Mayerling ~ Wednesday, January 30, 1889

On the morning of January 31, 1889, the people of Vienna awoke to a shocking news that chilled the streets, veiled by the icy winter fog, into silence. On every newspaper of the capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire front-paged appears the news of the tragic death of the heir to the throne, Archduke Rudolf, which had occurred the previous morning from a heart failure while he was at his hunting lodge in Mayerling, in the Vienna Woods. Time seemed to stand still for a moment, for Vienna, for the whole Old Continent, for the entire world. As the hours passed, it was discovered that he wasn't alone, he was together with his lover, Marie Vetsera, and they had both died from gunshot wounds.

~ My Little Old World ~ has already dealt with this topic some years ago (click HERE to read the post published on January 30, 2014), but new developments prompt me to retract it. Let's look at what happened in order. At 6:30 that morning, the prince's personal valet, Johann Loschek, hears a shot coming from the room where Rudolf was sleeping. He had spent merrily the previous evening with his usual companions: the inseparable Josef Bratfisch, his personal coachman, a good-natured, singing man with a quick wit; Count Joseph Theodor von Hoyos, his aide-de-camp; and Johann Loschek, of course. Before retiring to his room at about midnight, Rudolf had bidden farewell, asking the latter to wake him at 7:00 a.m. He had to have breakfast and then meet up with the friends who accompanied him whenever a hunting trip was planned: Count Hoyos, already in Mayerling, and his friend and brother-in-law, Prince Philip of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, who would be joining them from Vienna that early morning. Hearing the shot, Loschek rushes to the door of his room but finds it bolted from the inside. A first question arises here: why would Rudolf have locked the door from the inside with the latch, thus making it unopenable from the outside, when the night before he had instructed Loscheck to be woken at a very specific time? But let's return to the story of the events of that fateful morning: Loscheck is unable to open the door of Rudolf’s room by himself. It takes the strength of two men and the aid of a lever. He then turns to Hoyos for his help. Once the door is open, the scene that unfolds before their eyes is nothing short of horrifying, so much so that they cannot explain it, much less comprehend it: the small window bangs forcefully in time with the gusts of the icy north breeze caressing the snow that has continued to fall throughout the night; someone has entered through that very window, forcing the handle, and, from there, quickly escaped, leaving the ladder he used to go up and down leaning against the windowsill. The table that was against the wall now appears torn down in the center of the room, in a pool of blood; the other furniture has also been moved and stained with blood. In all honesty, blood is everywhere. Generous splashes distressingly paint the walls, especially the one supporting the bed on which lie the lifeless bodies of Rudolf and his very young lover, the seventeen-year-old Baroness Marie Vetsera, who had followed him there and joined him the night before. There were traces left by large men near the window, and footprints and blood were also visible on the ladder, demonstrating that the prince had not only resisted for a long time before surrendering to death, but had also wounded one of his attackers. But above all, it is on the floor, in the center of the room, that there is a huge pool of it... 

What does it mean? Perhaps Rudolf and Marie didn't die in the bed they were found in? That doesn't really appear to be the scene of a suicide, but, for everyone, it had to become such. Count Hoyos appears to gather courage and offers himself to bring the news of the incident to the emperors. He then sets out on foot to the Baden station where he awaits the first train to the capital. Rudolf's other three companions—Loschek, his coachman Bratfisch, and Prince Philip of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, who had arrived in the meantime and had witnessed his heartbreaking state—ride home and will arrive in Vienna before him. But no one will ever know it. Why does Hoyos act so calmly? He should have ridden as fast as the wind to the Hofburg. Instead, he will be the last to arrive in Vienna. A few hours after hearing the news of the tragedy, the emperor summons four men before him—THE MAYERLING WITNESSES—to buy their silence. They should never have confided to anyone what they had seen in the hunting lodge where Rudolf was still laying on his deathbed. Only one man will not keep his promise, and he will do so because he feels a heavy conscience: it will be Hoyos, complicit in the death of the crown prince who had blindly trusted him. He will confess the incident and his guilt to his brother Ladislaus, and from him the truth about Mayerling will be passed from father to son for several generations. It was never made known. Until the year 2022, when the journalist François Varay published the book Mayerling, la vérite révélée. Un secret de famille dévoilé, for the Parisian publisher Michel de Maule. He was the younger half-brother of the Franco-Austrian journalist Ladislas de Hoyos, known as the man who tracked down Klaus Barbie, the Nazi leader and head of the Gestapo in Paris during the World War II, who had taken refuge in Argentina. From then on, this descendant of Rudolf's aide-de-camp went on gaining fame in France, even hosting the news on the TF1 television channel. Having no children, he orally passed on all his knowledge to the author of this book, and, obviously, what is revealed goes beyond conjecture and represents one piece of a very complex mosaic. Although these are oral evidences, that is not supported by written documents, they're are anyway worth to be considered, for they're quite interesting and make us think.

