Artículos de revistas sobre el tema "French translations of 18th Century plays"

Importance. The beginning of the process of interaction between Russian and French book cultures was laid by the era of the Europeanisation of Peter I. The Russian autocrat tirelessly sought to bring his country among the leading countries of the world, to smooth out the difference between Russia and the West. The nobility, the most educated stratum of society at that time, was to become the main conductor of the reformer’s advanced aspirations. The aim of the research is to study the significance for the Russian book culture of the French–language translated book of the second third of the 18th century.Materials and Methods. The comparative historical method makes it possible to establish the correlation of the role of French literature in the distribution of printed materials in the Russian Empire. The use of the comparative analysis method, which made it possible to comprehensively study the role of foreign literature in the bookselling process in the Russian Empire of the 18th century, plays an important role in the study.Results and Discussion. The inclusion of a work in the publishing list was conditioned by the community demand, which allows us to speak about the development of the book culture of Russia in the second quarter of the 18th century. In order to capture readers’ mood better, the specialists of the Academy of Sciences found out the specialists’ opinion about publications.Conclusion. By the middle of the 18th century, the Academy of Sciences had prepared translations of valuable treatises on history, literature, mathematics, psychology and pedagogy, enriching Russian book culture with advanced European bestsellers. This period of the Academy’s activity should be regarded as a new stage in the development of book printing in Russia, which created significant prerequisites for the rapid rise of interest in French culture in the second half of the 18th century.

The paper analyzes the Chinese influences on the doctrine of the French physiocrat François Quesnay from the perspective of the cultural specifics of the perception of economic and political ideas. The approaches of Chinese researchers were impacted by Marxist methodology, sinocentric views and fragmentary use of primary sources. The application of the Marxist concept of socio-economic formations supported the arguments that feudal Confucianism could not influence the views of physiocrats, which reflected the emergence of capitalist relations. In the 18th century opponents of the physiocrats used the comparison of the Tableau Économique with the scheme of the Chinese Book of Changes to disqualify Quesnay’s doctrine. For Chinese researchers this comparison became a confirmation of the value of the Tableau Économique and an incentive to search for the ideas of circular flows and equilibrium in both tables. The study of Despotism in China content confirms its connection with the actual historical China. It is concluded that Chinese scholars seek to interpret the historical precedent of the influence of Confucian thought on Quesnay’s doctrine in the context of plans to increase the global clout of China’s social sciences.

Introduction. The mining industry traditionally plays a strategic role in the domestic economy. Significant facts in its history of the 18th century. began the organization of mining districts and the creation of mining factories. The dynamic development of the industry required various specialists with professional education in the field of mining. To train personnel for mining plants, mining schools were created, and later mining schools, whose activities were widely covered in scientific works. At the same time, there remains a need to identify and systematize information related to the teaching of foreign languages. The novelty of the study lies in the fact that it contributes to a holistic description of the history of the formation and development of domestic mining education and allows us to meaningfully complement the picture of the history of professionally oriented teaching of foreign languages in educational institutions of Russia in the 18th-19th centuries. Materials and methods. The source base of the study is represented by regulatory documents, historical, historical and pedagogical, statistical, journalistic works, archival materials covering various aspects of personnel training for the mining industry in our country in the 18th-19th centuries. To solve the research problems, a set of complementary research methods was used, the leading among which was the theoretical analysis of sources. Results. Mining education has a rich history. In the 18th century Mining schools began to open, training workers and technicians for the mining industry. They provided general education and vocational training, differing in the list of subjects taught and the duration of training. The mining school program involved studying a wide range of general educational and professional subjects. The curriculum included French and German, students mastered reading and writing, and did translations. Much attention was paid to the study of grammar. After graduating from the mining school, the most capable graduates could continue their professional education. Many entered the Mountain Cadet Corps (later the Institute), where they studied German, French, and later English. Teaching foreign languages was aimed at developing skills in all types of speech activity. The available opportunities for regular language practice increased the effectiveness of teaching oral speech. The technical translation course made it possible to master professional vocabulary and develop the ability to fully and accurately understand and convey the content of texts in the specialty. In some years, Latin was taught. Studying foreign languages provided the opportunity to read and understand foreign-language professional literature and allowed for business communication during foreign business trips. Discussion and conclusion. Foreign languages played a significant role in training personnel for the mining industry. Studying this experience is important for creating a holistic picture of the history of professionally oriented teaching of foreign languages.

AbstractIn the second half of the 18th century and early 19th century, a rising interest in Old Norse literature outside the Nordic countries could be noted that, to a great deal, focused on the Poetic Edda and the Prose Edda as sources for Norse mythology. This interest is also reflected in the works of the Polish historian Joachim Lelewel (1786–1861) who, in 1807 and 1828, published translations and retellings of the Poetic and the Prose Edda. These were based on French, German and Latin translations. The second edition of 1828 is characterised by a more comprehensive section with eddic poetry, the selection of which is also explained by Lelewel, as well as an essay on pre-Christian religion that also includes a research overview and a list of editions/translations of the Eddas.

Belles infidèles is a French expression highlighting a well-known problem in translating from one language to another. This is true especially in the field of literature and particularly in poetry, where the exterior aspects of the words (for example, the harmony of rhymes, the images, the emotional vibrations, the semantic fields, the polysemy, and so on) become substantial and hardly translatable. The essay focuses on some bad translations of some selected verses from the obscene poems by a 18th-century Sicilian dialect poet, Domenico Tempio: they clearly show the translators’ intervention, who took many liberties and betrayed the formulation, the sense and the effect of the original texts. The essay proposes some more faithful translations of them.

AbstractThe introduction briefly points out Krylov's early literary attempts merely to show what he did before he started producing his fables. It also mentions the influence of French culture in Russia at the end of the 18th Century and the beginning of the 19th Century. La Fontaine was a big influence on Krylov who translated or adapted many of his fables as well as producing many originals of his own. Some of Krylov's fables are analyzed, however, most of them speak for themselves since they have a moral conclusion or in some cases a moral introduction. The translations endeavor to keep as close to the Russian as possible and are not adaptations.

French Literature in Sweden 1830–1900. Translation, Reception and Circulation The article presents some results from an international project on the introduction of French literature in Scandinavia during the 19th century. A point of departure is the database BREFS (Bibliographie du Réalisme Français en Scandinavie), containing the translations of novels, short stories, poetic works and theatre plays that were published in Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden in book form from 1830 to 1900. The Swedish part of the bibliography is in focus, consisting of as many as 1 500 translations, and a list of the seemingly most popular French writers in Sweden during the period is presented. With some exceptions, these writers are probably unknown to most Swedes, and not even mentioned in historical surveys of Swedish literature: Eugène Scribe, Eugène Sue, Charles Perrault, Anne H. J. Duveyrier, Henri Meilhac, Olivier Gloux, Michel Carré, Alice Durand and Jean F. A. Bayard. In fact, when it comes to the number or translations published, these authors by far exceed the wellknown representations of the French realist period, Stendhal, Balzac, Flaubert and Maupassant. I try, briefly, to relate these results to research that has been done by others on translation in the nineteenth century, the working conditions of the translators, the reception of French authors and the role of French theatre in Sweden, which was so successful at the time.

This article looks at a certain number of writers in the early 18th Century, mainly British and French, who reacted against the dominant hostility to Islam and the Muslim world and tried to provide a more accurate presentation of them. After surveying different ideological uses of more positive representations of Islam and the Ottoman Empire, as well as the work of some scholars of Arabic who were concerned with greater accuracy, I concentrate on two authors about whom we know very little; they both spent time in and wrote about the North African state of Algeria and tried openly to counter European prejudices against Muslims. A brief discussion of the only work written by the French diplomat Jean-Philippe Laugier de Tassy (a history of Algiers) is followed by a longer section on Joseph Morgan, who published several works. Both his History of Algiers and his annotated translations of a poem on Islam written by a Spanish Moor and of a work on North Africa by French monks who went there to ransom captives show an excellent knowledge of the region, its people and their language. While far from being totally positive about the state which lived by piracy, he makes a vigorous case against disinformation concerning Islam and Muslims and encourages his readers to understand others and to judge them by the same standards we apply to ourselves.

The focus of this paper is the rendering of the word deruis in two translations of the Petrine era. Both of them are associated with the name of P.A. Tolstoy, a diplomat who was in the Ottoman Empire in 1702–1714. “The History of the Ottoman Empire Administration”, which was translated from the Italian version of P. Rycaut’s work, has the variant dervish (dervizh). At the same time, in the printed edition of the Quran of 1716, translated from André Du Ryer’s French original, there is a variant drevis, not taken into account in the dictionary of the Russian language of the 18th century. Possible reasons for this discrepancy are considered.

The fact that Pombal is today one of the most important actors of enlightened absolutism is due above all to his comprehensive reform program, which included virtually all political fields of action of the 18th century. At least as important, however, is the fact that he accompanied his measures with extremely intensive public relations work: Pombal had understood how important it was to get public opinion in Europe on his side, because especially those reforms that threatened the traditional rights and positions of power of the Catholic Church were the subject of controversial debate in a Europe divided along confessional lines. France played an important role in the European battle of opinion: French intellectuals and publicists dominated international public opinion, and French was the language of the educated and enlightened. This paper will therefore examine how Pombal's propaganda functioned in France and what significance French translations and adaptations had for the European battle of opinion.

Abstract This paper addresses the grammaticalization of Spanish en definitiva as a discourse marker. The objectives are threefold: to enquire about previous changes and discourse traditions that took place, to outline the path to the new values that were acquired, and to ascertain whether the French construction en définitive had an influence on the Spanish one during the grammaticalization process. To do so, we examined the cases found in Frantext for French, while for the Spanish data, we used Corpus del Diccionario histórico de la lengua española and Corpus diacrónico del español. Additionally, Gallica and Hemeroteca Digital were used to fill the gaps in the documentation for the 18th and 19th centuries. The results show that en definitiva might have undergone a vernacular evolution fixing as a ritual formula that gave rise to a modal construction and later assimilated new discourse uses as loan translations from the French construction en définitive. This finding leads to deeper consideration of the evolution of Modern French discourse markers and 19th century Spanish press.

The incorporation of English novels into the Spanish literary system during the 18th century is characterized, in general terms, by their late appearance, especially if a comparison is drawn with other European countries, and by French mediation. One of the most illustrative examples is the assimilation process followed by Robinson Crusoe. This work, written by Daniel Defoe in 1719, appears for the first time in Spain in 1826 — more than 100 years after it was originally written — in an abridged version for children. This paper aims to explore some of the many factors that may play a part in the late appearance of this novel and its reception as a juvenile or children’s book. Apart from the sociopolitical circumstances that turned Spain into a country which was very suspicious of foreign influence, an important factor to take into account is the influence of the French mediation. The introductory role played by mediator systems involves a filtered way of access through which the mediating culture reveals its own points of view and aesthetic criteria. Most of the 19th-century Spanish translations of Robinson Crusoe are secondhand translations from French and inherit the didactic and moralizing interpretation that the French makes of Robinson Crusoe. But the reading of Defoe’s work as juvenile or children’s literature is not only the result of the mediator system; it is also a consequence of the literary tradition to which the text is attached. When this work was imported there was an established tradition of Robinsonades that influenced its reading and interpretation and had created a particular set of expectations in the reader. This study also tries to analyze the different strategies used by Spanish translators in order to adapt Defoe’s novel to the poetic and ideological expectations of its potential readers and to the new function assigned to the text in the new cultural context.

