc. 9).
1
2
A. Bombaci, La “Regola del parlare turcho” di Filippo Argenti, Napoli 1938; id.,
Padre Pietro Ferraguto e la sua Grammatica turca (1611), Pubblicazioni dell’Istituto
Superiore Orientale di Napoli. Annali, N. S., 1/1 (1940), 205-236.
Natürlich habe ich nur das Material benutzen können, das mir zugänglich war. Das
Quellenverzeichnis hat deshalb keinen Anspruch darauf, erschöpfend zu sein.
113
°agostos: avostos (1611). ‒‒ 1611: avostos ay (auostós ái) ‘agosto, il mese’
(F. 53).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1677: agostos büc ġi (agostos bugieghi/bugiechi) ‘cicala;
grillo’ (Masc. 28, 59).
ahriyan (1533) ‘abtrünnig’ = ngr. αχρειάνης ‘minderwertig, verachtenswert, abscheulich; griechischsprachiger Moslem, Türke oder Bulgare’ (TETTL
1, 119). ‒‒ 1533: ahriyan (laut Adamović akrıyan) (acrián) ‘rinnegato’ (AR. 29,
AAd. 134).
alay (1533) ‘Schar, Trupp; Menschengruppe; Herde’ = ngr. αλλάι ‘cavalcata, corteggio’ (Somavera 16) = mgr. ἀλλάγιον ‘abkommandierte Truppenabteilung’ (TETTL 1, 144). ‒‒ 1533: alay (allái, alláj) ‘brigata; la squadra; ordinanza
di campo; squadra di soldati et di homini et donne; stiera di hominj’ (AR. 31);
1611: alay (alái) ‘mostra di soldati; ordinanza di soldati’ (F. 54); 1641: alay
(alai) ‘caualcata; greggia, moltitudine d’animali’ (M. 83, 171); 1650: alay (alai)
‘battaglione, squadrone; ordinanza di soldati’ (C. 56); 1672: alay (alai, alaj)
‘Umzug; Festzug’ (Hars. H. 203).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1641: alayl dizilmiş (alailhe desilmisc) ‘schierati, ordinati
in schiera’ (M. 382). ‒‒ 1641: bir alay dostler (bir alai dostler) ‘coppia di amici’ (M. 106). ‒‒ 1641: sk r alay(ı) (eskier alai) ‘mostra di soldati, schiera, ordinanza de’ soldati’ (M. 382); 1650: sk r alay(ı) (eschier alai) ‘rassegna di soldati’ (C. 56). ‒‒ 1650: sıġır alay(ı) (segher alai) ‘armento’ (C. 56). ‒‒ 1641: alay
etmek (alai etmek) ‘resegnare’ (M. 342); 1650: alay et- (alai ederum) ‘ordinare’
(C. 56).
°anahtar (1533), anahdar (1587/88), anatar (1611), [eventuell] anakdar
(1677). ‒‒ 1533: anahtar (anachtár) ‘chiaue’ (AR. 33); 1587/88: anahdar
(anachdar) ‘Schlussel’ (Lub. 33); 1611: anatar (anatár) ‘chiaue’ (F. 56); 1677:
anahdar/anakdar (anachdar) ‘chiaue’ (Masc. 28).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1650: anakderden kapa- (anachderden chaparum) ‘chiauar la
porta, chiudere, serrar a chiaue’ (C. 200).
Ableitungen: ‒‒ 1533: anahtarcı (anactargí) ‘chiauaiolo’ (AR. 33); 1611:
anatarcı (anatargí) ‘chiauetteiero’ (F. 56); 1677: anahdarcı (anahdargi) ‘chiauaro, fabbro, o magnano’ (Masc. 27). ‒‒ 1533: anahtarcık (anactargích) ‘chiauicina’ (AR. 33).
°anason: anison/anıson (1533), anas ŋ (1650). ‒‒ 1533: anison/anıson
(anison) ‘anicio’ (AR. 34); 1650: anason, anas ŋ (anason, anasungh) ‘anaso,
anasi, aniso’ (C. 59).
• Das Wort ist wohl dem Arabischen entlehnt (TETTL 1, 173).
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LUCIANO ROCCHI
°Anatolı: Anatol (1608), Anadol (1672). ‒‒ 1608: “Anatol ist das Griechisch Wort Anatoli, der auffgang der Sonnen” (Schw. 223); 1672: Anadol ‘Asia’
(Hars. 51).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1677: Büyük Anadol (buiuch anadolu) ‘Turchia maggiore’
(Masc. 259). ‒‒ 1677: Y (ŋ)i Anadol (iei anadolu) ‘Turchia nuoua’ (Masc.
259).
°arganon: organan (1677). ‒‒ 1677: organan ‘organo, instrumento musico’ (Masc. 113).
°Arnaut: Arnant (?) (1481), Arnold (1672), Arneut (1677). ‒‒ 1481: Arnant (Arnāt [= Arnant, s. unten]) ‘eines der von Osmanen eroberten Balkanländer’ (GU 47); 1587/88: Arnaut ‘Albaneser’ (Lub. 34); 1591: “Incolae tam huius
[regionis], quam Moreae, nunc Epirotis plenae, vulgo nominantur a Turcis Arnautleri” (LeSt. 130); 1641: Arnautten (arnauten) ‘di Albania’ (M. 29); 1672:
Arnold ‘Albaner’ (Hars. H. 204); 1677: Arneutten (arneutden) ‘albanese’ (Masc.
11).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1650: arnaut biperi ‘pepe rosso’ (C. 61). ‒‒ 1677: arnaut
ç tl si (arnaut cetlessi) ‘taglia, tessera’ (Masc. 239). ‒‒ 1641: arnaut defteri (arnaut *detteri [defteri, Indice]) ‘taglia, *tersera [recte tessera]’ (M. 444). ‒‒
1587/88: Arnaut vilayeti (Arnaut vilagite) ‘Albanien’ (Lub. 34); 1641: Arnaut
vilayeti (arnaut vilaieti) ‘Albania prouincia’ (M. 29); 1677: Arneut vilayeti (arneut vilajettj) ‘Albania’ (Masc. 11).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1677: Arn tlıkt n (arneutlich-den) ‘albanese’ (Masc. 11).
• H. Stein behauptet, daß die Schreibung Arnāt (Arnant) bei Georg von Ungarn unrichtig ist, und transkribiert die Angabe als Arna vut (Arnaut?), aber vgl.
die von Lady Montagu 1717 belegte Form Arnountlich = Arnavutluk (TETTL 1,
199).
avanis (1558), avores (1590) ‘Steuer, Tribut’ = mgr. ἀβανίες, Plural von
ἀβανία ‘ds.’ (Verf.). ‒‒ 1558: “Egli [scil. der Sultan] fa pagare a turchi hebrei et
ogn’altra sorte di persone che vivono nelle sue città secondo il potere, una gravezza chiamata avanis” (Relazione des Edelmanns Nicolò Michiel: Pedani-Fabris 120); 1590: “Quell’altezza cava carazzo et avores, impositioni importantissime” (Relazione des Edelmanns Lorenzo Bernardo: Pedani-Fabris 322).
°avlak: oluk (1533), uluk (1650). ‒‒ 1533: oluk (olúch) ‘doccia da condurre acqua’ (AR. 187); 1650: oluk (oluq) ‘canale da acqua, doccia’, uluk (vluch)
‘cannella da botte’ (C. 261).
115
• Die meisten Sprachwissenschaftler lehnen die Verbindung von oluk/uluk
mit avlak ab, dessen Herleitung aus dem Griechischen übrigens umstritten ist
(Meyer 58, TETTL 1, 230, Eren 306).
°avlı (1533), avlu (1611), avl (1677). ‒‒ 1533: avlı (aulí, aul ) ‘chiudenda;
cortile; stecchato’ (AR. 38); 1611: avlu (aulú) ‘cortile: portico’ (F. 57); 1650:
avlı (auli) ‘foro, piazza; tribunale, corte’ (C. 65); avl (aul) ‘chiostro’ (Masc. 28).
baylos (1533), balyos (1677) ‘Titel des venezianischen Gesandten bei der
Hohen Pforte’ = ngr. μπάϊλος ‘ds.’ = ven. bailo (TETTL 1, 274). ‒‒ 1533: baylos (baylós), nur in Argentis Phraseologie belegt, z.B. baylós charscilamaá ghidér m ‘io uo a incontrare il baylo’ (AAd. 146).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1677: balyos yeri (balijos ieri) ‘uece di consolo’ (Masc.
264).
biber (1533), piper (1611), piber (1612), biper* (1650) ‘Pfeffer’ = ngr. πιπέρι ‘ds.’ (TETTL 1, 335). ‒‒ 1533: biber (bibér) ‘pepe’ (AR. 53); 1611: piper
(pipér) ‘pepe, aromato’ (F. 63); 1612: piber ‘piper’ (Meg.); 1641: biber ‘pepe,
peuere’ (M. 299); 1668: biber ‘papauer; piper’ (Ill. 156).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1650: arnaut biperi (s. oben → °Arnaut).
birgas/birgaz (1533), bırgas (1591) ‘Turm’ = ngr. πύργος ‘ds.’ (TETTL 1,
353). ‒‒ 1533: birgas/birgaz (laut Adamović bırġas) (birghás) ‘torre’ (AR. 54,
AAd. 152); 1591: bırgas (bergas) ‘turris’ (LeSt. 131).
bre (1533), beri (1591), broy (1641), brey (1650) ‘ei!, nanu!, oho!, ach!,
weh!’ = ngr. βρέ, μπρέ ‘ds.’ < μωρέ ‘du Dummkopf’ (TETTL 1, 384). ‒‒ 1591:
bre, beri ‘heus, heus; vox est excitantis, quadam cum iracundia’ (LeSt. 132);
1641: bre ‘he, olà?’ (M. 174), broy (broi) ‘olà’ (M. 280); 1650: bre ‘ah, minaccia’ (C. 89), brey (brei) ‘olà’ (id.).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1533: bre betbaht (bre bettbácht), ohne Übersetzung, mit der
Bemerkung “si dice ad uno tristo” (AR. 52).
[cibre]: çibr (1533) ‘Weintreber’ = ngr. τσίπουρα (Plural) ‘ds.’ (TETTL 1,
521). ‒‒ 1533: çibr (cibré) ‘uinaccia’ (AR. 71).
dalyan (1641) ‘Fischteich, Angelteich’ = (nach einem Vorschlag von Kahane-Tietze) mgr. *ἁλιάνειον ‘fishing station’, mit Agglutination des Artikels
τ(ὸ) (LF 477-81).
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LUCIANO ROCCHI
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1641: baluk dalyanı (baluk daliani) ‘pescara’ (M. 302);
1677: baluk dalyanı (baluch daliani) ‘pescaria, luogo doue si pesca’ (Masc.
125).
°define: dafne (1650), defne (1650). ‒‒ 1677: defne ‘alloro’ (Masc. 11).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1650: dafn tohmı (dafneh tochhmi) ‘bache di lauro’ (C.
323). ‒‒ 1650: d fn aġacı (defneh aghagi) ‘alloro, lauro’ (C. 117).
°degenek: deyenek (1587/88), degnek (1650), decenek* (1668). ‒‒ 1533:
degenek (deghienéch) ‘bastone’ (AR. 77); 1574: degenek (d’egenech) ‘bastonate’ (VN 63); 1587/88: deyenek (deienek) ‘Stecken’ (Lub. 40); 1612: degeneg
(deghenegh) ‘baculus’ (Meg.); 1650: degenek (deghienech) ‘mazza da vechi’,
degnek (deghnech) ‘bastone’ (C. 117); 1668: (alursem) deceneci (alurßem degyenegyi) ‘(si accipero) baculum’ (Ill. 251); 1672: degenek, degeneg ‘Stock’
(Hars. H. 213).
• Die Etymologie des Wortes ist umstritten (TETTL 1, 576-77, Eren 107-08).
°demet (1533), dimet (1677). ‒‒ 1533: demet (demétt) ‘mazo’ (AR. 78);
1641: demet ‘fascio’ (M. 142); 1650: demet ‘conuolto, fardello, fascio; couone;
manipolo, mannello’ (C. 119); 1677: demet (*dmeet) ‘fascio, o fastello’ (Masc.
48).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1641: b ġday d m ti (bughdai demeti) ‘fascio di spighe’
(M. 202); 1677: boġday d m ti (boghdai demetti) ‘fascio di spighe’ (Masc. 49).
‒‒ 1677: çiç k d m t (ciciech demet) ‘mazzo di fiori’ (Masc. 92). ‒‒ 1677: kalem(i) dimet (calemi dimet) ‘mazzo di penne da scriuere’ (Masc. 92). ‒‒ 1677:
kumar(a) dimet (cummarà dimet) ‘mazzo di carte’ (Masc. 92).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1650: d m tçik (demetgich) ‘fascetto’ (C. 119).
despot (1591) ‘christlicher Fürst im byzantinischen Kaiserreich (später
dem Sultan tributpflichtig)’ (Steuerwald 218) = ngr. δεσπότης ‘Herr, Gebieter’
(TETTL 1, 598).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1591: koca despot (cozza-despot) ‘(significat) principẽ veterem, hoc est annosum, & prouectioris aetatis’ (LeSt. 140). ‒‒ 1591: yeni
despot (geni-despot) ‘(ad differentiam) despotae iunioris’ (LeSt. 140).
durrakı (1611) ‘Nektarine’ = agr. δωράκινον ‘eine Art Pfirsich’ = lat.
duracinum (laut Meyer 29 durch die arabische Vermittlung). ‒‒ 1611: d rrakı
(durrachí) ‘noce persico’ (F. 78).
°efendi (1525-30), f ndü (1672). ‒‒ 1525-30: efendi (efendi [heffendi,
Lupis]) ‘messer’ (ITS 236, Lupis 1a); 1533: efendi (efendǐ, eféndi) ‘messere;
117
padrone’ (AR. 90); 1545: “I Greci quel che noi diciamo messere, dicono affendi, i Turchi mutando l’a in la e, proferiscono effendi” (Bass. 72); 1587/88: s nün
efendi (se nun effendi) ‘dein Herr’ (Lub. 34); 1611: afendi (aféndi) ‘padrone,
signore’ (F. 80); 1672: efendi, f ndü (effendi, effendü) ‘Herr; Frau’ (Hars. H.
217).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1587/88: efendi beg (effendibegk) ‘Herr’ (Lub. 34).
Kompositum: ‒‒ 1574: erefendi (hereffendi) ‘messere’ (VN 62).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: efendicik (efendiggích) ‘padrone’ (AR. 90).
elemiye (1650), elemle (1650) ‘Garnwinde’ = ngr. ανεμίδα/αλεμίδα ‘ds.’
(TETTL 1, 709). ‒‒ 1650: elemiye, elemle (elemleh3 = ’lmyh) ‘arcolai da donne’ (C. 142).
engebe (1533) ‘hinunter’ = ngr. εγκοπή ‘Einschnitt, Kluft’ (TETTL 1,
724). ‒‒ 1533: engebe (enghiébe) ‘jngiù’ (AR. 94).
• In der Hochsprache bedeutet das türkische Wort ‘Unebenheit (der Bodenfläche)’ (Steuerwald 273).
[enginar]: enginara (1533), anginaras (1533), anginar (1641), nkâr
(1650), ankâr (1677) ‘Artischoke’ = ngr. αγκινάρα ‘ds.’ (TETTL 1, 725). ‒‒
1533: enginara, anginaras 4 (enghinára, aggináras) ‘charciofo’ (AR. 26, 94,
AAd. 137, 179); 1641: anginar (anghinar) ‘carciofolo’ (M. 81); 1650: nkâr
(enchiar) ‘carciofo’ (C. 144); 1677: ankâr (anchiar) ‘carciofo’ (Masc. 25).
°fanta ya ‒‒ 1650: fantaz(i)ya (fantasia = fntẓyh) ‘bizarria’ (C. 151).
• Das Wort ist laut Tietze über das Italienische ins Türkische gekommen
(TETTL 2, 32).
felar (1533) ‘Korken’ = ngr. *φελλάρι, Diminutiv zu φελλός ‘ds.’ (Verf.).
‒‒ 1533: felar (felár) ‘sughero’ (AR. 99).
fener (1533), fenar (1587/88), fanar (1608), finer (1677) ‘Lampe, Laterne’
= ngr. φανάρι ‘ds.’ (TETTL 2, 43). ‒‒ 1533: fener (fenér) ‘fanale, lanterna’
(AR. 100); 1587/88: fenar ‘candelabrum’ (Lub. 42); 1608: fanar (Phanar)
‘Leuchtturm’ (Schw. 232); 1612: fenar ‘laterna’ (Meg.); 1641: fener ‘lanterna’
3
4
In meiner Edition betrachtete ich diese Form als irrtümlich, allerdings ist das türkische elemle mundartlich belegt (Tietze 230).
Transkribierung von Adamović; meine Wiedergabe acinaraz/acınaraz (AR. 26) ist
wahrscheinlich unrichtig: “Die Schreibung gg für /ng/ ist gewiß auf die entsprechende griechische Graphemfolge γγ zurückzuführen” (M. Kappler [Rezension der
Argenti-Edition von Rocchi], ZDMG 159/1 (2009), 219).
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LUCIANO ROCCHI
(M. 227); 1650: fanar ‘lumiera’ (C. 151); 1668: fener ‘laterna’ (Ill. 50); 1677:
finer ‘lanterna’ (Masc. 78).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: fenerci (fenergí) ‘lanternaro’ (AR. 100); 1641: fenerci
(fenergi) ‘lanterniere’ (M. 227); 1677: finerci (finergi) ‘lanterniere’ (Masc. 78).
fengi (1533) ‘kleines Fenster, Dachfenster’ = ngr. *φεγγί, Diminutiv zu
φεγγός ‘Licht’ (Verf.). ‒‒ 1533: fengi (fenghí) ‘finestrina, finestra sopra tecto’
(AR. 100).
°fesleken: fesligen (1533), fesliyan (1677). ‒‒ 1533: fesligen (feslighién)
‘bassilico’ (AR. 100); 1677: fesliyan (feslian) ‘bassilico’ (Masc. 20).
fıçı (1641), f çı (1533), f cı (1677) ‘Faß’ = ngr. βουτσί ‘ds.’ (TETTl 2, 84).
‒‒ 1533: f çı (fucc ) ‘botte, charratello’ (AR. 102); 1587/88: f çı (futtschi)
‘Fas’ (Lub. 42); 1611: f çı (fucí) ‘botte’ (F. 85); 1641: f çı (fuci) ‘botte, cioè
vaso da vino’ (M. 73); 1650: f çı (fuci) ‘botte’ (C. 155); 1668: f çı (fucsi) ‘vas’
(Ill. 174); 1677: f cı (fugi) ‘barile’, ‘botte’ (Masc. 20, 22).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1650: yarın f çı (iaran fuci) ‘bottaccio, carratello’ (C. 155).
‒‒ 1641: fıçı çivisi (fici ciuisi) ‘spina, ò chiaue della botte’ (M. 422); f çı çivisi
(fuci ciuisi) ‘cochiume che serra la botte di sopra’ (C. 109). ‒‒ 1650: f çı doldur- (fuci doldururum) ‘imbottare, empir la botte’, f çı dold rmak (fuci doldurmech) ‘imbottatura’, f çı dold rmış (fuci doldurmisc) ‘imbottato’ (C. 155). ‒‒
1650: f çı dold rcı (fuci doldurgi) ‘imbottatore’ (C. 129). ‒‒ 1641: fıçı sin ġi
(fci sineghi) ‘moscione, animaletto’ (M. 263); 1677: f cı sin k (fugi sinech)
‘moscione, animaletto’ (Masc. 100). ‒‒ 1641: fıçı yapan (fici iapan) ‘acconcia
botte’ (M. 10); 1650 f çı iapan (fuci iappan) ‘acconcia botte’ (C. 155).
Ableitungen: ‒‒ 1611: f çıcı (fucigí) ‘bo[tt]aro’ (F. 85); 1641: fıçıcı
(*fieigi [ficigi, Indice]) ‘acconcia botte’ (M. 10); 1650: f çıcı (fucigi) ‘bottaio’
(C. 155). ‒‒ 1677: fıcıcık (figigich) ‘botticella’ (Masc. 22). ‒‒ 1533: f çıl k
(fuccilúch) ‘la portata di una botte’ (AR. 102).
°fındık: funduk (1533), fentek* (1587/88), fınd k (1650). ‒‒ 1533: funduk
(fundúch) ‘nocciuola’ (AR. 102); 1587/88: fentek* (*tsentek) ‘Haselnus’ (Lub.
17, 42); 1650: fınd k (fanduch = fndḳ) ‘nocciuola auellana’, funduk (funduch)
‘auellana’ (C. 153); 1668: funduk ‘avellana’ (Ill. 174); 1672: funduk ‘Haselnuß’
(Hars. H. 220).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1533: f nd k aġacı (fundúch aghaggí) ‘nocciuolo’ (AR.
102); 1677: fındık aġacı (findich agagi) ‘nocciuolo’ (Masc. 106). ‒‒ 1677: fındık m yv (findich meiue) ‘nocella ò nocciuola’ (Masc. 196).
119
fırın (1641), furun (1533), f rım (1587/88), furu (1587/88), furn(u) (1611),
furın (1641) ‘Ofen’ = ngr. φούρνος ‘ds.’ = lat. furnus (Eren 144). ‒‒ 1533: furun
(furún) ‘forno, fornace’ (AR. 102); 1587/88: f rım (furim) ‘Ofen’, furu ‘Backofen’ (Lub. 13, 15); 1611: furn(u) (fúrn, fúrnu) ‘furno, forno’ (F. 85); 1612:
furun ‘furnus’ (Meg.); 1641: f rın (furin) ‘forno’ (M. 152); 1668: furun ‘fornex’
(Ill. 174).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1611: kir ç f rn sı (chirécc furnusí) ‘fornace’ (F. 85);
1641: kir c fırını (kiregź frini) ‘fornace’ (M. 152); 1677: kir ç f r nı (kirec furuni) ‘fornace’ (Masc. 52). ‒‒ 1641: fırın komak (frine komak) ‘infornare, cioè
mettere nel forno’ (M. 210). ‒‒ 1650: fırın koyıcı (frine choigi) ‘infornatore’
(C. 153).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: f r ncı (furungí) ‘fornaro, fornaciaro’ (AR. 102);
1641: f r ncı (furungi) ‘fornaio’ (M. 152).
• Das Wort wurde wohl über das Arabische vermittelt (TETTL 2, 86).
fışkı (1641), f skı/fuski (1533), fuska (1587/88), faski (1587/88), f şka
(1612), fıçkı (1641) ‘Dung, Mist’ = ngr. φουσκί ‘ds.’ (TETTL 2, 58). ‒‒ 1533:
f skı/fuski (fuschí) ‘concime, litame’ (AR. 102); 1587/88: fuska (fusca) ‘Stro
oder Strei’ (Lub. 42); 1612: f şka (fuschka) ‘fimus’ (Meg.); 1641: fıçkı (fcźki)
‘letame, sterco’ (M. 232); 1641: fışkı (fsc=ki) ‘sterco’ (M. 431); 1677: fışkı
(fisc=chj) ‘letame, sterco’ (Masc. 81).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1587/88: yük faskı (juk faski) ‘Samb [= Saum] Mist’ (Lub.
42).
°fidan (1533). ‒‒ 1533: fidan (fidán) ‘nesto’ (AR. 101); 1650: fidan ‘gambo d’erba, piede d’erba o simm.’ (C. 153); 1677: fidan ‘stirpe, pianta’ (Masc.
231).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1650: y ŋi fidan (ienghi fidan) ‘alberetto’ (C. 153). ‒‒
1650: fidan çiç kl ri (= çiç kl r fidanı) (fidan cicechleri) ‘pianta di fiori’ (C.
153). ‒‒ 1650: fidan otuluk (= ot l k fidanı) (fidan otuluch) ‘cespo, o pianta
d’erba’ (C. 263).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1641: fidancık, fidancuk (fidangik [fidangiuk, Indice])
‘alborsello’ (M. 30); 1677: fidancık (fidangich) ‘pianticella, o pianta piccola’
(Masc. 127).
• Der Gräzismus stammt eher aus φυτάνη (TETTL 2, 60), als aus φυτόν.
[filiz]: fili (1533), filez* (1650) ‘Sprößling, Ranke’ = agr. φύλλις ‘ds.’
(TETTL 2, 64). ‒‒ 1533: fili (fillí) ‘uiticcio’ (AR. 101).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1650: lahana filezi (lahhana filezi) ‘broccole’ (C. 232).
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LUCIANO ROCCHI
• Es handelt sich m.E. um eine zweifelhafte Etymologie, weil das erwähnte
griechische Wort sehr selten vorkommt. Noch zweifelhafter sind jedoch die anderen etymologischen Vorschläge.
[filüvaris]: fevreris (1641) ‘Februar’ = ngr. φλεβάρις ‘ds.’ = lat. februarius
(Meyer 68, wobei nur die osmanischen Formen filuvaris, flevaris erwähnt sind).
‒‒ 1641 fevreris (feureris) ‘febraro’ (M. 254).
• Die meninskische Form wird als Stichwort gesetzt.
fiski(y)a (1641) ‘Klaps’ = agr. φύσκια, Diminutiv (Plural) zu φύσκη, s. unten (Verf.). ‒‒ 1641: fiski(y)a (fiskia) ‘frignoccola’ [= Klaps] (M. 156).
• Die hochsprachliche Form ist fiske < agr. φύσκη ‘die Blase, Schwiele in
der Hand’ (Pape 2, 1319; TETTL 2, 69).
[fistan]: fustan (1650) ‘Rock, Frauengewand’ = ngr. φουστάνι ‘ds.’ = ital.
fustagno (TETTL 2, 70). ‒‒ 1650: fustan ‘gonnella, veste; guarnello, veste’ (C.
155).
flaska (1611) ‘Flasche’ = ngr. φλάσκα ‘ds.’ = mlat. flasca, ital. fiasca
(Verf., wohl durch die arabische Vermittlung). ‒– 1611: flaska (fláscha) ‘fiasco’
(F. 85).
[fluri/füluri]: flori (1533) ‘Dukaten, Goldmünze’ = ngr. φλωρί/φλουρί
‘ds.’ = mlat. florinus = ital. fiorino (Symeonidis Pr. 144; die sichere griechische
Vermittlung findet keine Beachtung bei TETTL 2, 74). ‒‒ 1533: flori (florí)
‘duchato’ (AR. 101).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1548: frengi flori “Li Ducati che se battono in la sua Zeccha,
se chiamano Svlthaane (…) eccetti quelli de Venetiani chiamati da loro frengiflori” (Men. 126).
funda (1533) ‘Besenreisig’ = ngr. φούντα ‘Quaste; Grasbüschel’ (TETTL
2, 85). ‒‒ 1533: funda (fundǎ) ‘fascina, fastello di scope’ (AR. 102).
[furça/fırça]: f rç (1533), f rçı (1612) ‘Bürste’ = ngr. βούρτσα ‘ds.’
(TETTL 2, 86). ‒‒ 1533: f rç (fúrce) ‘setola o scopetta da setolare i panni’
(AR. 102); 1612: f rçı (furtschi) ‘seta’ (Meg.).
gebere (1533), gepere (1612), kopar (1650), keberi (1677) ‘Kaper’ = ngr.
κάπαρη ‘ds.’ (TETTL 2, 112). ‒‒ 1533: gebere (ghiebére) ‘chappero’ (AR.
103); 1612: gebere ‘inturis’ (Meg.); 1612: gepere ‘capparis’ (Meg.); 1641: ge-
121
bere (ghiebere) ‘capperi’ (M. 80); 1650: kopar (choppar) ‘cappari’ (C. 220);
1677: keberi (chieberi) ‘cappero’ (Masc. 24).
gentavres/gentavrez (1641), getavrez (1650), kentavres/kentavrez (1677)
‘Zentaur’ = agr., ngr. κένταυρος ‘ds.’ (Verf.). ‒‒ 1641: gentavres/gentavrez
(ghentaures) ‘centauro’ (M. 86); 1650: getavrez (ghetaures = ḳṭāwrz) ‘centauro’
(C. 161); 1677: kentavres/kentavrez (chientaures) ‘centauro’ (Masc. 28).