It was 13 June, 1886, when King Ludwig II of Bavaria, Sissi's forty-one-year-old beloved cousin, also known as "The Fairytale King," was found dead under suspicious circumstances. That case, too, was considered a suicide, or rather, a suicide by drowning—hard to believe, given that he was an excellent swimmer—but the proofs were silted- up. Everything was quickly hushed up. The King of Bavaria, though politically absent, was somewhat of a nuisance to Wilhelm II of Prussia, which aspired to create a confederation of German States. For his chancellor, Count Otto von Bismarck, who was his shadow, or perhaps it's better to say his right hand, it would have been easy to get rid of that man of singular sensitivity and intellect, which were never understood and were interpreted as clear signs of madness. By becoming a patron of Wagner, of whom he was a fervent admirer, he had saved him and his family from absolute poverty. His only concern was spending exorbitant sums to surround himself with castles built in keeping with medieval chivalric ideals married to Norse mythology, legends that his musician friend would adapt into operas to be performed in theaters. Given his lifestyle and the mental illness that, it was said, was afflicting him for so long, few would have believed his passing to be accidental. In everyone's eyes, he was an extremely fragile and vulnerable man. On 13 June, at 6:30 PM, he asked to take a walk with Dr. Bernhard von Gudden, whom his ministers, who thought their king to be incompetent, always wanted him to accompany him. The latter accepted, telling the guards not to follow them. The two men never returned: both were found prone, lifeless, in the waters of Lake Starnberg half an hour before midnight. But there were two others Bismarck had to "eliminate" on the orders of his Kaiser: one of them was none other than Rudolf. Two and a half years had passed since the disappearance of the King of Bavaria, first on the "Iron Chancellor's" list, and perhaps the time had come to organize another plot to eliminate the second one. United with Austria and Russia in the Triple Alliance, Prussia aspired to the most ruthless conservatism, which is why it enjoyed the sympathies of Emperor Franz Joseph, sympathies that were clearly mutual. Wilhelm II, on the other hand, harbored a clear antipathy for Crown Prince Rudolf, also mutual. In IL PICCOLO on January 30, 2019, on the occasion of the publication of the essay Mayerling, Anatomia di un Omicidio, written by Fabio Amodeo and Mario José Cereghino for Mgs Press, the following was stated:

«According to the great Hungarian-born French historian François Fejtö, author of Requiem per un impero defunto (Mondadori), it was actually the German Kaiser Wilhelm II who hatched the plot. Rudolf's sworn enemy was reciprocated: ‘At most, I would gladly meet Wilhelm on a hunting trip to rid the world of him in an elegant manner,’ Rudolf had stated. In short, a state crime, disguised as suicide, in which poor Vetsera was implicated as an inconvenient witness to be eliminated.»

François Fejtö's simple but acute intuition will be confirmed by Count Hoyos's descendant. As we have seen and will see as we read further, Count Hoyos was not only informed of the detailed course of the Mayerling conspiracy, because he was supposed to be part of it; he also knew the details of the entire plot hatched by Bismarck, of which Mayerling was merely an "episodic moment." But how did events really unfold at the hunting lodge located in the Vienna Woods of Niederösterreich (Lower Austria)?

A few days before the tragedy, some witnesses noted, in a chalet near Rudolf's castle in Mayerling, the presence of two men they had never seen before. They spoke with a remarkable Prussian accent and claimed to be hunters, but they were not carrying hunting rifles: they were two of Bismarck's snipers, tasked with eliminating the crown prince of the Danubian Dual Monarchy, one of the pawns Bismarck had placed on his chessboard. Obviously, Rudolf did not surrender to death that fateful morning. This is why the scene that originally presented itself to the first four witnesses was not that of a suicide, but rather that of a fight; and this is why Hoyos himself offered to carry news of the tragedy to the imperial palace: he had been chosen as the Prussian snipers' accomplice. He was the other pawn. At this point, it's easy to understand why he chose the longest route to Vienna: he had to stall. As soon as he left Mayerling, he passed through the neighboring village of Alland. Here he contacted the carpenter and the blacksmith, who had their workshops there, and tasked them with restoring the room where the bodies of Rudolf and the young Marie lay lifeless, prematurely stiffened by the cold that entered through the broken window. They needed time to repair it by replacing the broken handle from the outside and the shattered glass; replace the floorboards in the central part of the room, which were irreparably stained with blood; repair the furniture and put it back in its place.

«It was Bismarck who had the prince assassinated. The Emperor of Austria knew about it, but he could do nothing. The Germans sent spies who killed the prince and his mistress. And it was my ancestor, Count Hoyos, who made things easier for them by later providing false deposition. [...]» (François Varay, Mayerling, la vérite révélée. Un secret de famille dévoilé Éditions Michel de Maule, Paris, 2022, p. 174.).

The author goes so far as to compare the story to a Greek tragedy in which the king sacrifices his own son in the name of the unity of the kingdom (see François Varay, Mayerling, la vérite révélée: Un secret de famille dévoilé, op. cit. p. 183.). Indeed, enriched with these final details, Mayerling's tragedy possesses all the elements of a Greek tragedy.

The third man Bismarck had his eye on was Johann Salvator, Rudolf's great-cousin, a member of the Tuscan branch of the Habsburg-Lorraine family, his confidant and inseparable companion. Upon hearing the tragic news of what had happened at Mayerling, Franz Josef wanted to travel there to see for himself the situation, which, moreover, had already been duly distorted. Perhaps only then did he truly realize how much he had been unable to prevent it. Karl Salvator, his trusted cousin and Johann Salvator's older brother, accompanied him. When the latter learned of the tragedy, which was reported to him in detail by a direct and reliable source, he was inevitably struck by panic: he could not believe that Rudolf had disappeared in such a dramatic way and sensed that soon he too would suffer a similar fate to that of the prince he loved like a brother and with whom he shared liberal and democratic ideals. This was why they were both considered subversive and potential threats to the political stability of the empire, as well as being regarded with suspicion. As soon as he regained control of his actions and his clarity, Johann Salvator approached the emperor, asking for the renunciation of his noble titles and the privileges associated with them, which by right of blood were his, and for a new surname: he wanted to be called Johann Orth. Only by changing his identity would Johann Salvator become untraceable. Not only that, he could finally fulfill his dream of marrying his beloved Ludmilla-Milly Stübel, the  ballet dancer at the Vienna State Opera: he had long been engaged to her, but his rank prevented him from joining her and starting a family. 