Maria Velluti (1827-1891) was a dancer, actor, director, translator and playwright. She arrived in Brazil in her twenties and became a renowned actor, playwright, and translator. She translated over forty plays, many of which she directed, produced, cast, and starred. Two of her translations from French were published in her lifetime: A vida de uma actriz (1859) and A viuva das camelias (1859). Based on her prolific output, it could be said that Velluti shook the foundations of Brazil’s nineteenth-century theater scene not only by introducing modern dramas of French realist tradition to the major theater companies of her time, but also by writing in an environment where most playwrights were men with a solid literature background. This study highlights the significance of Velluti’s life and works. It is a mise-en-scène of Velluti as a nineteenth-century woman, actor, playwright, and translator in her own right. It “places on the stage” the myriad of roles Velluti played, thus countering dominant historiographical discourses that describe her in a merely supporting role —a role she unmistakably did not set out to play.

SummaryThe study is focused on the reception of the then-popular Dialogues of the Dead / Conversations by Syrian philosopher and rhetorician Lucian of Samosata (120 AD-180 AD) in Czech literature on the turn of the 18th and 19th centuries, with occasional insight into the intermediary French and German reception. Thanks to their linguistic refinement, Lucian’s dialogues quickly became a popular reading for the learning of Greek at the time, and in the 18th century, they contributed significantly to the development of journalism. This tendency was also present in the revivalist journal Hlasatel český during the period of 1806–1808 when it featured translations of several of Lucian’s dialogues alongside Jungmann’s conversation On the Czech Tongue (1808). The said conversations evoke the form of Lucianesque dialogues of the dead, which was to be the model of antiquity for the Czech classicism of the time, and they fill this form with thoughts of enlightenment and contemporary nationalism while capitalizing on the models of contemporary educational practices at Prague universities.

Abstract Oedipus the King: A Greek Tragedy, Philosophy, Politics and Philology — This study tries to show that the abundance of translations, imitations and radical re-interpretations of a genre like tragedy is due to various social discourses of target societies. Taking as an example Sophocles' Oedipus the King, the acclaimed tragedy par excellence, this essay discusses how the discourses of philosophy, politics and philology influenced the reception of this classical Greek tragedy by the French and British target systems (TSs) during the late 17th and early 18th century and the late 19th and early 20th century. The first section shows how, by offering Sophocles' Oedipus the King as a Greek model of tragedy, Aristotle's Poetics has formed the Western literary criticism and playwriting. The second section attempts to demonstrate why three imitations of Oedipus by Corneille (Oedipe), Dryden {Oedipus) and Voltaire {Oedipe) became more popular than any other contemporary "real" translation of the Sophoclean Oedipus. The third and final part holds that the observed revival of Oedipus the King in late 19th- and early 20th-century France and England was due to the different degrees of influence of three conflicting but overlapping discourses: philosophy, philology and politics. It illustrates how these discourses resulted in different reception of the Greek play by the French and British TSs.

The article, in a pioneering effort, offers to consider the history of the Russian reception of the fable creativity of the English writer John Gay (1685–1732), from its beginnings to the present day. It is noted that close attention to the fables of J. Gay in the last quarter of the 18th century, this was largely due to the interest of the Russian society in novelties in French books; as a result, prosaic translations of poetic texts from an intermediary language prevailed, against which the poetical readings of English originals created by I. Ilyinsky were undoubtedly more successful. The subsequent “surge” of interest in J. Gayʼs fable heritage at the end of the XIX century connected with the demand of society for the works of foreign authors, accessible to the mass, common reader, focused on the traditional culture of their countries. In the Soviet period, J. Gayʼs fables found themselves on the periphery of the preferences of translators and critics who interpreted mainly the writerʼs dramatic texts (“The Beggarʼs Opera”, “Polly”). The research of A.I. Zhilenkov and the translations of E.D. Feldman, published in recent decades, marked a new stage of the Russian reception, characterized by the identification of the artistic originality of Gayʼs fables, the desire for the most complete, holistic perception of the heritage of the Gay-fabulist, taking into account ancient and English literary traditions.

SummaryThis paper deals with a manuscript from the library of the Regional Museum in Chrudim (East Bohemia) which contains a Czech translation of some of the tales of ‘One Thousand and One Nights’. The manuscript was written at the end of the 18th century in a rather peculiar orthography and belongs to a group of manuscripts which were evidently written by a single person, the painter Josef Ceregetti (1722–1779). The language used in these manuscripts is the literary Czech of that time, with some influence from spoken language. By comparison of the French text of Galland and two contemporary German translations with the Czech text I show that the author seems to have been working with the German translation from the year 1730. The Czech translation was probably intended for a local circle of intellectuals, mainly clerics, and never reached a broader public.

The paper examines the linguistic features of the translations of historiographical works made by Piotr Tolstoy and Savva Ragusinsky from Italian in the first quarter of the 18th century. These are translations of Paul Ricaut’s treatise The History of the Modern State of the Ottoman Empire and Mavro Orbini’s book Il regno degli slavi. The similarity in the usage of certain lexemes and grammatical constructions (phasic verbs, constructions with the pronoun kotoryi and the repetition of the referent, the substantive infinitive) is analyzed. The presence of common linguistic features in the translations under consideration is primarily due to the fact that they are characteristic of the Russian-Church Slavonic language of the Peter the Great era as a whole. The commonality of the constructions used by the two authors arises both because of the translated nature of the texts considered, and because of their similar status. The intensity of the use of certain constructions in the editions of two translations is also influenced by the direction of editorial change during the preparation of Russian texts for printing, which was carried out by different people at different times. The detected lingistic differences (grammatical calques, a specific indicator of evidentiality) relate to the level of local linguistic phenomena. The analysis involves the original works of Piotr Tolstoy and the translation of the Quran from French, printed in 1716 in St. Petersburg, which may also be associated with the name of Tolstoy. According to the parameters considered, the translations of Piotr Tolstoy turn out to be closer to the translation of Savva Raguzinsky than to his own writings.

The paper examines the linguistic features of the translations of historiographical works made by Piotr Tolstoy and Savva Ragusinsky from Italian in the first quarter of the 18th century. These are translations of Paul Ricaut’s treatise The History of the Modern State of the Ottoman Empire and Mavro Orbini’s book Il regno degli slavi. The similarity in the usage of certain lexemes and grammatical constructions (phasic verbs, constructions with the pronoun kotoryi and the repetition of the referent, the substantive infinitive) is analyzed. The presence of common linguistic features in the translations under consideration is primarily due to the fact that they are characteristic of the Russian Church Slavonic language of the Peter the Great era as a whole. The commonality of the constructions used by the two authors arises both because of the translated nature of the texts considered, and because of their similar status.The intensity of the use of certain constructions in the editions of two translations is also influenced by the direction of editorial change during the preparation of Russian texts for printing, which was carried out by different people at different times. The detected lingistic differences (grammatical calques, a specific indicator of evidentiality) relate to the level of local linguistic phenomena. The analysis involves the original works of Piotr Tolstoy and the translation of the Quran from French, printed in 1716 in St. Petersburg, which may also be associated with the name of Tolstoy. According to the parameters considered, the translations of Piotr Tolstoy turn out to be closer to the translation of Savva Raguzinsky than to his own writings.

Antoine Lavoisier (1743–1794) was one of the most eminent scientists of the late 18th century. He is often referred to as the father of chemistry, in part because of his book Elementary Treatise on Chemistry. In addition he was a major figure in respiratory physiology, being the first person to recognize the true nature of oxygen, elucidating the similarities between respiration and combustion, and making the first measurements of human oxygen consumption under various conditions. Less well known are the contributions made by his wife, Marie-Anne Lavoisier. However, she was responsible for drawings of the experiments on oxygen consumption when the French revolution was imminent. These are of great interest because written descriptions are not available. Possible interpretations of the experiments are given here. In addition, her translations from English to French of papers by Priestley and others were critical in Lavoisier's demolition of the erroneous phlogiston theory. She also provided the engravings for her husband's textbook, thus documenting the extensive new equipment that he developed. In addition she undertook editorial work, for example in preparing his posthumous memoirs. The scientific collaboration of this husband-wife team is perhaps unique among the giants of respiratory physiology.

The paper will discuss the ways in which Shakespeare’s tragedies (King Lear) and histories (1 and 2 Henry IV), translated in the period of the Czech cultural renaissance (known also as the Czech National Revival) at the end of the 18th and in the first half of the 19th century, challenge and transform the nationalist concept of history based on “primordialism” (Anthony Smith), deriving from an invented account of remote past (the forged Manuscripts of Dvur Kralove and Zelena Hora) and emphasizing its absolute value for the present and future of the Czech nation. While for nationalist leaders Shakespeare’s dramas served as models for “boldly painted heroic characters” of the Czech past, translators, dramatists and poets had to deal with the aspects of Shakespeare’s tragedies and histories which were disrupting the nationalist visions of the past and future. Contrasting the appropriations of King Lear and both parts of Henry IV in the translations and historical plays by the leading Czech dramatist Josef Kajetán Tyl (1808-1852) and the notebooks and dramatic fragments of the major romantic poet Karel Hynek Mácha (1810-1836), the paper will attempt to specify the role of Shakespeare in shaping the historical consciousness of emerging modern Czech culture.

At the beginning of the 18th century a new literary trend with an Eastern orientation was emerging in Europe, especially in French literature. This innovation began when Antoine Gallen first translated “One Thousand and one nights” into French in 1704, and Western readers showed great interest in that ancient Arabic monument. As orientalists and translators of the time saw that Arab tales that caused a stir in Europe were loved and gained with fame, they turned to Eastern sources and tried to create new translated works in this style. Over time, the readers, who were impressed by the tales about the mysterious Eastern environment, eagerly waited for the continuation of the topic, and deeply sympathized with the new works created in the example of “One Thousand and one nights”. As a result of contemporary studies, it has become clear that the mentioned examples are not independent works, but imitations of translations. One of the translation imitations created within the framework of that period, when such a literary trend flourished, is “One Thousand and a quarter of an hours. Tatar tales”. This article entitled “One Thousand and a quarter of an hours. Tatar tales” illuminates a number of important points related to the history, geography, culture and literature of Azerbaijan.

Views on architecture that hold a significant position in architectural theory are the ones by Marc-Antoine Laugier, a French theoretician from the 18th century. The research on his architectural theory that have been carried out so far are quite stereotypical and concern Laugier?s concept of primitive hut as his only significant contribution to architectural theory. It is well-known that the concept of primitive hut plays an important role in Laugier?s theory and it is what actually maintained his reputation up to now. However, by singling out this concept as an independent one, one actually neglects all the other aspects of Laugier?s theory. The aim of this paper is to present multidimensionality of Laugier?s architectural aesthetics by crossing the borders of architecture and viewing Laugier?s ideas in cultural, philosophical, religious and historical context, as well as applying the integrative process and considering the spiritual paths of the enlightenment movement in the mid-18th century. A special attention is paid to considering the aesthetic aspect which represents the gist and an inevitable part of Laugier?s architectural theory. His aesthetic theory is important in forming the classicist style, and despite its radical character, it influenced many architects in France and the rest of Europe. We may see Laugier as one of the first modernists considering his structuralist logic of the constructive circuit of architecture and aesthetic modesty of decoration. Laugier?s functionalist attitude that the constructive circuit should at the same time represent a decorative element of architecture confirms the thesis that modernist approach has its roots in the 18th century.

Positivism is a scientific paradigm rooted in empirical philosophy. As a scientific paradigm, positivism has a very broad influence in various fields of science. August Comte was an 18th century French philosopher known as the founder of positivism. In positivism, everything or phenomenon must be able to be measured positively or definitively in order to be measurable. This applies not only to the natural sciences but also to the social sciences. The role of positivist philosophy in the aspect of learning methods can be seen from two things, namely positivist philosophy plays a role in developing learning methods and positivist philosophical thinking plays a role as a learning method. Of course, various learning development activities are based on data and something empirical in nature. About the role of positivist philosophy in relation to learning strategies, which are expressed through the learning method itself. There are several learning methods used today that follow the scientific method, such as discovery learning, project-based learning, and problem-based learning.