[gerdel]: yerdel (1587/88), kerdel (1650) ‘Eimer, Bottich’ = ngr. καρδάρι
‘Milchgefäß’ = lat. caldaria (LF 519-520). ‒‒ 1587/88: yerdel (jerdel) ‘Amper’
[= Amphora (?)] (Lub. 43); 1650: kerdel (chierdel) ‘bigongia’ (C. 210).
gönder (1533), yönd r (1525-30) ‘Lanze’ = ngr. κοντάρι ‘ds.’ (Tietze 226).
‒‒ 1525-30: yönd r (ionder) ‘piccha’ [*‘piegha’ (ITS)] (Lupis 2a, ITS 239);
1533: gönd r, yönd r (ghiondér et jondér) ‘lancia’ (AR. 107).
[gönye]: güny (1533) ‘Winkel(maß)’ = ngr. γωνιά ‘ds.’ (TETTL 2, 174).
‒‒ 1533: güny (ghiugné) ‘squadra’ (AR. 110).
°gübre (1533), göbr (1533), cubre (1668), cibre (1677), gübir /güb r
(1677). ‒‒ 1533: gübr , göbr (ghiubré, ghiobré) ‘concime, letame’ (AR. 108);
1650: gübr (ghiubre) ‘letame’; 1668: cubre (gÿubre) ‘fimus’ (Ill. 161); 1677:
cibre (gibre) ‘letame, sterco’ (Masc. 81); 1677: gübir (ghiubire) ‘sterco’
(Masc. 230).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1641: öküz/at gübr si (ochius/at ghiubresi) ‘sterco di bue/di
cauallo’ (M. 431). ‒‒ 1677: öküz/at/koyın/y ş k/domuz/k çi/sıçan güb r si
(ochius/at/coin/iescech/domus/chiecci/sician ghiuberessi) ‘sterco di bue/di cauallo/di pecora/d’asino/di porco/di capra/di sorci, o di topi’ (Masc. 230). ‒‒
1650: z yt n gübr (zeitun ghiubre) ‘sanza d’oliue’ (C. 165). ‒‒ 1650: gübr
ko- (ghiubre qorum) ‘letamare’ (C. 165).
Ableitungen: ‒‒ 1650: gübr li (ghiubreli) ‘letamato’ (C. 165). ‒‒ 1650:
gübr lik (ghiubrelich) ‘letamaio’ (C. 166).
°gümrük: gömr k (1641). ‒‒ 1641: gömrük (ghiomruk) ‘gabella, datio’
(M. 158); 1677: gümrük (ghiumruch) ‘dazio, grauezza, o gabella; taglia’ (Masc.
36, 239).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1650: gümrük hana (ghiumruch chanah) ‘dogana’ (C. 166).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: gümbrükçi (ghiumbruchc ) ‘chomerchiaro, doghaniere’ (AR. 109); 1641: gümrikci (ghiumrikgi) ‘datiere’ (M. 113); 1641: gömrükci
(ghiomrukgi) ‘gabelliere’ (M. 158); 1677: gümrükcı (ghiumruchgi) ‘doganiere’
(Masc. 42).
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LUCIANO ROCCHI
güren (1611) ‘Brustbeere’ = ngr. κράνο ‘Kornelkirsche’ (Tietze 228). ‒‒
1611: gür n (ghiurén) ‘zinzoli, frutti piccoli et russi come l’azaroli’ (F. 89).
halat (1611), alat (1611), alet* (1641) ‘Seil, Tau’ = mgr. καλ διον ‘ds.’
(LF 518). ‒‒ 1611: halat, alat (halát, alát) ‘corda, gumina, fune di naue, gumina
di vascelli, sarte, fune di vascelli’ (F. 92); 1650: halat ‘corde’ (C. 169).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1641: gemi aleti (ghiemi aleti) ‘fune delle naui’ (M. 157);
1677: g mil r alatı (ghiemiler alatj) ‘fune delle naui’ (Masc. 54).
hamsi (1650) ‘Sardelle’ = ngr. χα(μ)ψί ‘ds.’ (TETTL 2, 248). ‒‒ 1650:
hamsi bal ġı (chamsi baloghi) ‘alice, pesce’ (C. 170).
°harti (1533). ‒‒ 1612: harti (harti) ‘membrana, pergamena’ (Meg.).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1533: kumarbaz harti5 (chumarbás chartt ) ‘charte da giuoco’ (AR. 157, AAd. 195). ‒‒ 1641: harti yazmak (charti iasmak) ‘descrittione
del mondo’ (M. 116).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1641: hartici (chartigi) ‘descrittore del mondo’ (M. 116).
hela (1587/88) ‘Aal; Hecht’ = ngr. χέλια, Plural von χέλι ‘Aal’ (Lub. 64).
‒‒ 1587/88: hela baluk (chela baluck) ‘Hechte’ (Lub. 64); 1612: hela baluk
(chella baluk) ‘anguilla’ (Meg.).
°hora: horan (1533), horos (1612). ‒‒ 1533: horan (choràn) ‘ballo’ (AR.
121); 1650: horos (choros, chhoros) ‘danza, ballo, tresca’ (C. 178); 1672: horos
‘eine Art Tanz’ (Hars. H. 228).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1612: horos tepmek (*horostadmek) ‘choreas ducere, tripudiare, saltare’ (Meg.); 1641: horos tepmek (choros tepmek) ‘ballare, ò danzare’
(M. 66); 1650: horos tep- (choros teperum) ‘ballare, trescare’; horos tepmek
(choros tepmech) ‘trescamento’ (C. 178) ‒‒ 1650: horos tep(e)ci (choros tepgi,
choros tepegi) ‘ballerino, trescatore’ (C. 319).
°horata (1533), orat (1611). ‒‒ 1533: horata (chorattá) ‘baia, motteggio’;
horatadan (chorattadán) ‘da motteggio’ (AR. 121); 1611: orat (orát) ‘buffonaria, burla’ (F. 95); 1650: horata (horata, hhorata, chhorata) ‘beffa, scherno, burla, facetia di parole, da burla’ (C. 178).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1533: horata et- (chorattá edérum) ‘motteggio’; horata
ettir- (chora[ttá] etterúrum) ‘fo motteggiare’ (AR. 121); 1587/88: horata et-, in
dem Satz hemen horata ettim (hemen horata edum) ‘ich habe nur geschertzt’
(Lub. 45); 1611: orat et- (orát edérum) ‘buffoneggiare, burlare’ (F. 95); 1650:
5
Nach der Edition von Adamović. Meine Transkribierung ist stattdessen hartı/kartı,
wie es nach Argentis Schreibung vertretbar wäre.
123
horata et- (horata ederum) ‘beffare, schernire, burlare’; horata etmek (horata
etmech) ‘burla, scherzo, giuoco’ (C. 178); 1668: horata et- (horatederum ‒
horataetum6) ‘vexo’ (Ill. 176). ‒‒ 1650: horataya al- (horataiah alerum) ‘pigliar
per burla’ (C. 178). ‒‒ 1668: horata yüzind n (horata iußinden) ‘ioco’ (Ill. 258).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: horatacı (chorattaggí) ‘motteggiatore’ (AR. 121);
1611: oratacı adam (oratagí adam) ‘huomo burliere’ (F. 95); 1650: horatacı
(horatagi, *horatigi) ‘beffatore, burlone, faceto’ (C. 178).
°horyat (1533), hoyrat (1533), koryat (1677), koyrat (1677), oryat(çık)
(1677). ‒‒ 1533: horyat, hoyrat (choriát(t), choirát) ‘contadino, rozo, uillano,
uile di conditione’ (AR. 121); 1677: koyrat (coirat) ‘contadino, rustico’ (Masc.
33, 171), koryat (coriat) ‘rustico’ (Masc. 171).
Ableitungen: ‒‒ 1677: oryatçık (oriatgich) ‘rustichetto’, koyratçık (coiratgich) ‘rustichello, contadinello’ (Masc. 171, 172). ‒‒ 1533: horyatluk (choriattlúch) ‘rozeza, uillania, uiltà’ (AR. 121); 1677: koryatluk (coriatluch) ‘rustichezza’, koryatlıġile (coriatlighile) ‘rusticamente’, koyratlıġil (coiratlighile) ‘uillanescamente’ (Masc. 171, 270). ‒‒ 1677: koyratlanmış (coiratlanmisc) ‘rusticato
col stare in villa’ (Masc. 171).
hrisma (1608), rosma (1553/55), rusma (1587/88) ‘Haarentfernungspaste’
= ngr. χρίσμα ‘Salbe’ (Schw. 235, wobei auch die ngr. Form ρουσμάς ‘Enthaarungsmittel’ erwähnt wird, die m.E. eine offensichtliche Rückentlehnung aus
dem Türkischen ist). ‒‒ 1553/55: “Die turkischen weyber (…) pflegen sy ein
depilatorium zuprauchen (…). Solch etz pulver macht man von sarnek, das man
auch rosmaoth [= rosma ot] nent” (Dernschw. 135-136); 1587/88: “Rusma ein
Salblein, mit welchem so sie die bedeckten Glieder schmiren” (Lub. 55); 1608:
“mit einer schwartzen Erden mit Kalch vermischt vnd mit Wasser zu eynem
Brey gemacht das nennen sie mit dem Griechischen Namen Chrisma” (Schw.
235).
huni* (1587/88), honu (1650) ‘Trichter’ = ngr. χουνί ‘ds.’ (TETTL 2, 335).
‒‒ 1587/88: huni* (*thunij) ‘Trichter’ (Lub. 14, 45); 1650: honu ‘imbottatoio,
imbuto’ (C. 178).
°ıhtapod: atapot (1611), ohtaput/ıhtap t (1650), aktapod (1672). ‒‒ 1611
atapot (attápot) ‘polpo, pesce’ (F. 54); 1650: ohtaput/ıhtap t bal ġı (ochtaput
[= ’ḥtbwd] baloghi) ‘polpo’ (C. 260); 1672: aktapod ‘Polyp’ (Hars. H. 202).
6
D.h. horata ettim, 1. Person des Präteritums.
124
LUCIANO ROCCHI
ıltar (1533) ‘Leine’ = ngr. λητάρι ‘Strick’ (TETTL 2, 348). ‒‒ 1533: ıltar
(jlttár) ‘guinzaglio’ (AR. 124).
°ırγat (1533). ‒‒ 1533: ırġat (erghátt) ‘manouale, operaro’ (AR. 125).
°ıskare: skere (1533), skara (1611), isgele (1641). ‒‒ 1533: skere (schiére)
‘graticola’ (AR. 220); 1587/88: skere ‘Rost’ (Lub. 46); 1611: skara (schára)
‘graticola’ (F. 97); 1612: skara (scara) ‘craticula’ (Meg.); 1641: isgele (isghelhe, isghele) ‘gradella da cocere il pesce, gratella’ (M. 169, 170).
°ıskumru: sgümri (1641), ısk nbri/uskunbri (1650), usgimri (1677). ‒‒
1641: sgümri balıġı (usghiumri balighi) ‘scombro, pesce detto macarello’ (M.
385); 1650: ısk nbri/uskunbri (aschunbri = ’wskwnbry) ‘arengha’ (C. 182);
1677: sgımrı bal ġı (usghimri balughi) ‘scombro, pesce’ (Masc. 189).
°ıspanak (1650), spanak (1533), spinaka (1611), spinak (1677). ‒‒ 1533:
spanak (spanách) ‘spinacio’ (AR. 222); 1611: spinaka (spináca) ‘spinaci, herba’
(F. 97); 1641: spanak ‘spinaci, herba’ (M. 422); 1650: ıspanak (aspanach =
’spnāḳ) ‘spinaci’ (C. 183); 1677: spinak (spinach) ‘spinaci, erba da mangiare’
(Masc. 223).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: spanakçı (spanachc ) ‘spinaciaio’ (AR. 222).
°ıstakos: stakos (1611). ‒‒ 1611: stakos (stacós) ‘locusta, sorta di pesce’
(F. 98).
iskele (1641), skele (1533), skala (1591), sk lä (1611), isgele (1641) ‘Anlegeplatz; Seehandelsplatz’ = mgr. σκάλα ‘stairs, ladder; gangway; landing
place’ = lat. scala (LF 568-572). ‒‒ 1533: skele (schiéle) ‘scala oue uanno le
naui et li mercanti’ (AR. 219); 1591: skala (scala) ‘locũ significat ubi exscenditur e navigiis; & in genere portum quoque denotat’ (LeSt. 145); 1611: sk lä
(schiéla) ‘commercio’ (F. 101); 1612: skele (scele) ‘litus, scala’ (Meg.); 1641:
iskele (iskelhe) ‘traghetto, passaggio’ (M. 462), isgele (isghele) ‘ripa, riua’ (M.
352).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1587/88: Dav t Başa sk l si (Daut Bascha *scelersi) ‘die
Anfahrt bei David Bascha’ (Lub. 46); 1677: Talamun iskele (talamun ischiele)
‘Talamone, porto in Toscana’ (Masc. 240).
°iskemle: skemli (1533), skamili (1574), skamli (1587/88), ş mli
(1587/88), iskemli (1587/88), skemele (1611), isç mli (1612), eskemle (1650),
skemle (1672), iskemre (1677). ‒‒ 1533: skemli (schieml ) ‘seggiola’ (AR. 219);
1574: skamili (schamili) ‘tauola’ (VN 64); 1587/88: skamli, ş mli, iskemli
(skamli, schemlij, iskemli) ‘Banck’ (Lub. 46); 1611: skemele (schemelé) ‘sedia’
125
(F. 101); 1612: isç mli (istschemli) ‘sella, Sessel’ (Meg.); 1650: eskemle (eschiemleh) ‘banchetto da sedere’ (C. 145); 1668: skemli7 (schemli) ‘sedes’ (Ill.
195); 1672: skemle ‘sedilia’ (Hars. 64); 1677: iskemre (ischemre) ‘scabello,
banco piccolo, scanno, banco da sedere, sedia, o seggiola’ (Masc. 181, 183,
196).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1677: alçak iskemre (alciach ischemre) ‘sedia bassa’
(Masc. 196). ‒‒ 1677: altunden iskemre (altunden ischemre) ‘sedia d’oro’
(Masc. 196). ‒‒ 1533: uzun skemli (usúm schieml ) ‘pancha’ (AR. 252); 1650:
uzun eskemle (vzun eschiemleh) ‘banca lunga’ (C. 145). ‒‒ 1677: as ki s ltanın
iskemresi (assecchi sultanin ischemressi) ‘sedia, o seggiola della Regina’ (Masc.
196). ‒‒ 1677: padişahın isk mr si (padisciahnin ischemressi) ‘sedia del Re’
(Masc. 196).
Ableitungen: ‒‒ 1533: skemlici (schiemliggí) ‘seggiolaro’ (AR. 219). ‒‒
1677: isk mr ciġaz (ischemregigas) ‘sedia piccola’ (Masc. 196).
[iskete]: sketi (1533) ‘Zeisig’ = ngr. σκαθί ‘ds.’ (TETTL 2, 412). ‒‒ 1533:
sketi (schiettí) ‘lucherino, uccello’ (AR. 220).
iskiv(a)la (1650) ‘Abfälle des Getreides, Spreu’ = ngr. σκύβαλα, Plural von
σκύβαλο ‘ds.’ (Verf.). ‒‒ 1650: iskiv(a)la8 (’sky wlā [die Wiedergabe in Lateinschrift fehlt]) ‘mondiglie di grano, vagliatura’ (C. 336).
°ispinos: spinos/spinoz (1533). ‒‒ 1533: spinos/spinoz (spinós) ‘pincione’
(AR. 223).
°İstambol (1587/88), Stambol (1533), Stanbol (1533), İstanbol (1574). ‒‒
1533: Stambolda, Stanbolda (stamboldá, stanboldá) ‘in Constantinopoli’ (AR.
66, AAd. 263), Stamboldan (stamboldán) ‘di Constantinopoli’ (AAd. 263);
1574: İstanbol (Istanbol) ‘Costantinopuli’ (VN 64); 1587/88: İstambol (*Istamboil) ‘Constantinopel’ (Lub. 47); 1608: “Constantinopel (…) die Türcken nennens Stambol von dem Griechischen Wörtlein is tin polin, das ist in die Stadt”
(Schw. 247; bemerkenswert ist Schweiggers richtige Etymologie); 1611: Stambol (stamból) ‘Costantinopoli’ (F. 101).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1677: İstambol boġazı (Istambol boghasi) ‘stretto di Costantinopoli’ (Masc. 234).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: Stambollı, in der Fügung Stambollı m hadam9 (stambolí muchadám) ‘in Constantinopoli fermo’ (AR. 173).
7
8
9
Auf Seite 197 derselben Edition von Németh wird das Wort als şç"emli transkribiert.
Die Transkribierung üsküla meiner Edition sowie die dabei vorausgesetzte Etymologie erachte ich nicht mehr als korrekt.
Laut Adamović mukaddam, mit anderer Deutung des Wortes (AAd. 234).
126
LUCIANO ROCCHI
°istiridya: stric (1641), istridye (1650). ‒‒ 1641: stric (strigź) ‘ostrega’
(M. 286); 1650: istridy bal ġı (istridie baloghi) ‘ostrica’ (C. 191); 1677: stridya (stridia) ‘ostrica’ (Masc. 115).
• Die Angabe Scrige ‘Austern’ bei Lubenau (46) ist graphisch gesehen
zweifelhaft und unsicher.
izmarit (1641), izmaret (1677) ‘Schnauzenbrasse’ = ngr. σμαρίδα ‘ds.’
(TETTL 2, 434). ‒‒ 1641: izmarit balıġı (ismarit balighi) ‘menola, pesce’ (M.
251); 1677: izmar t bal ġı (ismaret balughi) ‘mennola pesce’ (Masc. 93).
°kadırγa: katrega (1527?), katerga (1533), kaderga (1587/88), katreka/katrıka (1611), gadırga (1677), katrıga (1677). ‒‒ 1527?: katrega (cathrega)
‘galea’ (Lupis 1a; bei ITS 242 die irrige Form *catherha); 1533: katerga 10
(chatérga) ‘galea’ (AR. 141); 1574: katerga (caterga) ‘galea’ (VN 66); 1677:
gadırga (gadirga) ‘galea’ (Masc. 54).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1587/88: kad rga limanı (caderga limani) ‘der Galleren
Hafen’ (Lub. 52). ‒‒ 1677: katrıgaya komak (catrigaia comach) ‘mettere in galera’ (Masc. 94). ‒‒ 1611: katreka/katrıka bal k (cátreca balúc) ‘balena, pesce’
(F. 103).
kalafat (1650) ‘Kalfatern’ = mgr. καλαφάτισε, Imperativ zu καλαφατίζω
‘to caulk’ (LF 514-17).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1650: kalafat et- (qalafat ederum) ‘calafatare’ (C. 197).
kalamar (1650) ‘Kalmar, Tintenfisch’ = ngr. καλαμάρι ‘ds.’ (Eren 201). ‒‒
1650: kalamar bal ġı (chalamar baloghi) ‘calamaro’ (C. 197).
°kaldrım: kaldır m (1533), kaldırım (1650). ‒‒ 1533: kaldır m (chalderúm) ‘lastrico d’una uia’ (AR. 134); 1650: kaldırım (chalderim) ‘lastricato’ (C.
198).
Ableitungen: ‒‒ 1650: kaldırımcı (chalderimgi) ‘lastricatore’ (C. 198);
1677: kaldırımcı (caldirimgi) ‘lastricatore, cioè quello che lastrica’ (Masc. 78).
‒‒ 1677: kaldırımlı (caldirimli) ‘*selidata [recte selicata], lastricata’ (Masc.
197), kaldırımlı yol (caldirimli iol) ‘inselciata, inselicata, o inseniciata, strada
lastricata’ (Masc. 72). ‒‒ 1677: yolı kaldırımlamak (ioli caldirimlamach) ‘lastricare la strada, o in[se]niciare’ (Masc. 78).
10
Sowohl der Verf. als Adamović (AAd. 213) transkribieren in ihren Editionen katırġa, aber bei Argenti sowie in den anderen Werken aus dem 16. Jh. bewahrt das Wort
wahrscheinlich noch die vokalische Klangfarbe der griechischen Quelle.
127
°karakoncolos (1641). ‒‒ 1641: karakoncolos (karachongiolos) ‘fantasma,
visione’ (M. 141-42).
°karenfil: karafil (1527?), karanfil (1533), garanfil (1612). ‒‒ 1527?:
karafil (charaafil) ‘garofali’ (Lupis 3a; die bei ITS 242 gedruckte Form charafin
ist m.E. irrig); 1533: karanfil (charanfíl) ‘gherofano; uiuola’ (AR. 139); 1612:
garanfil ‘garyophyllum’ (Meg.); 1668: karanfil ‘cariofillum’ (Ill. 181); 1677:
karanfil (caranfil) ‘garofano’ (Masc. 55).
kavuza (1533) ‘Urin von Kranken’ = ngr. κάψα ‘Hitze, Fieber’ (Verf.). ‒‒
1533: kavuza11 (chauusá) ‘orina di infermi’ (AR. 143).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1650: kayzalık [wohl < kavzalık*, vgl. kavza ‘hot spring’ bei
Evliya Çelebi] (qaizalich) ‘bulicame d’acqua’ (C. 207).
°kefal (1611), kifal (1533), kâfal (1533). ‒‒ 1533: kifal, kâfal (chifál, chiafál12) ‘muggine’ (AR. 150, AAd. 217); 1611: kefal baluk (chiefál balúc) ‘cefalo,
pesce’ (F. 107); 1650: k fal bal ġı (kefal baloghi) ‘cefalo’ (C. 209); 1677: kefal
baluk (chiefal balugh) ‘cefalo o muggine’ (Masc. 27).
kenevir (1650), kenever (1650) ‘Hanf’ = ngr. κανναβούρι ‘Hanfsamen’ (Nişanyan 255). ‒‒ 1650: kenevir, kenever (chieneuir, chieneuer) ‘canapa’ (C. 210).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1650: kenever yeri (chieneuer ieri) ‘canapaio’ (C. 210).
°keremid: keremit (1533), geremit (1525-30). ‒‒ 1525-30: geremit ‘quadrello’ (Lupis 3a, ITS 239); 1533: keremit (chieremítt) ‘embrice, tegolo’ (AR.
145); 1677: keremit ‘mattone, cioè quadrello’ (Masc. 92).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1641: dam kiremidi ‘coppo, tegola da coprir le case’ (M.
107); 1677: dam keremiti (dam chieremitj) ‘coppo’ (Masc. 33), dam keremidi
(dam chieremidi) ‘tegola, o coppo’ (Masc. 242).
Ableitungen: ‒‒ 1650: kir mitçi (chiremitgi) ‘mattonaio’ (C. 217). ‒‒
1641: kir mitl nmiş (kiremitlenmisc) ‘mattonato’ (M. 249); 1650: kiremitla(chiremitlarum) ‘mattonare’ (C. 217); 1677: k r mitlanmış (chieremitlanmisc)
‘mattonato, cioè ammattonato’ (Masc. 91-92). ‒‒ 1677: keremitli dam (chieremitli dam) ‘tetto di tegoli, o coppi’ (Masc. 246).
°kerevet: krefet (1587/88), kereved (1677). ‒‒ 1587/88: krefet ‘Spanbet’
(Lub. 47); 1677: kereved (chiereued) ‘palco di legname’ (Masc. 116).
11
12
Laut Adamović havuza, mit anderer Deutung des Wortes (AAd. 196).
Diese Variante wird von Adamović hinzugefügt.
128
LUCIANO ROCCHI
°kestene (1533), kostane (1587/88), kestane (1650), kesdene (1650), ç st n
(1668). ‒‒ 1533: kestene (chiéstene, chiesténe) ‘castagna, marrone’ (AR. 146);
1587/88: kostane ‘Kastanien’ (Lub. 47); 1611: kestene (chiestené) ‘castagna,
frutto’ (F. 108); 1650: kestene (chiestene) ‘castagna, frutto’ (C. 213); 1668: ç sten (cseszten) ‘castanea; glans’ (Ill. 164); 1677: kestane (chiestane) ‘castagna’
(Masc. 25).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1650: kesteneler yeri (chiesteneler ieri) ‘castagneto’ (C.
213). ‒‒ 1650: k stan kabı (chiestane chabi) ‘riccio di castagna’ (C. 213). ‒‒
1650: k sd n k raġı (chiesdeneh quraghi) ‘cardo di castagne’ (C. 211). ‒‒
1677: k [sta]n ormanlık (*chienè ormanlich) ‘selua di castagne’ (Masc. 19798).
Ableitungen: ‒‒ 1533: kesteneci (chiesteneggí) ‘il uenditore [di castagne]’
(AR. 146). ‒‒ 1533: kestenecik (chiesteneggích) ‘castagna, chastagnina’ (AR.
146). ‒‒ 1677: kestanelik (chiestanelich) ‘castagneto’ (Masc. 25).
°kiler (1533). ‒‒ 1533: kiler (chilér) ‘uolta, cella’ (AR. 150); 1548: “Nel
palazzo da parte ve è vna stantia chiamata chiler, (…) doue stâno iuleppi, zucchari & spetierie d’ogni sorte, & tutte le cose che fanno bisogno per la cucina
secreta del Signore” (Men. 125); 1611: kiler (chilér) ‘cannaua, dispenza, riposto, salua robba’ (F. 109); 1672: kiler ‘cella vel camera’ (Hars. 316).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1608: kiler oġlanler (*chileroglander [recte chileroglanler])
‘Knaben (Pagen) der Vorratskammer’ (Schw. 239); ‒‒ 1672: kiler aġası (kiler
agaszi) ‘supremus reginae matris Pincerna, sacchari nempè aromatum, & potuum ejus ordinariorum custos’ (Hars. 316).
Ableitungen: ‒‒ 1533: kilerci (chilergí) ‘celleraro’ (AR. 150); 1548: “Appressandosi l’hora del mangiare del gran Turco, quelli gioueni della dispensa
secreta, chiamati chilergi, apparecchiano due touaglie in vn canestro col pane
del Signore” (Men. 175); 1611: kilerci (chilergí) ‘cannauaro, despensiere’ (F.
110). ‒‒ 1503: kilerci-başı (chilergibassi) ‘videlicet sopra la dispensa’ (M. Sanudos Diarii: Mancini 106); 1548: “vno eunucho chiamato *chilegi [recte chilergi] bascia, el quale custodisce tutte le cose della dispensa” (Men. 126); 1608:
kilerci başa (chilergiwascha) ‘Oberster der Vorratskammer, Vorsteher einer Pagenabteilung’ (Schw. 239); 1672: kilerci başı (kilergsi basi) ‘praefectus nobilium, qui curam habent provisionum & expensarum quotidianarum’ (Hars. 30708).
°kilise: klise (1533), klisi(y)a (1611), ç l ysa (1668). ‒‒ 1533: klise
(chliisé) ‘chiesa’ (AR. 152); 1611: klisi(y)a (clísia) ‘chiesa’ (F. 110); 1668: ç leysa (cseleisza) ‘templum’ (Ill. 164); 1672: klise (klise, kliße) ‘Kirche’ (Hars.
H. 241).
129
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1641: kilisa haznadarı (kilisa chasnadari) ‘sacrestano’ (M.
367). ‒‒ 1641: kilisanın hazna y ri (kilisanin chasna ieri) ‘sacrestia’ (M. 36768).
Ableitung:‒‒ 1641: kilisacık (kilisagik) ‘chiesolina’ (‘Brevi Rvdimenti del
Parlar Tvrchesco’, als Anhang zu Molinos Dittionario hinzugefügt).
°kilit (1533), çilit* (1668). ‒‒ 1533: kilit (chilítt) ‘toppa di ferro’ (AR.