Franz Josef granted him everything he had asked, but ordered him never to return to any territory of the empire. For him, this will not be a problem at all: after reaching London and taking the more Anglicized name of John, he got married and sailed for the South Americas. He disappeared by faking a shipwreck (see Daniela Lasagnini, Il figlio americano di Rodolfo D'Asburgo, Mgs Press, Trieste, 2021, chap. IV, John Orth, pp. 53-62).

Returning to Mayerling, I resume the discussion with the phrase that Franz Josef uttered after seeing his son torn apart, a phrase that only now takes on a deeper meaning:

«The truth is far worse than one can imagine!»

After the funeral, he insisted that from then on no one would ever mention Rudolf's name again: it was as if his son had never existed, although I believe not a day went by in his life when he didn't think about what he had allowed to happen. In the 1980s, the former Empress Zita, née Bourbon-Parma, consort of the last Austrian Emperor, Karl I, returned to Vienna several times after some sixty years of exile and widowhood. Determined to shed light on the "Mayerling Events," she gave a series of interviews to the Kronen Zeitung and made statements to Austrian television: she was the only one to know what had happened, both through family lineage and marriage, as Nerio De Carlo also argued in his 2013 essay, Non desiderare la patria d'altri, published by the Trieste-based publishing house Holzwege. She maintained that Rudolf had not committed suicide, but had been the victim of a conspiracy and assassinated. She was the first to speak of a conspiracy, and so far her words correspond to the reality we now know. But going further, she claimed that the perpetrators were Austrian and French secret agents, and that the motive, in the first case, was Rudolf's sympathy for Hungary, in the second the friction that had arisen with Clemenceau's France. Zita likely knew the whole truth, but fearing not to be authorized to make it public, revealed only a part of it. The fact remains that she deserves credit for rehabilitating the crown prince, who had been debased first by the theory of suicide and then by the subsequent theory of a mental illness "invented" by the emperor to obtain permission from the Holy Father to celebrate the funeral rite in church. Indeed, history portrayed him as violent towards himself, depressed by the abuse of narcotics, which he took as painkillers, and alcohol, discouraged by his father's exclusion from political affairs, and bored with life. And that night, De Carlo writes in his essay, according to the former empress,

«As a precaution, the window shutters had to remain closed, and not even the telegraph was allowed to work. There was to be no contact, not even telegraphic, with anyone [...] Baroness Mary Vetsera was staying in another part of the building so as not to be compromised. The Prince's room was carefully locked from the inside.» (Nerio de Carlo, Non desiderare la patria d’altri, Holzwege, Trieste, 2016, p. 50.).

Poor Marie was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but she was useful in giving substance to the double suicide hypothesis: murdered elsewhere and many hours before Rudolf, she was then laid next to him. The former Empress Zita knew that Rudolf did not abandon himself to death and fought long before being impeccably struck by his assassins:

«During this struggle, the fingers of the hand that was spasmodically holding the table, which had become his only protection, were severed. When it fell from his hand, he was brutally killed.» (Ibid.)

In the photograph taken of Rudolf's death body and released to the press, we see him not only with his skull wrapped in bandages, but also with his hands bandaged, so that his fingers are not visible. This explains the reason for this bandage, which even Gisella, the deceased's younger sister, could not explain herself. And it also explains why the table lay immersed in a pool of blood: it was the blood that had seeped from his brutally severed fingers, and likely from the blow that took his life. It is likely that Rudolf was mortally wounded there, and then laid on the bed, already lifeless. Even the former Emperor Karl I, while he was alive, worked to shed light on this affair, which, after decades, continued to be shrouded in mystery, and sought concrete evidence. Therefore, Zita also felt compelled to declare that:

«Karl I knew that there must be a telegram in the Vatican explaining the true causes of the heir to the throne's death. The religious authorities had, in fact, prohibited a religious burial as soon as news of the alleged suicide leaked. From his Swiss exile, Karl I attempted to obtain a copy of that clarifying telegram sent to the Holy Father. The response was that the document had indeed existed, but that the newly formed Austrian Republican Government had requested the original be returned immediately after the proclamation of the Republic. The original was returned without a copy being made.» (Nerio de Carlo, Non desiderare la patria d'altri, op. cit., p. 56.).

Hard to believe when the evidence of all the secrets that history has handed down to us are jealously guarded within the walls of the Vatican palaces…

CARRYING ARCHDUKE RUDOLF'S COFFIN IN MAYERLING.

SOURCES:

Fabio Amodeo, Mario José Cereghino, Mayerling, Anatomia di un Omicidio, Mgs Press, Trieste, 2019.

François Varay, Mayerling, la vérite révélée. Un secret de famille dévoilé, Michel de Maule, Paris, 2022. 