Not Only a Natural History Course. Duchess Anna Jabłonowska’s “Collection of All Objects of Human Reason Inquiries” One of the richest natural history collections in Europe at the end of the 18th century was the Cabinet of Natural History of Duchess Anna Jabłonowska née Sapieha (1728–1800) in Siemiatycze. In 1802, the collection was purchased by Tsar Alexander I and handed over to the University in Moscow (where it burned down in 1812). It was only possible to recreate the richness of the collection and the way it was taken over after the sales documents had been found in 2008 in the Archive of the Russian Academy of Sciences in St. Petersburg. However, some documents were illegible, and it was only in 2020 that the entire documentation was read. It revealed a completely different image of the collection than expected, as in one part the collection refers to cabinets of curiosities. The article is the first publication in Polish on Anna Jabłonowska’s “art cabinet”, with translations of the lists of exhibits by Count Stanisław Sołtyk (from French) and by V.M. Severgin and A.F. Sevastyanov (from Russian).

Academic studies of Shakespeare in Great Britain and France present the historian with startling contrasts. Beginning in the late 18th century, the English debated the extent of his knowledge and eventually turned the poet-playwright into a national hero and secular saint. When Thomas Carlyle published in 1840 On Heroes, Hero Worship, and the Heroic in History, he actually stated that Shakespeare was “an unconscious intellect” whose dramas “grew up out of Nature.” Carlyle’s book was an incredible success, deifying the uneducated and untraveled man from Stratford, making him a religious Anglo-Saxon icon never to be questioned. Some had their doubts. In France in 1918, Professor Abel Lefranc, a renowned Renaissance scholar and member of the Académie française, published Sous le masque de William Shakespeare, a volume that tried to prove “to all those with an open mind” that the author William Shakespeare could not have been Shakspere of Stratford-upon-Avon. Among his reasons: William Shakespeare knew France, the French aristocracy and French history too well. Leaving aside the author’s missing paper trail, inconceivable for the “soul of the age,” Lefranc examined Shakespeare’s works in extraordinary detail and revealed just how political they were and how often they subtly commented on a much wider European culture and politics. Shakespeare’s oeuvre, he argued, was not limited to the Anglo-Saxon world but was actually multi-national and deeply influenced by France. English scholars did not handle this French questioning of Shakespeare so well. Indeed, with only a few exceptions, Lefranc’s work was ignored in the Anglo-Saxon world. Lefranc argued that the plays needed to be re-examined as creations for the Elizabethan court, making clear references to what was actually happening in France at the time. This essay argues that the significance of Shakespeare’s knowledge of French courtly politics and culture should not be underestimated because there are no records that the man from Stratford ever left England or knew French. That is, once the profound French influence is recognized in Shakespeare’s plays, the man from Stratford could not have been the author.

In the XVIII century, the clergy went through the most important processes related to the formation of the estate; the creation of a system of spiritual education plays an important role in this process. We will look at how the idea of literacy and scholarship as mandatory components of self-image was formed among the clergy, and how the languages included in these ideas have changed over the century. Having analyzed "literacy" and "scholarship" as elements of state regulation of the number of clergy, we will consider the concepts of literacy focused on the Church Slavonic language and literature, and their transformation after the spread of regular seminary "Latin" education. The material of archival documents allows you to see the assessment of the literacy of children of the clergy at admission to the seminary, as well as to understand exactly what skills were included in this assessment. Next, we reconstruct the semantic shift that has been taking place in the attitude of the clergy to seminary education over the course of a century: what kind of learning outcomes did the parents of seminarians expect when sending their children to educational institutions, and how these formulations have changed over the century. The system of spiritual education turns out to be built in such a way as to have priority over home schooling, and Latin is in the focus of attention as the main "filter" that allows separating the "learned" clergy from the "unlearned", i.e. "illiterate. But with the spread of seminary education, the status of "scholarship" begins to be associated no longer with the Latin language, but with less common languages: European (French and German) and "theological" (Greek and Hebrew).

The article analyzes information on the history of the Golden Horde, contained in the seventh article of historical work of Abū al-Gāzī khan Chīngīzī Khvārazmī the Shajara-yi turk va mugūl, which is one of the most significant monuments of Turkic written heritage. The purpose of the study is the introduction into scientific circulation of a new translation of valuable material on the history of the Chingizids. The work Shajara-yi turk va mugūl is well known to scientists as the text of the manuscript. Its translations have been being published numerously in European, Asian countries, and in Russia since the second quarter of the 18th century. Translations by J. J. P. Desmaisons and G. S. Sablukov into French and Russian published in 1874 and 1906 are still recognized by scientists to a certain extent acceptable for critical use. However, it should be emphasized that in the text of these two publications, there are some errors and semantic distortions of the source’s text. In this regard, the article provides a commented translation of the seventh chapter of Abū al-Gāzī khan’s work under the title “Mention of the reign of Jochi Khan, the eldest son of Genghis Khan, and his descendants in Desht-i Kipchāk”. The comparative-critical analysis of the information of the Shajara-yi turk va mugūl with the data of the works of Rashīd ad-Dīn, Mu’īn al-Dīn Natanzī, Mirza Ulūgbek, Fasih Ahmad al-Khawāfī made it possible to reveal the similarities and differences in the account of the historical events described by the authors. Abū alGāzī khan, using extant sources, supplemented the history of the rulers of the Golden Horde with individual facts; the Khiva work contains information missing from other authors.

Almost all the dramatic works by Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais (1732–1799) have been translated and performed in Poland during his lifetime. The author of this article studies the 18th-century translations with their paratexts, comparing them with the original versions, in order to discover — among translation/adaptation procedures — traces of political, social, or cultural clashes that have marked Beaumarchais’ life work and time. The corpus includes the translation of Eugénie (1778), a translation (1780) and a rewriting (1782) of The Barber of Seville and finally the only Polish version of The Marriage of Figaro (1786) that remains of the two created at the time. From play to play, the reception of Beaumarchais in Poland is growing: the time spent between the French première and the Polish one is shortening, while the number of translations, the volume of translator paratexts and the amount of information in the media space are increasing. The Polish ver-sion of Eugénie includes the same family and social clashes as the original. In the translation of The Barber of Seville, the clashes have been slightly mitigated. In The Barber of Warsaw, a play inspired by The Barber of Seville, social satire is limited, while the character being a partial equivalent of Figaro is relegated to the rank of traditional valet. In the translation of The Marriage of Figaro, all the confrontations, including that between Figaro and the Count, have been rendered, but the scene of the trial is not as sharp as in the original and the translator has eliminated Marceline’s ‘feminist’ discourse. On the other hand, in the paratextual space of the Polish edition, there is an echo of Beau-marchais’ personal clashes.

The article reveals a new way of interpreting the last words of Shakespeare’s Richard III on the Bosworth battlefield (5.4.7, 13). As evidenced by numerous parodies and anecdotes the phrase became an idiom in the age of Shakespeare, and in the 19th century Russian translations has survived metamorphoses ranging from the fairy “half the kingdom” to the alternative “the whole kingdom” for a horse. The available interpretations in scientific editions don’t clarify the expression. It is absent in historical (Hall, Holinshed) and possible literary (Richardus Tertius, True Tragedy) sources, but corresponds to the logic of character and actions of Shakespeare’s Richard. We traced the development of the “white horse” motive, identified its heraldic symbolism and the leading biblical allegory associated with the image of the victor in the battle for the world (Rev. 19: 11, 16), as well as the playwright’s emphasis on the tyrant’s progressing madness. The revealed increase in biblical lexis (“irons of wrath,” “cast,” etc) and imagery (non-sunrise, the paradox of “George” and “dragon”), the symbolism of the stage space (set in accordance with the iconography of the Crucifixion and the Last Judgment) allow us to read the denouement of the cross-cutting theme of the fight between “the world” and “nothing” (1.2.240) in spirit and tradition of religious play. Richard’s “wager” takes the play beyond the boundaries of the genres codified by the Folio (Histories and Tragedies) and raises it to a mystery play, demonstrating the last battle in Heaven. Paradoxically, the first Russian translator of the play, S. Sergievsky, at the end of the 18th century most accurately succeeded in conveying the meaning of the “bet,” following the French translation by Pierre Antoine de La Place.

The topic of the emergence of art criticism in France in the second half of the 17th and the first half of the 18th century, being rather widely covered in foreign academic literature, is still underdeveloped in Russian art history. Nevertheless, that issue is extremely important for understanding the processes that took place in the French and more widely in the European artistic milieu. The article aims to highlight the process of the criticism formation not only as a literary genre but primarily as a phenomenon of cultural life. Based on original written sources and foreign academic literature, the author traces how the appearance of fine art in the light of publicity was prepared in the Parisian artistic milieu. The author addresses the important questions that arose during the formative and legitimizing phase of criticism, such as its distinction from pre-existing art theory, as well as the distinction between the critic and the theorist or fine art historian. The artwork must now satisfy not only the master and the customer and a small circle of connoisseurs, society also becomes an active participant in artistic life, and the viewer enshrines the right to judge the art. The author shows how criticism is gradually becoming more diverse and polyphonic. Works written on behalf of a wide variety of characters are appearing, writers are adapting various literary genres that already exist: epistolary, diary, plays, poems, dialogues. For many years, criticism becomes an active channel of communication linking all participants in artistic life.

Résumé: Louise d’Épinay, Anne-Thérèse de Lambert ou Marie Rabutin Chantal, plus connue sous le nom de Madame de Sévigné, sont des auteures dont la réception marqua un tournant au sein des cercles les plus élitistes de l’Espagne du XVIIIe siècle, et plus particulièrement pour les lectures qui étaient celles des femmes espagnoles de l’époque. Des lectures qui, depuis des temps immémoriaux, étaient caractérisées par une tendance morale et religieuse notoire, ainsi que par le martèlement des valeurs traditionnelles et patriarcales inculquées dès le plus jeune âge au genre féminin. Pour toutes ces raisons, ce travail s’intéressera à la fortune littéraire et à la réception de ces trois pédagogues françaises en Espagne, ainsi qu’à la traduction de leurs œuvres, à leur influence sur certaines intellectuelles espagnoles de l’époque et aux différentes versions qui en furent publiées tout au long de de la période des Lumières en Espagne. Mots clés: France-Espagne, XVIIIe siècle, pédagogie, traduction, femmes. _________________________ The women’s Studies of the Age of Enlightenment in Spanish letters: Louise d’Épinay, Anne-Thérèse de Lambert and Marie de Rabutin-Chantal (Madame de Sévigné). Abstract: The Spanish reception of authors such as Louise d’Épinay, Anne-Thérèse de Lambert or Marie Rabutin Chantal, better known as Madame de Sévigné, had a before and after in the most elite circles of the Eighteenth century Spain and especially in the readings of Enlightenment Hispanic women. Readings, which from time immemorial, were characterized by a flagrant religious morality and by the continual repetition of traditional and patriarchal values, imposed on the feminine gender from an early age. For all this, this work will focus on the literary fortune and the Spanish reception of these three French pedagogues, as well as their translations, their influence on some Spanish intellectuals of the time and the different versions published throughout Hispanic Lights. Keywords: France-Spain, 18th century, pedagogy, translation, women.