150); 1587/88: kilit (kilidt) ‘Schlos’ (Lub. 47); 1611: kilit (chilít) ‘cadenaccio,
chiauatura, caten[a]zzo’ (F. 110); 1650: kilit (chilit) ‘toppa’ (C. 217).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1641: kilidi açmak (kilidi acimak) ‘schiauare, dischiauare’
(M. 382). ‒‒ 1668: kap çiliti (kapucsiliti) ‘sera’ (Ill. 180).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1650: kilitli (chilitli) ‘chiauistello’ (C. 217).
• Das Wort ist wahrscheinlich über das Persische ins Türkische übernommen worden (Eren 244).
°kimnun: kumyon (1611), kimyun (1650). ‒‒ 1611: kumyon (cumión) ‘cimino’ (F. 110); 1650: kimyun (chimiun) ‘comino’ (C. 217).
°kiras (eventuell 1587/88), kires/kirez (1533), kiraz (1650). ‒‒ 1533: kires/
kirez (chirés) ‘ciriegia’ (AR. 151); 1587/88: kiras/kiraz* (*rhiras) ‘Kirschen’
(Lub. 17, 47); 1611: kires/kirez (chirés) ‘ceraso’ (F. 110); 1650: kiraz (chiras =
krāz) ‘cerasa, cirieg[i]a’ (C. 217).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1533: kires/kirez aġacı (chirés aghaggí) ‘ciriegio’ (AR. 151).
kokı (1533), s. unten → pırno kokı.
[kömi]: gömo (1611) ‘Schiffsführer’ = mgr. κόμις ‘Schiffskapitän’ (Triandaphyllidis 79), κόμης ‘overseer of galley slaves’ = lat. comes (LF 527-29). ‒‒
1611: gömo (ghiómo) ‘nochiero, gouernator di naue’ (F. 112).
°körfus: körf z (1677). ‒‒ 1677: körf z (chiorfes) ‘golfo’ (Masc. 58).
[kundura]: kondura (1533) ‘Pantoffel’ = mgr. κόντουρος ‘stutzschwänzig,
gestutzt, kurz’ (Krumbacher 304, Symeonidis GL 180). ‒‒ 1533: kondura
(chondúra) ‘pianella’ (AR. 153).
• “Der Bedeutungsübergang von ‘gestutzt’ zu ‘Pantoffel’, d.h. einem an der
Ferse gestutzten Schuh hat eine lehrreiche Analogie in der weitverbreiteten süddeutschen Stutzen, womit man früher einen ‘Strumpf ohne Fussteil’ (…) bezeichnete, während das Wort heute (…) im Sinne von ‘Stiefeletten’, ‘Halbstiefel’ gebraucht wird” (Krumbacher 305).
130
LUCIANO ROCCHI
kupa (1587/88) ‘Becher’ = ngr. κούπα ‘ds.’ = lat. cūpa (Eren 267, wobei
die kaum annehmbare Herleitung des griechischen Wortes aus ital. coppa behauptet wird). ‒‒ 1641: kupa ‘coppa, vaso da bere’ (M. 107); 1668: kupa ‘lagena’ (Ill. 183).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1587/88: gümiş k pa (*junisch kupa) ‘Silbern Becher’ (Lub.
54).
kurna (1533), kurne (1641), gurna (1641) ‘Wasserrinne’ wohl = ngr. γούρνα ‘Wasserbecken’ (Deny 87) oder, vielleicht besser, ngr. dial. κούρνια u.a.
‘hölzerne Wasserrinne’ (Tzitzilis 76). ‒‒ 1533: kurna (churná) ‘doccia’ (AR.
158); 1641: kurne (kurnhe) ‘lauello, cioè loco doue si tiene l’acqua’ (M. 65-66),
gurna (ghurna) ‘lauacro’ (M. 228).
• Vgl. auch das (ebenso aus dem Griechischen stammende) venezianische
Dialektwort gorna ‘Dachrinne’.
kutu (1677), k tı (1533), kut (1650) ‘Schachtel, Büchse’ = ngr. κουτί ‘ds.’
(Meyer 50). ‒‒ 1533: k tı (chutí) ‘scatola’ (AR. 159); 1641: k tı (chuti) ‘scatola’ (M. 379); 1650: k tı (quti, chuti) ‘piuera, imbottauino; scatola’, kut (qut)
‘bossolo, vasetto’ (C. 229); 1677: kutu (cutù) ‘scatola’ (Masc. 185).
Ableitungen: ‒‒ 1533: k tıcık (chuttiggích) ‘bossolo di spetie et simili’
(AR. 159); 1650: k tıcık (chutigich) ‘scatolino’ (C. 229). ‒‒ 1650: k tıcı (chutigi) ‘scatolaro’ (C. 229).
kümes (1533) ‘Hühnerstall’ = ngr. κουμάσι ‘ds.’ (Eren 274). ‒‒ 1533: kümes (chiumés) ‘pollaio; stia’ (AR. 160); 1641: küm s (kiumes) ‘gallinaio, pollaro’ (M. 159); 1650: küm s (chiumes) ‘pollaio’ (C. 230).
°lâhana (1533), lana (1527?), lahna (1650), laham (1668). ‒‒ 1527?: lana
‘verze’ (Lupis 2a; fehlt bei ITS); 1533: lahana (lachǎna) ‘cauolo’ (AR. 161);
1650: lahana, lahna (lahhana, lahna, lachna) ‘cauolo, verze’ (C. 232); 1668:
laham ‘caules’ (Ill. 236); 1677: lahna ‘cauolo, cappuccio’ (Masc. 26).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1533: lahana türşı (lachǎna turscí) ‘cauolo marcio’ (AR.
161). ‒‒ 1533: kelem lahana (chielém lahǎna) ‘cauolo cappuccio’ (AR. 144). ‒‒
1533: Mısır lahana (missír lahǎna) ‘chauolo di Soria’ (AR. 171). ‒‒ 1650: lahana filezi (s. oben → filiz).
levrek (1533), lövr k (1672) ‘Seebarsch’ = ngr. λαβράκι ‘ds.’ (Eren 281).
‒‒ 1533: levrek (leuréch) ‘ouaccio [= Seebarsch], pesce’ (AR. 162); 1672: lövrek ‘luciopercae’ (Hars. H. 66-67).
131
lidra (1533) ‘Pfund’ = ngr. λίτρα ‘ds.’ (Meyer 65). ‒‒ 1533: lidra (lidrǎ)
‘libra’ (AR. 162).
°liman (1533), liman(lık) (1650), ileman (1677), ilimon (?) (1677). ‒‒
1533: liman (limán) ‘il porto di mare’ (AR. 162); 1650: liman ‘porto di mare’
(C. 233); 1677: ileman ‘porto’ (Masc. 133).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1587/88: kad rga limanı (s. oben → kadırγa). ‒‒ 1591:
Akç -liman (acce-liman) ‘portus albus’ (LeSt. 141). ‒‒ 1677: Alik rnanın il man (Allicurnanin ileman) ‘porto di Liuorno’ (Masc. 133). ‒‒ 1677: ilimon
[zweifelhaft, vielleicht Druckfehler] olmak (ilimon olmach) ‘abbonacciare’, ilimon ol nmış (ilimon olunmisc) ‘abbonacciato’ (Masc. 2).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1650: limanlık (elimanlich) ‘calma, bonaccia’ (C. 234). ‒‒
1650: limanlık y ri (limanlich ieri) ‘molo del porto’ (C. 234).
°lodos: notos (1533), lotos (1650). ‒‒ 1533: notos (notós) ‘ostria, uento’
(AR. 183); 1650: lodos ‘garbino’, lotos ‘austro, uento’ (C. 234); 1677: lodos ‘sirocco, o scirocco vento’ (Masc. 206).
maγaza (1533), magaze (1611), maġanza (1650) ‘Warenlager’ = ngr. μαγαζές ‘ds.’ = ven. magazén (LF 278-79). ‒‒ 1533: maġaza (maghazá) ‘magazino’ (AR. 163); 1611: magaze (magazé) ‘magazzeno’ (F. 116); 1641: maġaza
(maghaza) ‘magazino’ (M. 240); 1650: maġanza (maghanza) ‘maganzino’ (C.
235).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1650: şarab maġaz[a]sı (sciarab *maghazsi) ‘cantina da
vino’ (C. 235).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: maġazacı (maghazaggí) ‘chi è sopra il magazino’
(AR. 163).
°maγdanos: maġd nos (1533), mandanos (1612). ‒‒ 1533: maġd nos
(maghdenós) ‘prezemolo’ (AR. 163); 1612: mandanos ‘petroselinum’ (Meg.).
°manastır: munestur (1677), monastır (1677). ‒‒ 1677: munestur ‘badia’,
monastır (monastir) ‘monastero’ (Masc. 19, 98).
[mandıra]: mandra (1641) ‘Herde’ = ngr. μάντρα ‘mandra, greggia, gregge’ (Somavera 227); sowie in der griechischen als auch türkischen Hochsprache
bedeutet das Wort ‘Pferch, Hürde’ (Eren 286). ‒‒ 1641: mandra ‘greggia, moltitudine d’animali, mandria’ (M. 171, 243).
°mantar (1533). ‒‒ 1533: mantar (mantár) ‘fungo’ (AR. 166); 1611: mantar (mantár) ‘fonga’ (F. 117); 1677: mantar ‘fungo’ (Masc. 52).
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LUCIANO ROCCHI
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1641: y r mantarı (ier mantari) ‘tartufalo’ (M. 446); 1677:
y r mantarı (ier mantari) ‘tartufo’ (Masc. 241).
°martis: mard (1641). ‒‒ 1641: mard ‘marzo’ (M. 254).
marul (1533) ‘Lattich’ = ngr. μαρούλι ‘ds.’ (Eren 288). ‒‒ 1533: marul
(marúl) ‘lactuga’ (AR. 166); 1641: marul ‘lattuca’ (M. 228); 1650: marul ‘lattuga’ (C. 238); 1677: marul ‘lattuga’ (Masc. 79).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1650: acı mar l (aggi/agi/*ag marul) ‘cicoria; indiuia, erba;
radichio, erba’ (C. 238). ‒‒ 1650: kıvırcık/çıvırcık mar l (ciouergich [= ḳwrǧḳ]
marul) ‘lattuga crespa’ (C. 216).
mastaki (1641) ‘Mastix’ = ngr. μαστίχι ‘ds.’ (Meyer 57, der nur die türkischen Formen mastiki, mastika erwähnt). ‒‒ 1641: mastaki ‘mastice’ (M. 248).
• Bei Meninski findet man die Formen mastakya, mustakya.
mayıs (1641) ‘Mai’ = ngr. μάϊς ‘ds.’ = lat. Maius (Meyer 68). ‒‒ 1641: mayıs (mais) ‘maggio’ (M. 254).
meneverek (1611) ‘Beinkleider’ = ngr. dial. απανωβράκι ‘weite Überhose’
(Tietze 211). ‒‒ 1611: meneverek (meneueréc) ‘calze’ (F. 118).
°mermer (1525-30), marmar (1533). ‒‒ 1525-30: mermer (mermere)
‘marmoro’ (Lupis 3a, ITS 222); 1533: marmar (marmár) ‘alabastro’ (AR. 166);
1611: m rm r taş (mermér tásc) ‘marmore, pietra’ (F. 118); 1612: mermer
‘marmor’ (Meg.); 1677: mermer ‘marmore, o marmo, cioè sorte di sasso’
(Masc. 90).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1641: sumaki mermer ‘porfido, pietra durissima’ (M. 311).
‒‒ 1641: y şil s maki m rm r (iesc=il sumaki mermer) ‘serpentino, pietra durissima’ (M. 398). ‒‒ 1677: mermerden seray (mermerden serai) ‘serraglio di
marmo’ (Masc. 201).
mersin¹ (1533), mersim (1650) ‘Myrte’ = ngr. μυρσίνη ‘ds.’ (Meyer 32). ‒‒
1533: mersin (mersín) ‘mortella’ (AR. 170); 1611: mersin (mersín) ‘mortella’
(F. 118); 1650: mersin, mersim ‘mirto, mortella’ (C. 242).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1611: mersinlik (mersinlíc) ‘mortelleto’ (F. 119).
mersin² (1612) ‘Stör’ = ngr. dial. μερσίν᾽ ‘ds.’ (Eren 293) oder eventuell
σμερύνα, σμύρινα (s. unten). ‒‒ 1612: mersin ‘sturio’ (Meg.).
• “Ngr. μερσίνη stammt aus dem Türkischen. Zu Grunde liegt σμερύνα,
σμύρινα, Nebenform von μουρούνα ‘esturgeon’” (Meyer 24).
133
[metropolit]: medrobolut/metrobolut (1641), motropolit (1677) ‘Bischof’
= ngr. μητροπολίτης ‘Metropolit, Erzbischof’ (Meyer 67). ‒‒ 1677: motropolit
‘uescopo’ (Masc. 267).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1641: medrobolut/m trobol t tacı (medrobolut [metrobolut,
Indice] tagi) ‘mitra’ (M. 258).
°midya: midye (1650). ‒‒ 1650: midy bal ġı (midie baloghi) ‘cappe, nichio’ (C. 245).
mor (1533) ‘dunkelfarbig, violett’ wohl = agr. μόρον ‘Maulbeere’ (s. Eren
296-97 zur etymologischen Diskussion). ‒‒ 1533: mor ‘morato, colore; pagonazo’ (AR. 172); 1587/88: mor ‘braun’ (Lub. 49); 1641: mor ‘paonazzo’ (M. 291).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1641: mor ireng (mor irengh) ‘colore pauonazzo’ (M. 96).
‒‒ 1677: mor m n kş (mor menech-scie) ‘uiola paonazza’ (Masc. 271). ‒‒
1677: mor boyacısı (mor boiagissi) ‘tentore di pauonazzo’ (Masc. 245).
munuk (1533) ‘Eunuch’ = ngr. μουνούχος ‘id.’ (Verf.). ‒‒ 1533: munuk
(munúch) ‘eunucho, munuccho’ (AR. 174).
°muşmula (1611), m şp la (1533). ‒‒ 1533: m şp la (muscpulá) ‘nespola’ (AR. 175); 1611: m şm la (múscmula) ‘nespolo, frutto’ (F. 120).
°mu ıkı: musiki/muziki (1611).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1611: musiki/m ziki çäl- (musichí cielárum) ‘cantar di musica’ (F. 120).
• Mit großer Wahrscheinlichkeit kann eine arabische Vermittlung angenommen werden, vgl. Meyer 60: “Aus dem Arabischen”.
°namlı: nameli (1650). ‒‒ 1650: nameli ‘canna [dell’archibugio]’ (C. 253).
°navlun: navlum (1650). ‒‒ 1650: navlum ‘nolo’ (C. 255).
• Auch in diesem Fall denkt man gewöhnlich an das Arabische als Vermittlersprache: “A direct derivation of Turk. navlun from Gr. ναῦλον is improbable
because the final nasal of Greek had already disappeared by the period of Turkish borrowings” (LF 318).
nefti (1533) ‘Rudermeister, Galeerenvogt’ = ngr. ναύτης ‘Matrose’ (LF
546-47).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1533: gemi neftisi (ghiemí neffttisí/nefftisí) ‘gomito di naue
et galea, il gomito della naue’ (AR. 104; Argenti selbst weist auf die griechische
Herkunft hin: “questo nefttí uiene dal greco nella cui lingua si chiama naftt ”).
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LUCIANO ROCCHI
°okso. ‒‒ 1677: okso (och-so) ‘uischio, o pania da prendere uccelli’ (Masc.
271).
olta (1533), volta (1611) ‘Fischangel’ = mgr. βόλτα ‘fishing line’ (LF 49294). ‒‒ 1533: olta (oltá) ‘amo da pescare’ (AR. 186); 1611: volta (vólta) ‘amo
di piscare, hamo da pescare’ (F. 156); 1612: olta ‘hamus’ (Meg.); 1641: volta
‘(h)amo da pescare’ (M. 44, 174); 1650: olta (oltah) ‘amo da pescare’ (C. 260);
1677: volta ‘amo, o lamo da pescare’ (Masc. 13).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1641: voltacuk (voltagiuk) ‘hametto’ (M. 174).
°orfana (1611). ‒‒ 1611: orfana (orfaná) ‘donna pubblica’ (F. 126).
öreke (1641), ür k (1587/88), ür kâ (1611) ‘Spinnrocken’ = ngr. ρόκα
‘ds.’ = ital. rocca (Tietze 238, Eren 317). ‒‒ 1587/88: ür k (ureke) ‘Rock’
(Lub. 61); 1611: ür kâ (vrécchia) ‘conocchia da filare’ (F. 128); 1612: ür k
(vreke) ‘colus, Rogken’ (Meg.); 1641: ör k (*orokie, orakie [orekie, Indice])
‘conochia, ò vero rocca da filare’ (M. 103); 1677: ür k (vrechie) ‘conocchia’
(Masc. 32), ör k (orechie) ‘rocca da filare’ (Masc. 167).
paçarı (1611), paçarış (1677) ‘Hindernis; schwierig, beschwerlich’ = ngr.
dial. (μήν) πατσάρεις,13 2. Person Singular zu πατσάρω = ven. impazzar ‘(be)hindern’ (LF 258-60). ‒‒ 1611: paçarız (pacciarís) ‘impedimento’ (F. 129); 1641:
paçarız (paciaris) ‘difficile, malageuole; impedimento, disturbo, intoppo, ostaculo’ (M. 118 passim); 1650: paçarız (pacciaris = pčārz) ‘arduo, difficile’ (C.
269); 1672: paçarız (pacsariz) ‘Hindernis’ (Hars. H. 252; das ist Hazais einzige
Übersetzung, aber an einer Stelle wird das Wort eindeutig als Adjektiv verwendet: paçarızd r [pacsarizdür] ‘difficile est’ [Hars. 108]); 1677: paçarış (paciarisc) ‘intoppo, impedimento; intricato’ (Masc. 74).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1611: paçarız t- (pacciarís edérum) ‘impedire’ (F. 129);
1641: paçarız tm k (paciaris etmek) ‘disturbare, impedire, ostare’ (M. 126 passim); 1650: paçarız t- (pacciaris, -riz ederum) ‘attrauersare, impedire; imbrogliare, intrigare; impacciare, occupare, impedir luogo; inquietare’; paçarız tm k
(pacciariz edmech) ‘attrauersamento’ (C. 269). ‒‒ 1611: paçarız ol- (pacciarís
holúrum) ‘disturbare, impedire’ (F. 129); 1641: paçarız olmış (paciaris olmisc)
‘imbrogliato, intricato’ (M. 192); 1650: paçarız ol- (pacciaris olurum) ‘arricciarsi, disturbarsi’; paçarız olmış (pacciariz, -ris olmisc) ‘attrauersato, impedito’
(C. 269). ‒‒ 1650: paçarız t t- (paciaris dutarum) ‘tener impedito’ (C. 269). ‒‒
1641: paçarız düşm k (paciarise dusc=mek) ‘auuiluppare’ (M. 64). ‒‒ 1641:
13
Der Originaltext von Kahane-Tietze verwendet die alte Schreibung πατσάρῃς.
135
paçarızı var (paciarisi var) ‘impedito’ (M. 195). ‒‒ 1650: paçarız dici (pacciariz, -ris edigi) ‘attrauersatore; imbrogliatore’ (C. 269).
Ableitungen: ‒‒ 1641: paçarızlik (paciarisligh. -lik) ‘difficoltà; disturbamento; occupatione’; paçarızlıġil (paciarislighilhe) ‘difficilmente’ (M. 118
passim); 1677: paçarışlık (paciarisc-lich) ‘occupazione’ (Masc. 109), paçarışlıġil (paciarisc-lighile) ‘malagevolmente’ (Masc. 87). ‒‒ 1641: paçarızlık v rmek (paciarislik vermek) ‘interrompere’ (M. 219). ‒‒ 1677: paçarışlık tm k
(paciarisclich etmech) ‘interrompere’ (Masc. 73). ‒‒ 1641: paçarızlı (paciarisli)
‘occupato, impedito’ (M. 278); 1677: paçarışlı (paciarisc-li) ‘occupato, impedito’
(Masc. 109). ‒‒ 1641: paçarızlanmış (paciarislanmisc) ‘auuiluppato’ (M. 64).
• Die hochsprachliche Form çaparız wird gewöhnlich als eine Metathese
von paçarız betrachtet, aber eine andere Etymologie kann nicht ausgeschlossen
werden (TETTL 1, 475).
palamar (1650) ‘Tau, Trosse’ = mgr. παλαμάριν ‘ds.’ (LF 552-55). ‒‒
1650: palamar ‘gomena, canapo, cauo da naue’ (C. 270).
[palamut¹]: palamud (1650), balamut (1533) ‘Eichel; Eiche’ = ngr. βαλανίδι ‘ds.’ (Tietze 214). ‒‒ 1533: balamut (balamútt) ‘mortine’ [= Myrte] (AR.
45); 1650: palamud ‘ghianda di quercia; quercia’ (C. 270).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1650: palam d aġaclık (palamud aghaglich) ‘querceto’ (C.
270).
[palamut²]: palamida (1650), balamit (1641) ‘Bonito; Thunfisch’ = ngr.
παλαμίδα ‘ds.’ (Meyer 25). ‒‒ 1641: balamit balıġı (balamit balighi) ‘pelamida,
pesce’ (M. 297); 1650: palamida ‘tonno, pesce’ (C. 270).
°panayır (1533), p nayır (1677). ‒‒ 1533: panayır (panaír) ‘fiera, mercato’ (AR. 194); 1677: p nayır (penair) ‘fiera, o mercato’ (Masc. 50).
°papadya: babadya (1533). ‒‒ 1533: babadya (babadiá) ‘chamamilla’
(AR. 43).
°papas (1525-30), papaz (1672, eventuell 1533). ‒‒ 1525-30: papas (papasso14) ‘prete’ [Lupis], ‘preti’ [ITS] (Lupis 1a, ITS 241); 1533: papas/papaz
(papás) ‘frate; prete’ (AR. 194); 1574: papas (papasso) ‘prete’ (VN 65); 1650:
papas (papas = pāpās) ‘prete, sacerdote, curato’ (C. 271); 1672: papas, papaz
(papaß, papaz) ‘christlicher Priester’ (Hars. H. 252).
14
Literarisch seit L. Pulci (15. Jh.) gut belegte italianisierte Form.
136
LUCIANO ROCCHI
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1641: mähäll papası (mehele papasi) ‘sacerdote, curato’
(M. 367).
Kompositum: ‒‒ 1641: başpapas/başpapaz (basc=papas) ‘arciprete’ (M.
57); 1672: başpapaz (baspapaz) ‘supremus sacerdos’ (Hars. H. 116-17).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1677: papaslık (papas-lich) ‘pretaria’ (Masc. 136).
°patriyah: patriyarha* [laut Hazai Latinismus] (1672), patrik (1672). ‒‒
1672: patrik ‘patriarcha’ (Hars. H. 180-81); 1677: patrik (patri-ch) ‘patriarcha’
(Masc. 120).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1672: R m patriyarhası (Rum patriarchaßi) ‘Patriarcha
Graecus’ (Hars. H. 120-21).
pegano (1677) ‘Raute’ = ngr. πήγανο ‘ds.’ (Verf.). ‒‒ 1677: pegano ‘ruta’
(Masc. 172).
• Meyer 33 erwähnt nur die Form peygan, die aus dem Persischen übernommen wurde.
peksimet (1533), pesimet (1611), pekmet (1612), begsimet (1641), peysimet (1641), beksimet (1650) ‘Zwieback’ = mgr. παξιμάδιν ‘ds.’ (LF 555-56). ‒‒
1533: peksimet (pechsimét) ‘biscotto’ (AR. 196); 1611: pesimet (pessimét)
‘biscotto’ (F. 130); 1612: pekmet (pechmet) ‘panis nauticus, Bißkotten’ (Meg.);
1641: begsimet (beghsimet) ‘biscotto’ (M. 72), peysimet (peisimet) ‘pane biscotto’ (M. 290); 1650: beksimet, peksimet (bechsimet, pechsimet) ‘biscotto’ (C.
272); 1677: peksimet (pechsimet) ‘biscotto’ (Masc. 22).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1650: p ksim t h lfası/halfası (pechsimet *hlfasi) ‘biscottelli’ (C. 174).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1641: b gsim tçik (beghsimetgik) ‘biscottello’ (M. 72);
1677: p ksim tçik (pechsimetgich) ‘biscottello’ (Masc. 22).
[pergende/perkende]: p ryandä (1611) ‘eine Art Segelschiff; Brigantine’
= mgr. περγαντί ‘ds.’ = ven. b rgantín = ital. Hochsprache brigantino (LF 105106). ‒‒ 1611: p ryandä (periandá, periandé) ‘bergantino, fusta di corsaro, galiotta’ (F. 130).
°perma (1545), pereme (1533), perme (1533), parme* (1574), perame
(1614). ‒‒ 1533: pereme, perme (perĕme, permé15) ‘barcha’ (AR. 197, AAd.
248); 1545: “Il tragetto che si passa di Costantinopoli in Pera è vn tiro d’Archo
(…), le Barche che fanno questo essercitio sono come Schiffi, o uero Coppani
detti tra lor Perme (…), e sogliono esser dua et tre huomini per Perma” (Bass.
15
Diese Form wird bei Adamović erwähnt.
137
76); 1574: “Nous descendimes a la mer et y prismes des parmes [französierter
Plural] [;] ce sont barques de la a Pera & de Pera a Constantinople” (Voyage
von P. Lescalopier: Arveiller 435); 1587/88: “eine grose Perma von dreyen
Bancken mit 6 Rudeln” (Lub. 51); 1614: “Certe barchette sottilissime che chiamano perame, le quali (…) traghettano continuamente infinità di gente, huomini
e donne da una riva all’altra” (Brief von P. Della Valle: Cardini 75); 1650: pereme ‘gondola’, perme ‘barca’ (C. 273).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: peremeci (peremeggí) ‘barcharolo’ (AR. 197); 1587/88:
“die da [Permas] fuhren, Permaczi nennen” (Lub. 51); 1650: peremeci (peremegi) ‘gondoliere’ (C. 273).
pırnar (1533) ‘Steineiche’ = ngr. πρινάρι (πιρνάρι/πουρνάρι) ‘ds.’ (Eren
332). ‒‒ 1533: pırnar aġacı (pirnár aghaggí) ‘lo arbore’ (AR. 198).
pırno kokı (1533) ‘Koralle, Karmesinkorn’ wohl = ngr. πυρήν(ας) ‘Kern’
+ κοκκί (> κουκί) ‘Korn, Beere; Kern’ (Verf.). ‒‒ 1533: pırno kokı (pirnó
choc(c)hí) ‘chorãlo,16 grana, grana del cremisi’ (AR. 199).
pide (1677), bide (1641) ‘Fladen(brot)’ = ngr. πίτα ‘ds.’ (Meyer 57). ‒‒
1641: bide ‘pizza, foccacia’ (sic) (M. 308); 1677: pide (pidè) ‘pizza, focaccia’
(Masc. 129).
°poyras (1611), boreas (1533), poyraz (1650, eventuell 1611). ‒‒ 1533:
boreas (boreás) ‘borea, uento’ (AR. 55); 1611: poyras/poyraz (poirás) ‘scirocco, uento’ [ein Südostwind!] (F. 131); 1650: poyraz (poiras = pwyrāz) ‘grecale’
(C. 275).
°prasa (1533). ‒‒ 1533: prasa (prássa) ‘porro’ (AR. 200); 1677: prasa
(prassà) ‘porro, erba’ (Masc. 132).
retsini (1533) ‘weißes Pech, Fichtenharz aus der Burgundertanne’ = ngr.
ρετσίνι ‘Harz’ (Verf.). ‒‒ 1533: retsini (reziní) ‘pece biancha’ (AR. 251).
• Die türkische Hochsprache verwendet die Form r çin ‘Baumharz’ < ngr.
ρετσίνα ‘ds.’ (Eren 344).
[safra]: savora (1650) ‘Ballast’ = ngr. σαβούρα ‘ds.’ (LF 561-563). ‒‒
1650: savora (sauora) ‘sauorna del vascello’ (C. 286).