Daniela Lasagnini, Il figlio americano di Rodolfo D'Asburgo, Mgs Press, Trieste, 2021.

Nerio de Carlo, Non desiderare la patria d’altri, Holzwege, Trieste, 2013.

I heartily thank You for following me in this so long reading, 
Dearest Readers, 

and I hope You've found it to be interesting!

See you soon ❤

Dany

Teaching Victorian Children (and adults) by telling Stories with a Moral End

 

Victorians placed great importance to moral lessons and cultivate them through education, literature, and social norms to grow in children a sense of duty, discipline, and Christian virtue. This focus was evident in school curricula that included hymns and stories where good behaviour was rewarded and bad ones was punished, and in a social code that valued thrift, self-reliance, and respectability. 

School days often began with prayers and religious songs aimed at reinforcing moral values. Lessons were frequently interspersed with tales designed to demonstrate the importance of good behavior, and in children's literature, they became a primary vehicle for moral education, with characters compensate for their goodness, diligence, and good manners, or penalized for their wickedness, iniquity, or malice.

Such tales were often published with an eye toward impressing upon the readers (male and female, young and old) the importance of various social mores; working hard, honesty, wasting not a moment, obeying parents, being on time, respecting one’s elders, etc. with the goal of shaping children into respectable adults.

Although this moral façade existed, the Victorian age also had a hypocritical undercurrent with social problems like child labor and prostitution hidden beneath the strict public image. 

It dates back to 1875 an edition of AESOP'S FABLES published by Cassell Petter & Galpin London which you may think was addressed to children. 

Antique Book - Aesop's Fables Illustrated by Ernest Griset Published By Cassell Petter & Galpin London c1875.

But I've read a tale which recalls to me that of "The Grasshopper and the Ant" on the WATERLOO CURIER, a newspasper from Waterloo, Iowa, dated 21st January 1880.

Of course children didn't read newspapers. Thus we can deduce that such a story was addressed to adult people.

Let's read it together.

THE TWO SQUIRRELS.

ONCE there were two squirrels, who lived neighbors to each other in a great forest. One pleasant but frosty day, when the nuts were dropping, they both started out from their holes in the big chestnut trees, and began to frisk about in the sunshine and to chatter and eat nuts. These two squirrels looked just alike, but, in reality, they were very different; for one of them, after playing a few minutes, began to fill his cheeks with nuts, and scamper off to his hole, to pack them away. But the other kept on playing and eating, and seemed to think of nothing but having a good time.

“Why don’t you work part of the time?” asked the busy squirrel. “Don’t you know that a long, cold winter is coming, when all these nice nuts will be covered with snow?”

“There will be plenty of time to work before the snow comes. We don’t have weather like this every day, and I am going to enjoy myself while it lasts. I can work when the sun doesn’t shine so warm and bright. If you choose to spend all of your time working, you can. But as for me, I intend to enjoy myself.”

“So do I,” said the smart squirrel, “but I intend to get my work done first. After I get my hole full of nuts. I shall have nothing to worry about. No matter how hard the wind blows, or how deep the snow is, I shall have enough for all winter. I am well and strong to-day, and it is pleasant to work out here in the sunshine, but to-morrow I may be sick or it may storm.

“So I shall work, and you may play,

All this bright October day;

But when the storms of winter roar,

Don’t come begging at my door.”

So the days passed on. Up and down, up and down, the busy squirrel went, until his hole was full to running over with ripe fat nuts. But the lazy squirrel played and frisked about, filled his stomach instead of his cheeks with nuts, and laughed at those who were wasting such pleasant days in labor. But at last one morning when he waked up he was surprised to find how cold it seemed. He peeped out of his hole, and behold! it was snowing. The ground was already covered an inch deep.

“Whew! exclaimed he, “the snow has come early, this year. It surely is not time for winter yet. I must go to work, after this melts away, as it surely must, and lay in my food for winter. But as he looked around at the bare branches of the trees, and heard the wind whistling through them, he thought o himself; “This certainly seems like winter, bit it cannot be possible that it has come so soon. But I must see what I can find for breakfast. I guess I can scratch away the snow, and get a few nuts.”

So out he went, and as he passed his neighbor’s home, he glanced up slyly to see if she were looking out. He felt ashamed. He went off quite a distance, and finding a spot where he remembered he saw some nuts the day before, commenced to scratch away the snow. He found several, but it was cold work, and made his paws ache. He went back to his nest, wondering what he should do, if winter had really come in earnest. All day long the snow kept falling. Night came, and he had to go to bed without any supper.

In the morning, he felt almost starved. He looked out; the snow was very deep, and more was falling. He thought of all the nice nuts that lay under it, and wished that he had taken time in the warm, sunny days to gather them. But it was too late now. His heart was very heavy and his stomach very empty. He thought of his neighbor with her nest packed so full of walnuts, chestnuts and delicious little beechnuts. It made him very, very hungry. As the day passed by, he felt as if he could not endure it any longer. So he went over to his neighbor’s house and peeped in. There she was, as snug and warm as could be, cracking nuts, and singing to her mate:

“I’m glad we worked when days were warm,

And saved for stormy weather;

For had we not, in this bad storm

We might have starved together.”

He stood there so ashamed that he could not speak for a while. He had never begged before, and it was hard work–much harder than gathering nuts in the sunshine would have been–but he had to confess, at last, that he was nearly starved, and to ask for a few nuts.