The conflict between the Russian and Turkish in 1877-1878, though formed on the pretext of Russia's support for Christian nations under the rule of the Ottoman Empire, was actually part of the great scheme that European governments had begun to break up the Ottoman Empire and resolve the Eastern Question. The goals of these powers for world domination, that would sometimes results in wars among themselves, were mainly focused on expanding the territorial realm and winning economic gains. These goals were followed under the disguise of gaining freedom for Christians and securing independence for non-Turkish nations. The scientific and technological impairment of the Ottoman Empire compared to the European countries, accompanied by internal rivalries and frequent overthrow of the rulers, were some of the main weaknesses of the Ottoman state causing their demise. In the meantime, Russia was in pursue of its policy of territorial expansion and seeking access to warm waters. Russia's main objective was to obtain access to the Black Sea and the Mediterranean Sea. Having control over the Straits of Bosporus and Dardanelles that were under the rule of the Ottoman Empire would have connected Russia to the center of world trade in the Mediterranean and would have freed Russia from its land blockages and frozen ports. The causality, the start, and the ramifications of these wars have been reflected in the Iranian historiography of that era. Mohammad Hassan Khan Etemad al-Saltanah, a great historian of the Nasereddin Shah Qajar Age (1848-1898), using the reports of Iranian officials in Russia and the Ottoman Empire, and two books of Montazame Nasseri and Merat al-Boldan that were translations of selected articles from the French and Ottoman newspapers have recorded this important historical event. The reasons for Iranian attention to this historical event forms part of the modern and global historiography of Iran, in which attention to the developments in the Ottoman Empire plays an important role in Iran's acquaintance with modern civilization.

Resumo: Antônio José da Silva, ou o Judeu, foi um dramaturgo português que, no século XVIII, escreveu textos de teatro a partir de modelos tragicômicos provenientes da profícua escritura do Século de Ouro espanhol. Em Anfitrião, ou Júpiter e Alcmena, o dramaturgo recorre a uma temática mitológica desenvolvida na dramaturgia cômica desde a Roma Antiga como meio de entretenimento e diversão de um público ávido pela inventividade dos autores coetâneos. Assim, o dramaturgo português compõe uma “ópera joco-séria” que contempla as origens da história narrada, transmitida através do teatro latino, ibérico e francês. Entretanto, através de um estro dinâmico, acrescenta situações que contemplam outras vertentes do mito narrado, sem desvirtuar a caracterização das personagens, estruturalmente as mesmas desde a Grécia antiga, embora diferentes no trato do universo dramático criado pelo Judeu.Palavras-chave: teatro; dramaturgia; personagem; Antônio José da Silva; mito.Abstract: Antônio José da Silva, or The Jew, was a 18th century Portuguese playwriter wich wrote plays based on tragicomic models originating from the profitable Spanish Golden Age. At Amphitryon or Jupiter and Alcmena, the playwriter invokes the mythological thematic that was developed at comic dramaturgy since the Ancient Rome as entertainment and fun to its spectators that has been avid by the contemporary authors’ inventivity. In this manner, the Portuguese playwriter composed a joco-serious opera that considers the narrated story backgrounds through the Latin, Iberian and French theatre. However, based on his dynamic imagination, Silva adds situations he observes by other points of the myth, without misinterpretations about the characterization of the characters which was basically the same since the Ancient Greece, but different in treatment of the Jew’s dramatic universe.Keywords: theatre; dramaturgy; character; Antônio José da Silva; myth.

“The oldest hath borne most”: The old age of Shakespeare’s King Lear in Czech translationsfrom the 18th and 19th centuriesA number of critics have noted the importance of the motif of old age in Shakespeare’s King Lear, chiefly the old age of the play’s eponymous character. Indeed, the King’s age serves in the play as a powerful dramaturgical device, a kind of prism through which the audience sees not just Lear’s character, but also other characters’ deeds and most of the play’s action. When watching the play, the audience is constantly reminded of Lear’s age, both directly, through Lear’s or other characters’ speeches, and indirectly, through a number of physical details. It could be said that the King’s age is employed at all possible levels of the drama, becoming the main impulse for the development of the plot.King Lear is one of the first plays by Shakespeare to be translated into Czech, and various dramatists attempted to localise it for Czech audiences. The present paper examines three early translations of King Lear into Czech: by Prokop Šedivý 1792, Josef Kajetán Tyl 1835, and Ladislav Čelakovský 1856. While the last mentioned version is the first “true” translation of the play into Czech, using Shakespeare’s unabridged English original as the source text, the two earlier translations are rather loose adaptations, almost certainly based on various German stage versions, altering significant portions of the story and cutting entire scenes and speeches or even characters.Surprisingly, even the earliest Czech translators seem to have been aware of the dramaturgi­cal importance of the dominant motif in the original play and, in spite of the sometimes drastic alterations, tried to preserve it in their versions as much as possible. Nevertheless, in various passages from the Czech versions, we may observe that even with this knowledge, the translators at times struggled with a number of nuances in the original, not always being able to preserve the complexity of a character or dramatic situation. This was only achieved by Ladislav Čelakovský, whose mid-19th century text was the first to represent Shakespeare’s King Lear, both in terms of form and, of course, in terms of the motifs of the original.„Najstarszy wycierpiał najwięcej”: starość króla Leara Szekspira w czeskich przekładach okresu odrodzenia narodowegoWielu badaczy zwróciło uwagę na znaczenie motywu starości w Królu Learze Szekspira, zwłaszcza na starość tytułowego protagonisty dramatu. Królewska starość służy w istocie jako mocny środek dramaturgiczny owego utworu, w pewnym sensie jest to pryzmat, przez który widzowie spoglądają nie tylko na samego Leara, ale także na czyny pozostałych postaci i akcję sztuki w ogóle. Podczas przedstawienia uwagę widzów nieustannie przyciąga wiek Leara, bądź bezpośrednio, a więc w samych wypowiedziach Leara lub innych postaci, bądź za pomocą szeregu detali fizycznych. Można stwierdzić, że wiek króla pojawia się we wszystkich warstwach dramatu i staje się głównym impulsem rozwoju akcji.Król Lear jest jednym z pierwszych dramatów Szekspira, które zostały przełożone na język czeski, a w sumie istnieje około piętnastu czeskich przekładów tego tekstu. Niniejszy esej bada trzy wczesne przekłady wersję Prokopa Šedivego 1792, Josefa Kajetána Tyla 1835 i Ladisla­va Čelakovskiego 1856. Podczas gdy ostatni wymieniony tekst jest pierwszym „prawdziwym” przekładem Króla Leara na czeski, wychodzącym z nieskróconego angielskiego oryginału jako wzorca, pozostałe dwa przekłady są raczej wolniejszymi adaptacjami, prawie na pewno opartymi na różnych niemieckich adaptacjach pierwotnej sztuki, w których zmienione są znaczące elementy historii, a czasem całe dialogi i sceny a nawet postaci.Jednak nawet pierwsi czescy tłumacze mimo wszystko świadomi byli dramaturgicznego znaczenia dominującego motywu starości w pierwotnym tekście i nawet w pewnych drastycznych skrótach tekstu starali się go w jak największym stopniu zachować. Z konfrontacji różnych fragmentów badanych wersji czeskich wypływa, że i w tym wypadku tłumacze często walczyli z różnymi niuansami oryginału i nie zawsze potrafili zachować daną postać czy sytuację w całej jej rozpiętości. Osiągnął to dopiero Ladislav Čelakovski. Jego przekład zpołowy XIX wieku był pierwszym, w którym udało się w pełni wyrazić tekst Szekspirowskiego Króla Leara od strony formalnej, oraz zachować sens poszczególnych motywów oryginału.

The interest in political crime has been growing in the Polish doctrine of penal law and criminology of the 1980's. In 1982, the Institute of Penal Law of Warsaw university organized a conference dealing with the problems of political crime and the status of political prisoners. In 1984, the works of J. Kubiak and S. Hoc were published, with those of T. Szymanowski and S. Popławski to follow during the next two years. In 1986, articles by Z. Ciepiński and S. Pawela appeared in the organ of the Academy’s of Internal Affairs Institute of Law, and the Learned Society for Penal Law devoted one of its 1987 session to the problems of political crime. The present paper formulates and develops the main threads of the lectures delivered in 1982 and 1987 by the present authors. Accepting the opinions of O. Kirchheimer and S. Schafer, classical in a sense, as to the extreme complexity of political crime and the impossibility of formulating a universal criterion basing on which such crime might be distinguished, we give an outline of the chief elements of that interesting social phenomenon. The oldest Roman legal constructions of proditio and perduellio were transformed during the period of empire into crimen leasae maiestatis, an institution that was to persist for centuries to come in the shape of offences against state or the ruler. The origins of the modern history of political crime as a separate legal category date back to the end of the 18th century and the changes brought about by the French Revolution. In the early half of the 19th century, France and Belgium were the first to grant to political offences a privileged status among prohibited acts, introducing the competence of assizes, a separate system of penalties, and abolishing death penalty towards political offenders; this also took place in several other European countries. The privilege of political offences was based mainly on their distinct motives and their perpetrators personality traits. The 19th-century optimism and romanticism of approach towards political crime paled in the late half of the century as the surge of anarchistic and revolutionary movements grew. The legal status of a political offender started to worsen; the great 20th-century dictatorships were tragic to their real and supposed antagonists, treated with particular severity so as to terrify the citizens. In about two centuries of modern history, the legal category of political offence went through all possible extremes: now the time has come to reconsider it. A general, universal and timeless definition of political offence does not seem possible, even the most extreme of its forms being relativistic. Offenders called by some ,,terrorists’’ are ,,fighters for liberty’’ in the eyes of others. On the other hand, state terror is sometimes given the neutral name of ,,special operation’’ or ,,new policy’’. Last of all, one might also say quoting the extreme section of radical criminology that there is a political entanglement to all offences, administration of justice being an instrument of politics. Also the opposite is sometimes contended, namely, that political crime does not exist at all, enemies of the system being common criminals or madmen. There is also a marked trend to exclude terrorism, war crimes, and genocide from the discussed definition. In international law, the notion of political crime is purely functional: the separate states base on it when refusing extradition and granting political asylum. As regards the internal penal legislation, some states only distinguish political offence as a legal notion. There are in the doctrine of penal law three basic methods of defining that notion. According to the objective approach, the kind good being assaulted constitutes the essence of political crime: thus the group of such acts is restricted to direct attempts against the state's basic political interests only. According to the second conception, the subjective one political crime is any prohibited act committed for political motives or to political end. The third, mixed theory consists in taking both these aspects into account: the interest protected by law and the perpetrator's ideological motivation or aims which cannot be recognized as censurable. Additionally, the preponderance or domination theory allows for a punishable act to be recognized as a political offence if political elements prove to have predominated in the given circumstances, aims, and motives. Robert Merton's was the most successful attempt to characterize a political (nonconformist) offender. Contrary to the common offender, his political counterpart 1) makes no effort whatever to hide his infringement of norms he repudiates or questions as to their legal validity; 2) he wants to replace the norms he considers wrong with other norms based on a different moral foundation; 3) his aims are completely or largely disinterested; 4) he is commonly perceived as quite different a person than a common offender. If we broaden the notion of ,,nonconformist" by adding adjectives like ,,religious" and ,,ethical" to it, we bring it closer to that of ,,convictional criminal" used by Schafer and of ,,prisoner of conscience" used by the Amnesty International. The radical trends in sociology and criminology of the recent decades brought an important element to change the aproach to political crime: an opinion is promoted that the state itself is the main source of that crime as it may use every possible legal norm and institution to fight its opponents. As opposed to the two countries where the conception of political criminals separate status was born, France and Belgium - discussed particularly broadly by the authors of lectures - the United States repudiate in their law and law courts decisions the existence of political crime. Instead, there is ,,civil disobedience'' which, together with the specifically American constitutional mechanisms, constitutes an instrument of the struggle for the protection of civil rights and liberties. The fact is stressed in the legal and criminological literature that a refusal to recognize the political character of acts that deserve such recognition contributes to the discredit of administration of justice as the establishment's political instrument. At the same time, various methods of illegal ,,neutralization" of political opponents are brought to light, including the so-called dirty tricks of the FBI and the different forms of abuse of authority by the CIA. In Great Britain, there is according to the official standpoint no political crime in the light of penal law. But the problem itself does exist in practice which is evidenced among others by the quest - a feverish one at times - after the measure to control the difficulties resulting from it; among such measures, there are administrative acts or on appropriate interpretation of the existing regulations, e.g. rules of imprisonment. The doctrine of penal law and criminology do not seem too interested in the discussed problem; its treatment by L. Radzinowicz and R. Hood is no doubt an exception, particularly if we consider the fates of the activists of the three socio-political movements before World War I: Chartists who fought for workmen’s rights, Fenians who demanded the grant of rights to the Irish, and suffragists. Despite the fact that the problem is only treated in its historical aspect, materials of immediate interest can be drawn from its analysis. In the Federal Republic of Germany, political crime lacks a separate status: yet a growth in the interest in such crime can be observed. This was particularly true in the seventies and was due to the activities of terrorist groups and to students protests. Also G. Radbruch’s conception of ,,convictional criminal’’ plays a certain part there, among intellectuals with leftist tendencies above all. Also in that country, the discussion grows especially important about the relation between the powerful and the powerless. Another significant point is H. J. Schneider’s demand for the problems of political crime to be granted a privileged position in criminological research. Considering the aspects of that crime in their broad interpretation, Schneider found it possible to include both terrorism and genocide in his discussion; thus, for the first time ever, a profound treatment of Nazi crimes was included in the West-German criminology. In Poland, after the country regained independence in 1918, several different laws were in force for over ten years concerning political crime and prisoners, in a difficult internal situation. In 1931, uniform rules of imprisonment entered into force which provided for no mitigation for political prisoners. The penalty of arrest, introduced by the 1932 penal code admittedly included certain elements of the status of a political prisoner, but the opposition’s struggle for its proper formulation went on till the outbreak of World War II. After the war, ,,counter-revolutionaries’’ and ,,traitors of the nation’’ were treated with utmost severity. This situation in which political opponents were so treated on a mass scale ended with the fall of Stalinism. The recent Polish discussion about the notion and status of political prisoner dates from the events of 1980-1981. Many were not aware at that time that there had been in the 1970’s in Poland a partial legal regulation of the special status of persons defined as perpetrators of political offences. It followed from the fact that Poland ratified in 1958 the ILO Convention No. 105 and that in consequence, the Minister of Justice issued an appropriate order. In the provisions of the decree (issued on the imposition of martial law on December 13, 1981) on remittal and forgiveness of certain offences, those ,,committed for political reasons’’ were mentioned amond others. Thus the lawyers could argue that the notion of political offence was know to the legislator, the only problem consisting in providing a more detailed legal regulation of that sphere. But the authorities chose a different solution. At the beginning, those convicted of the sc-called ,non-criminal" acts were granted an actual (and not legal) status of political prisoners. Later on, most of such persons were released from prison by the terms of the succeeding amnesty acts. in 1986, the Act on ,,decriminalization'' transferred the competence to decide in most of those cases to misdemeanour courts. The interest in the problems of political crime, increased since 1982, still persists in the circles of the Polish doctrine of penal law and criminology. There is a general trend to give that notion a broader interpretation as compared with the present doctrine of penal law which practically limits its range to offences against the state's basic political and economic interests only. We believe the Polish doctrine of penal law; criminology and legislation in Poland now face at least three basic questions: 1) whether to introduce into the law a special status of political offenders and prisoners in its traditional construction; 2) whether to recognize similarly a privileged legal situation of a larger group of ,,ideological nonconformists" mentioned by the ILO Convention No. 105;3) whether and to what extent to include in the notion of political offence the prohibited acts committed by state functionaries while exercising authority.