• Die Angabe von Carradori könnte ebenfalls aus der italianischen Variante
savorra stammen.
16
Die Lesart chorãto bei AAd. 249 ist unrichtig.
138
LUCIANO ROCCHI
[salya]: sal* (1650) ‘Speichel, Geifer’ = ngr. σάλιο ‘ds.’ (Tietze 238).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1650: aġaz salı (aghaz sali) ‘baua della bocca, schiuma’ (C.
283).
sandal (1611), santal (1677) ‘eine Art Boot’ = mgr. σανδάλιον ‘ds.’ (LF
564-67). ‒‒ 1611: sandal (sandál) ‘barca’ (F. 135); 1641: sandal ‘battello, scafa, battello di barca’ (M. 69, 376); 1650: sandal ‘gondola’ (C. 285); 1677: santal ‘scafa, battello di barca’ (Masc. 182).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1611: sandalcı (sandalgí) ‘barcaiolo’ (F. 135); 1650: sandalıcı (sandaligi) ‘gondoliere’ (C. 285).
[sardalye]: sardela (1641) ‘Sardelle’ = ngr. σαρδέλλα ‘ds.’ = ital. sardella
(Meyer 25). ‒‒ 1641: sard la balıġı (sardel(l)a balighi) ‘alice, pesce salato; sarda, sardella, pesce’ (M. 32, 372-73).
semer (1533) ‘Saumsattel’ = ngr. σαμάρι ‘ds.’ (Eren 361). ‒‒ 1533: semer
(semér) ‘basto’ (AR. 213); 1641: semer ‘basto’ (M. 69); 1650: semer ‘bardella,
basto’ (C. 289).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: semerci (semergì) ‘bastiere’ (AR. 213); 1641: semerci
(semergi) ‘quello che *fu [recte fa] le baste’ (M., Indice).
°sınor: sınır (1533). ‒‒ 1533: sınır (sinnìr) ‘confino’ (AR. 261).
sıra (1533) ‘Reihe’ = ngr. σειρά ‘ds.’ (Nişanyan 430). ‒‒ 1533: sıra (sirá)
‘filare, giro’ (AR. 216); 1641: sıra (sra) ‘ordinanza, registro’ (M. 283, 340), sırayla (srailhe) ‘ordinatamente’ (M. 283).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1641: sırayla içm k (srayla icimek) ‘bere a torno’ (M. 71).
[silistre]: çilistr(i)ya (1533), elistra (1611) ‘(Bootmanns)pfeife’ = ngr.
(veraltet, dial.) συρίστρια ‘zuffolo, fischio; boatswain’s pipe’ (Somavera 396,
LF 580-82). ‒‒ 1533: çilistr(i)ya (cilístria) ‘fischio’ (AR. 72); 1611: elistra
(elístra) ‘fiscetto (sic) di comito’ (F. 139).
• Die als Stichwort gesetzte Form silistre wird von Steuerwald 829 als
Fachausdruck der Seemannssprache verzeichnet.
simit (1587/88), semet (1650) ‘Grieß; Kringel, Brezel’ = ngr. σιμιγδάλι
‘Grieß’ (Eren 368). ‒‒ 1587/88: simit ‘Kringel’ (Lub. 56); 1611: simit (simít)
‘semola’ (F. 139); 1650: simit ‘ciambella, confortino’, semet ‘boccellato, biscottello, ciambella’ (C. 295).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1587/88: simit çür ġi (simit gschuregi) ‘Weisbrodt Semmel’
(Lub. 56).
139
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1650: simitci (simitgi) ‘ciambellaro’ (C. 295).
• “Vielleicht über arabische samīḏ entlehnt” (Tietze 239).
°somun (1533). ‒‒ 1533: somun (somún) ‘pane grande’ (AR. 220).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: som ncı (somungí) ‘panattiere’ (AR. 220).
°sünger (1611), sfüng r (1533), süngâr (1641), svinker (1677). ‒‒ 1533:
sfüng r (sfunghiér) ‘spugna’ (AR. 214); 1611: süng r (sunghiér) ‘spongia’ (F.
141); 1641: süngâr/süng r (sunghiar [sunghier, Indice]) ‘spõgia, sponga’ (M.
423); 1677: svinker (suinchier) ‘sponga, o spugna’ (Masc. 224).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1641: süng r il silm k (sunghier ilhe silmek) ‘spongiare,
nettare con la spongia’ (M. 424); 1677: svinkerile silmek (suin-chierilè silmech)
‘spongiare, nettare con la spugna’ (Masc. 225).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1641: süng rli (sunghierli) ‘spongoso’ (M. 424); 1677: svinkerli (suinchierli) ‘spongoso, o vero spugnoso’ (Masc. 225).
talas/talaz (1533) ‘Welle’ = ngr. θάλασσα ‘See, Meer; wogende See’ (LF
510-12). ‒‒ 1533: talas/talaz (talás) ‘onda’ (AR. 234).
°temel (1611). ‒‒ 1611: temel (temél) ‘fondamento’ (F. 148).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1611: temel ko- (temél córum) ‘fondare’ (F. 148).
°terpe e (1587/88), terpes/terpez (1525-30), trepes/trepez (1527?). ‒‒
1525-30: terpes/terpez (terpe s ) ‘taula’ (ITS 220); 1527?: trepes/trepez (trepes)
‘tauola’ (Lupis 2a); 1533: trepes/trepez (trepés) ‘mensa, tauola’ (AR. 246);
1587/88: terpeze (terpese) ‘Tisch oder Tafel’ (Lub. 59).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1587/88: terpeze izba (terpese isba) ‘Tafelstuben’ (Lub. 59).
tırpan (1533) ‘Sense’ = ngr. δρεπάνι ‘id.’ (Meyer 59). ‒‒ 1533: tırpan (terpán) ‘falce grande’ (AR. 244); 1641: tırpan (trpan) ‘falce da segare li prati’ (M.
140); 1650: tırpan (trpan [tyrpān]) ‘falce da fieno; ronca, roncola’ (C. 322).
[tirfil]: tırfil (1650) ‘Klee’ = ngr. τριφύλλι ‘ds.’ (Meyer 35). ‒‒ 1650: tırfil
(terfil) ‘trifoglio’ (C. 322).
trementin (1533) ‘Terpentin’ = ngr. τερμινθήνη ‘ds.’ (Verf.). ‒‒ 1533: trementin (trementtín) ‘trementina’ (AR. 246).
• Bei Meninski die Form tırm ntin. Die heutige Hochsprache verwendet terementi, das m.E. wahrscheinlich eine Wiederentlehnung ist.
140
LUCIANO ROCCHI
tuġla (1641), tuvla (1533), tula (1677) ‘Backstein’ = ngr. τούβλα, Plural
von τούβλο ‘ds.’ = lat. tub(u)lum (Eren 417). ‒‒ 1533: tuvla (tuulá) ‘mattone
cotto’ (AR. 247); 1641: t ġla (tughlhe, *iughla [tughla, Indice]) ‘mattone, quadrello’ (M. 249, 330); 1677: tula (tulà) ‘mattone, cioè quadrello’ (Masc. 92).
tulub (1650) ‘Flocke’ = ngr. τουλούπα ‘ds.’ (TETTL 1, 659). ‒‒ 1650:
t l b t l b karı (tulub tulub qari) ‘a falde a falde, la neue’ (C. 325).
urgan (1533), organ (1587/88) ‘Seil, Strick, Tau’ wohl = agr. ὄργανον
‘tackle’, ngr. dial. οργάνι ‘rope’ (LF 550-52). ‒‒ 1533: urgan (urghán) ‘corda,
fune’ (AR. 259); 1611: organ (orgán) ‘corda, fune, gumina di vascelli, palomara
di vascelli’ (F. 126); 1612: organ ‘funis’ (Meg.); 1641: urgan (vrg(h)an) ‘corda,
funa, fune’ (M. 107, 157); 1677: organ (org(h)an) ‘corda, fune’ (Masc. 34, 54).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1587/88: *ipnel [recte ip vel] organ ‘der Strick’ (Lub. 51).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1533: rgancı (urghangí) ‘funarolo’ (AR. 250); 1641: urgancı (vrgangi) ‘cordaro, che fà le corde’ (M. 107); 1677: organcı (org(h)angi)
‘cordaio, funaro’ (Masc. 35, 54).
• Eren 423-24 lehnt die Herleitung aus dem Griechischen ab.
°Urum: Rum (1587/88), Orum (1574), Rumi (1591). ‒‒ 1574: Orum (horum) ‘greco’, Urumlar (Vrumlar) ‘Grecia’ (VN 64, 68); 1587/88: Rum, Urum
(Rum, Vrum) ‘Grich’ (Lub. 10); 1591: Rumi ‘tamquam ῥωμαῖοι, dicti fuerunt
etiam Turci, post Muhametem II’; Rumileri ‘sic dicti sunt tam in Asia, quam in
Europa, Romaei siue Romani, hoc est Graeci; (…) a Turcis hodie frequentius &
Vrumileri (…) vocantur’ (Le. 864-65); 1608: “durch das Wort Vrum verstehn
sie nicht allein Graeciam, sondern in genere Europam” (Schw. 251-52); 1611:
Rum (rúm) ‘greco, natione’ (F. 133); 1612: Rum ‘Europa’, Rumlar ‘Europaei’
(Meg.); 1672: Rum ‘Grieche; Kleinasien’ (Hars. H. 253).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1611: R m (y)akası (rum achasí) ‘Grecia’ (F. 157). ‒‒
1612: Rum vilayet (Rumvilaget) ‘Graecia’ (Meg.); 1677: Urum vilayeti (Vrum
vilaietti) ‘Rom, Asia minore’ (Masc. 168).
Kompositum: ‒‒ 1533: Urumeli (urummel ) ‘Grecia’ (AR. 250); 1544-48:
Urumeli (Vrum elli) ‘Grecia’ (Georg. 121); 1587/88: Rumeli (Rumelij) ‘Grichenlandt’ (Lub. 10); 1591: Rumili (Rum-ili) ‘regio Romanorum, hoc est Graecorum. (…) Vulgus apud Turcos Vrumili enuntiat. (…) Plerumque pro Europa
generaliter accipitur’ (Le. 864-65); 1612: Rumuli beglerbeg ‘supremus Europae
praefectus’ (Meg.); 1641: Rumeli ‘Europa, terza parte del mondo; Romania,
paese’ (M. 139, 362); 1672: Rumeli ‘Europa’ (Hars. 48); 1677: Urumeli (Vrumelli) ‘Rom, Asia minore; Romania’ (Masc. 168).
141
[Üngürüs]: Ungrus/Ungruz (1533), Üngüris/Üngüriz (1587/88) ‘Ungarn’
= ngr. Ούγγρος ‘Ungar’, in den byzantinischen Quellen seit dem 10. Jh. belegt
(Moravcsik 225). ‒‒ 1533: Ungrus/Ungruz17 (ungrús) ‘Ungheria’ (AR. 282).
Syntagmen: ‒‒ 1544-48: Ungr z padişah (ungruz patissah) ‘Hungarus rex’
(Georg. 121). ‒‒ 1587/88: Üngüris/Üngüriz vilay ti (Unguris Vilagite) ‘Ungern’ (Lub. 61).
[üskül]: üsküli (1650) ‘Spinnrocken (voll Flachs), gehechelter Flachs’ =
ngr. σκουλί ‘ds.’ (Meyer 55). ‒‒ 1650: üsküli (vschiuli) ‘pennechio da rocha’
(C. 336).
üstübi (1650), stübi (1533), stüpi (1611) ‘Werg, Hede’ = ngr. στουπί ‘ds.’
(LF 577). ‒‒ 1533: stübi (stubí) ‘stoppa’ (AR. 223); 1611: stüpi (stupí) ‘stoppa’
(F. 154); 1641: stübi (stubi) ‘stoppa’ (M. 433); 1650: üstübi (vstubi) ‘capechio’
(C. 336); 1677: stüpi (stupi) ‘stoppa’ (Masc. 231).
varel/varıl (1533), [eventuell] varil (1611) ‘Faß’ = mgr. βαρύλιον, ngr.
βαρέλι ‘ds.’ = ven. baril (LF 96-97). ‒‒ 1533: varel/varıl (uarél) ‘charratello’
(AR. 255); 1611: varil/varıl (varíl) ‘barrile’ (F. 155).
yalı (1533), yalu (1641) ‘Meeresufer, Strand’ = ngr. γιαλοί, Plural von
γιαλός ‘ds.’ (LF 501) oder ngr. dial. γιαλί (Symeonidis GL 176). ‒‒ 1533: yalı
(jalí) ‘lito del mare, la marina, riua del mare’ (AR. 260); 1611: yalı (ialí) ‘lito,
riua del mare, spiagia di mare’ (F. 158); 1641: yalı (iali) ‘marina’, yalu (ialù)
‘spiaggia, piaggia’ (M. 247, 421).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1641: d ŋiz yal sı (deghis [denghis, Indice] ialusi) ‘lido, lito
del mare, maremme, spiaggia di mare’ (M. 234); 1677: d n z yalısı (denes
ialissi) ‘lido, lito del mare’ (Masc. 82).
yortı (1533) ‘Fest, Feier’ = ngr. γιορτή ‘ds.’ (Meyer 67). ‒‒ 1533: yortı
(jortt ) ‘festa, solemnità’ (AR. 269); 1641: yortı (iorti) ‘festa’ (M. 145).
Syntagma: ‒‒ 1650: yortı t- (iorti ederum) ‘festeggiare’ (C. 356).
Ableitung: ‒‒ 1650: yortılı (iortili) ‘festiuo’ (C. 356).
yulaf (1533), ulef (1587/88) ‘Hafer’ = sgr. αἰγιλ πιον, Diminutiv zu αἰγίλωψ ‘eine Haferart’, dial. ᾽γιλ π᾽, γιλάφ᾽ (Tzitzilis 21). ‒‒ 1533: yulaf (juláff)
‘uena, biada’ (AR. 269); 1587/88: ulef ‘Haber’ (Lub. 60); 1612: yulaf (iuláff)
‘avena’ (Meg.); 1672: yulaf (iulaf) ‘Hafer’ (Hars. H. 237); 1677: yulaf (iulaf)
‘biada, farro, sorte di grano’ (Masc. 22, 48).
17
Transkribierung von Adamović: Üngürüs (AAd. 282).
142
LUCIANO ROCCHI
• Viel schwieriger scheint mir die Herleitung aus dem arabischen ‛alaf
‘Futter’ (Nişanyan 523).
ifnos/ ifno / ifınos (1533) ‘Wasserhose’ = ngr. σίφουνας ‘ds.’ (Verf.). ‒‒
1533: zifnos/zifnoz/zifınos18 (xifnós, xifinós) ‘scione’ (AR. 276, AAd. 299).
Luciano Rocchi
Università degli Studi di Trieste
Dipartimento di Scienze Giuridiche, del Linguaggio,
dell’Interpretazione e della Traduzione
via Filzi 14
I – 34132 Trieste
[[email protected]]
Abkür ungsver eichnis
agr.
dial.
ital.
lat.
=
=
=
=
altgriechisch
dialektisch
italienisch
lateinisch
mgr.
ngr.
sgr.
ven.
=
=
=
=
mittelgriechisch
neugriechisch
spätgriechisch
venezianisch
Bibliographie
AAd.
AR.
Arveiller
Bass.
18
a) Quellen
M. Adamović, Das Türkisch d s 16. Jahrh nd rts. Nach d n
Aufzeichnungen des Florentiners Filippo Argenti (1533), Göttingen 2001.
L. Rocchi, Ric rch s lla ling a osmanlı d l XVI s colo – Il
corpus lessicale turco del manoscritto fiorentino di Filippo Argenti (1533), Wiesbaden 2007.
R. Arveiller, Addenda au FEW XIX (Orientalia), Tübingen
1999.
L. Rocchi, Esotismi nell’italiano cinquecentesco: il corpus alloglotto dell’opera di Luigi Bassano da Zara, Rivista Italiana di
Linguistica e di Dialettologia 8, 57-84.
Die Form xifinós und ihre Transkribierung zifınos finden sich bei Adamović.
C.
Cardini
Dernschw.
F.
Georg.
GU
Hars.
Hars. H.
Ill.
ITS
Le.
LeSt.
Lub.
Lupis
M.
Mancini
143
L. Rocchi, Il dizionario turco-ottomano di Arcangelo Carradori (1650), Trieste 2011.
C. Cardini, La Porta d’Oriente. Lettere di Pietro Della Valle:
Istanbul 1614, Roma 2001.
Fr. Babinger (ed.), Hans D rnschwam’s Tag b ch in r R is
nach Konstantinopel und Kleinasien (1553/55), München –
Leipzig 1923.
L. Rocchi, Il “Dittionario della lingua turchesca” di Pietro
Ferraguto (1611), Trieste 2012.
W. Heffening, Di türkisch n Transkriptionst xt d s Bartholomaeus Georgievits aus den Jahren 1544-1548, Leipzig 1942.
H. Stein, Das türkische Sprachgut im “Tractatus de Moribus,
Condictionibus et Nequicia Turcorum” (1481) des Georg von
Ungarn, Archivum Ottomanicum 14 (1995/96), 39-78; 15
(1997), 89-118.
J. N. de Harsány, Colloquia familiaria turcico-latina, Coloniae
Brandeburgicae 1672.
Gy. Hazai, Das Osmanisch-Türkisch im XVII. Jahrh nd rt.
Untersuchungen an den Transkriptionstexten von Jakab Nagy
d Harsány, Budapest 1973.
J. Németh, Di türkisch Sprach in Ungarn im si bz hnt n
Jahrhundert, Amsterdam 1970. [Edition des Illésházy-Kodex
(1668)].
M. Adamović, Ein italienisch-türkisches Sprachbuch aus den
Jahren 1525-1530, Wi n r Z itschrift für di K nd d s Morgenlandes 67 (1975), 217-247. [Andere Version von → Lupis].
J. Leunclavius, Historiae Musulmanae Turcorum, de monumentis ipsorum exscriptae, libri XVIII, Francofurti 1591.
St. Stachowski, Das osmanisch-türkische Wortgut bei J. Leunclavius (1591), Zeszyty Naukowe Uniw rsyt t Jagi lloński go
861, Prace Językoznawcze 87 (1988), 127-150.
M. Adamović, Das osmanisch-türkisch Sprachg t b i R. L b nau, München 1977.
Opera nova de M. Pietro Lupis Valentiano. La qual insegna a
parlare Turchesco, Ancona [1527?]. [Vgl. → ITS].
G. Molino, Dittionario della lingua Italiana, Turchesca, Roma
1641.
M. Mancini, Turchismi a Roma e a Venezia, in: Episteme. In ricordo di Giorgio Raimondo Cardona, a cura di Diego Poli, Roma (Quaderni Linguistici e Filologici IV 1986-1989 Università
di Macerata), 75-112.
144
LUCIANO ROCCHI
Masc.
Meg.
A. Mascis, Vocabolario toscano, e turchesco, Firenze 1677.
H. Megiser, Dictionarium Latino-Turcicum, Turcico-Latinum
[unnummerierte Seiten], in: Institutionum linguae Turcicae libri quatuor, Lipsiae 1612.
Men.
A. Menavino, Trattato de costumi et vita de Turchi, Firenze
1548.
Pedani-Fabris M. P. Pedani-Fabris, Relazioni di ambasciatori veneti al Senato, Volume XIV: Costantinopoli – Relazioni inedite (15121789), Padova 1996.
Schw.
H. Stein, Das türkische Sprachmaterial in Salomon Schweiggers Reisebuch (1608), Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum
Hungaricae 41/2 (1987), 217-266.
VN
M. Adamović, “Vocabulario nuovo” mit seinem türkischen
Teil, Rocznik Orientalistyczny 38 (1976), 43-69.
Deny
Eren
Krumbacher
LF
Meyer
Moravcsik
Nişanyan
Pape
Somavera
Steuerwald
Symeonidis GL
b) Sonstiges
J. Deny, Princip s d grammair t rq («t rk» d T rq i ),
Paris 1955.
H. Eren, Türk Dilinin Etimolojik Sözlüğü, Ankara 1999.
K. Krumbacher, Zu den griechischen Elementen im Arabischen und Türkischen, Byzantinische Zeitschrift 2 (1893),
299-308.
H. & R. Kahane – A. Tietze, The Lingua Franca in the Levant, Urbana 1958.
G. Meyer, Türkisch St di n, I: Die griechischen und romanischen Bestandtheile im Wortschatze des Osmanisch-Türkischen, Wien 1893.
Gy. Moravcsik, Byzantinoturcica, II: Sprachr st d r Türkvölk r in d n byzantinisch n Q ll n, Berlin 1958.
S. Nişanyan, Sözl rin Soyağacı. Çağdaş Türkç nin Etimolojik Sözlüğü, 3. Basım, İstanbul 2007.
W. Pape, Griechisch-deutsches Handwört rb ch, Dritte Auflage bearbeitet von M. Sengebusch, 1-2, Braunschweig 1914.
A. da Somavera, Tesoro della lingua greca-volgare ed italiana, cioe ricchissimo Dizzionario greco-volgare et italiano,
Parigi 1709.
K. Steuerwald, Türkisch-d tsch s Wört rb ch – Türkç -Almanca Sözlük, Wiesbaden 1972.
Ch. Symeonidis, Griechische Lehnwörter im Türkischen,
Balkan Studies 14/1 (1973), 167-200.
Symeonidis Pr.
145
Ch. Symeonidis, Zu der Problematik der romanischen Entlehnungen des Türkischen auf Grund des Griechischen, Balkan Studies 16/1 (1975), 140-145.
TETTL
A. Tietze, Tarihi v Etimolojik Türkiy Türkç si L gatı –
Sprachg schichtlich s nd tymologisch s Wört rb ch d s
Türk i-Türkisch n, I: A – E, İstanbul – Wien 2002, II: F – J,
Wien 2009.
Tietze
A. Tietze, Griechische Lehnwörter im anatolischen Türkisch,
Oriens 8/2, (1955), 204-257.
Triandaphyllidis M. A. Triandaphyllidis, Di L hnwört r d r mitt lgri chisch n V lgärlit rat r, Strassburg 1909.
Tzitzilis
Chr. Tzitzilis, Gri chisch L hnwört r im Türkisch n (mit
b sond r r B rücksichtig ng d r anatolisch n Dial kt ),
Wien 1987.
vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.009.0946
Kenneth SHIELDS, Jr. (Millersville)
LINGUISTIC TYPOLOGY
AND THE INDO-EUROPEAN CAUSATIVE
Abstract. On the basis of formal correspondences and typological data, it is argued in
this brief paper that an etymological connection probably exists between the Indo-European dative suffix *-ei and the Indo-European causative element *-ei- via a morpheme
which Song (1996) describes as “PURP.” Most significantly, the paper demonstrates
how typological data can serve a primary role in reconstruction rather than a merely
evaluative one.
Keywords: etymology, Indo-European, causative, dative, typology.
In Shields (2011), I describe the conventional ways in which linguistic
typology has been recently employed in historical/comparative linguistics. Most
significantly, it has been utilized as a means of assessing the plausibility of reconstructions; that is, reconstructions which conform to established typological
formulations are to be more highly valued than those which do not. In addition,
historical/comparative linguists have acknowledged its value as an adjunct to
the reconstruction process when traditional comparative and internal methodologies cannot be applied to a body of data. An excellent case in point involves
the reconstruction of proto-language word order patterns since syntactic reconstruction cannot strictly employ classical correspondence sets. Finally, linguistic
typology provides historical/comparative linguists with insight into what Fox
(1995: 194) calls “laws of language development,” or the general principles of
how languages evolve. In this sense, linguistic typology becomes, in itself, a
primary subject matter of historical/comparative linguistics. However, on the
basis of this latter use of typology, I have pointed out in Shields (Forthcoming)
that still another application of this rich area of study may present itself to historical/comparative linguists. In short, “linguistic typology can at times … bring
to light heretofore unrecognized explanatory formulations for phenomena in
particular languages or linguistic stocks.” That is, because “the degree of crosslinguistic similarity that recent studies have uncovered suggests that forces in
language are pushing toward the selection of particular source material and
148
KENNETH SHIELDS, JR.
movement along particular paths propelled by certain common mechanisms of
change” (Bybee, Perkins & Pagliuca 1995: 17), such paths of linguistic development can be sought in the prehistories of languages or linguistic stocks in
which they may not, at first glance, be evident. I wish to illustrate this point by
considering a possible, typologically-motivated etymology of the causative verbal suffix of Indo-European.
The traditional reconstruction of the Indo-European causative construction
posits “the root, with or without extensions, hav[ing] the vowel /o/, followed in
the next syllable, by stressed /e/, followed by /y/ with thematic endings” (Purczinsky 1995: 371). In other words, its primary affixal marker is a suffix in *-eiwhich is attached to an o-grade root and which is followed by thematic person
markers, cf. “PIE *mon-éi-e ‘to warn’ (‘to cause to consider’): Lat. mone ….
PIE *uort-éi-e ‘to cause to turn’: Skt. vartáyati, OCS vratitь, Goth. (fra-)wardeiþ ‘to cause to turn around’” (Beekes 1995: 229). Although “the root in most
forms is in the o-grade, … some old-looking forms have zero instead. The type
is conspicuous in InIr., and prominent in Gmc.” (Sihler 1995: 504).
In his important work Causatives and Causation: A Universal Typological
Perspective (1996), Jae Jung Song presents a diachronic model for the origin of
causative affixes. Admitting that the model “is subject to further modification”
as more data are observed, he argues that causative affixes result primarily from
“the functional take-over of the causative function by the element” which he
terms PURP (1996: 83), although an element called AND, which nonetheless
“seems to be an extremely poor source of causative affixes,” can also underlie
them etymologically (1996: 84).1 According to Song, PURP “is a schematic of
various instantiations such as dative, locative, allative, directional, goal, benefactive, and purposive case markers. Most of these markers are found to express
a sense of goal or purpose through metaphorical extension, and others, perhaps,
more directly. They all thus register the presence of the term PURP in one way
or another” (1996: 85). In other words, PURP seems to be classic deictic particles or adpreps expressing ‘goal’ or ‘purpose’ as well as the various grammaticalizations (e.g., case markers) they subsequently undergo.2 In Song’s view, the
process by which PURP comes to express causative function involves four suc1
2
This element, as its name implies, represents a marker of coordination. Since it has
no relevance to what follows, it will not be discussed further.
Hazelkorn (1983: 110) emphasizes the diverse range of functions which can be assumed by deictic particles by citing developments in Finno-Ugric: “Deictic particles,
which originally referred to participants in the communication act and to their location, came to be used as definiteness markers [i.e., as demonstratives, personal pronouns, possessive suffixes, and subject agreement markers in verbs], in order to indicate the focus of the utterance. In subsequent developments, these same elements
came to be interpreted as, on the one hand, person markers, and, on the other hand,
accusative markers, plural markers, etc.”
INDO-EUROPEAN CAUSATIVE
149
cessive stages, each of which can be attested in extant languages (1996: 82-83).
At Stage I, a noncausative purposive construction is used to express causation.
Here a verb serving as a ‘cause’ of another verbal action via the structural implications of a separate purposive marker “is absolutely necessary.” To illustrate
Stage I, Song cites Korean, in which “subordinate clauses of purpose are marked
by -ke” (1996: 91). He observes that this purposive marker “appears between
the element of [Vcause] [i.e., the ‘causal’ verb] and that of [Veffect] [i.e., the
verb which results] in the so-called ‘syntactic causative construction’:
Kim ssi-ka
ai-tɨl-i
koŋpu-ha-ke
Kim Mr-NOM child-PL-NOM
study-do-PURP
‘Mr. Kim made the children study’” (1996: 86).
ha-ǝss-ta
cause-PST-IND
At Stage II, “the strengthened association” between PURP and causation
means that [Vcause] becomes optional, while at Stage III the latter disappears
entirely, rendering PURP a genuine causative morpheme (1996: 82-83). By
Stage IV, the element PURP “becomes formally or morphophonically reduced
to an affix, which is then attached to the element of [Veffect].” That is, it becomes “a fully derivational causative affix,” with “no grammatical traces available that indicate that … PURP is not the original element of [Vcause]” (1996:
83).