“I should be glad to give you enough to last you all winter, if I had them to spare,” said the squirrel, “but I only laid in enough for my own family, and the signs foretell a very hard winter. I can give you a few for your breakfast though.

So the poor squirrel took them, and went home. But they didn’t last long. Oh! the miserable hungry days that followed! The squirrel pined day after day for food. He was glad to get anything to eat. Sometimes he found a few nuts that had staid on the trees, and when a thaw came, as it did occasionally, he could find some under the snow. Often he was glad even to chew bark, and nibble the buds from the trees. But it was a hard winter, and he was a thin, miserable-looking squirrel when spring came. But it taught him a good lesson, and when another fall came, and the nuts began to drop, there wasn’t a busier squirrel to be found. When his neighbor saw how smart he was, she changed her old song a little. It was now,

“First we’ll work and then we’ll play,

On this bright October day;”

and he sang with her, at the top of his voice.

 

–Lizzie C. Deering in Examiner and Chronicle of Waterloo, Iowa, January 21, 1880.

In the hope You've enjoyed this reading,

I'm wishing You my very best, 

dearest Readers!

See you soon ❤

 Dany

Insegnare ai bambini vittoriani (e agli adulti) raccontando storie con un finale a sfondo educativo

I vittoriani attribuivano grande importanza agli insegnamenti morali e li coltivavano per tramite dell'istruzione, della letteratura e delle norme sociali al fine di far crescere nei bambini il senso del dovere, la disciplina e le virtù cristiane. Questa attenzione era evidente già nei programmi scolastici, che includevano inni e storie in cui il buon comportamento veniva ricompensato e quello malvagio punito, e in un codice sociale che valorizzava la parsimonia, l'autosufficienza e la rispettabilità.

IMMAGINE DI COPERTINA.

Le giornate scolastiche spesso iniziavano proprio con preghiere e canti religiosi volti a rafforzare i valori morali. Le lezioni erano spesso intervallate da racconti pensati per mostrare l'importanza della buona condotta e, nella letteratura per l'infanzia, le storie divennero un veicolo primario di educazione morale, con personaggi che venivano ricompensati per la loro bontà, diligenza ed educazione, oppure penalizzati per la loro malvagità, iniquità o malizia.

Questi racconti venivano spesso pubblicati con l'obiettivo di imprimere nei lettori (uomini e donne, giovani e anziani) l'importanza di vari costumi sociali: lavorare sodo, essere onesti, non perdere tempo, obbedire ai genitori, essere puntuali, rispettare gli anziani, ecc., con il fine di crescere i bambini in adulti rispettabili.

Sebbene questa facciata morale esistesse, l'età vittoriana, purtroppo, aveva anche un sottofondo ipocrita, con problemi sociali come il lavoro minorile e la prostituzione nascosti dietro una rigida immagine pubblica.

Risale al 1889 un'edizione delle AESOP'S FABLES (FIABE DI ESOPO) pubblicata da London D. Nutt, che potreste pensare fosse rivolta ai bambini. 

IMMAGINE 2 - EDIZIONE ORIGINALE DI Aesop's Fables Illustrated by Ernest Griset Published By Cassell Petter & Galpin London c1875.

Ma ho letto una fiaba che mi ricorda "La cicala e la formica" sul WATERLOO CURIER, un quotidiano di Waterloo, Iowa, datato 21 gennaio 1880.

Naturalmente i bambini non leggevano i giornali. Quindi possiamo dedurre che una storia del genere fosse rivolta a un pubblico adulto.

Leggiamola insieme.

I DUE SCOIATTOLI.

C'erano una volta due scoiattoli, un maschio ed una femmina, che erano vicini di casa in una grande foresta. Un giorno d'autunno, piacevole ma gelido, mentre le noci cominciavano a cadere, entrambi uscirono dalle loro tane scavate nei grandi tronchi di castagno e iniziarono a saltellare al sole, chiacchierando e mangiando noci. A vederli si sarebbe detto che questi due scoiattoli fossero uguali, ma in realtà erano molto diversi; uno di loro, la femmina, dopo aver giocato per qualche minuto, iniziò a riempirsi le guance di noci e a correre verso la sua tana per riporle; l'altro, il maschio, continuava a giocare e mangiare, e sembrava non pensare ad altro che a divertirsi.

"Perché non lavori un po' di tempo?" chiese la scoiattolina indaffarata. "Non sai che sta arrivando un lungo e freddo inverno, quando tutte queste belle noci saranno coperte di neve?" "Ci sarà un sacco di tempo per lavorare prima che arrivi la neve. Non abbiamo un tempo così bello tutti i giorni, e ho intenzione di spassarmela finché dura. Posso lavorare quando il sole non splende così caldo e luminoso. Se scegli di passare tutto il tuo tempo a lavorare, fallo pure. Ma per quanto mi riguarda, ho intenzione di divertirmi."

"Anch'io", disse la scoiattolina intelligente, "ma prima intendo finire il mio lavoro, Dopo aver riempito la mia tana di noci non avrò nulla di cui preoccuparmi. Non importa quanto forte soffierà il vento o quanto alta sarà la neve, ne avrò abbastanza per tutto l'inverno. Oggi sto bene e sono forte, ed è piacevole lavorare qui al sole, ma domani potrei ammalarmi o potrebbe esserci brutto tempo.