The poets, artists, sculptors and musicians of the Baroque pe­riod felt that a "new age" had arrived, and so they clearly distin­gui­shed their art from that of the artists of the previous period and ca­refully sought out new forms of expression. Baroque poetry is cha­racterised by novelty in both content and form. In the Baroque culture, the importance of the recipient, reader, viewer and listener increased; therefore, special attention was paid to such concepts as "interesting", "worthy of attention", "expressive", "entertaining", "amu­sing", "playful" and all these concepts can be unified in a single category of "astonishing", because the main goal of the Baroque ar­tist is to surprise, astonish the reader and listener, and therefore they carefully studied the reac­tions of their viewers and readers in order to affect them more effec­tively with their works. The desire to impress readers and listeners is, to some extent, asso­ciated with the function of playing. In the 17th century, the concept of play was primarily associated with the Baroque style. One of the primary principles of Baroque art is the aspiration to create astonishing works of art and to strive for that goal. Conse­quently, the Baroque aesthetic was deve­loped with the inten­tion of impressing humans. The criterion for assessing artistic works was taste (gusto). The concept of taste was a key determinant of the sty­listic choices made by authors of the Baroque era, with the aim of striving to achieve astonishment from their readers and listeners. Georgian literature spanning the 17th and 18th centuries is distin­guished by the introduction of new genres and an abundance of formalistic searches, as well as the mastering of the visual and acoustic capacities of the form. Poets of that period were not satis-fied with the earlier forms of the verses and oriented their talent and capabilities to seeking and establishing of the new forms. New poetic forms have emerged, characterised by their unusual and int­ricate nature. they were intended to astonish the readers and liste­ners and some of them have even became the subject of poetic contests. The aspiration to innovate, desire to impress the readers and listeners delight and amaze them with something new and di­fferent, as characteristic for Georgian authors of that period, is the feature of the European Baroque literature in general. In this article, in the context of Baroque esthetics, we have considered the palin­dromes, i.e. verses to be read forwards and bac­kwards, authored by various poets and “Mukhranuli” by Vakhtang VI. The palindrome, which can be read from either direction, proved par­ti­cularly appealing to Georgian Baroque poets. The authors of palin­dromes in Georgian literature of the period in question are as follows: Archil II, Jakob Shemokmedeli, Svimon Kopadze, Onana Mdivani, and Vakhtang VI. The interest of Geor­gian authors in this form can be explained by the influence of Baro­­que aesthetics. In this context, the concept of "reflection" and "mirroring" is a particularly important phenomenon in the arts of the Baroque era. The "mirror" and the "shadow" assume a special significance within this context. The concept of reflection, namely that each subject may possess a dual aspect, one external and seemingly distinct, yet reflecting its essential nature, is a widespread theme in Baroque works. Consequently, the motif of the mirror, which extensively utilises the 'principle of play' inhe­rent to the creative arts, emerges as a dominant motif of the Baroque era. The distinctive quality of the line, which could be read in both a left-to-right and right-to-left direction, proved a significant source of inspiration for Georgian poets. This phenomenon, cha­racterised by a mirror-like sym­met­ry in the repetition of letters and sounds, offered a unique oppor­tunity for creative expression. Identi­fying palindrome words is a challenging task that requires a keen eye and patience to uncover within a given language's vocabulary. These words possess a distinctive quality, namely a "duality," which often goes unnoticed by others until they are pointed out. This dis­co­very can elicit a sense of astonishment among readers, highligh­ting the intriguing nature of such linguistic phenomena. In light of the aforemen­tioned context, this entertaining form of verse appea­led to poets due to its dual meaning and mirroring principle, whe­reby the effect was not merely auditory but also visual, encom­pa­ssing the symmetric reflection of graphe­mes. This made it a multi-sensory experience, appealing to both the eyes and ears. It is note­wor­thy that palindromes enjoyed popularity in Ukraine, Russia, and Poland during the Baroque era, where they were known as "versus cancrinus." In the context of versification searches pertaining to Vakh­tang VI, it is of particular significance to direct attention to the verse that is known under the title "Mukhranuli". It is of interest for two reasons: firstly, due to its allegoric content, and secondly, due to its form. The verse is composed of 20 syllables and comprises four lines. It exhibits both internal and external rhythm. In the manus­cript, the verse is divided into two columns, enabling the text to be read both horizontally and vertically while maintaining its content. Consequently, the verse allows for two distinct reading methods, although a third variant exists in which the lines of the left and right co­lumns alternate, and the sense is maintained in this case as well. Conse­quently, Vakhtang's 'Mukhranuli' presents the reader with three distinct possibilities for interpreting the verse. Such a demonstration of the author's craftsmanship is likely to elicit a sense of astonishment from the reader. In our view, the sonnet by French poet Étienne Durand, entitled 'Sonnet à lecture multiple', offers a parallel example. The sonnets that could be read in several ways are presented in Russian Baroque literature as well. The formalist experiments of the Baroque epoch cannot be considered as mere "playthings" devoid of significance. The formal, refined and light nature of these works provides evidence of the poet's considerable achie­vements, as well as indicating an under­stan­ding of the poet's creative power. It is important to recognize that the Baroque movement and style are not the only aspects that define this period; it is also characterized by a distinct approach to thinking. This can be exemplified by the work of Emanuele Tesau­ro, who is known for his alive and quick mind. This concept of a "mind alive and quick" plays a significant role in determining the aesthetic of Georgian Baroque poetry, particularly in terms of its use of surprise and desire to captivate readers and listeners.

Abstract In late 17th- and early 18th-century London, English versions of the comédies-ballets by Molière and Lully were received with great applause. Yet translators had necessarily converted the rhythm, rhyme and song of the French plays, which is why most of Lully’s tunes seem to have been lost in translation, replaced by newly composed songs. Focusing on Edward Ravenscroft’s The Citizen Turn’d Gentleman (1672), this article examines source evidence suggesting that in this case some of Lully’s vocal and instrumental movements may well have survived crossing the Channel—and it also reveals that Ravenscroft must have been able to draw on eyewitness accounts of Lully as an on-stage performer in Le Bourgeois gentilhomme (1670). An Appendix briefly considers 18th-century revivals of Le Bourgeois gentilhomme and its ‘Turkish Ceremony’ in London.

18th century Europe knew a tangible progress in accessibility of knowledge and this progress was to a large extent due to an increase in translation activity. New audiences were able to reach modern thinking through vernacularized literature. For the dissemination of natural law the French translator Jean Barbeyrac played a key role. Jean Barbeyrac (1674―1744) was a central figure in early Enlightenment’s literary world. He worked as a professor of natural law and as a journalist, in addition to his celebrated translations of many central works in the field of natural law, including the main works of Hugo Grotius, Samuel Pufendorf and Richard Cumberland. These works spread around the world as his French translations or other language versions based on the French models. Philosophers, social scientists and philosophers of law have been influenced by their thoughts since their publication, and many have been incorporated in the curricula of universities. The present article focuses on translator’s visibility both in the 18th century society as well as in translated texts. The enlightenment ideology stressed the importance of knowledge mediation, and this influenced the translation strategies as well as the visual choices in the translations.

(article forthcoming) Modern Romanian literature starts off at the end of 18th century in the Romanian Principalities with the assimilation of literary models offered by the contemporary phanariot (or “phanariotised”) élites, which acted also as an intermediary for Italian and French culture, and develops further from the mid-19th century under the auspices of the immediate contact with (mostly) French literature. The newfound enthusiasm for western European culture brought about in the Principalities a sharp increase in the publication of literary works, most of which were initially translations. For instance, the number of novels published in 1851-1860 was more than double of those published in 1831-1850, and of the 1.069 novels published in 1831-1918, 436 were by foreign authors. Of the latter, the most popular by far, with 49 titles and 17 editions to his name, was Alexandre Dumas pére. My intervention aims to outline the reception of Dumas’ work through translation in Romanian 19th century culture, with a special focus on the several translations of the Le Comte de Monte-Cristo.