Examples of formal correspondences between goal and/or purpose (i.e.,
directional) morphemes and causative markers are numerous in the world’s languages. For example, Song (1996: 92) notes that “in Kxoe there is a causative
suffix in the form of ká. The directional preposition in this Central Khoisan language is no other than ká.” Likewise, the Southern Pomo causative suffix -qparallels two directional morphemes containing -q-: -qla- ‘downward’ and -qlo-,
-ql- ‘upwards’; and Southern Agaw, a Cushitic language, shows a causative suffix in -s- beside an homophonous dative(-instrumental) desinence (Song 1996:
92). Heine & Kuteva (2002: 200) adopt the same viewpoint, though they express it with different terminology, when they assert: “This appears to be an extremely widespread process whereby locative markers are grammaticalized to
markers of cause.”
Now it is interesting that a dative (singular) suffix in *-ei is traditionally reconstructed for Indo-European. As Sihler (1995: 251) thus points out: “For the
dative singular of cons. stems Ved. -e and OL -ei (L -ī) point to a diphthong
which might be IE *-ey, *-oy, or *-ay …. Certain G[reek] dialect forms such as
diwei-philos ‘dear to Zeus,’ Myc. tu-ka-te-re (t hugaterei) ‘to the daughter,’ pode (podei) dat. sg. ‘foot,’ and O[scan] forms in -ei, point to PIE *ey” (cf. also
Beekes 1995: 173 and Szemerényi 1996: 160). According to Kuryłowicz (1964:
190-191) the Indo-European dative and locative were originally manifestations
150
of the same case category – a conclusion made plausible by typological evidence, according to Aristar (1996). From the point of view of Indo-European
morphophonology, the traditionally reconstructed dative singular suffix *-ei and
the traditionally reconstructed locative singular suffix in *-i (cf. Skt. -i, OCS -i,
Lat. [> abl.] -e) were simply allomorphic variants (ultimately ablaut variants) of
the same desinence. That this dative-locative case also had a directive function
is supported by such evidence as the fact “that the distinction in Hittite of a locative and a directive or terminative, insofar as it existed, is secondary, an intent
that never managed to prevail at best” (Adrados 1987: 29), for the attempt at a
distinct formal directive case in -a in opposition to a locative in -i did not survive Old Hittite. In short, it appears, then, that Indo-European possessed a nominal case suffix in *-ei with distinctly ‘goal’ or ‘purposive’ implications.
The growing recognition among Indo-Europeanists that the markers of the
so-called adverbial cases of Indo-European like the dative-locative were probably in origin grammaticalized deictic particles lends additional support for the
status of Indo-European *-ei as an example of PURP. As Markey (1979: 65)
maintains, “At an early stage of Indo-European deictic markers constituted the
formal indication of grammatical categories expressing time, place and person”
(cf. also Shields 1997, 1999, 2005). Typological support for the ubiquity of this
grammaticalization is provided by Heine, Claudi & Hünnemeyer (1991: 167). It
is significant, then, that Hirt (1927: 11, 15) reconstructs a deictic particle in *ei
for Indo-European based on forms like “gr. ei ‘wenn,’ eig. ‘da.’” Moreover, because of the close etymological connection between deictic particles and demonstrative pronouns (Brugmann 1911: 311), it is also significant that an original demonstrative stem in *ei- is attested in such forms as OLat. eis ‘he,’ Skt.
ay-ám ‘he,’ and OIr. ē.3 Hirt (1927: 15) astutely identifies *ei itself as a contamination of the deictic particles *e and *i (cf. 1927: 10-11), and although the
dative-locative suffix *-ei was ultimately integrated into emerging Indo-European ablaut schemes, its origin, I believe, is to be traced to this contamination of
*e and *i. The existence of a distinct locative suffix in *-e in Baltic (cf., e.g.,
Lith. rañkoj-e ‘hand’) and Slavic (cf., e.g., kamen-e ‘stone’) implies that the
deictics *i, *e, and their contamination *ei were all subject to grammaticalization as markers of the dative-locative case.
The point which emerges from this discussion, of course, is that typological evidence exists to support the view that the primary causative suffix ascribed
to Indo-European is probably related etymologically to the traditionally reconstructed dative singular desinence *-ei. No previous analysis of either morphosyntactic category of which I am aware posits such a relationship. Clearly, it is
the typological evidence which leads to this reasonable conclusion about pre3
It is widely acknowledged that demonstratives served as third person personal pronouns in Indo-European (cf. Beekes 1995: 207). These dialectal forms reflect this use.
INDO-EUROPEAN CAUSATIVE
151
stages in the evolution of Indo-European morphology. Thus, the role played by
typology in the reconstruction process here is primary, not merely evaluative.
Kenneth Shields, Jr.
Millersville University
English Department
P.O. Box 1002
Millersville, PA 17551-0302, USA
[[email protected]]
References
Adrados, F.
1987. “On the Origins of the Indo-European Dative-Locative Singular Endings,” [in:] M. Jazayert & W. Winter (eds.), A Festschrift in Honor of
Edgar C. Polomé, 29-41, Berlin: de Gruyter.
Aristar, A. R.
1996. “The Relationship between Dative and Locative: Kuryłowicz’s Argument from a Typological Perspective,” Diachronica 13, 207-224.
Beekes, R. S. P.
1995. Comparative Indo-European Linguistics: An Introduction, Amsterdam, Benjamins.
Brugmann, K.
1911. Grundriss der vergleichenden Grammatik der indogermanischen
Sprachen, Vol. 2.2, Strassburg, Trübner.
Bybee, J., R. Perkins & W. Pagliuca
1995. The Evolution of Grammar: Tense, Aspect, and Modality in the Languages of the World, Chicago, U of Chicago P.
Fox, A.
1995. Linguistic Reconstruction: An Introduction to Theory and Method,
Oxford, Oxford U P.
Hazelkorn, L. T.
1983. “The Role of Deixis in the Development of Finno-Ugric Grammatical
Morphemes,” Working Papers in Linguistics 27, 89-139.
Heine, B., U. Claudi & F. Hünnemeyer
1991. Grammaticalization: A Conceptual Framework, Chicago, U of Chicago P.
Heine, B. & T. Kuteva
2002. World Lexicon of Grammaticalization, Cambridge, Cambridge U P.
152
Hirt, H.
1927. Indogermanische Grammatik,Vol. 3, Heidelberg, Winter.
Kuryłowicz, J.
1964. The Inflectional Categories of Indo-European, Heidelberg, Winter.
Markey, T. L.
1979. “Deixis and the u-Perfect,” Journal of Indo-European Studies 7, 65-75.
Purczinsky, J.
1995. “The Indo-European Causative: Evidence for Chronology,” Word 46,
369-376.
Shields, K.
1997. “The Gothic Genitive Plural in -ē Revisited,” American Journal of
Germanic Linguistics and Literatures 9, 239-249.
1999. ”Sanskrit Dative Singular -āya and Its Indo-European Connections,”
Historische Sprachforschung 112, 26-31.
2005. “Some Comments about the Indo-European Dative Singular,” Studia
Etymologica Cracoviensia 10, 157-163.
2011. “Linguistic Typology and Historical Linguistics,” [in:] J. J. Song (ed.),
The Oxford Handbook of Linguistic Typology, 551-567, Oxford, Oxford U P.
Forthcoming. “Linguistic Typology and the Indo-European Pronominal Stem
*ei-,” Studia Indo-Europaea.
Sihler, A.
1995. New Comparative Grammar of Greek and Latin, Oxford, Oxford U P.
Song, J. J.
1996. Causatives and Causation: A Universal-Typological Perspective,
London, Longman.
Szemerényi, O.
1996. Introduction to Indo-European Linguistics, 4th ed., Oxford, Clarendon P.
vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.010.0947
Magnús SNÆDAL (Reykjavík)
GOTHIC balsagga*
Abstract. The Greek word τράχηλος ‘neck’ is, in the Gothic Bible translation, once
translated with hals and once with balsagga*. The paper deals with the question of the
latter form: Can it make sense if taken as it is or is it a scribal error for intended *halsagga.
Keywords: etymology, Gothic, scribal error, neck.
Introduction
Gothic philology is significantly limited by the fact that there is but a
single manuscript in each case being studied. The Gospels are found in the Codex Argenteus, or the “Silver Bible”, as it is often called. For the most part, its
text cannot be compared to other texts: only six verses are common to the Codex Argenteus and the manuscript fragment called Codex Ambrosianus C;
therefore, if the Codex Argenteus offers a suspicious form, it is impossible to
look into another manuscript to see if it contains a more “natural” reading. It is
sometimes possible to compare parallel passages in the Gospels but, as they are
all fragmentary, this often fails. One such example, concerning the concept
‘neck’, will be discussed here.1
The problem
It should first be mentioned that the Greek word τράχηλος ‘neck’ is translated into Gothic with hals in one instance, shown in (1):
(1) Luke 15:20
atta is … dra s ana hals is
ὁ πατὴρ αὐτοῦ … ἐπέπεσεν ἐπὶ τὸν τράχηλον αὐτοῦ
‘his father … fell upon his neck’
1
An earlier Icelandic version of this paper was read at a conference, “Hugvísindaþing”, held at the University of Iceland in Reykjavík on 12 March 2011.
154
MAGNÚS SNÆDAL
This is from the Parable of the Lost Son, which is not found in the other
Gospels. The simplex hals is not found elsewhere in the Gothic corpus, but it is
a part of the compound freihals, ‘freedom, ἐλευθερία’. In addition, hals is supported by other Germanic languages, OE heals, OHG hals and OI hals, so there
is no reason to doubt that hals was the word commonly used for ‘neck’ in Gothic.
In another instance, Gr. τράχηλος is rendered with a different and more suspicious Gothic word, balsagga*. The occurring form is acc. sg., balsaggan, so
this is a weak masculine noun, and it is found in the context that follows. Notice
that the English in (2)b is meant to be a literal translation of the Gothic in (2)a:
(2) Mark 9:42
a goþ ist imma mais i galagjaida asil qairn s ana balsaggan is
b ‘good is for him more that were laid a donkey-quern on his neck’
c καλόν ἐστιν αὐτῷ μᾶλλον εἰ περίκειται λίθος μυλικὸς περὶ τὸν τράχηλον
αὐτοῦ
d καλόν ἐστιν αὐτῷ μᾶλλον εἰ περίκειται μύλος ὀνικὸς περὶ τὸν τράχηλον
αὐτοῦ
e ‘it is more good for him if a donkey-mill were put about his neck’
There are several things to consider here. To begin with, by using the word
asiluqairnus ‘donkey-quern’, the Gothic text deviates from the Greek text it
usually follows, i.e., the Byzantine text, which reads λίθος μυλικός ‘millstone’,
cf. (2)c (Hodges/Farstad 1985). We do not know how λίθος μυλικός was translated into Gothic (a guess could be *qairnustains, or possibly just qairnus*).
The Gothic text here is more similar to the Greek standard text, which reads
μύλος ὀνικός ‘donkey-mill’, cf. (2)d (Nestle/Aland 1993) and its English translation in (2)e. It is possible that the Gothic text of Mark has been influenced by
the parallel passages in Matthew 18:6 and/or Luke 17:2, both showing μύλος
ὀνικός in the Byzantine text. Also, ei and ana are likely to have originated in the
parallel passage in Matthew. Nevertheless, some Greek manuscripts, e.g., D(05),
have ἐπί instead of περί in Mk 9:42. Expectedly, εἰ was to be translated to jabai,
and περί to bi. This should be kept in mind.
The solutions
The form balsaggan is most frequently corrected to halsaggan, assuming
that hals is the same as the hals discussed above. Nevertheless, two attempts
have been made to explain the form balsaggan without any conjecture.
Uppström, in his edition of the Codex Argenteus (1854), rejected the conjecture in favour of the uncontroversial manuscript reading. On the other hand,
GOTHIC balsagga*
155
he made no attempt at explaining the form. Later, Uppström (1857: X) suggested an explanation, dividing the word into bal- and sagga. He considered the
first part to be connected to Sanskrit bhāla(s) n. ‘forhead, frons’, but the second
part to be connected to the verbal root Skt. sañj ‘to connect, affigere’. Uppström
believed the first part was used pars pro toto for the head, so the whole compound would have the meaning ‘that which connects the head [to the trunk]’,
i.e., the neck. This explanation has not gained much support, as it involves two
roots not otherwise known to be found in the Germanic vocabulary.
The second attempt was made by Ebbinghaus (1963). He suggested connecting bals- to PIE *bhel- ‘to bark, to speak’, cf. OI belja ‘to shout’, OHG
bellen ‘to bark’, etc. Ebbinghaus also mentioned Skt. bhāṣa f. ‘language’ and
bhaṣa adj. ‘barking’. Mayrhofer (1963: 498) found this last connection doubtful. With regard to the second part, -agga, Ebbinghaus gave it the meaning ‘narrowing’, with which the meaning of the compound became ‘the narrowing for
the voice (the narrowing in which the voice originates)’. He thought that
balsagga* was a compound of the same type as baurgswaddjus ‘townwall’ (referring to Sturtevant 1958). Ebbinghaus apparently viewed bals as a root noun
(in the gen. sg.) rather than an old s-stem (cf. ahs ‘ear of corn’). The root in
question, however, appears not to be found in the Germanic languages with the
meaning ‘voice, to speak’.
Ebbinghaus (1963) took from Feist (1939: 242 [halsagga]) two possible
explanations of the origin of *agga. He did not directly choose between them,
but only indirectly with the translation ‘narrowing’. The first possibility connects it with Go. aggwus* ‘narrow’, PIE *aŋgh-. Feist (1939: 242) added a
question mark to this explanation, but Lehmann (1986: 60 B17, 175 H35) took
it up again. This involved an attempt to let agga* correspond to Greek (Aeol.)
ἀμφήν ‘neck’, cf. also αὐχήν ‘neck, throat’, but according to Beekes (2010:
174), the nasal in the Aeolic form is a production of prenasalization; this also
requires a PIE labiovelar (cf. Pronk 2010: 58-61) that should give gw in Gothic.
As a matter of fact, agga* cannot be derived directly from aggwus*, as then
there is no explanation as to why the w has disappeared, i.e., *aggwa, or even
*aggwja, was to be expected (cf. Snædal 1993: 140-141).
The second possibility is based on PIE *aŋk-/*oŋk- (i.e., *h2 enk-) and
words meaning ‘to bend, curve; fishhook, barb’, but not directly ‘narrow, narrowing’. These are words like Skt. aṅká- ‘curvature’, Lat. uncus ‘curved’, Gr.
ὄγκος ‘barb’ < *h2 onk-o- (Beekes 2010: 12, 1045). This corresponds, then, to
OE onga, anga ‘prickle, point’, OHG ango ‘prickle, fishhook’, OI angi ‘twig,
sprout; prickle’. This explanation is considered by Feist (1939: 242) and Casaretto (2004: 216) to be more likely, but less likely by Lehmann (1986: 175 H35).
However, he did not explain the disappearance of the w in connection with the
first proposal.
156
MAGNÚS SNÆDAL
Due to the use of Go. hals for ‘neck, τράχηλος’ in Luke 15:20 it is unlikely
that balsagga* simply had the meaning ‘neck’. Rather, it referred to some part
of the neck. Perhaps the translator was interpreting the Greek text or wanted to
be more specific. This implies that agga* had a broader meaning, but that hals(or bals-) connected it to the neck. If agga* was ‘narrowing’, it becomes unfeasible to change bals- into hals- because the content ‘narrowing of the neck’ is a
tautology. However, if agga* was ‘bend, curve’, the conjecture hals- is more
feasible. In this case, the meaning of *halsagga could be ‘curve of the neck,
back of the neck, nape of the neck’, or possibly something like ‘suboccipital region’. It is hardly possible that agga* refers to the prominence above the vertebra
prominens, as the Greek word in question does not have such a specific meaning.
If agga* had the meaning ‘curve, bend’, Ebbinghaus’s explanation of balsis untenable, as the voice is hardly connected to the nape or back of the neck.
Also, even though the meaning ‘the narrowing for the voice’ is not excluded per
se, a word with that meaning is not likely to have become the common word for
‘neck’ in Gothic, as shown by hals in Luke 15:20. It is more likely that the
translator thought that hals was too unspecific, or could not imagine how a millstone would be laid around someone’s neck. Therefore, he confined the meaning to the nape of the neck; still, however, it is not clear how he may have imagined the ‘donkey-mill’ being laid on the nape. Presumably, with asiluqairnus,
he is referring to the upper, larger millstone, ‘the donkey-stone’, rather than the
entire mill.
All these things considered, it appears that the conjecture *halsagga is still
the best of the above options. This correction has its origin in the text of Stiernhielm’s (1671) edition of the Codex Argenteus, but there it is most likely a typographical error. In the glossary (p. 22; it was published the year before,
1670), we find balsagga without a comment (cf. Ihre 1773: 29 and Zahn 1805).
Gabelentz & Löbe (1943) then took this up as a conjecture and, ever since, the
prevailing opinion has been that we are dealing in this case with a scribal error.
Vollmer (1846: 311-312) is one among few who tried to explain how balsaggan
came into being. He maintained that Wulfila “ohne allen Zweifel” wrote ana
hals is. Some reader then wrote aggan in the margin as an explanation and, at
last, that gloss was transferred into the text. This implies that agga* either was
the more natural expression for ‘neck’, or it was used in a parallel passage with
the same meaning. Actually, Vollmer thought that agga* should be ag(g)ka, cf.
OHG anka, which has been preserved in Franconian with the meaning ‘neck’.
The initial b instead of h he explained by reference to bnauandans instead of
hnauandans in Luke 6:1 (but see Lehmann 1986: 77 [B86]).
Although scribal errors are often not easy to explain, it would be preferable
to be able to point to something in the context of balsaggan that could have
brought about the error of writing a b instead of an h. This is obviously not
GOTHIC balsagga*
157
comparable to, for example, ƕ ilaƕairb jah ƕ iht (2CorB 4:17), in which case
the scribe wrote ƕeiht instead of leiht (‘temporary and light, πρόσκαιρον καὶ
ἐλαφρόν’), obviously influenced by the two preceding ƕ’s. It is possible, however, that balsaggan has a “natural” explanation. For this, we should again look
at the parallel texts in Matthew and Luke:
(3) Matthew 18:6
a ?? batizo ist imma ei hahaidau asiluqairnus ana halsaggan is
b ‘better it is for him that were hung a donkey-quern upon his neck’
c συμφέρει αὐτῷ ἵνα κρεμασθῇ μύλος ὀνικὸς εἰς τὸν τράχηλον αὐτοῦ
d συμφέρει αὐτῷ ἵνα κρεμασθῇ μύλος ὀνικὸς περὶ τὸν τράχηλον αὐτοῦ
e ‘it is better for him that a donkey-mill were hung about his neck’
The text in (3)a is an attempt at translating the Byzantine text in (3)c into
Gothic. Perhaps the Gothic text of Mark 9:42 borrowed from Matthew 18:6 the
parts that disagree with the Byzantine text of Mark 9:42, i.e., i … asil qairn s
ana halsaggan is; however, halsaggan was coloured by batizo and became
balsaggan. Greek συμφέρει is translated with batizo ist in four additional instances in the Gospels (Mt 5:29, 30; Jh 16:7, 18:14), and that translation also
occurs in the Pauline Epistles. The standard Greek text is found in (3)d, and its
English translation in (3)e. It should be mentioned that the Greek uncial D(05)
and several minuscules read ἐπὶ instead of περί.
(4) Luke 17:2
a ?? batizo ist imma jabai asiluqairnus galagjaidau bi halsaggan is
b ‘better it is for him if a donkey-quern were laid about his neck’
c λυσιτελεῖ αὐτῷ εἰ μύλος ὀνικὸς περίκειται περὶ τὸν τράχηλον αὐτοῦ
d λυσιτελεῖ αὐτῷ εἰ λίθος μυλικὸς περίκειται περὶ τὸν τράχηλον αὐτοῦ
e ‘it is more profitable for him if a millstone were put about his neck’
Here, the Gothic in (4)a is an attempt at translating the Byzantine text in
(4)c. It appears natural to translate λυσιτελεῖ in the same way as συμφέρει, i.e.,
with batizo ist. Surely, λυσιτελεῖ is neither found elsewhere in the Greek text of
the Gospels nor in the Pauline Epistles. In D(05), it has been substituted by συμφέρει.
It is possible that the text of Mk 9:42 was influenced by the parallel passages in Matthew and Luke – especially the former, because of the preposition
(ana could hardly translate to περί); however, when did the error of balsaggan
for *halsaggan occur?
First, it is not excluded that the Gothic text simply mirrors its “Vorlage”.
The Greek text of Mark 9:42 was then more similar to the text of Matthew 18:6.
158
MAGNÚS SNÆDAL
A Greek text corresponding exactly to the Gothic text of Mark 9:42 is not supported in the manuscript tradition, i.e., as far as it is available. A “Rückübersetzung” of the Gothic text into Greek would be as follows: καλόν ἐστιν αὐτῷ μᾶλλον ἵνα περίκειται μύλος ὀνικὸς εἰς τὸν τράχηλον αὐτοῦ. The translator sought
help in Matthew 18:6 but, because of batizo, he mistakenly wrote balsaggan.
This would mean that the error (if it was one) persisted in copies for a long
while. It is more likely, however, that the text of Mark 9:42 in the scribe’s
exemplar was corrupt and he therefore looked at the parallel in Matthew for
help, and then made the scribal error because of batizo.
Lastly, it is possible, if the scribe found bi halsaggan in the Gothic text of
Luke 17:2, that he therefore accidentally wrote balsaggan. In any case, the substitution of a b for the h was not taken out of the blue, but was instead caused by
b’s found in the parallel passages of Matthew 18:6 and/or Luke 17:2.
It should be stressed that bals is suspiciously similar to hals. This similarity
most likely caused the typographical error in Stiernhielm (1671) mentioned
above. Also, because of the similarity, it is hard to believe bals is completely
unrelated to hals.
Conclusions
As mentioned at the outset, a problem of Gothic philology is that there is
usually only a single manuscript for each text, and it is therefore impossible to
look in another manuscript for a more natural reading. It has been explained in
the present paper how it is possible that balsaggan could have emerged from
halsaggan. On the other hand, if a manuscript with the reading halsaggan in Mk
9:42 were found, the question would arise as to whether or not we should,
nevertheless, consider balsaggan to be the right form; in any case it is the more
difficult reading, or lectio difficilior. It appears to be more likely that some
scribe was tempted to change balsaggan to halsaggan rather than vice versa.
Nevertheless, it has been illustrated here that the form in question is likely to be
a scribal error; therefore, the principle of lectio difficilior would, in this case, be
set aside.
Magnús Snædal
School of Humanities, University of Iceland
Faculty of Icelandic and Comparative Cultural Studies
Sæmundargötu 2
IS – 101 Reykjavík
[[email protected]]
GOTHIC balsagga*
159
References
Beekes R. 2010: Etymological Dictionary of Greek. Volume I-II. Leiden.
Casaretto A. 2004: Nominale Wortbildung der gotischen Sprache. Heidelberg.
Ebbinghaus E. A. 1963: Two Gothic Etymologies. – Modern Language Notes
78/4: 426.
Feist S. 1939: V rgl ich nd s Wört rb ch d r gotischen Sprache mit Einschl ß
d s Krimgotisch n nd sonstig r z rstr t r Üb rr st d s Gotisch n.
Dritte neubearbeitete und vermehrte Auflage. Leiden.
Gabelentz H. C. von der & Loebe J. 1843: Ulfilas. Volumen I: Textum continens. Leipzig. [Hildesheim 1980.]
Hodges/Farstad. 1985: The Greek New Testament According to the Majority
Text. Edited by Z. C. Hodges, A. L. Farstad. Nashville.
Ihre. 1773: Johannis ab Ihre […]. Scripta versionem Ulphilanam et linguam
moeso-gothicam illustrantia, […]. Berolini.
Lehmann W. P. 1986: A Gothic Etymological Dictionary. Based on the third
edition of V rgl ich nd s Wört rb ch d r Gotisch n Sprach by Sigmund
Feist. Leiden.
Magnússon Á. Bl. 1989: Ísl nsk orðsifjabók. Reykjavík.
Mayrhofer M. 1963: K rzg faßt s tymologisch s Wört rb ch d s Altindisch n.
A Concise Etymological Sanskrit Dictionory. Band II: D – M. Heidelberg.
Nestle/Aland. 1993: Novum testamentum graece. Post Eberhard et Erwin Nestle
editione vicesima septima revisa communiter ediderunt Barbara et Kurt
Aland, Johannes Karavidopoulos, Carlo M. Martini, Bruce M. Metzger.
Stuttgart.
Pronk R. 2010: On Greek αὐχμός ‘drought’ and αὐχήν ‘neck’. Glotta 86: 55-62.
Snædal M. 1993: On Gothic wu-adjectives. – Historische Sprachforschung 106:
137-143.
Stiernhielm. 1671: D. N. Jesu Christi SS. Evangelia ab Ulfila Gothorum in
Moesia Episcopo […]. Stockholmiæ.
Sturtevant A. M. 1958: The Gothic Compound baurgs-waddjus ‘city-wall’. –
Journal of English and Germanic Philology 57, 2: 230-231.
Uppström A. 1854: Codex Argenteus sive sacrorum evangeliorum versionis Gothicae fragmenta […]. Uppsala.
——. 1857: Decem Codicis Argentei rediviva folia […]. Uppsala.
Vollmer Al. J. 1846: [Review of von der Gabelentz & Löbe’s] Ulfilas. –
[Münchner] Gelehrte Anzeigen. Herausgegeben von Mitgliedern der k.
beyer. Akademie der Wissenschaften, Januar bis Juny, Nro. 163-168: 273276, 281-296, 300-304, 308-320.
Zahn. 1805: Ulfilas Gotisch Bib lüb rs tz ng di ält st G rmanisch Urk nd .
Nach Ihre’ns Text, […] herausgegeben von Iohann Christian Zahn […]. Leipzig.
vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.011.0948
Michael KNÜPPEL (Göttingen)
STELLUNGNAHME ZU V. BLAŽEKS BESPRECHUNG
EINES BEITRAGS ZUM “MAKRO-ALTAISCHEN”
Abstract (Comment on V. Blaže ’s review of a monograph dealing with “MacroAltaic”). The author presents a discussion with V. Blažek’s (2006-2007) review of a
monograph by M. I. Robbeets (2003).
Keywords: etymology, Macro-Altaic, review, methodology of linguistics.
Zu der nachstehenden Stellungnahme sah der Vf. derselben sich durch eine
recht wohlwollende Besprechung der Arbeit “Is Japanese related to Korean,
Tungusic, Mongolic and Turkic?” aus der Feder von M. I. Robbeets,1 das ja bei
Gelegenheit auch vom Vf. des vorliegenden kleinen Beitrags rezensiert wurde,2
durch V. Blažek in “Folia Orientalia”3 veranlaßt – und bei den an dieser Stelle
mitgeteilten Überlegungen handelt es sich, um es vorwegzunehmen, um eine
p rsönlich Stellungnahme.
Nun ist es gewiß nicht (oder vielleicht auch bloß nicht mehr?) üblich, daß
ein eher “Unbeteiligter” sich in die Korrespondenz (die im Falle einer solchen
Interaktion ja vorliegt) zwischen einem Autor und dessen Rezensenten einmischt – in der “altaischen Frage” allerdings gibt es keine “Unbeteiligten” (jedenfalls nicht unter jenen, deren Forschungsgegenstand die Altaistik [im neutralen Sinne als der Lehre von den Gemeinsamkeiten in den Sprachen und Kulturen
der altaischen, d.h. türkischen, mongolischen und tungusischen Völker] bildet)
– allenfalls Ahnungslose. Und genau hier verläuft die eigentliche Trennlinie:
zwischen seriöser wissenschaftlicher Auseinandersetzung mit dem Forschungsgegenstand auf der einen und reinem Dilettantismus auf der anderen Seite. Ein
bisweilen sehr künstlich aufgebauter Dualismus zwischen “Altaisten” und
“Anti-Altaisten” ist nicht nur wenig hilfreich, mehr noch, er verschleiert diese
eigentliche Trennlinie zwischen Wissenschaft und Pseudowissenschaft.