"Quindi lavorerò, e tu potrai giocare,

per tutto questo luminoso giorno di ottobre;

ma quando ruggiranno le tempeste invernali,

non venire alla mia porta a mendicare."

Così i giorni passarono. La scoiattolina indaffarata andava su e giù, su e giù, finché la sua tana non fu piena di grosse noci mature fino a traboccare. Ma lo scoiattolo maschio, pigro e giocherellone, continuava a trastullarsi e saltellava in giro, riempiendosi lo stomaco invece delle guance di noci e ridendo di coloro che sprecavano giornate così piacevoli a faticare. Ma finalmente una mattina, quando si svegliò, fu sorpreso di scoprire quanto freddo fosse arrivato. Sbirciò fuori dalla sua tana, ed ecco! Stava nevicando. Il terreno era già coperto di qualche centimetro di neve.

"Uffa!" esclamò, "la neve è arrivata presto, quest'anno. Non è ancora tempo d'inverno. Devo andare al lavoro, dopo che questa si sarà sciolta, come sicuramente dovrà, e fare scorta di cibo per l'inverno". Ma mentre si guardava intorno, tra i rami spogli degli alberi e il vento che fischiava, pensò tra sé e sé: "Questo sembra proprio inverno, ma non è possibile che sia arrivato così presto. Devo vedere cosa riesco a trovare per colazione. Credo che potrò grattare via la neve e trovare qualche noce".

Così uscì e, passando davanti alla casa della vicina, alzò lo sguardo furtivamente per vedere se lei stesse guardando fuori. Si vergognò. Si allontanò un bel po' e, trovando un punto dove ricordava di aver visto delle noci il giorno prima, iniziò a grattare via la neve. Ne trovò diverse, ma era un lavoro disagevole e gli facevano male le piccole dita per il gelo. Tornò al suo nido, chiedendosi cosa avrebbe dovuto fare se l'inverno fosse davvero arrivato. Per tutto il giorno la neve continuò a cadere. Giunse la notte e dovette andare a letto senza cena.

Al mattino si sentì quasi affamato. Guardò fuori; la neve era molto alta e ne cadeva ancora. Pensò a tutte le belle noci che vi giacevano sotto e sospirò al pensiero di non essersi preso il tempo, durante giornate calde e soleggiate, per raccoglierle. Ma ormai era troppo tardi. Il suo cuore era molto pesante e lo stomaco molto vuoto. Pensò alla sua vicina con il suo nido così pieno di noci, castagne e deliziose faggiole. Gli venne una fame tremenda. Mentre Il giorno passava sentì di non poterne più resistere. Così andò a casa della vicina e sbirciò dentro. Lei era lì, al conforto del caldo come non mai, a schiacciare noci e cantare al suo compagno:

"Sono contenta che abbiamo lavorato quando le giornate erano calde,

e risparmiato per il tempo tempestoso;

perché se non lo avessimo fatto, con questa bufera,

saremmo potuti morire di fame insieme."

Rimase lì così in vergogna che non riuscì a parlare per un po'. Non aveva mai mendicato prima, ed era un lavoro duro – molto più duro che raccogliere noci al sole – ma alla fine dovette riconoscere di essere sul punto di morire di fame e chiedere qualche noce.

"Sarei felice di dartene abbastanza per tutto l'inverno, se ne avessi da parte", disse la scoiattolina, "ma ne ho messe da parte solo per la mia famiglia, e i segni predicono un inverno molto duro. Posso dartene però un po' per colazione."

Così il povero scoiattolo le prese e tornò a casa. Ma non durarono a lungo. Oh! i giorni miserabili e affamati che seguirono! Lo scoiattolo si struggeva giorno dopo giorno per il cibo. Era contento solo quando riusciva a trovare qualcosa da mangiare. A volte si accontentava di qualche noce rimasta sugli alberi, e quando arrivava il disgelo, come accadeva occasionalmente, riusciva a trovarne qualcuna sotto la neve. Spesso era contento persino di masticare la corteccia e rosicchiare le gemme dagli alberi. Ma era un inverno duro, e si ritrovò ad essere magro e dall'aspetto miserabile quando arrivò la primavera. Ma quello che era accaduto gli insegnò una buona lezione, tant'é che quando giunse un altro autunno, e le noci cominciarono a cadere, non si trovava uno scoiattolo più indaffarato di lui. Quando la sua vicina vide quanto fosse sveglio, cambiò un po' la sua vecchia canzone. Ora cantava:

"Prima lavoreremo e poi giocheremo,

in questa luminosa giornata d'ottobre";

ed egli, a squarciagola, cantava con lei.

–Lizzie C. Deering in Examiner and Chronicle of Waterloo, Iowa, 21 gennaio 1880.

IMMAGINE 3 - I DUE SCOIATTOLI.

Nella speranza che abbiate apprezzato la lettura di questo articolo,

Vi auguro ogni bene, carissimi Lettori!

A presto ❤

 Dany

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Where does the term "LADY" come from?

 Today we use the term "lady" as a polite or old-fashioned way 

of referring to or talking to a woman, 

as gentleman can be used for men.

But it has a far ancient origin and hides a truly surprising meaning.

The term derives from the Old English - which is the form of English spoken from the 5th to the 12th century - hlǣfdīġe indicating a lord's wife or the mistress of a house; hlǣfdīġe is a compound of hlāf ("bread or loaf") and a second term whose identity is not entirely certain, but is most likely dīġe ("young woman," "unmarried woman," or even "virgin," a term related to dæge, "maid," "servant," "maker of dough"), and therefore has the original meaning of "she who kneads bread."