Teesid: Tartu Ülikooli maailmakirjanduse professori, luuletaja, kirjandusteadlase ja hispaaniakeelse kirjanduse spetsialisti Jüri Talveti tõlketegevuse viljade hulka kuulub luulet ja proosat nii sajandeid vanast Hispaania klassikast kui ka 20. sajandil või tänapäeval romaani keeltes või inglise keeles loodud teostest. Käesolev artikkel keskendub sellele, kuidas professor Talvet on tõlgendanud luule ja poeetika, kuid ka kirjandusajaloo, iseäranis barokk-kirjanduse alaseid küsimusi oma kirjandusteaduslikes esseedes. Vaadeldakse ka tema tõlketegevuse mahtu ja tõlketöö põhimõtteid. Jüri Talvet (born in 1945) is a poet and a scholar of comparative literature, Chair Professor of World Literature at the University of Tartu. His numerous translations of poetry and poetical fiction from the Romance languages and, to a lesser extent, from English, reflect his views on world poetry. Those views are also expressed in his theoretical writings from the years of 1977 to 2015. Having studied English literature as the main subject at the University of Tartu, he early developed an interest in Spanish, in other Iberian languages, and in the Iberoamerican literatures. His translations from that area include works from medieval and early modern literature as well as notable literary achievements from the 20th century and the contemporary era. Talvet’s interpretations of Federico García Lorca and the “Latin American boom” authors are supported by profound insights into the philosophy, aesthetics, and poetics of the 17th century Spanish Baroque literature, known as the literary Golden Age of Spain. The influence which Talvet’s activities have exerted has widened the horizons of Estonia’s literary culture: while in the early 20th century, the previous German, Russian and Finnish leanings were supplemented by orientations to, and translations from, French and Italian literatures, Talvet has helped to enrich the Estonian literary landscape with the mentality and traditions of even more distant language areas, such as Castilian (Spanish), Catalan, Galician, Portuguese, and the Latin American countries. In the section “Quevedo and Góngora” of this article, Talvet’s interpretation of some of the key issues of dispute in the Baroque literature of Spain are studied, based both on his theoretical essays and on his translations of the poetry of Francisco de Quevedo. Talvet has attempted to use the terms of the Baroque philosopher and writer Baltasar Gracián, agudeza, concepto (definable approximately as “conceit” or “wit”) and conceptismo, for the analysis of the late 20th century Estonian poetry. On that background, defnitions of conceptismo and cultismo (the other main school in Spanish Baroque poetry) are offered in this article, with implications that those definitions may have for understanding different styles and methods of poetry in general, and the characteristics of Talvet’s own poems and poetry translations in particular. To escape diffusion in pure sensuality and verbal indulgence, poetry has to rely on concepts as well as images. Talvet’s interpretations of poetry and poetical thinking are found to be close to conceptismo, or with a considerable amount of conceptuality inherent to them. The juxtaposition of paradoxical ideas from different levels of reality, social and psychic, is seen as the essential poetical method that Talvet refers to as he defines, quoting Yuri Lotman, the structural-semantic code of poetry as being “paradigmatic”. In the final section of the article, Talvet’s 23 book-length published translations are listed, including translations from Spanish, Catalan, English and French. The list does not include numerous translations of single poems or cycles of poetry that have appeared in literary journals, nor his contributions to anthologies of poetry, nor the translations from his native Estonian into a foreign language, such as Spanish or English, in which he has participated. His translations encompass lyrical works as well as fiction and plays. Talvet has translated classical European poetry, such as the sonnets of Petrarch and Quevedo and Provençal poems, as well as the rhymed poems of American poets into Estonian with complete metrical correspondence and full rhymes. However, in the latest decades Talvet has expressed scepticism in the sense and feasibility of attempting to convey the rhyming complexities of the major European literatures into Estonian, a language with a considerably smaller potential for finding full rhymes. Accordingly, his three translations of Spanish Baroque drama (by Calderón and Tirso de Molina) employ a liberal method of versification. In all his versatile activities as a poet, a translator, and a theorist of poetry, Professor Talvet has shown great devotion to developing and cultivating aesthetic values. A lot of his colleagues and students have benefited from his friendly advice. Thinking of his contributions to Estonia’s literary tradition, one may repeat and paraphrase the sentence that he used for the conclusion of his essay on the Catalan poet Salvador Espriu in 1977: “to write (and to translate) poetry is to work for the benefit of the people.”

The article deals with the specifics of reproducing invective from William Shakespeare’s tragedy “King Lear” in Ukrainian translations by Panteleimon Kulish, Panas Myrny, Maksym Rylsky and Wassyl Barka. The research offers a communicatively-oriented approach to defining invective as an insulting expression construed on the basis of a negative appraisal of an addressee by a speaker. This approach expands to the maximal degree the range of possible means of expressing invective by including some stylistic devices and basically any linguistic units with connotations of a negative appraisal. As a result, the translator’s main task is to ensure pragmatic effect of an insult by preserving its negative appraisal and a concomitant emotive charge. At the same time invective’s unconventional character may require the translator’s additional attention as to preserving its semantic and structural specificity. The article demonstrates how historically the Ukrainian strategies of translating Shakespeare’s works were formed under the cultural influence of French (classicistic) and Russian (academic) traditions but not without the influence of Ukrainian own (travesty) tradition characterized by particular attention to employing rich colloquial resources of the Ukrainian language. The research allowed to single out three local strategies of translating Shakespeare’s invective within corresponding global strategies of translating his plays. All the analyzed translations were made under the strong influence of artistic and aesthetic views of the translators all of whom are established Ukrainian writers and / or poets. The XIXth century translations made at approximately the same time by Kulish and Myrny, implement the strategy that can be charactrerized as realistic-populist. Its main features are attentive attitude towards the source text and prevalence of Ukrainian colloquial means of expressing insult. Rylsky’s translation made on the grounds of neoclassicism is marked by the functional approach to reproducing invective with simultaneous omission of Shakespeare’s individual and archaic obscene expressions. In his translation, Rylsky gives preference to literary means of insult. Instead, Barka’s translation made on the grounds of neobarocco is of a formal-semantic character, though the translator somewhat overindulges in his own creative word-formation and thus ruins the balance of conventional and unconventional means of expressing invective in the source text.