1
2
3
Robbeets (2003).
Knüppel (2006).
Blažek (2006-2007).
162
MICHAEL KNÜPPEL
An dem Beitrag V. Blažeks fallen nun zwei Sachverhalte besonders auf:
zum einen das offenkundige Bemühen des Rezensenten, die Arbeit von Frau
Robbeets, in der diese sich am “Makro-Altaischen” (d.h. der Verwandtschaft
der, wie K. H. Menges sie einmal nannte, “inneren altaischen Sprachen” mit
dem Koreanischen und Japanischen) versucht – in einem möglichst guten Licht
erscheinen zu lassen,4 woran auch einige kritische Anmerkungen, die dann größtenteils in Tabellenform am Ende der Besprechung gegeben werden und sich
auf Fehlschreibungen, mangelhafte Literaturangaben u.dgl. beschränken, nichts
ändern,5 und zum anderen der an andere Rezensenten – nicht des Buches von
Frau Robbeets, sondern vielmehr des “Etymological dictionary of the Altaic
languages” (EDAL) (das vom Rezensenten ja ähnlich positiv – um nicht zu sagen “unsachlich”6 – beurteilt wurde7), zu dem das besprochene Werk von Frau
Robbeets eine Ergänzung (resp. – nach Blažek – ein Besprechung) darstellen soll
– hier S. Georg8 und A. Vovin9 (die Besprechung von M. Stachowski, in der der
Rezensent einen ganz ähnlichen Standpunkt einnimmt, 10 wie die von Blažek attackierten Autoren, blieb von diesem gleich gänzlich unberücksichtigt) – gerichtete Vorwurf, ihre kritisch-ablehnenden Bewertungen des EDAL seien “aggressiv und persönlich”.11 Nun drängt sich dem Leser an dieser Stelle sogleich die
Frage auf, was der Rezensent denn eigentlich mit “persönlich” meint (daß er
eine deutlich formulierte kritisch-ablehnende Haltung als “aggressiv” betrachtet,
mag da vielleicht eher Ausdruck seines Empfindens sein) – gewiß nicht “subjektiv”, denn dann hätte er das geschrieben (einmal ganz abgesehen davon, daß
eine Besprechung im Grunde immer subjektiv ist). Offenkundig wollte Herr
Blažek zum Ausdruck bringen, daß die Rezensenten, da sie in der “altaischen
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Cf. z.B. Blažek (2006-2007), p. 468: “Applying her strict criteria of the sound and
semantic correspondences, Martine Robbeets find 635 valid etymologies from the
total number of 2022 of the Japanese etymons included in EDAL”.
Blažek (2006-2007), p. 469 f.
So werden in Blažek (2005) – nach Doerfer (1992) – zahlreiche Ergänzungen zum
mong. Korpus des EDAL gegeben, allerdings ohne auch nur mit einem Wort zu erwähnen, daß Doerfer diese Parallelen als Lehngut betrachtet!
Blažek (2005).
Georg (2004).
Vovin (2005).
Stachowski (2005).
Blažek (2006-2007), p. 468: “On the other hand, in confrontation with two other
reviewers of EDAL, viz. by S. Georg (2004; cf. the reply by S. Starostin from 2005)
and A. Vovin (2005), whose tone is aggressive and personal and the concrete criticism remains only on the surface, (…)”. Ergänzend sei hier noch S. Georgs Antwort
auf Starostins Antwort erwähnt (Georg [2005]). Es stellt sich zudem die Frage, wie
Herr Blažek dann erst mit den Rezensionen des Buches von Frau Robbeets aus den
Händen der von ihm kritisierten Autoren (Georg [2008], Vovin [2009]) umzugehen
gedenkt.
STELLUNGNAHME ZUM “MAKRO-ALTAISCHEN”
163
Frage” einen anderen Standpunkt vertreten als Starostin und seine Mitarbeiter
oder Frau Robbeets (und er selbst!), dem Forschungsgegenstand nicht neutral
gegenüberstehen können oder wollen – es zumindest aber nicht tun. Ebenso
wenig wie die Frage danach, worin dieses “Persönliche” bestehen soll, aus dem
Beitrag heraus beantwortet werden kann, setzt Blažek sich mit den Argumenten
der Rezensenten gegen die von Starostin/Dybo/Mudrak vertretenen Hypothesen
(– und vor allem die von ihnen angewandten Zugänge zum Forschungsgegenstand –) auseinander. Sein zudem eingebrachter Hinweis darauf, daß die Kritik
der Rezensenten sich auf das Vorwort des EDAL beschränke,12 ist nicht minder
unsachlich. Es hätte wohl keinem der beiden (S. Georg u. A. Vovin) Schwierigkeiten bereitet, ihre geäußerten Kritikpunkte, die überwiegend ganz grundsätzlicher Natur sind, mit zahllosen Bsp.en aus allen drei Bänden des großen Meisterwerkes anzureichern – es fragt sich bloß, was das hätte erbringen sollen, die wesentlichen Schwächen der Arbeit sind bei ihnen hinreichend dargelegt.
Das eigentliche Problem jedoch liegt woanders: im Umgang mit dem zunehmend zu beobachtenden Verfall der Methoden, die in der Altaistik zur Anwendung gelangen. G. Doerfer hatte vor einigen Jahren in einem seiner späten
Beiträge zur “altaischen Frage” 13 bereits diesen Niedergang am Beispiel der
Vertreter einer Zusammengehörigkeit der altaischen Sprachen im Sinne einer
genet. Verwandtschaft aufgezeigt:14
Sehen wir von den primitiven Vorstadien der Altaistik ab (…), so
ist der Begründer der “altaischen” Sprachwissenschaft Gustav John
Ramstedt (…). Als Pionier seiner Wissenschaft machte er naturgemäß
viele Fehler. Diese sind ihm denn auch von seinem Schüler Poppe
(mit allem schuldigen Respekt) angekreidet worden (…). Mit Poppe
war ein gewisser Höhepunkt erreicht – wenn wir nämlich die “plausiblen” oder doch nur “unwahrscheinlichen” Vergleiche werten. Diese
sind zwar meistens nicht beweiskräftig für einen genetischen Zusammenhang, beweisen aber in der Tat rege Kontakte, also einen arealen
Zusammenhang. Es folgt Illič-Svityč (…), der freilich die Dinge in
sehr weitem Rahmen untersucht, unter Einschluß des “Nostratischen”,
(…). Immerhin sind in seiner Arbeit noch so manche gesunde Residua
erhalten, die bei sorgfältiger Musterung, Auswahl und Umdeutung
nützlich sein können. Schließlich erfolgt der Absturz in die Bedeutungslosigkeit der Phantasmen bei Starostin (…). Insgesamt erinnert
die Entwicklung an die Vier-Generationen-Lehre bei b. Xaldun, etwa
so: R – der Begründer der Dynastie, noch Neuland betretend, P – Hö12
13
14
Vgl. hier oben Anm. 10.
Doerfer (2001).
Doerfer (2001), p. 217 f.
164
MICHAEL KNÜPPEL
hepunkt, Zuverlässigkeit und Blüte, I – décadence setzt ein, S – Zerstörung aller Kultur und Vernunft.
Nun ist dieser Verfall, der seit einigen Jahrzehnten zweifellos zu beobachten
ist – und mit Starostin und den Moskauer Nostratikern unserer Tage wohl auch
in der Tat einen absoluten Tiefpunkt der “Forschung” erreicht haben dürfte –,15
eine Sache. Die Verteidigung der Resultate dieser weitgehend entgeistigten Bemühungen (von Forschung mag man hier nicht mehr sprechen) durch seriöse
Forscher – und als solcher ist V. Blažek dem Vf. dieser kurzen Stellungnahme
gegenwärtig (auch wenn dieser in vielen Fragen eine gänzlich andere Auffassung vertritt, wie jener) – bloß, weil sie sich scheinbar dazu eignen, den eigenen
Standpunkt in einer bestimmten Frage (hier der Verwandtschaft der altaischen
Sprachen i.S. eines “Makro-Altaischen”) zu stützen, eine ganz andere. Daß man
sich auch dann, wenn man eine im Grundsatz (hier Ur-Verwandtschaft der altaischen Sprachen unter Einschluß des Japanischen und Koreanischen) übereinstimmende Auffassung vertritt, kritische Distanz zu vom Niedergang geprägten
Methoden bewahren kann, hat im vorliegenden Fall jüngst R. A. Miller, der gewiß nicht im Verdacht stehen dürfte, von seinem Standpunkt abgerückt zu sein,
bewiesen und das wüste Elaborat von Frau Robbeets in all seiner Oberflächlichkeit gewürdigt.16
Es bleibt hier bloß zu hoffen, daß V. Blažek, der übrigens seinen Besprechungsaufsatz zum “Etymological dictionary of the Altaic languages” (EDAL)
besser “Current decline in Altaic etymology” betitelt hätte, künftig wieder zu
einer kritischen und ernsthaften Auseinandersetzung mit den seriösen Vertretern
der Altaistik zurückkehren wird und nicht jenen auf der anderen Seite der angesprochenen Trennlinie das Wort redet. Man bedenke: “Mit Wölfen und Eulen –
lernt man das Heulen”.
Michael Knüppel
Seminar für Turkologie und Zentralasienkunde
Heinrich-Düker-Weg 14
D – 37073 Göttingen
[[email protected]]
15
16
Starostin/Dybo/Mudrak (2003).
Miller (2007).
STELLUNGNAHME ZUM “MAKRO-ALTAISCHEN”
165
Literatur
Blažek, Václav:
(2005)
Current progress in Altaic etymology. In: Folia Orientalia 52 (1).
2005, pp. 237-254.
(2006-2007) [Rez. zu]: Robbeets, Martine Irma: Is Japanese related to Korean, Tungusic, Mongolic and Turkic? Wiesbaden 2003 (Turcologica 64). In: Folia Orientalia XLII-XLIII. 2006-2007 (2007), pp.
467-470.
Doerfer, Gerhard:
(1992)
Mongolica im Alttürkischen. In: Bruno Lewin zu Ehren. Festschrift a s Anlaß s in s 65. G b rtstag s. Bd. II: Korea. Hrsg. v.
Irmela Hijiya-Kirschnereit u. Jürgen Stalph. Bochum 1992, pp.
39-56 (Bochumer Jahrbuch zur Ostasienforschung 14; Koreanistische und andere asienwissenschaftliche Beiträge).
(2001)
Altaica gottingensia. In: Central Asiatic Journal 45 (2). 2001, pp.
181-229.
Georg, Stefan:
(2004)
[Rez. zu]: Starostin, Sergei / Dybo, Anna / Mudrak, Oleg: Etymological dictionary of the Altaic languages. Leiden 2003 (Handbook of oriental studies, Sect. 8: Central Asia, vol. 8: 1-3). In:
Diachronica 21 (2). 2004, pp. 445-450.
(2005)
Reply [to Starostin (2005) …]. In: Diachronica 22 (2). 2005, pp.
455-457.
(2008)
[Rez. zu]: Robbeets, Martine Irma: Is Japanese related to Korean, Tungusic, Mongolic and Turkic? Wiesbaden 2003 (Turcologica 64). In: Boch m r Jahrb ch für Ostasi nforsch ng 32. 2008,
pp. 247-278.
Knüppel, Michael:
(2006)
Ein Beitrag zur Japanisch-Koreanisch-Altaischen Hypothese. In:
Wi n r Z itschrift für di K nd d s Morg nland s 96. 2006, pp.
353-364.
Miller, Roy Andrew:
(2007)
[Rez. zu]: Robbeets, Martine Irma: Is Japanese related to Korean, Tungusic, Mongolic and Turkic? Wiesbaden 2003 (Turcologica 64). In: Ural-Altaisch Jahrbüch r 21. 2007, pp. 274-279.
Robbeets, Martine Irma:
(2003)
Is Japanese related to Korean, Tungusic, Mongolic and Turkic?
Wiesbaden 2003 (Turcologica 64).
166
MICHAEL KNÜPPEL
Stachowski, Marek:
(2005)
Turkologische Anmerkungen zum Altaischen Etymologischen
Wörterbuch. In: Studia Etymologica Cracoviensia 10. 2005, pp.
227-246.
Starostin, Sergei:
(2005)
Response to Stefan Georg’s review of the Etymological Dictionary of the Altaic Languages. In: Diachronica 22 (2). 2005, pp.
451-454.
Starostin, Sergei / Dybo, Anna / Mudrak, Oleg:
(2003)
Etymological dictionary of the Altaic languages. Leiden 2003
(Handbook of oriental studies, Sect. 8: Central Asia, vol. 8: 1-3).
Vovin, Alexander:
(2005)
The end of the Altaic controversy. In: Central Asiatic Journal 49
(1). 2005, pp. 71-132.
(2009)
[Rez. zu]: Robbeets, Martine Irma: Is Japanese related to Korean, Tungusic, Mongolic and Turkic? Wiesbaden 2003 (Turcologica 64). In: Central Asiatic Journal 53 (1). 2009, pp. 105-147.
vol. 18
Kraków 2013
DOI: 10.4467/20843836SE.13.012.0949
Marek STACHOWSKI (Kraków)
DAVID L. GOLD’S
ENGLISH, JEWISH AND OTHER ETYMOLOGIES
Abstract. Thirty-one etymological studies published in a new volume by David L. Gold
are discussed in this article. A general characteristics of David L. Gold’s etymological
work and methodology is given at the end of the study.
Keywords: etymology, word history, Jewish, Germanic, Romance, Slavic, methodology.
David L. G o l d: Studies in etymology and etiology (with emphasis on Germanic, Jewish, Romance and Slavic languages), ed. by F. Rodríguez González
and A. Lillo Buades, Alicante 2009, 870 pp., ISBN: 978-84-7908-517-9.
This book is an unusual collection of etymological studies. The word etiology, as used by Gold, is an equivalent of ‘semantic motivation’. Indeed, etymology is understood here, first of all, as “etiology” and history of words (in the
first place, that of borrowed words).
The book contains thirty-one studies (thirty in English and one in Yiddish),
“most appearing for the first time here, some being revised and expanded versions
of articles previously published, none being reprinted without improvements” (p.
15). Unfortunately, we have no word index in this book. Something of a solace is
the fact that some titles (e.g., No. 9, 14, 15, 26, 31; see also footnote 2 here) are
unusually long and can even, to some extent, replace an abstract (however, the
consolation is slightly limited since other titles are in fact short…).
An additional recommendation for the author is the fact that eighty works
of his, published between 1979 and 2004, are named in the newest etymological
bibliography,1 and ten titles by Gold are listed in the bibliography of the newest
etymological dictionary of English.2
1
2
Anatoly Liberman (with the assistance of Ari Hoptman and Nathan E. Carlson): A
bibliography of English etymology, London 2010 (cf. my review in SEC 16 [2011]:
189-199).
Anatoly Liberman (with the assistance of J. Lawrence Mitchell): An analytic dictionary of English etymology. An introduction, Minneapolis – London 2008, XLVI +
168
MAREK STACHOWSKI
1. The alleged Russian origin of French bistro ~ bistrot ‘wine merchant;
public house’ versus its probable ultimate origin in Vulgar Latin or
Gallo-Romance (on the persistence of a folk etymology and folk etiology despite the suggestion of better etymologies) (p. 19-37).
This article presents fifteen arguments against the popular belief that
French bistro(t) ‘1. wine merchant; 2. public house’ originates from Russian bystro ‘quickly’. Gold’s opinion is that this word should be rather connected with
Vulgar Latin bestiarius ‘man who fights with wild beasts in the arena’ or maybe
some other derivative of Gallo-Romance beste ‘beast, animal’ (with the following semantic evolution: ‘shepherd’ > ‘young servant’ > ‘waiter’ > ‘wine merchant’ > ‘bistro’, cf. p. 19, 35, 28sq.).
The reasoning here is twofold. Gold aims at showing why the folk-etymological explanation is wrong and, at the same time, at substantiating the Romance etymology, as suggested in most dictionaries. Gold is a committed discusser: “Playing devil’s advocate with myself, I readily offer counter-arguments
to the objections if I can think of any (but also counter-counter-arguments to
parry the counter-arguments and thus press my objection nonetheless)” (p. 22,
fn. 3). Actually, his sequences of arguments are sometimes even longer, see for
instance the “counter-counter-counter-counter-argument” on p. 25sq.
Some of Gold’s arguments are, so to say, unnaturally divided in two items
(No. 1 and No. 2, p. 22, are in reality one entity) and some are less effective
than others because they are chiefly based on his imagination: “The higherranking officers, being gallicized at least in speech […] might well have preferred it [= wine – M. S.] to other alcoholic beverages, but, as noted above, they
would have spoken French, not Russian, to the locals. Soldiers of lower rank,
being ungallicized, would have preferred vodka […]. It is hard to see, then,
which frenchless Russians would have ordered wine” (p. 22).
This argument alone can hardly convince a reader, if alone because the
Russian word bystro! need not have been used exclusively when ordering wine
(German soldiers in Poland in the World War 2 used to shout schnell! when
buying, ordering or demanding anything).
On the other hand, one finds also important arguments here. Such is that
concerning the research history of French – the 19th century French language
359 pp. – None of the titles named in this Dictionary appears in the present volume.
Oddly enough, not even the article that was planned for it. Liberman has apparently
worked with a typescript of D. L. Gold’s study “A hitherto unrecognized non-Jewish
family of words going back in one way or another to Hebrew chaver: Australian
English cobber, European Dutch gabber, New Zealand English cobber, Rotwelsh
Cabber ~ Kabber, San gaba, South African chabba ~ gabba ~ gubba”. This article,
cited as forthcoming in Gold’s St di s in tymology and tiology… must have been
removed for some reason.
DAVID L. GOLD’S ETYMOLOGIES
169
was investigated by innumerable scholars in innumerable aspects; nevertheless,
the word bistro(t) is recorded “only from 1884, that is sixty-four years after the
Russian occupation of Paris ended” (p. 25). This is doubtless a very important
counter-argument.
The structure of the discussion is carefully wrought. The section on “The
propagators of the Russian tale” (p. 29-33) is followed by a presentation of
Gold’s own considerations, gathered in two sections: “Better explanations” (p.
33-35) and “Further discussion” (p. 35-42). Here, the derivational history of
French bistraud ‘petit berger chargé de la garde du gros bétail’, bistro ‘petit domestique’, etc., as well as the problem of the word-final t are analyzed. Also
the question of how bistros were called before the servants could have heard the
Russian word bystro! is touched upon.
Additionally, a phonetic aspect should be emphasized that is not discussed
by Gold. It is the first syllable of the Russian word that is stressed, whereas the
vowel of the second syllable is strongly reduced: ['bɯstră]. This means that
French waiters, servants and merchants could not – exactly because of their
lacking command of Russian – know that this word’s last vowel is written with
o . They heard [-ă] ~ [-ǝ] there, and this sound would have been probably rendered with -a rather than with -o in French. However, no such variant (*bistra)
appears to have ever been known.
2. The origin of Chicano Spanish blanquillo ‘testicle’ (on how emulated
dyosemy can defeat the purpose of a euphemism) (p. 49-51).
This study has three parts: 1. Introduction; 2. Mexican Spanish blanquillo;
3. Chicano Spanish blanquillo. In the Introduction, the case of Israeli Hebrew
betsa ‘1. egg; 2. ball = testicle’, its plural form betsim ‘1. eggs; 2. testicles; 3.
courage, guts, nerve’ and eshech ‘testicle’ is discussed. At the end, Gold says:
“The situation in Polish is similar to the one in Israeli Hebrew. The chief meaning of Polish jeje is ‘egg’ and in slang the word also means ‘testicle’ (I do not
know whether the plural is also used in the sense of ‘courage, guts, nerve’). I
know of no attempt to reserve jeje or use only in its literal meaning” (p. 50).
This fragment needs some explanations.
First, the Polish word for ‘egg’ is not jeje. Rather, it once (in Old Polish)
was jaje and is now generally jajo (plural: jaja). This is the official term, used,
e.g., in trade correspondence and ornithological descriptions. The meaning of
jajo is generally ‘egg’; however, the plural form jaja means both ‘eggs’ and
(vulgarly) ‘testicles’ (of course, it is sometimes possible to use jajo, too, with
the meaning ‘testicle’ if signaling the singularity is a must). A somewhat embarrassing situation with the question ‘Do you have any eggs?’ in an Israeli grocery
170
MAREK STACHOWSKI
store, as described on p. 50, would be equally embarrassing in Poland if one
used the form jaja. It was probably for this reason that the word jajo ‘egg’ was,
at least in spoken Polish, replaced by its diminutive form jajko. The process
might be understood as an attempt to divorce both meanings and to reserve the
diminutive form jajko for use only in the meaning ‘egg’ (anyway, jajko does not
show a diminutive meaning despite the diminutive suffix -ko). The situation
seemed to become then somewhat clearer:
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
jajo ‘egg’ (pl. jaja) is a formal word;
jajko ‘egg’ (pl. jajka) is a colloquial word;
pl. jaja means also ‘1. testicles; 2. courage, guts, nerve’ in vulgar Polish;
secondarily (and relatively rarely) the singular meaning ‘testicle’ can be
expressed by the singular form jajo (and this is also valid for the meaning
‘courage’, e.g. facet nie ma jaj [pl., lit. ‘the guy has no balls’] ~ facet nie
ma jaja [sg.; rare; lit. ‘the guy has no ball’] means virtually the same: ‘the
guy has no guts’; similarly: z jajami ~ z jajem ‘[somebody] with guts’).
This can be also shown as follows (C = ‘courage, guts, nerve’; E = ‘egg’;
Es = ‘eggs’, T = ‘testicle’; Ts = ‘testicles’):
(a') jajo E → jaja Es, Ts, C → jajo T
(b') jajko E → jajka Es.
The problem is, however, that the diminutive suffix is still being perceived
as generally diminutive. Therefore, persons who wish not to be seen as vulgar,
even if speaking informally, tend to moderate the vulgar tone of jaja Ts and jajo
T by using the diminutive form jajko E and pl. jajka Es also in the meaning of T
and Ts; this, however, mainly occurs in some idiomatic expressions, as e.g. in
ale jaja/jajo/jajka/jajko! ≈ ‘what bullshit!’. Thus the line (b') above should be
changed in the following way:
(b") jajko E (→ T) → jajka Es (→ Ts).
David L. Gold’s point is that “[a]t least in informal Mexican and Paraguayan
Spanish huevo ‘egg’ has acquired the additional meaning of ‘testicle’” (p. 50),
the semantic ambiguity was then felt as intolerable and a new word blanquillo
(lit. ‘little white one’) was introduced to express the meaning of ‘egg’, so that
huevo has only retained its etymologically secondary meaning ‘testicle’:
(e) huevo E → E, T → T
(f) blanquillo E.
171
However, the Chicano Spanish word blanquillo emulated the middle phase
in (e) and, thus, blanquillo, too, received a new meaning: ‘testicle’. As Gold
puts it (p. 51): “With that change, the purpose for which blanquillo was coined
– to avoid having one word meaning both ‘egg’ and ‘testicle’ – was defeated”.
The presentation in (f) should be in that event changed into:
(f') blanquillo E (→ T).
Approximately the same can be observed in Polish, too. The diminutive
form jajko was introduced to avoid the ambiguity of jajo, see (a') above. However, the stylistic tendency triggered the change in (b"), the result (albeit not
necessarily all details) being the same as in Chicano Spanish, cf. (b") with (f).
3. The British English origin of informal Israeli Hebrew braso (p. 53-55).
Gold’s aim here is to show that the Israeli Hebrew slangism braso ‘1. military police; 2. military police officer’ derives from a British English word braso
‘1. 2. id.’ that, in its own turn, reflects the English proprietary name of a certain
brand of polish:3 Brasso (used, e.g., for brass buttons at uniforms) which, incidentally, is used in Israeli Hebrew, too. In the meantime, the meaning of ‘military police (officer)’ became obsolete in Hebrew, unlike the proprietary name
that is still in use both in English and Hebrew.
This article is a nice etymological study and, at the same time, a good example of an obsolete meaning that usually cannot be found in a retrospective
etymological dictionary (and most etymological dictionaries are retrospective) –
a clear argument against those who doubt about the sense of publishing prospective etymological dictionaries.
4. American English slang copacetic ‘fine, all right’ has no Hebrew, Yiddish or other Jewish connection (p. 57-76).
Various etymologies have been suggested for the American English slangism copacetic. None has been generally accepted. Gold cannot solve the mystery
either, but he can at least show that neither Hebrew nor Yiddish could have
been the source. In fact, this is quite a normal situation in etymological research
but this article contains also a somewhat more general conclusion: “The only
value of the yarn about the Hebrew or Yiddish origin of copacetic is therefore
shibbolethic: if you hear it, you can be sure that the storyteller is a linguistic
3
Not “a certain brand of Polish”, as a printing gremlin spelled on p. 54.
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MAREK STACHOWSKI
dilettante” (p. 74). Indeed, the conclusion brings solace to every etymologist
who has, from time to time, to discuss in public (aunt Ann’s birthday, etc.) the
origin of various words, risking yet another encounter with resolute advocates
of folk-etymologies. One cannot but regret that this sentence of Gold’s is not
placed as words of wisdom at the very end of the article.
5. The American English slangism fink probably has no Jewish connection (p. 77-85).
It is important to know that this article “is a revised and expanded version”
of a 1998 article, “which is in turn a revision and expansion of remarks” (p. 77,
fn. 1) that were first published in 1983. Thus, it may be viewed as an emotional
reaction against a 1980 article by Renate L. & Steven M. Benjamin on the
“Origin of American English fink” (p. 80). Apart from a discussion of details,
Gold formulates also a somewhat more general idea here: “If my reaction to the
Benjamins’ musings about Yiddish are angry, the tone is justified: Yiddish
having long been the terra incognita of Germanic studies (it still is), certain students of German outrageously suppose that whatever is German must be Yiddish too or that a knowledge of German qualifies them to be students of Yiddish
also” (p. 81sq.). This is a great problem, indeed. American etymologists feel
excited when citing a Yiddish word, while Slavonic etymologists feel proud and
happy, when citing a Hungarian or Turkish word – exotic words are attractive
enough to be adduced again and again, even if the authors are not ready to learn
any exotic language.4
What concerns Gold’s counter-arguments against the possibility of deriving the American slang word fink from the Ashkenazic Jewish family name
Fink, occurring in a joke (p. 78) as the name of an “untrustworthy tailor”, one
remark should be made: Even if the general line of reasoning (and also, by the
same token, the final negative conclusion) is probably correct, argument 3 (p.
79) appears to me somewhat less certain. It goes as follows: “[…] the presence
of the rise-fall intonation in the joke leads us to conclude that it was made up in
Eastern Ashkenazic English-speaking circles and has been told only in those
circles”. Now, it is virtually a rule in Polish to retell original Jewish jokes with
what is called “Jewish intonation” in Poland (of course, as far as a Pole can imitate it; however, generally even those who cannot nevertheless do try). That is
why I am slightly skeptical about the claim that only Eastern Ashkenazic circles
could retell the joke with the rise-fall intonation in America.
4
Cf. also my remarks on Siberian data used for the etymology of mammoth (in: Folia
Orientalia 36 [2000]: 304sq.) and those on the general state of Slavonic philologists’
Turkological ignorance (in: Studia Turcologica Cracoviensia 10 [2005]: 438, fn. 6).
173
6. Definite and possible English reflexes of Spanish garbanzo ‘chickpea’
(p. 87-90).