This meaning is wondrous and very profound, 

it should not be underestimated.

Bread is a universal symbol of life, nourishment, prosperity, sharing, and community, representing the cycle of life-death-rebirth (let's think to sowing and harvesting) and human union, especially in breaking and sharing food, a bond of friendship and solidarity. The term "companion" derives from the Latin "cum-panis", meaning "one who eats the same bread".

The history of bread, a humble food and at the same time a symbol of human evolution, is a centuries-old one, rich in wisdom, poetry, art, and faith. It encompasses the entire evolution of the human race; it is the seal that connects different cultures around the world, transcending every status, from the tables of the humble to those of the princes.

Breaking and sharing a piece of bread is a gesture charged with meanings that unite religions, cultures, and strong social values.

In all of human history, there has never been a food as important as bread. It carries with it memories, symbolic values, traditions, rites, and legends that go beyond simply nourishing the body, because bread also nourishes the spirit. This is its peculiarity: being both food and symbol.

The primary meaning of "mistress of a household" is now mostly obsolete, save for the term "landlady" and in set phrases such as "the lady of the house", meaning which is retained in the southern states of the United States. 

In the Middle English - spoken in England after the Norman Conquest of 1066, until the late 15th century - it became lady, laddy, lafdi, lavedi and began to be associated with nobless of blood or aristocracy.

The Renaissance lady is described by the Italian author, courtier and diplomat Baldassarre Castiglione (1478 – 1529) in his handbook for the nobility, IL CORTEGIANO - The Book of the Courtier, in which he wrote that she was the equivalent of the courtier, with the same virtues of mind and equivalent education. He writes that although culture was an accomplishment both for the noblewoman and man — used to charm others as much as to develop themselves — for the lady, charm had become the primary occupation and aim. Therefore, it is with the Renaissance that the term "lady" is enriched with aesthetic attributes. The lady has to be able and own:

... the knowledge of letters, music, painting, and . . . how to dance and to be festive.[...]

Whereas the courtier’s chief task is defined as the profession of arms, a Lady’s pleasing affability is becoming above all else, whereby she will be able to entertain graciously every kind of man.

The MERRIAM WEBSTER'S DICTIONARY, in its edition dating back to the early Victorian age, describes the use of “lady” as a formal title of nobility; it considers it suitable for:

any of various titled women in Great Britain — used as the customary title of a marchioness, countess, viscountess, or baroness or the wife of a knight, baronet, member of the peerage, or one having the courtesy title of lord and used as a courtesy title for the daughter of a duke, marquess, or earl.

By then ladies' etiquette had become a fine art so much so that several handbooks provided advices on its complexities and nuances. Florence Hartley, authoress of THE LADIES' BOOK OF ETIQUETTE AND MANUAL OF POLITENESS, wrote that a lady should have knowledge of the forms and customs of society and how to show the gentle courtesies of life. To make the charm of the lady is now far important the dress she wear. To emphazising it, she wrote:

'A lady is never so well dressed as when you cannot remember what she wears.’ No truer remark than the above was ever made. Such an effect can only be produced where every part of the dress harmonizes entirely with the other parts, where each color or shade suits the wearer’s style completely, and where there is perfect neatness in each detail. One glaring color, or conspicuous article, would entirely mar the beauty of such a dress.

And I'd love to add eventually that every detail have to be in harmony of the body and the features of the lady who wears it.

Just have a look at these Victorian ladies depicted in fashion plates dating back to the 1870's:

In order to what we read above, as for charm and elegance, we may say they're "ladies" without any doubt!

And to conclude this post, when someone calls you LADY, dearest readers - I address female ones - you should be not only pleased as for the politeness he or she shows, but remebering the meaning of this beautiful word of just four letters, you should, indeed, you must be honoured of it. And as for male readers, remember to use this lovely word when you talk to a woman who deserves it...

In the hope to have entertained You with delight,

satisfying Your hitstorical interest,

and thanking You for the time we spent together today too,

I look forward to finding You here again next time.

See you soon ❤

 Dany

Da dove deriva il termine 'LADY'?

Oggi si usa il termine 'lady' per rivolgersi in modo cortese e forse un po' antiquato ad una donna o per parlarle,

così come si usa 'gentleman' per gli uomini.

IMMAGINE DI COPERTINA

Ma esso ha un'origine antichissima e cela un significato sorprendente.

Il termine deriva dall'inglese antico, ovvero la forma di inglese parlata dal V al XII secolo, hlǣfdīġe, che indica la moglie di un signore o la padrona di casa; hlǣfdīġe è un composto di hlāf ('pane o pagnotta') e di un secondo termine la cui identità non è del tutto certa, ma è molto probabilmente dīġe ('giovane donna', 'donna non sposata' o anche 'vergine', termine correlato a dæge, 'cameriera', 'serva', 'impastatrice'), e quindi ha il significato originale di "colei che impasta il pane".

IMMAGINE 2 - "COLEI CHE IMPASTA IL PANE".