Introduction Ireland did not have a tradition of printed cookbooks prior to the 20th century. As a consequence, Irish culinary manuscripts from before this period are an important primary source for historians. This paper makes the case that the manuscripts are a unique way of accessing voices that have quotidian concerns seldom heard above the dominant narratives of conquest, colonisation and famine (Higgins; Dawson). Three manuscripts are examined to see how they contribute to an understanding of Irish social and culinary history. The Irish banking crisis of 2008 is a reminder that comments such as the one in the title of this paper may be more then a casual remark, indicating rather an underlying anxiety. Equally important is the evidence in the manuscripts that Ireland had a domestic culinary tradition sited within the culinary traditions of the British Isles. The terms “vernacular”, representing localised needs and traditions, and “polite”, representing stylistic features incorporated for aesthetic reasons, are more usually applied in the architectural world. As terms, they reflect in a politically neutral way the culinary divide witnessed in the manuscripts under discussion here. Two of the three manuscripts are anonymous, but all are written from the perspective of a well-provisioned house. The class background is elite and as such these manuscripts are not representative of the vernacular, which in culinary terms is likely to be a tradition recorded orally (Gold). The first manuscript (NLI, Tervoe) and second manuscript (NLI, Limerick) show the levels of impact of French culinary influence through their recipes for “cullis”. The Limerick manuscript also opens the discussion to wider social concerns. The third manuscript (NLI, Baker) is unusual in that the author, Mrs. Baker, goes to great lengths to record the provenance of the recipes and as such the collection affords a glimpse into the private “polite” world of the landed gentry in Ireland with its multiplicity of familial and societal connections. Cookbooks and Cuisine in Ireland in the 19th Century During the course of the 18th century, there were 136 new cookery book titles and 287 reprints published in Britain (Lehmann, Housewife 383). From the start of the 18th to the end of the 19th century only three cookbooks of Irish, or Anglo-Irish, authorship have been identified. The Lady’s Companion: or Accomplish’d Director In the whole Art of Cookery was published in 1767 by John Mitchell in Skinner-Row, under the pseudonym “Ceres,” while the Countess of Caledon’s Cheap Receipts and Hints on Cookery: Collected for Distribution Amongst the Irish Peasantry was printed in Armagh by J. M. Watters for private circulation in 1847. The modern sounding Dinners at Home, published in London in 1878 under the pseudonym “Short”, appears to be of Irish authorship, a review in The Irish Times describing it as being written by a “Dublin lady”, the inference being that she was known to the reviewer (Farmer). English Copyright Law was extended to Ireland in July 1801 after the Act of Union between Great Britain and Ireland in 1800 (Ferguson). Prior to this, many titles were pirated in Ireland, a cause of confusion alluded to by Lehmann when she comments regarding the Ceres book that it “does not appear to be simply a Dublin-printed edition of an English book” (Housewife 403). This attribution is based on the dedication in the preface: “To The Ladies of Dublin.” From her statement that she had a “great deal of experience in business of this kind”, one may conclude that Ceres had worked as a housekeeper or cook. Cheap Receipts and Hints on Cookery was the second of two books by Catherine Alexander, Countess of Caledon. While many commentators were offering advice to Irish people on how to alleviate their poverty, in Friendly Advice to Irish Mothers on Training their Children, Alexander was unusual in addressing her book specifically to its intended audience (Bourke). In this cookbook, the tone is of a practical didactic nature, the philosophy that of enablement. Given the paucity of printed material, manuscripts provide the main primary source regarding the existence of an indigenous culinary tradition. Attitudes regarding this tradition lie along the spectrum exemplified by the comments of an Irish journalist, Kevin Myers, and an eminent Irish historian, Louis Cullen. Myers describes Irish cuisine as a “travesty” and claims that the cuisine of “Old Ireland, in texture and in flavour, generally resembles the cinders after the suttee of a very large, but not very tasty widow”, Cullen makes the case that Irish cuisine is “one of the most interesting culinary traditions in Europe” (141). It is not proposed to investigate the ideological standpoints behind the various comments on Irish food. Indeed, the use of the term “Irish” in this context is fraught with difficulty and it should be noted that in the three manuscripts proposed here, the cuisine is that of the gentry class and representative of a particular stratum of society more accurately described as belonging to the Anglo-Irish tradition. It is also questionable how the authors of the three manuscripts discussed would have described themselves in terms of nationality. The anxiety surrounding this issue of identity is abating as scholarship has moved from viewing the cultural artifacts and buildings inherited from this class, not as symbols of an alien heritage, but rather as part of the narrative of a complex country (Rees). The antagonistic attitude towards this heritage could be seen as reaching its apogee in the late 1950s when the then Government minister, Kevin Boland, greeted the decision to demolish a row of Georgian houses in Dublin with jubilation, saying that they stood for everything that he despised, and describing the Georgian Society, who had campaigned for their preservation, as “the preserve of the idle rich and belted earls” (Foster 160). Mac Con Iomaire notes that there has been no comprehensive study of the history of Irish food, and the implications this has for opinions held, drawing attention to the lack of recognition that a “parallel Anglo-Irish cuisine existed among the Protestant elite” (43). To this must be added the observation that Myrtle Allen, the doyenne of the Irish culinary world, made when she observed that while we have an Irish identity in food, “we belong to a geographical and culinary group with Wales, England, and Scotland as all counties share their traditions with their next door neighbour” (1983). Three Irish Culinary Manuscripts The three manuscripts discussed here are held in the National Library of Ireland (NLI). The manuscript known as Tervoe has 402 folio pages with a 22-page index. The National Library purchased the manuscript at auction in December 2011. Although unattributed, it is believed to come from Tervoe House in County Limerick (O’Daly). Built in 1776 by Colonel W.T. Monsell (b.1754), the Monsell family lived there until 1951 (see, Fig. 1). The house was demolished in 1953 (Bence-Jones). William Monsell, 1st Lord Emly (1812–94) could be described as the most distinguished of the family. Raised in an atmosphere of devotion to the Union (with Great Britain), loyalty to the Church of Ireland, and adherence to the Tory Party, he converted in 1850 to the Roman Catholic religion, under the influence of Cardinal Newman and the Oxford Movement, changing his political allegiance from Tory to Whig. It is believed that this change took place as a result of the events surrounding the Great Irish Famine of 1845–50 (Potter). The Tervoe manuscript is catalogued as 18th century, and as the house was built in the last quarter of the century, it would be reasonable to surmise that its conception coincided with that period. It is a handsome volume with original green vellum binding, which has been conserved. Fig. 1. Tervoe House, home of the Monsell family. In terms of culinary prowess, the scope of the Tervoe manuscript is extensive. For the purpose of this discussion, one recipe is of particular interest. The recipe, To make a Cullis for Flesh Soups, instructs the reader to take the fat off four pounds of the best beef, roast the beef, pound it to a paste with crusts of bread and the carcasses of partridges or other fowl “that you have by you” (NLI, Tervoe). This mixture should then be moistened with best gravy, and strong broth, and seasoned with pepper, thyme, cloves, and lemon, then sieved for use with the soup. In 1747 Hannah Glasse published The Art of Cookery, Made Plain and Easy. The 1983 facsimile edition explains the term “cullis” as an Anglicisation of the French word coulis, “a preparation for thickening soups and stews” (182). The coulis was one of the essential components of the nouvelle cuisine of the 18th century. This movement sought to separate itself from “the conspicuous consumption of profusion” to one where the impression created was one of refinement and elegance (Lehmann, Housewife 210). Reactions in England to this French culinary innovation were strong, if not strident. Glasse derides French “tricks”, along with French cooks, and the coulis was singled out for particular opprobrium. In reality, Glasse bestrides both sides of the divide by giving the much-hated recipe and commenting on it. She provides another example of this in her recipe for The French Way of Dressing Partridges to which she adds the comment: “this dish I do not recommend; for I think it an odd jumble of thrash, by that time the Cullis, the Essence of Ham, and all other Ingredients are reckoned, the Partridges will come to a fine penny; but such Receipts as this, is what you have in most Books of Cookery yet printed” (53). When Daniel Defoe in The Complete English Tradesman of 1726 criticised French tradesmen for spending so much on the facades of their shops that they were unable to offer their customers a varied stock within, we can see the antipathy spilling over into other creative fields (Craske). As a critical strategy, it is not dissimilar to Glasse when she comments “now compute the expense, and see if this dish cannot be dressed full as well without this expense” at the end of a recipe for the supposedly despised Cullis for all Sorts of Ragoo (53). Food had become part of the defining image of Britain as an aggressively Protestant culture in opposition to Catholic France (Lehmann Politics 75). The author of the Tervoe manuscript makes no comment about the dish other than “A Cullis is a mixture of things, strained off.” This is in marked contrast to the second manuscript (NLI, Limerick). The author of this anonymous manuscript, from which the title of this paper is taken, is considerably perplexed by the term cullis, despite the manuscript dating 1811 (Fig. 2). Of Limerick provenance also, but considerably more modest in binding and scope, the manuscript was added to for twenty years, entries terminating around 1831. The recipe for Beef Stake (sic) Pie is an exact transcription of a recipe in John Simpson’s A Complete System of Cookery, published in 1806, and reads Cut some beef steaks thin, butter a pan (or as Lord Buckingham’s cook, from whom these rects are taken, calls it a soutis pan, ? [sic] (what does he mean, is it a saucepan) [sic] sprinkle the pan with pepper and salt, shallots thyme and parsley, put the beef steaks in and the pan on the fire for a few minutes then put them to cool, when quite cold put them in the fire, scrape all the herbs in over the fire and ornament as you please, it will take an hour and half, when done take the top off and put in some coulis (what is that?) [sic]. Fig. 2. Beef Stake Pie (NLI, Limerick). Courtesy of the National Library of Ireland. Simpson was cook to Lord Buckingham for at least a year in 1796, and may indeed have travelled to Ireland with the Duke who had several connections there. A feature of this manuscript are the number of Cholera remedies that it contains, including the “Rect for the cholera sent by Dr Shanfer from Warsaw to the Brussels Government”. Cholera had reached Germany by 1830, and England by 1831. By March 1832, it had struck Belfast and Dublin, the following month being noted in Cork, in the south of the country. Lasting a year, the epidemic claimed 50,000 lives in Ireland (Fenning). On 29 April 1832, the diarist Amhlaoibh Ó Súilleabháin notes, “we had a meeting today to keep the cholera from Callan. May God help us” (De Bhaldraithe 132). By 18 June, the cholera is “wrecking destruction in Ennis, Limerick and Tullamore” (135) and on 26 November, “Seed being sown. The end of the month wet and windy. The cholera came to Callan at the beginning of the month. Twenty people went down with it and it left the town then” (139). This situation was obviously of great concern and this is registered in the manuscript. Another concern is that highlighted by the recommendation that “this receipt is as good as the bank. It has been obligingly given to Mrs Hawkesworth by the chief book keeper at the Bank of Ireland” (NLI, Limerick). The Bank of Ireland commenced business at St. Mary’s Abbey in Dublin in June 1783, having been established under the protection of the Irish Parliament as a chartered rather then a central bank. As such, it supplied a currency of solidity. The charter establishing the bank, however, contained a prohibitory clause preventing (until 1824 when it was repealed) more then six persons forming themselves into a company to carry on the business of banking. This led to the formation, especially outside Dublin, of many “small private banks whose failure was the cause of immense wretchedness to all classes of the population” (Gilbert 19). The collapse that caused the most distress was that of the Ffrench bank in 1814, founded eleven years previously by the family of Lord Ffrench, one of the leading Catholic peers, based in Connacht in the west of Ireland. The bank issued notes in exchange for Bank of Ireland notes. Loans from Irish banks were in the form of paper money which were essentially printed promises to pay the amount stated and these notes were used in ordinary transactions. So great was the confidence in the Ffrench bank that their notes were held by the public in preference to Bank of Ireland notes, most particularly in Connacht. On 27 June 1814, there was a run on the bank leading to collapse. The devastation spread through society, from business through tenant farmers to the great estates, and notably so in Galway. Lord Ffrench shot himself in despair (Tennison). Williams and Finn, founded in Kilkenny in 1805, entered bankruptcy proceedings in 1816, and the last private bank outside Dublin, Delacours in Mallow, failed in 1835 (Barrow). The issue of bank failure is commented on by writers of the period, notably so in Dickens, Thackery, and Gaskill, and Edgeworth in Ireland. Following on the Ffrench collapse, notes from the Bank of Ireland were accorded increased respect, reflected in the comment in this recipe. The receipt in question is one for making White Currant Wine, with the unusual addition of a slice of bacon suspended from the bunghole when the wine is turned, for the purpose of enriching it. The recipe was provided to “Mrs Hawkesworth by the chief book keeper of the bank” (NLI, Limerick). In 1812, a John Hawkesworth, agent to Lord CastleCoote, was living at Forest Lodge, Mountrath, County Laois (Ennis Chronicle). The Coote family, although settling in County Laois in the seventeenth century, had strong connections with Limerick through a descendent of the younger brother of the first Earl of Mountrath (Landed Estates). The last manuscript for discussion is the manuscript book of Mrs Abraham Whyte Baker of Ballytobin House, County Kilkenny, 1810 (NLI, Baker). Ballytobin, or more correctly Ballaghtobin, is a townland in the barony of Kells, four miles from the previously mentioned Callan. The land was confiscated from the Tobin family during the Cromwellian campaign in Ireland of 1649–52, and was reputedly purchased by a Captain Baker, to establish what became the estate of Ballaghtobin (Fig. 3) To this day, it is a functioning estate, remaining in the family, twice passing down through the female line. In its heyday, there were two acres of walled gardens from which the house would have drawn for its own provisions (Ballaghtobin). Fig. 3. Ballaghtobin 2013. At the time of writing the manuscript, Mrs. Sophia Baker was widowed and living at Ballaghtobin with her son and daughter-in-law, Charity who was “no beauty, but tall, slight” (Herbert 414). On the succession of her husband to the estate, Charity became mistress of Ballaghtobin, leaving Sophia with time on what were her obviously very capable hands (Nevin). Sophia Baker was the daughter of Sir John Blunden of Castle Blunden and Lucinda Cuffe, daughter of the first Baron Desart. Sophia was also first cousin of the diarist Dorothea Herbert, whose mother was Lucinda’s sister, Martha. Sophia Baker and Dorothea Herbert have left for posterity a record of life in the landed gentry class in rural Georgian Ireland, Dorothea describing Mrs. Baker as “full of life and spirits” (Herbert 70). Their close relationship allows the two manuscripts to converse with each other in a unique way. Mrs. Baker’s detailing of the provenance of her recipes goes beyond the norm, so that what she has left us is not just a remarkable work of culinary history but also a palimpsest of her family and social circle. Among the people she references are: “my grandmother”; Dorothea Beresford, half sister to the Earl of Tyrone, who lived in the nearby Curraghmore House; Lady Tyrone; and Aunt Howth, the sister of Dorothea Beresford, married to William St Lawrence, Lord Howth, and described by Johnathan Swift as “his blue eyed nymph” (195). Other attributions include Lady Anne Fitzgerald, wife of Maurice Fitzgerald, 16th knight of Kerry, Sir William Parsons, Major Labilen, and a Mrs. Beaufort (Fig. 4). Fig. 4. Mrs. Beauforts Rect. (NLI, Baker). Courtesy of the National Library of Ireland. That this Mrs. Beaufort was the wife of Daniel Augustus Beaufort, mother of the hydrographer Sir Francis Beaufort, may be deduced from the succeeding recipe supplied by a Mrs. Waller. Mrs. Beaufort’s maiden name was Waller. Fanny Beaufort, the elder sister of Sir Francis, was Richard Edgeworth’s fourth wife and close friend and confidante of his daughter Maria, the novelist. There are also entries for “Miss Herbert” and “Aunt Herbert.” While the Baker manuscript is of interest for the fact that it intersects the worlds of the novelist Maria Edgeworth and the diarist Dorothea Herbert, and for the societal references that it documents, it is also a fine collection of recipes that date back to the mid-18th century. An example of this is a recipe for Sligo pickled salmon that Mrs. Baker, nee Blunden, refers to in an index that she gives to a second volume. Unfortunately this second volume is not known to be extant. This recipe features in a Blunden family manuscript of 1760 as referred to in Anelecta Hibernica (McLysaght). The recipe has also appeared in Cookery and Cures of Old Kilkenny (St. Canices’s 24). Unlike the Tervoe and Limerick manuscripts, Mrs. Baker is unconcerned with recipes for “cullis”. Conclusion The three manuscripts that have been examined here are from the period before the famine of 1845–50, known as An Gorta Mór, translated as “the big hunger”. The famine preceding this, Bliain an Áir (the year of carnage) in 1740–1 was caused by extremely cold and rainy weather that wiped out the harvest (Ó Gráda 15). This earlier famine, almost forgotten today, was more severe than the subsequent one, causing the death of an eight of the population of the island over one and a half years (McBride). These manuscripts are written in living memory of both events. Within the world that they inhabit, it may appear there is little said about hunger or social conditions beyond the walls of their estates. Subjected to closer analysis, however, it is evident that they are loquacious in their own unique way, and make an important contribution to the narrative of cookbooks. Through the three manuscripts discussed here, we find evidence of the culinary hegemony of France and how practitioners in Ireland commented on this in comparatively neutral fashion. An awareness of cholera and bank collapses have been communicated in a singular fashion, while a conversation between diarist and culinary networker has allowed a glimpse into the world of the landed gentry in Ireland during the Georgian period. References Allen, M. “Statement by Myrtle Allen at the opening of Ballymaloe Cookery School.” 14 Nov. 1983. Ballaghtobin. “The Grounds”. nd. 13 Mar. 2013. ‹http://www.ballaghtobin.com/gardens.html›. Barrow, G.L. “Some Dublin Private Banks.” Dublin Historical Record 25.2 (1972): 38–53. Bence-Jones, M. A Guide to Irish Country Houses. London: Constable, 1988. Bourke, A. Ed. Field Day Anthology of Irish Writing Vol V. Cork: Cork UP, 2002. Craske, M. “Design and the Competitive Spirit in Early and Mid 18th Century England”, Journal of Design History 12.3 (1999): 187–216. Cullen, L. The Emergence of Modern Ireland. London: Batsford, 1981. Dawson, Graham. “Trauma, Memory, Politics. The Irish Troubles.” Trauma: Life Stories of Survivors. Ed. Kim Lacy Rogers, Selma Leydesdorff and Graham Dawson. New Jersey: Transaction P, 2004. De Bhaldraithe,T. Ed. Cín Lae Amhlaoibh. Cork: Mercier P, 1979. Ennis Chronicle. 12–23 Feb 1812. 10 Feb. 2013 ‹http://astheywere.blogspot.ie/2012/12/ennis-chronicle-1812-feb-23-feb-12.html› Farmar, A. E-mail correspondence between Farmar and Dr M. Mac Con Iomaire, 26 Jan. 2011. Fenning, H. “The Cholera Epidemic in Ireland 1832–3: Priests, Ministers, Doctors”. Archivium Hibernicum 57 (2003): 77–125. Ferguson, F. “The Industrialisation of Irish Book Production 1790-1900.” The Oxford History of the Irish Book, Vol. IV The Irish Book in English 1800-1891. Ed. J. Murphy. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2011. Foster, R.F. Luck and the Irish: A Brief History of Change from 1970. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. Gilbert, James William. The History of Banking in Ireland. London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, Green, and Longman, 1836. Glasse, Hannah. The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy by a Lady: Facsimile Edition. Devon: Prospect, 1983. Gold, C. Danish Cookbooks. Seattle: U of Washington P, 2007. Herbert, D. Retrospections of an Outcast or the Life of Dorothea Herbert. London: Gerald Howe, 1929. Higgins, Michael D. “Remarks by President Michael D. Higgins reflecting on the Gorta Mór: the Great famine of Ireland.” Famine Commemoration, Boston, 12 May 2012. 18 Feb. 2013 ‹http://www.president.ie/speeches/ › Landed Estates Database, National University of Galway, Moore Institute for Research, 10 Feb. 2013 ‹http://landedestates.nuigalway.ie/LandedEstates/jsp/family-show.jsp?id=633.› Lehmann, G. The British Housewife: Cookery books, cooking and society in eighteenth-century Britain. Totnes: Prospect, 1993. ---. “Politics in the Kitchen.” 18th Century Life 23.2 (1999): 71–83. Mac Con Iomaire, M. “The Emergence, Development and Influence of French Haute Cuisine on Public Dining in Dublin Restaurants 1900-2000: An Oral History”. Vol. 2. PhD thesis. Dublin Institute of Technology. 2009. 8 Mar. 2013 ‹http://arrow.dit.ie/tourdoc/12›. McBride, Ian. Eighteenth Century Ireland: The Isle of Slaves. Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 2009. McLysaght, E.A. Anelecta Hibernica 15. Dublin: Irish Manuscripts Commission, 1944. Myers, K. “Dinner is served ... But in Our Culinary Dessert it may be Korean.” The Irish Independent 30 Jun. 2006. Nevin, M. “A County Kilkenny Georgian Household Notebook.” Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland 109 (1979): 5–18. (NLI) National Library of Ireland. Baker. 19th century manuscript. MS 34,952. ---. Limerick. 19th century manuscript. MS 42,105. ---. Tervoe. 18th century manuscript. MS 42,134. Ó Gráda, C. Famine: A Short History. New Jersey: Princeton UP, 2009. O’Daly, C. E-mail correspondence between Colette O’Daly, Assistant Keeper, Dept. of Manuscripts, National Library of Ireland and Dorothy Cashman. 8 Dec. 2011. Potter, M. William Monsell of Tervoe 1812-1894. Dublin: Irish Academic P, 2009. Rees, Catherine. “Irish Anxiety, Identity and Narrative in the Plays of McDonagh and Jones.” Redefinitions of Irish Identity: A Postnationalist Approach. Eds. Irene Gilsenan Nordin and Carmen Zamorano Llena. Bern: Peter Lang, 2010. St. Canice’s. Cookery and Cures of Old Kilkenny. Kilkenny: Boethius P, 1983. Swift, J. The Works of the Rev Dr J Swift Vol. XIX Dublin: Faulkner, 1772. 8 Feb. 2013. ‹http://www.google.ie/search?tbm=bks&hl=en&q=works+of+jonathan+swift+Vol+XIX+&btnG=› Tennison, C.M. “The Old Dublin Bankers.” Journal of the Cork Historical and Archeological Society 1.2 (1895): 36–9.