The simplest way to explain the American English slang word garbonzas
‘woman’s breasts’ is to say it is a plural form of garbonza ‘woman’s breast’ that
is, in its own turn, a garbled guise of English garbanzo ‘chickpea’ < Spanish
garbanzo id. Gold tries to explain the slangism as a blend of garbanzo ‘chickpea’ and American English slang gazonga(s) ‘woman’s breast(s)’ < bazonga(s)
id., bazooka(s) id. < bazooka [weapon] (p. 89). Actually, I fail to see good arguments in favour of introducing this (rather complex) blend. The semantic
change of ‘peas’ > ‘breasts’ does not seem to need additional support. The
editor of Verba who first published this study of Gold’s in 2000 will have probably been of the same opinion because he has added a footnote with the following examples: Catalan (informal) cigró ‘pea’, pl. cigróns ‘1. peas; 2. testicles’
and the diminutive form cigronets ‘small breasts’.
Besides, Gold points out that “the use of garbanzo in the formation of a
word designating an erogenous part of the body has a precedent in Juvenal, who
uses Latin cicer ‘chickpea’ to designate the testicles or perhaps the penis (Latinists are not sure which) […]” (p. 89) – here, however, the Latin word cicer has
just undergone a simple semantic change and the Latin model (word A ‘x’ > ‘y’)
does not resemble much what Gold suggests (word A1 ‘x’ contaminates with
word B ‘y’ → word A2 ‘y’).
7. Originally American English glitz, glitz up, and glitzy probably have no
Yiddish connection (p. 91-103).
Both the spelling and the sound of these words suggest a German etymon
(e.g., the German verb glitzern ‘glitter’). However, the earliest known attestation of this word family in English is the verb glitz up ‘make glitzy’, used in a
1956 newspaper article. In those times, the German influence on American English was fairly unlikely. Therefore an idea came up that Yiddish was an intermediary between German and English. Historically speaking, this is a possible
solution. Only one thing prevents Gold from accepting this explanation: the sad
fact that no such word exists in Yiddish.
In what follows, Gold first suggests a solution and then dismisses it. Three
Yiddish words refer “to some kind of illumination” (p. 95) and, at the same
time, begin with gli- and have a -ts-: the verb glintsern and two nouns: glimts
and glimtser. The change of Yiddish -mts into English -ts would be easily possible “because word-final /mc/ might be hard for English-speakers to pronounce”
(l.c.). This appears quite a reasonable solution. Also glimtser should be taken
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MAREK STACHOWSKI
into account since the loss of the auslaut sounds could have resulted from reinterpretation of -er as a comparative suffix in English. Gold’s counter-argument
against his own solution is that none of these words has ever been really popular
in Yiddish and “the only ones who knew any of them [in the United States –
M. S.] were a few elderly people far, far removed from the trendy Englishspeaking circles in which the earliest of the three words must have arisen” (p.
96). This sociolinguistic objection cannot be flatly refused, to be sure. Nevertheless, I am probably more sympathetic to Gold’s suggestion than he is himself.
For one, I would not, unlike Gold, assess an English etymology of the kind of a
blend of gl[itter] and [r]itz (p. 91) to be more realistic than the borrowing of
English glitz < Yiddish glimts.
8. Towards a dossier on the still unclear immediate etymon(s) of American
English slang hooker ‘whore’ (with remarks on the origin of American
English Barnegat, Dixie, fly ~ vlei ~ vley ~ vlaie ~ vly, Gramercy Park,
Hell Gate, jazz, Sloughter, and Spuyten Duyvil) (p. 105-162).
An etymological study that is 58 pages long and does not solve the problem at its heart is a rather rare thing. Here, as a matter of fact, a few more or less
independent studies are for some reason collected under one (long) title. I wonder if this really was a good idea, the more so as the part entitled “Appendix 1:
On the etymology of the New York City place names Gramercy Park, Hell
Gate, and Spuyten Duyvil, the New Jersey place name Barnegat, and regional
American English fly ~ vlei ~ vley ~ vlaie ~ vly” (p. 122-147) was written by
David L. Gold and Rob Rentenaar, a fact that is now virtually invisible, unless
the reader has read the first paragraph on p. 122.
Nonetheless, the main part of this article is that devoted to the origin of the
word hooker ‘whore’. Even if the author cannot offer any ready etymology, his
discussion of various etymologies suggested so far orders the picture and shows
new vistas. Additionally, a chronological search was made and its result is a
new (and very precise) date of the earliest known attestation of the word hooker:
25 September 1835. Thus, this article resembles a part of Anatoly Liberman’s
dictionary,5 rather than a typical etymological study whose author usually seeks
for a solution, possibly an ultimate one. On the other hand, it certainly is a
dream of any etymologist interested in the life of words to find, for every word,
a preparatory study like this.
5
Anatoly Liberman (et al.): An analytic dictionary of English tymology…
175
9. American English jitney ‘five-cent coin; sum of five cents’ has no apparent Jewish or Russian connection and may come from (Black?)
Louisiana French jetnée (on the increasing difficulty of harvesting all
the grain) (p. 163-192).
The American English word jitney has, as a matter of fact, two meanings:
‘1. minibus-taxi; 2. a five-cent piece’. A reader who is not aware of this fact
might wonder why the author is speaking of jitney ‘five-cent coin’ in the title
and jitney ‘taxi or bus plying a fixed route’ in the text of the article.
Some names adduced here as equivalents in foreign languages are derivatives with meaning 1 semantically centring around names of coins or the fare
paid for a ride. This seems to fit the situation in English. Nevertheless, Gold
concludes this part of his article as follows: “None of the words cited so far
helps us with jitney. Unfortunately I have not been able to find relevant words
in other languages” (p. 166) and goes over to a presentation of historical attestations of the English word. After having discussed (and dismissed) possible
Yiddish and Russian etymons Gold eventually suggests that English jitney goes
back to (Black?) Louisiana French j tné < standard French jeton ‘token, counter’ with the following semantic evolution: ‘token, counter’ >> ‘five-cent coin’ >
‘five cents’ > ‘vehicle for which the fare is five cents’ (p. 186).
Thus, names for ‘minibus-taxi’ connected with names of coins or fares
(like Swahili mateni matatu ‘three ten-cent coins’ > ‘minibus-taxi’, Spanish
[Mexico] pesero, lit. ‘peso taxi’; cf. English dollar vans in New York City) did
after all prove to constitute a good background and, by the same token (or jeton,
so to speak), to help us with an explanation of the origin of the American English word jitney.
10. Etymology and etiology in the study of eponymous lexemes: The case
of English Molotov cocktail and Finnish Molotovin koktaili (p. 193-235).
It comes as something of a surprise to see that Gold was able to fill more
than forty pages about an expression as transparent as Molotov cocktail. In point
of fact, this was only possible because he presented numerous facts from outside linguistics, underpinned by various citations that elucidated the history of
this weapon, rather than that of its name. It is very interesting to learn that
bottles of vitriol were first used in New York City in 1863 but we do not know
“whether [they] were given a special name” (p. 210).
It is, thus, beyond doubt that the expression Molotov cocktail was coined
much later, namely in early 1940, during the Winter War in Finland. Oddly
enough, “the English term […] is first attested for 26 January 1940 and the
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MAREK STACHOWSKI
Finnish term […] for 4 August 1941” (p. 198). The explanation of this discrepancy and the presentation of arguments in favour of the Finnish origin of
this expression are the etymologically most important parts of this study.
11. Nine criteria for assessing the likelihood of Yiddish influence on English (with examples) (p. 237-255).
This study consists of two parts (not clearly divided from each other). First,
the possibility of a Yiddish etymology of the American English negative nit
‘absolutely not’ is discussed (p. 237-246); then, other possible Yiddish etymons
and generally, the problem of the Yiddish influence on English is considered (p.
247-254 + references: 254sq.).
From among examples presented in part two at least one is of somewhat
more general value: Engl. money-shmoney (p. 251) is interesting on two counts:
because it is not borrowed as such from Yiddish but, rather, the whole expression is an imitation of a Yiddish construction “X + shmX”,6 and, besides, because this Yiddish “shm-device” has its own background that seems to connect
some East European and Turkic languages. I cannot tell whether Gold’s term
“pejorative prefix shm-” actually hits the (semantic) nail on the head. For one,
its Polish equivalent “X + śmX”7 expresses rather the meaning of ‘and so on,
and such like, X and other things of this kind’. However, it is true that these expressions are more often than not used in pejorative contexts.
The question is how Polish m- and another prefix of similar meaning, viz.
m-, compare. The examples of the use of m- are Polish kogel-mogel ‘a confection made of egg yolk and sugar’ (with kogel possibly reflecting German Kugel
‘ball, sphere’, and thus originally meaning in Polish ≈ ‘yolk ball’) and czarymary ‘hocus-pocus, mumbo-jumbo’ (< czary ‘magics, sorceries’; the fact that
m-ary is phonetically identical with Polish mary I ‘ghosts’ and mary II ‘bier’ is
just a coincidence, albeit, it is true, semantically fitting the expression very well).
The same construction can be also found in Russian, e.g. татары-матары < татары ‘Tatars’, нация-мация < нация ‘nation’.8 The general opinion is
that the “X + mX” reduplication originates from Turkic influence. Is Jewish
shm- a further emotional enhancement of this originally Turkic construction?
6
7
8
A rich collection of Yiddish “X + shmX” examples can be found in the article No.
26 here, esp. pp. 613-619.
Cf. colloquial Polish (for instance, in the Polish edition of some Donald Duck comics) wstążki- mążki < wstążki ‘ribbons’, fabryki- mabryki < fabryki ‘factories’, and
the generally used taki- maki ‘so-and-so’ < taki ‘so, such a’, tak- mak ‘this or some
other way’ < tak ‘so, this way, in this manner’.
Cf. Jürgen Plähn: Хуйня-муйня и тому подобное. – Russian Linguistics 11 [1987]:
37-41.
177
Was the evolution like this: Turkic mX → East Slavonic mX → Polish mX →
Yiddish *mX- > shmX- → Polish mX-?
Let us now come back to English nit. Its presentation in the form of eight
criteria for establishing to what extent a given foreign word can be viewed as
the source of a loanword has also some practical value – it can be used for other
word pairs, too. Nevertheless, some details should be commented upon.
The difference between the third and the fourth criterion is very fine (I
daresay, somewhat artificial). In addition, “an eighth criterion is another refinement of the third one” (p. 244). Gold’s scheme would certainly have been more
transparent and more coherent if it were shorter – five criteria will be perfectly
adequate.
The fifth criterion (p. 240) says that “the influence of one lect on another
must be extensive […] before particles may be borrowed”. This is in principle
true. However, the author ignores linguistic jokes. One can easily hear a Polish
student jokingly using English yes, French oui or Italian si in lieu of Polish tak
‘yes’ in an everyday conversation today. English sorry, too, is “often substituting for the Polish word przepraszam in the jargon of schoolgoers”. 9 In like
manner Yiddish nit could have been first used as a joke which quite well fits
Gold’s characterization of nit as “an ephemeral sporadicism” (p. 237). This is
admittedly hard to prove but it must not be a priori excluded on a theoretical
basis.
The seventh criterion (p. 241) says among others that “Yiddish items first
enter the English of Yiddish-speakers and/or their immediate descendents (=
Ashkenazic English); only later might they pass from Ashkenazic English into
other varieties of Jewish English and/or non-Jewish English”. No doubt, this observation is methodologically very important but Gold’s final inference is rather
amazing: “English nit does not meet the seventh criterion, for it has never been
more frequent in Ashkenazic English than in other varieties of the language” (p.
243). Why should it? The problem is not how often but rather whether or not
was nit used in Ashkenazic English. If it were not, the word could not have been
viewed as a Yiddish loan – but it was. This is why I cannot call this conclusion
of Gold’s convincing.
Nonetheless, Gold’s general opinion is certainly correct: English nit was
not borrowed from Yiddish. It was, instead, “extracted from the sporadic American English slang interjection aber nit!” (p. 245) < dialectal German *aber nit
(with aber ‘but’ + nit = standard German nicht ‘not’), functionally and semantically = standard German aber nein! ‘absolutely not!, by no means!’ (p. 246,
fn. 17). This explanation is very well substantiated on p. 246 where even the
stylistic value is pointed out: “Since English nit is ‘a decided negative, much
9
Page 46 in: Elżbieta Mańczak-Wohlfeld: The influence of English on the language
of Polish teenagers. – Studia Etymologica Cracoviensia 1 (1996): 45-48.
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MAREK STACHOWSKI
stronger than no’ […], it may well come from an emphatic expression. Aber nit!
is indeed emphatic” (p. 246).
12. English paparazzo < Italian paparazzo = communization of the label
name paparazzo (in Federico Fellini’s La dolce vita) < ? (p. 257-266).
Apart from sporadic and rather weird “misetymologies” (as Gold calls
them) as Engl. paparazzo < Italian < French paperassier ‘scribbler, rummage in
old papers’ < paperasse ‘old/waste paper’ < papier ‘paper’ (see p. 264), the
word paparazzo is generally derived from the name Paparazzo, as borne by a
photographer in Federico Fellini’s film La dolce vita. Gold, too, accepts this explanation. His aim is, thus, not to find an unknown etymology but to elucidate
one detail: was there between the Italian personal name and the English common name an intermediary stage in form of an Italian common name?
Gold shows that the Italian plural form paparazzi was many times used as
singular in English-language newspapers which points to the existence of an
Italian common noun paparazzo, pl. paparazzi. Gold is certainly right when saying “[…] if English paparazzo were based directly on the film character’s name,
English paparazzo would be frequent [which actually is not the case – M. S.]
and the plural of the English word would probably be paparazzos, that is, regularly formed” (p. 163).
13. New York City English parky ‘park-keeper’ is probably a spontaneous
coinage rather than a borrowing from British English (p. 267-269).
The word parky, known primarily in northern England and Scotland as
well as in America, “could have been coined in New York City independently
of the British English word. Or, the American word could be of British origin”
(p. 268sq.).
In case of a word that is morphologically perfectly transparent and both
possibilities are approximately equally imaginable, a reasonable decision might
seem rather unachievable. Gold cannot offer an ultimate solution, to be sure, but
his way of reasoning shed at least some light on the problem: Since “the British
word is recorded considerably earlier than the New York City one” and lexical
borrowings are made rather through mass media than through direct contact
with Scottish immigrants in recent years (p. 269) the word parky “is likeliest to
be an independent local coinage” (l.c.).
179
14. When chauvinism interferes in etymological research: A few observations on the supposed Vulgar Latin derivation of Rumanian pastramă
~ păstramă, a noun of immediate Turkish origin (with preliminary
remarks on related words in Albanian, Arabic, Armenian, English,
French, Greek, Hebrew, Judezmo, Polish, Russian, Serbocroatian,
Spanish, Turkish, Ukrainian, and Yiddish) (p. 271-375).
Even if this author calls his article “only a preliminary statement” (p. 313),
it is over one hundred pages long and it is virtually impossible to discuss every
aspect here. Thus, only a handful of remarks can be presented below.
On p. 299: “ou is pronounced /u/”. – It should be, of course, [u], not /u/. It
is indeed amazing (and not really understandable) to see how easily and readily
English native speakers resort to slashes, even if they do not mean phonemes at
all. In this volume Gold uses also [ ], e.g. p. 441, fn. 31: Spanish “/a'ora/ realized as ['awra], /pe'riodo/ realized as [per'jodo]”, and so on, but then, on p. 702,
one finds again: “yet the English word is now pronounced with /z/” (why not
[z]?), and on p. 717 we have the following: “Polish pikanteria (/pikan'terja/,
feminine)”, that is, with the phonetic pronunciation written in slashes again.
Examples of this usage are habitual, those of differentiation between phonemic
/ / and phonetic [ ] notations are extremely rare.
Aleksander Brückner’s Turkish etymons basterma ~ pasterma (p. 302sq.)
should doubtless be read with -ı-, i.e. bastırma ~ pastırma, as Gold rightly supposes because the letter e was quite a usual device (esp. in French-language
sources) to render the high velar oral vowel [ɯ] that is noted with ı in today’s
Turkish orthography, introduced in 1928.10
Nowadays, Polish reflexes of this word can be presented in a more exact
way. The oldest known record is bastrama of 1633; in 1874 a variant pasturma,
too, is attested.11 In recent years, the pastrami sausage has been being sold under
10
11
The notation with e in Pierre-François Viguier’s dictionary (Élém ns d la lang
t rq , o tabl s analytiq s d la lang t rq
s ll , av c l r dév lopp m nt,
[…], par M.[= Monsi r] Vig i r, Préf t Apostoliq d s Etabliss m nts d la Congrégation d la Mission dans l L vant, Constantinople 1790) was incorrectly interpreted as ä by Vilhelm Grønbech in his Forstudier til tyrkisk lydhistorie (København
1902): “according to Vigueries [!] teyyoun it should be ä” [instead of tıy(y) n =
Northern Oyrot tıyıŋ ‘squirrel’ – M. S.] (page 48 in the English edition: Preliminary
studies in Turkic historical phonology, transl. by John R. Krueger, Bloomington
1979). Correctly, by contrast, in Mertol Tulum’s article: babase = babası [‘his father’], tanemak = tanımak [‘be acquainted, know’], and so on (page 349 in: Mertol
Tulum: Meninski’ye göre XVII. yüzyıl İstanbul Türkçesi’nde /ı/ ünlüsü. – Türk Dill ri Araştırmaları 17 [2007]: 345-357).
Cf. Stanisław Stachowski: Słownik historyczny t rcyzmów w język polskim, Kraków 2007.
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MAREK STACHOWSKI
the name pastrami in Poland (or maybe only in Cracow?). It is mostly associated by Polish shoppers with Italian and/or Greek cuisine.
According to p. 308, “Turkish has bastırma (now standard) and pastırma
(now nonstandard)”, no sources cited. I do not myself remember ever hearing
bastırma used as a food name in literary Turkish (the word is a noun meaning
‘(sup)pressing, (sup)pression, pressure’); further, the descriptive dictionary
Türkç Sözlük (Ankara 1988) adduces only pastırma as a food name.
If Rumanian pastramă would have been borrowed into Turkish, its reflex
would have been *pastırama, rather than *pastarama because the epenthetic
vowel is usually narrow in Turkish.12 However, the existence of such a word is
far from being certain. First, the dissolved consonant cluster in the Turkish
examples Gold relies on were all in word-initial position, whereas word-medial
clusters are much better tolerated in Turkish, esp. on syllable boundaries which
is also the case here. Thus, the possibility that the -str- cluster would have remained unchanged is not at all unthinkable.13 Secondly, if the word-medial syllable of a three- or four-syllable Turkish word has a narrow vowel, it more often
than not tends to syncope (e.g. Turkish verb ayır- ‘separate, divorce’ > *ayır-ıl(passive voice) > ayrıl- ‘be separated, divorced’), thus: Rumanian pastramă >
Turkish *pastırama > past ırama (with a reduced -ı-) ~ pastrama, i.e. the threeconsonant cluster would have been (almost or entirely) reconstructed.
Three arguments are given in favour of the Turkish origin of this word (p.
319sq.): [a] “Turkish pastırma is a nonstandard variant of Turkish bastırma
‘pressed meat […]’” < bastır- ‘cause to be pressed’ (< bas- ‘press (down),
squeeze’) + deverbal noun suffix -ma; [b] the Turkish etymon makes possible
an easy explanation of the various phonetic variants present in this word family,
with the exception of Polish form bastram(y) with its -a- in the word-medial
12
13
Incidentally, this fact was the basis for defining the Hungarian word király ‘king’ as
a word borrowed not directly from Slavonic (*kralь id.) but through the mediation
of a Turkic form *kıral because all other words, borrowed into Hungarian directly
from Slavonic have a low vowel -a-, -e- with the epenthetic function, cf. Евгений A.
Хелимский [= Eugene Helimski]: Király и olasz: К истории ранних славяно-тюрковенгерских отношений. – [in a collected volume:] Славяне и их соседи: Место
взаимных влияний в процессе общественного и культурного развития. Эпоха
феодализма, Москва 1988: 53-55 (reprinted in: Евгений A. Хелимский: Компаративистика, уралистика. Лекции и статьи, Москва 2000: 433-435).
Unfortunately, no perfect parallel can be given here because only one Turkish suffix -rak (comparative) begins with -r-, and it is actually unproductive and virtually
lexicalized today. Nonetheless, if one would like to build an old-fashioned comparative of dürüst ‘honest, correct, accurate’ it would certainly be dürüstr k (not
*dürüstür k and still less *dürüst r k); cf. also really existing forms with suffixes
beginning with -l-, like dürüstlük ‘correctness, accuracy, soundness’; turistler ‘tourists’, and much else.
181
syllable; [c] Turkish also has derivatives with agentive suffix -acı, i.e. bastırmacı ~ pastırmacı ‘maker and seller of pastrami’ (p. 320).
Let us try to comment on these arguments, beginning with the last one.
An agentive suffix -acı does not exist in Turkish at all. There is only a denominal suffix -cı and a deverbal one -ıcı, both with the agentive function. This
is, however, only a small remark, not really important in our context. A far more
important question is how the existence of derivatives should point to the
Turkish origin of the basic word. Turkish has also banka-cı ‘banker’, posta-cı
‘post office clerk’, politika-cı ‘politician’, and much else. It would not be wise
to maintain on this basis that banka ‘bank’, posta ‘post’ and politika ‘politics,
policy’ are originally Turkish or Turkic.
Argument [b] came only up because of the author’s reasoning on p. 303:
“The fact that Polish and Turkish were in contact only from around 1550 to
around 1750, that is, when Poland and the Ottoman Empire shared a border, is
consonant with the fact that the Polish word is attested only for the seventeenth
century. We thus have no reason to doubt that the Polish word is of immediate
Turkish origin.” This is a very risky inference, indeed.
First, why should Polish and Turkish have been in contact “only from
around 1550”? Apart from military and diplomatic contacts (e.g. the battle of
Varna in 1444 or Mikołaj Firlej’s diplomatic mission to Istanbul in 1489) at
least a source like the so-called Pamiętniki janczara czyli Kronika turecka written
by Konstanty z Ostrowicy between 1496 and 1501,14 must be taken seriously into account by a philologist.
Secondly, the Polish word is not attested only for the seventeenth century,
cf. the form cited above: pasturma, attested in an 1874 Polish source, the -u- of
which admittedly pointing to a Middle Ottoman (≈ 1501-1800) etymon. But
even if all records originated exclusively from seventeenth-century sources, this
fact alone would not suffice to say that this word was “of immediate Turkish
origin”. We still do not have a good knowledge of the history and the conduits
of transmission of Oriental words in the Carpathian zone. A food made of salted
dried meat was as good for Carpathian herdsmen who had no refrigerators on
their mountain wanderings with sheep as was, e.g., the bryndza cheese (Polish
bryndza ‘sheep milk cheese’ < Rumanian brânză ‘milk’). At any rate, one
should reckon with the possibility that Polish bastrama was imported along
(Balkan and) Carpathian routes and not at all directly from Ottoman-Turkish.15
14
15
Stanisław Stachowski: Glosariusz turecko-polski, Kraków 2005: 11, 20.
For examples of Oriental words found in Balkan and Carpathian languages see now:
Corinna Leschber: Lehnwege einiger Orientalismen und Wörter eurasischer Herkunft im Rumänischen und den sonstigen Balkansprachen. – Studia Etymologica
Cracoviensia 16 [2011]: 33-61.
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MAREK STACHOWSKI
Now, the most important argument in favour of the Turkish etymology is
the argument [a]. It may even look convincing at first glance. And yet some
doubts arise. The most characteristic feature of pastırma is its salty taste. Why
should its name derive from pressing, and not from its typical taste? All the
more so as pastırma is not actually pressed at all, its main component being
fine, high-quality sirloin beef, dried, smoked and seasoned with spices. Further:
the causative bastır- means ‘cause to press’, not ‘cause to be pressed’ which is a
great difference because sirloin could not possibly press anything itself. Incidentally, the sense of the causative is not quite clear here (why should a name of
spiced sirloin derive from causing to be pressed or even to press?). In reality,
Turkish causatives sometimes express high intensity of an action, as is the case
also with bastır- ‘1. cause to press; 2. press intensively > 3. suppress (an uprising)’. In addition, the basic word bas- can be translated with ‘press’ or ‘press
down’, but not ‘squeeze’ (which is ez- in Turkish).
Thus, virtually no argument for the Turkish origin of the word pastrami ~
pastırma, and so on, can be readily accepted. Yet another doubt makes this explanation even less possible:
The b- > p- change can be relatively easily explained by a secondary influence of voiceless consonants -st- further on in the word.16 The fact, however,
that the tendency only affected the nominal derivative but never its (much oftener
used) verbal base gives food for thought.
This is why I am rather inclined to interprete Turkish pastırma as a partially disguised reflex of Greek βάστωμα ‘corned meat or fish’, with a secondary
devoicing (b – st > p – st), that is: Greek bást ma > Turkish *bastama ~ *bastıma (the a ~ ı alternation in word-medial syllables being a frequent phenomenon) ~ *pastama ~ *pastıma, folk-etymologically associated and thus blended
with the Turkish bastırma ‘pressing’ > bastırma ~ pastırma, a food name.
Nevertheless Gold’s main thesis (the Rumanian word pastramă is a Turkish loan) remains intact and is by all means correct, even if some details should
be changed.
16
This tendency which has also affected other word-initial stops is well known in
Ottoman-Turkish linguistic history, cf. modern Turkish tut- ‘hold, catch’ < (14th18th c.) dut- id., and so on (p. 255 in: Gerhard Doerfer: Ein altosmanisches Lautgesetz im Kurdischen. – Wi n r Z itschrift für di K nd d s Morg nland s 62
[1969]: 250-263).
A special case are the English reflexes of (Persian pād( )šāh ‘sultan’) > Ottoman-Turkish padişah id. > badiša (1546) ~ padşah [-tš-] (1668) > *badşa ~ *patşa
> *başa ≈ ‘governor’ (> former English bashaw id.) ~ modern Turkish paşa ≈ ‘governor’ (> modern English pasha id.). For the Ottoman forms and earlier etymologies
see page 119 in: Marek Stachowski: Garść etymologii orientalnych w historii języka
ukraińskiego. – Studia Slavica Hungarica 53/1 [2008]: 117-122.
183
15. An immediate or non-immediate Jewish connection for Dutch poeha
and variants (> Afrikaans bohaai > South African English bohaai),
French brouhaha (> English brouhaha), French Brou, brou, ha, ha,
Brou, ha, ha, High German Buhai and variants, Low German B hê
and variants, or modern West Frisian bahey and variants has not been
proven (with remarks on the Jewish Italian or Liturgical Hebrew origin of Arezzo dialectal barruccaba and the Liturgical Hebrew origin of
Italian badanai) (p. 377-407).
Although Dutch poeha ‘fuss; swank’ is the first word adduced in the title,
the study begins with considerations about French brouhaha ‘babel, hullabaloo’.
Generally speaking, this article is devoted to the etymology of various words
connecting the content of ‘babel’ ~ ‘fuss’ with the opinion of Jews being very
noisy. At the end of the article (p. 403sq.), one finds some additional expressions from Afrikaans, Bulgarian, Dutch, German, Greek, Italian, Portuguese,
Serbo-Croatian and Turkish like “Jewish synagog”, denoting ‘a noisy/disorderly
place’. I think the emotional reaction of Gold and his discussion against such
expressions that are, after all, a linguistic fact even if he assesses them as derogatory is easily understandable, yet out of place in an etymological article.
16. Mexican Spanish sarape ~ zarape (> American English sarape ~ serape
~ zarape and French sarapé ~ sérapé), a word possibly from Tarascan
/'Charakwa/, probably has no Jewish or Iranian connection (p. 409539).
This is another long study with an informative title. Gold’s aim here is a
discussion of Beverly G. Hill’s opinion on sarape, published in her 1988 article.
Whereas Hill tried to find an etymon of the Spanish word in one of the languages of the Old World, Gold is rather inclined to accept a native American
(Nahuatl?, Tarascan?) origin.
17. Is slang American English schnook ~ shnook ‘pitifully meek person’
from informal High German Schn c ’ ‘a kind of small sheep’, Northeastern Yiddish shnuk ‘[elephant’s] trunk; snout [of other animals]’,
or Plattdeutsch Schnüc ‘snail’? (p. 541-554).