Il pane è simbolo universale di vita, nutrimento, prosperità, condivisione e comunità, rappresentando il ciclo vita-morte-rinascita (pensiamo alla semina e al raccolto) e l'unione umana - soprattutto lo spezzare e condividerlo come cibo - un legame di amicizia e solidarietà. Il termine 'compagno' deriva dal latino 'cum-panis', che significa 'colui che mangia lo stesso pane'.

La storia del pane, alimento umile e allo stesso tempo simbolo dell'evoluzione dell'uomo, è secolare, ricca di saggezza, poesia, arte e fede. Abbraccia l'intera evoluzione del genere umano; è il sigillo che collega diverse culture in tutto il mondo, trascendendo ogni status, presente sulle tavole degli umili  e su quelle dei principi.

Spezzare e condividere un pezzo di pane è un gesto carico di significati che unisce religioni, culture e forti valori sociali.

In tutta la storia dell'umanità non c'è mai stato un alimento così importante come il pane. Esso porta con sé ricordi, valori simbolici, tradizioni, riti e leggende che vanno oltre il semplice nutrimento del corpo, perché il pane nutre anche lo spirito. Questa è la sua peculiarità: essere allo stesso tempo cibo e simbolo.

Il significato primario di 'mistress of the household - responsabile dell'andamento domestico' è ormai in gran parte obsoleto, fatta eccezione per il termine 'landlady' e in frasi fatte come 'the lady of the house', significato che si è conservato negli stati meridionali degli Stati Uniti.

Nel Middle English - parlato in Inghilterra dopo la conquista normanna del 1066, fino alla fine del XV secolo - divenne lady, laddy, lafdi, lavedi e iniziò a essere associato alla nobiltà di sangue o all'aristocrazia.

IMMAGINE 3 - Esempio di CALLING CARD di una lady.

La dama rinascimentale è descritta dall'autore, cortigiano e diplomatico italiano Baldassarre Castiglione (1478-1529) nel suo manuale per la nobiltà, IL CORTEGIANO, in cui scrive che costei era l'equivalente del cortigiano, con le medesime virtù d'animo e un'istruzione equivalente. Precisa che, sebbene la cultura fosse un traguardo sia per la nobildonna che per l'uomo – usata sia per affascinare gli altri che per far crescere se stessi – per la dama, il fascino era diventato l'occupazione e l'obiettivo primario. Pertanto, è con il Rinascimento che il termine 'lady' si arricchisce di attributi estetici. La lady deve ora essere in grado di possedere:

... la conoscenza delle lettere, della musica, della pittura e... come ballare e festeggiare. [...]

Mentre il compito principale del cortigiano è definito come la professione delle armi, la piacevole affabilità di una dama è particolarmente degna di nota, grazie alla quale ella sarà in grado di intrattenere con grazia ogni genere di uomo.

Il MERRIAM WEBSTER'S DICTIONARY, nella sua edizione risalente all'inizio dell'epoca vittoriana, descrive l'uso di 'lady' come titolo formale di nobiltà.; lo ritiene adeguato per:

una qualsiasi delle varie donne titolate in Gran Bretagna, usata come titolo consuetudinario di una marchesa, contessa, viscontessa o baronessa, o moglie di un cavaliere, baronetto, membro della nobiltà, o con il titolo di cortesia di lord, usato come titolo di cortesia per la figlia di un duca, marchese o conte.

A quel tempo, il galateo femminile era diventato una vera e propria arte, tanto che diversi manuali fornivano consigli sulle sue complessità e sfumature. Florence Hartley, autrice di THE LADIES' BOOK OF ETIQUETTE AND MANUAL OF POLITENESS, scriveva che una lady avrebbe dovuto conoscere le forme e i costumi della società e come mostrare le cortesie della vita. Per valorizzare il fascino di una lady era allora fondamentale l'abito che ella indossava. Per sottolinearlo, aggiungeva:

"Una lady non è mai così ben vestita come quando non riesci a ricordare cosa indossa". Non è mai stata fatta un'osservazione più vera di questa. Un simile effetto può essere prodotto solo quando ogni parte dell'abito è in perfetta armonia con le altre, quando ogni colore o tonalità si adatta perfettamente allo stile di chi lo indossa e quando ogni dettaglio è perfettamente curato. Un colore sgargiante, o un articolo vistoso, rovinerebbero completamente la bellezza di un abito del genere.

E mi piacerebbe aggiungere infine che ogni dettaglio deve essere in armonia con il corpo e i lineamenti della donna che lo indossa.

Basta guardare queste signore vittoriane raffigurate in stampe di moda risalenti agli anni Settanta dell'Ottocento:

IMMAGINE 4

IMMAGINE 5

IMMAGINE 6

In base a quanto abbiamo letto sopra, in quanto a fascino ed eleganza, possiamo dire che sono 'ladies' senza alcun dubbio!

E ​​per concludere questo post, quando qualcuno vi chiama LADY, carissime lettrici, non dovreste solo esserne compiaciute per la cortesia che costui o costei vi dimostra, ma ricordando il significato di questa bellissima parola di sole quattro lettere, dovreste, anzi, dovete esserne onorate. E per quanto riguarda i lettori uomini, ricordatevi di usare questa bella parola quando vi rivolgete a una donna che se lo merita...

Nella speranza di averVi intrattenuti con diletto,

appagando il Vostro interesse storico, 

e ringraziandoVi per il tempo trascorso insieme anche oggi,

Vi manifesto il mio più sincero desiderio 

di ritrovarVi qui la prossima volta.

A presto ❤

 Dany

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