For the American English s(c)hnook usually one of the etymologies presented in the title of this article is suggested. For Yiddish shnuk, Golds says: “it
is hard to see how we can get from the meaning of the Yiddish word to that of
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MAREK STACHOWSKI
the English one” (p. 544sq.), and this sounds quite reasonable. The High German meaning ‘small sheep’ seems to fit the English meaning ‘meek person’
best. It is not really clear to me why Gold has assessed the change of the Plattdeutsch meaning ‘snail’ into ‘meek person’ as a derivation that “would not be
problematic” (p. 546) because snails are generally associated with being slow,
rather than meek. In my opinion, the Plattdeutsch possibility is not very likely,
whereas the High German word is the best candidate for an etymon of the
American English word.
Even if the Yiddish meaning seems so different that it should not be taken
seriously, I would still like to say a good word for it. I do not mean I can offer a
ready and better solution. Nevertheless, one additional possibility should be examined before the Yiddish word is ultimately dismissed as semantically improbable. The Polish word trąba generally means ‘1. trumpet; 2. elephant’s
trunk’ but it is colloquially also used with the meaning: ‘3. bungler, simpleton,
dupe, sucker (easily deceived or tricked); clumsy, meek and shy (of children)’. I
cannot say what semantic mechanism made possible such a change but the
simultaneous presence of meanings 1, 2 and 3 in one word in Polish is beyond
any doubt. If then, under Polish influence, the Yiddish word had adopted, or
maybe rather evolved, meaning 3, it could have been a source of the American
English word that was primarily used for “one who is easily sold and who can
be made to overpay for merchandise” (p. 542). The problem is whether meaning
3 has been attested in colloquial Yiddish. If not, this conjecture loses its value.
Gold is right when he concludes: “The origin of American English schnook ~
shnook is still unclear” (p. 553).
18. Whence American English scrod and Grimsby English scrob? (p. 555558).
The article is unevenly divided: three pages are devoted to scrod ‘a young
codfish’ and three lines on the fourth page to scrob ‘Danish fisherman’. This
author cannot explain the source of scrod. Since “Boston, ‘the home of the bean
and the cod’, has an effigy of the ‘sacred cod’, from which the city derived much
of its wealth, hanging in the State House” (p. 557), Gold concludes: “Might not
scrod be a shortening of sacred cod?” (l.c.). This does not look very convincing.
The more so as this interpretation leaves the semantic feature [+ young] in scrod
unexplained.
As for scrob, Gold says no more than this: “[…] scrob (plural scrobs) is
fishermen’s slang in Grimsby, England, for ‘Danish fisherman’. What is the origin of that word and might it shed light on American English scrod?” (p. 558).
185
In a footnote accompanying this last question Gold is very unhappy with an
opinion of a friend of his who told him that “the present ‘speculative’ note is
undeserving of being published.” Gold answer is: “[…] I now eagerly look forward to seeing Zoilus Redivivus give us the definitive etymology of scrod and
scrob” (l.c., fn. 3). This must be an important problem for Gold because he
mentions it already in his Introduction where he cites (p. 16) Horace, Samuel
Johnson, John Locke, Günther Grass, Albert Einstein, James Thurber, Herman
Melville, George Orwell, Anatoly Liberman, Randall Jarrell, as well as a Yiddish (“a well-put question is half an answer”) and an English saying (“half a
loaf is better than none”) in order to silence his “criticasters” (p. 16), as he calls
them. Principally, Gold is right – no doubt, half a loaf is better than none. However, the problem whether the phrase “What is the origin of that word and might
it shed light on American English scrod?” actually is “a well-put question” and
“half an answer” remains every reader’s guess.
19. Does American English shack ‘shanty’ come from one or more Uto-Aztecan languages of the American Plains? (p. 559-561).
The easiest way of explaining the origin of American English shack ‘shanty’ is to trace it back to Mexican Spanish jacal [x-] ‘hut’ < [š-] < Nahuatl xacalli
‘adobe hut’ (p. 560). However, the former Spanish [š] (not /š/, against this
author who even says: “the first phoneme [!] of the word was /š/ (which later
became /x/)”, p. 559) had become [x] before the word was borrowed into English, so that Mexican Spanish could not have possibly been the direct source of
the English word. Nahuatl could not either because “Nahuatl and English have
never been in significant contact” (p. 560).
Gold suggests that some other language of the Uto-Aztecan family Nahuatl
belongs to could have been the donor. This is certainly a good idea. Unfortunately, he cannot name any specific language matching his scenario. Even so,
this approach seems worth further close examination.
20. The etymology of English spiel and spieler and Scots English bonspiel
(p. 563-570).
Most dictionaries classify English spiel ‘a speech intended for the purpose
of persuading or selling’ as a loanword from German. Only three take into account Yiddish, too. Gold presents various arguments for the German and against
the Yiddish etymology, the most important being probably the chronological
ones. The oldest known record of the verb spiel ‘gamble’ is dated 1859 – “Yid-
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MAREK STACHOWSKI
dish influence on pre-1859 American […] English is out of the question” (p.
565).
Additionally, some Dutch words borrowed into Scots English are discussed
in a sort of appendix, i.e. part 6, coming after part 5 “Summary” (p. 568sq.).
21. English Star Chamber has no Jewish connection (p 571-573).
In this study no mysterious etymology is discussed. Rather, on the basis of
a folk etymology the most important features of scholarly etymological research
are presented. The folk etymology goes as follows: “According to an explanation still circulating among anglophone Jews, the first component of English
Star Chamber […] goes back to Hebrew shetar ‘[commercial] bill, promissory
note […]’. The supposition […] is that Jews in medieval England presented to
that court their promissory notes for collection and hence it came to be called
after such notes” (p. 571).
The following criteria are presented against this explanation: [1] the oldest
phonetic variant (Sterred [i.e., Starred] chambre [i.e., Chamber]); [2] the oldest
semantic motivation (the ceiling was decked with images of stars); [3] the oldest
usage (a name of an apartment of the Royal Palace at Westminster); [4] the
sociocultural context (judeophobia in medieval England); [5] the historical context (the existence of the Court fell “within the 365-year period during which
Jews were not allowed to live in the British Isles”, p. 572); [6] the philological
context (“[…] no primary document […] mentions both Jews and the Star
Chamber”, p. 573).
Gold is speaking about “three separate proofs” (p. 573) because he treats
[1] and [3], as well as [4] and [5] as one argument, and presents [6] as “a piece
of negative evidence” (l.c.). Notwithstanding his own treatment, I preferred to
list his arguments as six different items because this study can be very well used
for didactic purpose and then a more detailed presentation of the embarrassing
questions that are often ignored by “armchair and cocktail-party etymologists”
(p. 572) should be of practical value.
22. Who can decipher (Yiddish?) *“bashtem” and (Yiddish?) *“ghop
bagi”? (p. 575-581).
Gold’s problem here are not really etymologies as such but rather identification of two words – one of them is written bestemm in a Jewish journal
article, the other one is the name of a game, spelled ghop bagi . Gold cannot
187
identify and explain them, so that his article is in point of fact a call for help and
cooperation.
The article offers also data concerning some other game names, e.g. shtrulkes, zaplkes, etc. Especially, the game called shtrulkes or strulkes is discussed at
length and this author says eventually: “Specifically, Polish is probably the source
of the Yiddish word. Does that language have *strulki or *strólki?” (p. 579).
An answer to this question is not very hard: yes, it does. But the problem of
etymology of Polish s(z)trulki has turned out to be much more complex, so I
decided to publish a separate article on the origin of the noun s(z)trulki in a
Polish linguistic journal.17 Without adducing the entire word material (which
would take up too much room in a review article) I can only say that this word,
along with its various phonetic variants as sztule ~ sztole ~ sztulki ~ sztrule,
eventually ascends to German Stolle(n) ‘horseshoe stud/screw’ (which was first
used as gaming piece), possibly contaminated with German Stuhl ‘chair’, used
as a technical term for ‘girder, support, underlayment, bottom layer’.
23. The (solely Southeastern?) Yiddish cloth name taniklot and the rare
American English baking term poolish ‘leaven, starter, starter dough’
(p. 583-585).
This is another text in which no etymology at all is suggested, and this
author feels compelled to limit himself to a more detailed presentation of the
words named in the title as well as to an appeal to join him in further research.
24. An instance of convergence: Frisian witte and Yiddish mideye (p. 587589).
This is a very nice study (first published in 1998) in which Yiddish mideye
‘extremely, absolutely’ is elegantly derived from Hebrew mi yoydeya ‘who
knows?’, used in some exclamations, in like manner as, some years earlier, Frisian witte ‘very’ was explained as a derivative from wa wit hoe ‘who knows how?’.
Both etymologies are quite parallel. Nevertheless, I would like to discuss
one aspect here. Gold’s opinion is that in both cases “weakening of internal
word boundaries has led to phonological reduction” (p. 588). The problem,
however, rather is why the internal boundaries were weakened. “The only major
difference between the two usages is that the Frisian one is based on Frisian
words whereas the Yiddish one is taken from another language” (l.c.). Thus,
17
Marek Stachowski: Skąd poszły strulki i hancle? – LingVaria 7/1 (2012): 133-137.
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MAREK STACHOWSKI
weakening of word boundaries in the Hebrew phrase used by “Yiddish-speakers
who do not know Hebrew” (l.c.) is well understandable. But the Frisian phrase
is used by Frisians who do know Frisian. They must have had another reason
than a missing command of the input language. This reason was, in my opinion,
high frequency of usage of the exclamation wa wit hoe. The phenomenon of
shortening words as a result of high frequency of usage is very well known. 18
Thus, there are two major differences between the Yiddish and the Frisian case,
first being the one cited above, the other one being the difference of reasons of
reduction: high frequency of usage in Frisian on the one hand and, on the other,
unknown language (most possibly likewise combined with high frequency of
usage) in Yiddish.
25. A few English words sometimes misattributed to Yiddish (finagle, finical, finick, toco, trantle, and trantlum); a Yiddish-origin English word
misetymologized for at least sixty-six years (bopkes); a misetymologized Yiddish pen name (Shmul Niger); and a misetymologized Eastern Yiddish word (yavne-veyasne!) (p. 591-608).
Whereas the first six words in this article are sometimes treated as Yiddish
loanwords into English which they are not, the other three words constitute two
typologically different groups: bopkes and yavne-veyasne are, roughly speaking,
Polish loans, and the pen name Niger – misinterpreted by Gold’s predecessors –
is a quasi-latinization of a surname spelled Charney in English which was a
rendering of the Eastern Ashkenazic family name Tsharni, going back to Polish
czarny ‘black’.
26. Etymological and sociolinguistic notes of Czech and Jewish or possible
Jewish interest (on Czech fizl, frajle, hajzl, h ra, eťas, mecheche,
Nabuchodonozor ~ Nabukadnezar, pajzl, pejzy, šmelina, šmelin ř, šmo ;
Yiddish di alt-naye shul, peyem ~ peym; Olomouc in Yiddish lexemes;
Fran Kafka’s early linguistic history; and the investigation of Yiddish
in Bohemia and Moravia) (p. 609-637).
Here, again, various topics have been gathered in one article. However, this
time a clear “common thread” can be observed: Yiddish-Czech linguistic contact. Gold tells us in the introductory section that he has been “in epistolary con18
Cf. numerous studies by Witold Mańczak (e.g. his: Développement phonétique irrégulier dû à la fréquence et dictionnaires étymologiques. – Studia Etymologica Cracoviensia 12 [2007]: 99-105).
189
tact” with Ladislav Zgusta “for about fifteen years” and “[t]he present article is
distilled” (p. 609) from these letters.
Apart from words that could be etymologically explained here, there are
also some mysterious cases. One of them is the fact that two Hebrew names
with a word initial ayin are differently rendered in the Czech Bible: Híra syn
Ik š where either *Híra syn Hik š or *Íra syn Ik š should be expected. Unfortunately, no solution is offered in this article.
The idea that Czech k ťas ‘black-marketeer’ is possibly a corrupted reflex
of Polish kutas ‘1. tassel > 2. vulg. penis > 3. vulg. arrogant jerk, swine, prick’19
does not look really convincing (what about the phonetics?). If this, however,
were the case, the word would have had a very interesting semantic history:
Czech k ťas ‘black-marketeer’ < Polish kutas ‘prick, jerk < penis < tassel’ <
Ottoman-Turkish kutaz ~ kutas ‘tassel at a horse’s headgear’ ~ ‘ein an dem Halse des Pferdes gehängter Schmuck, Kopfschmuck’20 < *‘amulet’ < Old Turkic
kut ‘1. divine favour, benevolent spirit; 2. good fortune, happiness’. Indeed, this
is a very sad semantic degeneration…
As far as Czech šm linář ‘black-marketeer’ is concerned Gold suggests
that it is a secondary šm- derivative (for other examples cf. No. 11 above) of
šm liná [sic!] 21 ‘suspicious, clandestine enterprise; black market business’ <
[Czech *šmaliná <] Yiddish *maline-shmaline < maline ‘hide-out’ (p. 613, 619)
but he immediately poses a question: “[…] since Yiddish was almost extinct in
Bohemia and Moravia by World War 2 […], how could a Yiddish word enter
Czech at that time?” (p. 619). This objection is doubtless justified. We can even
go a step further: the semantic and the phonetic side of this etymology are also
not really flawless (or are these two steps?). It is of course easy to say that Yiddish -e > Czech -a because this word had to be incorporated into a Czech feminine declension. That is true but the change of Yiddish -a- > Czech -e- is less
clear, particularly as no *šmaliná – or *maliná(-šmaliná), for that matter – is in
actual fact recorded in Czech. In other words, two explanations seem to be possible:
[a] Yiddish maline ‘hide-out’ > Yiddish *maline-shmaline > Czech šm liná
(as Gold puts it on p. 619). – Some objections: [α] the construct *malineshmaline is not known in Yiddish (otherwise Gold would not have put the
19
20
21
It is a curious coincidence that another word for ‘prick’, namely Yiddish shmok (<
Polish smok ‘dragon’, not ‘snake’, as translated on p. 622) is discussed further on in
this article, see pp. 622-624.
Wilhelm Radloff: V rs ch in s Wört rb ch s d r Türk-Dialecte, vol. 2/1, St. Petersburg 1899, col. 992.
The correct form is šmelina (and thus also *šmalina) as adduced in the title of this
article. In its text, however, the Czech word is consistently cited as šmeliná, which is
retained unchanged in this review.
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MAREK STACHOWSKI
asterisk in front of it or called it a nonce formation); [β] there seems to be
no trace of either *maliná or *šmaliná in Czech; [γ] the meaning of the
Czech word šm liná ‘suspicious, clandestine enterprise; black market business’ (p. 613) is admittedly not miles away from a ‘hide-out’ but the semantic mechanisms and processes are not really self-evident and should be
explained.
[b] Yiddish maline ‘hide-out’ > Czech *maliná > *maliná-šmaliná > *šmaliná
> šm liná. – The objections are principally the same as in [a].
That is why yet another channel of borrowing comes to mind, a somewhat
longer one. A missing link between the Yiddish and the Czech word could possibly be a Polish reflex of the Yiddish word, namely: Polish melina ‘1. hide-out
of criminals > 2. storeroom for stolen things’. The way from Yiddish via Polish
to Czech seems to be a better solution. For one, Yiddish was not extinct in
Poland by World War 2. Even if the word szmelina seems to be missing in most
Polish dictionaries, it can be found in the Internet as a word used by young
people with two meanings: ‘1. bad room/flat/dwelling place; 2. junk, useless
implement’. Since the notion of a melina is generally associated with low
quality of both rooms and products, it could have been easily blended with
Polish szmelc ‘junk, rubbish, useless thing(s)’, and thus a new word szmelina
came into being.
For Czech pajzl ‘bad tavern’ < Austrian German Beisel ‘tavern’ [< ‘small
house’ – M. S.] < Yiddish bayis ‘house’ < Hebrew bajiṯ ‘house’ (p. 621)22 another reflex of the Austrian word should be added: Polish bajzel ‘1. brothel > 2.
shambles’;23 incidentally, cf. English shambles ‘disgraceful state of confusion’
(20th cent.) < ‘slaughter-house’ (16th cent.) < ‘butcher’s shop’ (15th cent.).24
In the next section of this article, Gold argues that “Kafka’s earliest language was […] presumably Ashkenazic German (= German with Yiddish vestiges, that is, German on a Yiddish substratum)” (p. 631), rather than Standard
Yiddish.
The end part of this article (p. 632-637) is of special interest to those who
would like to learn more about Yiddish-Slavonic linguistic contacts.
22
23
24
For the similar semantic evolution in Old French bordel ‘house’ > modern French
‘brothel’ see page 153 in: Marek Stachowski: Polnisch Burdel als Ortsname und sein
karpatensprachlicher Hintergrund – eine Einladung zur Diskussion. – Studia Etymologica Cracoviensia 13 [2008]: 149-154.
Page 151 in: Marek Stachowski: Polnisch Burdel…
Page XIV in: John Considine: Historical lexicology. – John Considine (ed.): Web of
Words: New studies in historical lexicology, Newcastle upon Tyne 2010: VII-XXI.
191
27. On the probable Kenaanic origin of Eastern Yiddish zeyde ‘grandfather’ and bobe ‘grandmother’ (p. 639-668).
Although only two kinship terms are named in the title of this article, the
author discusses also some other terms. Gold’s conjecture may be true that the
Czech hypocoristic nominative děda ‘grandpa’ or its vocative dědo (p. 651) or,
maybe, also děd , the vocative of the stylistically neutral nominative děd
‘grandfather’ (p. 667) probably are relevant in the discussion of Yiddish zeyde
id. In this context I would like to draw the reader’s attention to the fact that
masculine vocative forms, esp. those of kin terms, titles (or other “appeal
words”) and some first names are habitually used as nominatives in Cracow
and, generally, in Southern Poland, e.g., w jk ma… ‘the uncle has…’ < wujek
‘uncle’. In lieu of wujku also t ci (< t ć ‘father-in-law’), Heniu (< Henio,
hypocor. < Henryk ‘Henry’), and so on, can stand. The tendency is fairly active
and seems to spread on other groups of words (however, always only masculine
personal nouns). The suffix -u has become to some degree generalized and can
be attached to nominatively used vocatives even if the proper vocative of the
given nominative is built with another suffix; this is the case with the noun szef
‘chief’ → szef-ie (regular voc.) ~ szef-u (voc. used as a nom.), e.g. sz f mówi,
ż … ‘the chief is saying that…’. It would be most interesting to know whether
this process was (is?) an areal feature, rather than just a sporadic sign of a regional evolution. Needless to say, this wish concerns also other linguistic processes: to what extent did Yiddish participate in developing areal features (not
only those of lexical systems) in Eastern Europe? Even if zeyde and bobe actually “can be only from Kenaanic” (p. 668)…
28. Zinfandel: an American English grape and wine name of immediate
Hungarian, Moravian Czech, and/or Slovak origin (on how the origin
of a significans need not be parallel to the origin of the corresponding
significandum) (p. 669-708).
Apart from a short history of this article (p. 669sq.), it contains the following sections: § 2 – Sources in English (p. 671-685); § 3 – Sources in German (p.
685-698); § 4 – Collation of the English and German-language material (p. 698699); § 5 – Conclusions (p. 699-706). The ultimate source suggested by Gold
looks perfectly convincing: modern Engl. zinfandel (< earlier English zinfardel)
<< Austrian German Zierfahndel, lit. Zier ‘ornament’ + Fahndel ‘little flag’,
“the grape in question being so called because its tendrils are multicolored” (p.
704). Less clear is the borrowing channel of the word into English. Unlike
Gold, I can hardly accept the idea that the German word was first borrowed into
192
MAREK STACHOWSKI
Moravian Czech (cinifádl, etc.), Slovak (cirifandel) and Hungarian (cirfandle,
cirifandel, etc.) and then, in a more or less distorted form, reborrowed by a
German-speaker, who must have spelt the Czech, Slovak or Hungarian c- as
German z , “which anglophones reinterpreted as standing for /z/” (p. 703). The
thought of non-German origin of this English noun was possibly suggested by
the fact that “the first known written use of our problematic English word refers
to Hungary («Black Zinfardel, of Hungary») […]” (p. 701). At the same time,
Gold will probably have been right when hinting at a possibility that English
zinfardel is “the earliest known spelling of the word but perhaps not the earliest
spelling” (p. 704).
Gold’s explanation appears to me somewhat farfetched because of the
complex story of c and z . Besides, English zinfardel shows the n – r sequence
of consonants. None of the Hungarian phonetic variants (cirfandle, cirifandel,
czirifandli, tzirifándli, tzilifant, cilifánt, see p. 700) displays the same sequence.
Apparently, the hint “of Hungary” should concern only the land of production,
not the origin of the wine name – incidentally, it is exactly the difference that is
rightly emphasized by Gold in this article.
I would rather derive English zinfardel directly from German Zierfahndel,
admittedly, with two additional processes: [a] metathesis of German r – n >
English n – r; [b] rendering of German z [ʦ] as z [z] in English, just as is the
case with German Zürich > English Zurich. Both processes are easily imaginable. Such is also the subsequent assimilation of n – r > n – n in English (i.e.,
zinfardel > zinfandel).
29. Nokh a pur dugmes fun der yidisher hashpoe af ivrit [= ‘A few more
examples of Yiddish influence on Hebrew’] (p. 709-715).
This is the only article written in Yiddish in this volume, and, thus, I do not
feel competent to comment on it. A typographical peculiarity of this text is that
it is published in the Latin script according to the Standardized Yiddish Romanization system, and – as is the case in the Hebrew alphabet – no capital letters
are used at the beginning of sentences (on the other hand, they are used in titles
and proper names, e.g., Khsidic, p. 711).
30. Some more Israeli Hebrew items of German origin (p. 717-721).
This is a continuation of Gold’s article on Hebrew items of German origin,
published in Jewish Linguistic Studies 2 (1990): 215-217. Unfortunately, the
basic three-page article is not reprinted in the present volume.
193
Two kinds of supplements are presented here: [a] Four corrections concerning heksenshus ‘lumbago’, pikanterya ‘piquancy, juicy detail’, shtawbzawger ‘vacuum cleaner’ and torf ‘peat’; [b] Thirteen new items, some of which
are just loan words (e.g., delikates ‘delicacy’, p. 718), some other being calques
(e.g., kadachat-netsia, a translation of Reisefieber, p. 719). In addition, Hebrew
flugelhoren is discussed that cannot be possibly a direct loan from German
Flüg lhorn because this word would have yielded a *fligelhoren in Hebrew.
The transmitter of the German word into Hebrew was English flugelhorn.
Gold is certainly right when attaching much importance to what could be
called fine details by etymological outsiders, as in the case with Hebrew flugelhoren above. Analogically, Hebrew delikates ‘delicacy’ seems, at first sight, to
go back to Polish delikates id., rather than to German Delikatesse, even if it is
colloquially pronounced D likat ss’. And yet Gold rightly accepts the German
colloquial pronunciation as the etymon of Hebrew delikates because both words
are finally stressed whereas Polish delikates is not: [deli'kates], and “[t]he outright loans […] retain the stress of their etymons” (p. 718).
The situation with Hebrew pikanterya ‘piquancy’ is not really parallel
(although Gold names this word, p. 721, along with flugelhoren) because two
features distinguish this word from German Pikanterie id. First, the penultimate
stress which “suggests that the word is probably not from German but from Polish pikanteria (/pikan'terja/, feminine), which is from German Pikanterie” (p.
717). It is somewhat amazing that the different auslaut syllable was overlooked
in this (otherwise correct) argumentation. Of course, a Hebrew reflex of the
German word Pikanterie would be expected to be finally stressed. But also the
difference between German [-riː] and Polish and Hebrew [-ria] should be taken
into account. I fail to see any argument against the Polish origin of Hebrew
pikanterya ‘piquancy, juicy detail’.
31. Jewish Dickensiana, Part One: Despite popular belief, the name Fagin
in Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist has no Jewish connection (with appendixes on some laws concerning personal names and on Dickens’s
authentic Yiddish name) (p. 723-857).
This article is so full of facts and erudition that it can hardly be summarized in a concise review. First of all, the symbolic notation of “the name of
Fagin the archvillain of Dickens’s novel Oliver Twist” (p. 723) should be explained: in this usage the name is spelled Fagin1 in the text of the article
(should a 135-page study be called an article?), whereas Fagin2 “stands for
Fagin as one of the spellings which the East Ashkenazic demetronymical family
name Feygin has taken in English” (l.c.). According to a popular belief, Fagin1
194
MAREK STACHOWSKI
< Fagin2 which, however, cannot be accepted because no scholarly proof can be
given. Gold aims at showing that “1. The East Ashkenazic demetronymical
family name Feygin (hence Fagin2 also) probably did not exist at any time before May 1837; 2. Even if it did exist before that time, probably no one bearing
it was then living in the British Isles; 3. Even if it did exist and was brought to
the British Isles before that time, Dickens probably did not know of it; 4. Consequently, Fagin1 does not, despite popular belief, derive from Fagin2; 5. Fagin1
has no Jewish connection of any kind” (p. 725). Now, Gold very well knows
that only [1] is a good argument (if it is true); by contrast, [4] and [5] are practically the same and they are conclusions rather than arguments; [2] and [3] are
just conjectures. All in all, only [1] can be used as an argument, and Gold is
aware of the fact that it is hard to prove, so he adds immediately one item more:
“6. Fagin1 is an opaque talking name” (p. 725). All things considered, even if
not absolutely every statement in this study is equally certain, there can be no
doubt about one thing: the idea of the Jewish origin of the name Fagin is even
less certain than the evidence of these statements.
Two appendices are added at the end of this article: “Appendix 1 – Some
laws concerning personal names” (p. 837-840) and “Appendix 2 – English
Charles Dickens = Yiddish Tshales Dikndz” (p. 841-842).
A long bibliography (p. 843-857) is preceded by a short introduction, quite
practically oriented. Having the next researchers in mind, Gold says: “To save
them time and effort, let it be said that [here 28 titles are enumerated – M. S.]
contain nothing relevant” (p. 844).
* * *
Summaries (p. 859-870) are written in English, with one exception only:
the summary of No. 31 (Jewish Dickensiana) is in English, Yiddish and German.
* * *
Now, after we have reached page 870, the last one in the volume, it is time
to think about most general features of David L. Gold’s writings. Four should
be named:
Gold works philologically. He does not shy away from original sources.
Precise chronology can be found in virtually every study, sources and dates are
given remarkably frequently, citations are adduced fairly extensively.
Secondly, Gold is not interested in proto-languages. His main domain is
word history, rather than reconstruction of proto-words and proto-forms.
195
Thirdly, Gold spares no effort in examining external, i.e. non-linguistic circumstances in which a word could have been coined or changed, borrowed or
blended. If “etymology is unthinkable without the broadest exposure to the wide
world”,25 Gold is doubtless ready to connect his linguistic knowledge with his
exposure to the wide world.
Fourth, Gold more often than not appeals to fellow etymologists. He poses
questions and presents problems. But sometimes he is not in a position to give
an answer by himself. Then, he does not just leave off, saying that a further
analysis would exceed the bounds of his sketch. Quite the contrary, he asks his
readers for help and continuation of research. This is a practical application of
what I tried to express by the slogan “Etymologists of the world, unite!”26 – and
a joyful one because Gold’s studies were written earlier and my slogan was published before I could see Gold’s volume and in quite an independent context.
Generally speaking, cooperation and a sense of community are the Achilles’
heel of etymologists. Gold seems to be aware of that and to encourage his fellows to cooperate and contribute to our togetherness.
Marek Stachowski
Inst. Orientalistyki UJ
ul. Podwale 7
PL – 31-118 Krakow
[[email protected]]
25
26
Page 108 in: Anatoly Liberman: The etymology of the word wife. – Michael Adams,
Anne Curzan (eds): Contours of English and English language studies, Ann Arbor
2011: 108-134.
Page 194 in: Marek Stachowski: Liberman and Levickij: Towards comparative etymological lexicography of English and Germanic. ‒ SEC 16 (2011): 189-199.

studia etymologica cracoviensia 18

Transcription

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