Introduction Cookbooks are an exceptional written record of what is largely an oral tradition. They have been described as “magician’s hats” due to their ability to reveal much more than they seem to contain (Wheaton, “Finding”). The first book printed in Germany was the Guttenberg Bible in 1456 but, by 1490, printing was introduced into almost every European country (Tierney). The spread of literacy between 1500 and 1800, and the rise in silent reading, helped to create a new private sphere into which the individual could retreat, seeking refuge from the community (Chartier). This new technology had its effects in the world of cookery as in so many spheres of culture (Mennell, All Manners). Trubek notes that cookbooks are the texts most often used by culinary historians, since they usually contain all the requisite materials for analysing a cuisine: ingredients, method, technique, and presentation. Printed cookbooks, beginning in the early modern period, provide culinary historians with sources of evidence of the culinary past. Historians have argued that social differences can be expressed by the way and type of food we consume. Cookbooks are now widely accepted as valid socio-cultural and historic documents (Folch, Sherman), and indeed the link between literacy levels and the protestant tradition has been expressed through the study of Danish cookbooks (Gold). From Apicius, Taillevent, La Varenne, and Menon to Bradley, Smith, Raffald, Acton, and Beeton, how can both manuscript and printed cookbooks be analysed as historic documents? What is the difference between a manuscript and a printed cookbook? Barbara Ketchum Wheaton, who has been studying cookbooks for over half a century and is honorary curator of the culinary collection in Harvard’s Schlesinger Library, has developed a methodology to read historic cookbooks using a structured approach. For a number of years she has been giving seminars to scholars from multidisciplinary fields on how to read historic cookbooks. This paper draws on the author’s experiences attending Wheaton’s seminar in Harvard, and on supervising the use of this methodology at both Masters and Doctoral level (Cashman; Mac Con Iomaire, and Cashman). Manuscripts versus Printed Cookbooks A fundamental difference exists between manuscript and printed cookbooks in their relationship with the public and private domain. Manuscript cookbooks are by their very essence intimate, relatively unedited and written with an eye to private circulation. Culinary manuscripts follow the diurnal and annual tasks of the household. They contain recipes for cures and restoratives, recipes for cleansing products for the house and the body, as well as the expected recipes for cooking and preserving all manners of food. Whether manuscript or printed cookbook, the recipes contained within often act as a reminder of how laborious the production of food could be in the pre-industrialised world (White). Printed cookbooks draw oxygen from the very fact of being public. They assume a “literate population with sufficient discretionary income to invest in texts that commodify knowledge” (Folch). This process of commoditisation brings knowledge from the private to the public sphere. There exists a subset of cookbooks that straddle this divide, for example, Mrs. Rundell’s A New System of Domestic Cookery (1806), which brought to the public domain her distillation of a lifetime of domestic experience. Originally intended for her daughters alone, Rundell’s book was reprinted regularly during the nineteenth century with the last edition printed in 1893, when Mrs. Beeton had been enormously popular for over thirty years (Mac Con Iomaire, and Cashman). Barbara Ketchum Wheaton’s Structured Approach Cookbooks can be rewarding, surprising and illuminating when read carefully with due effort in understanding them as cultural artefacts. However, Wheaton notes that: “One may read a single old cookbook and find it immensely entertaining. One may read two and begin to find intriguing similarities and differences. When the third cookbook is read, one’s mind begins to blur, and one begins to sense the need for some sort of method in approaching these documents” (“Finding”). Following decades of studying cookbooks from both sides of the Atlantic and writing a seminal text on the French at table from 1300-1789 (Wheaton, Savouring the Past), this combined experience negotiating cookbooks as historical documents was codified, and a structured approach gradually articulated and shared within a week long seminar format. In studying any cookbook, regardless of era or country of origin, the text is broken down into five different groupings, to wit: ingredients; equipment or facilities; the meal; the book as a whole; and, finally, the worldview. A particular strength of Wheaton’s seminars is the multidisciplinary nature of the approaches of students who attend, which throws the study of cookbooks open to wide ranging techniques. Students with a purely scientific training unearth interesting patterns by developing databases of the frequency of ingredients or techniques, and cross referencing them with other books from similar or different timelines or geographical regions. Patterns are displayed in graphs or charts. Linguists offer their own unique lens to study cookbooks, whereas anthropologists and historians ask what these objects can tell us about how our ancestors lived and drew meaning from life. This process is continuously refined, and each grouping is discussed below. Ingredients The geographic origins of the ingredients are of interest, as is the seasonality and the cost of the foodstuffs within the scope of each cookbook, as well as the sensory quality both separately and combined within different recipes. In the medieval period, the use of spices and large joints of butchers meat and game were symbols of wealth and status. However, when the discovery of sea routes to the New World and to the Far East made spices more available and affordable to the middle classes, the upper classes spurned them. Evidence from culinary manuscripts in Georgian Ireland, for example, suggests that galangal was more easily available in Dublin during the eighteenth century than in the mid-twentieth century. A new aesthetic, articulated by La Varenne in his Le Cuisinier Francois (1651), heralded that food should taste of itself, and so exotic ingredients such as cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger were replaced by the local bouquet garni, and stocks and sauces became the foundations of French haute cuisine (Mac Con Iomaire). Some combinations of flavours and ingredients were based on humoral physiology, a long held belief system based on the writings of Hippocrates and Galen, now discredited by modern scientific understanding. The four humors are blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm. It was believed that each of these humors would wax and wane in the body, depending on diet and activity. Galen (131-201 AD) believed that warm food produced yellow bile and that cold food produced phlegm. It is difficult to fathom some combinations of ingredients or the manner of service without comprehending the contemporary context within they were consumeSome ingredients found in Roman cookbooks, such as “garum” or “silphium” are no longer available. It is suggested that the nearest substitute for garum also known as “liquamen”—a fermented fish sauce—would be Naam Plaa, or Thai fish sauce (Grainger). Ingredients such as tea and white bread, moved from the prerogative of the wealthy over time to become the staple of the urban poor. These ingredients, therefore, symbolise radically differing contexts during the seventeenth century than in the early twentieth century. Indeed, there are other ingredients such as hominy (dried maize kernel treated with alkali) or grahams (crackers made from graham flour) found in American cookbooks that require translation to the unacquainted non-American reader. There has been a growing number of food encyclopaedias published in recent years that assist scholars in identifying such commodities (Smith, Katz, Davidson). The Cook’s Workplace, Techniques, and Equipment It is important to be aware of the type of kitchen equipment used, the management of heat and cold within the kitchen, and also the gradual spread of the industrial revolution into the domestic sphere. Visits to historic castles such as Hampton Court Palace where nowadays archaeologists re-enact life below stairs in Tudor times give a glimpse as to how difficult and labour intensive food production was. Meat was spit-roasted in front of huge fires by spit boys. Forcemeats and purees were manually pulped using mortar and pestles. Various technological developments including spit-dogs, and mechanised pulleys, replaced the spit boys, the most up to date being the mechanised rotisserie. The technological advancements of two hundred years can be seen in the Royal Pavilion in Brighton where Marie-Antoinin Carême worked for the Prince Regent in 1816 (Brighton Pavilion), but despite the gleaming copper pans and high ceilings for ventilation, the work was still back breaking. Carême died aged forty-nine, “burnt out by the flame of his genius and the fumes of his ovens” (Ackerman 90). Mennell points out that his fame outlived him, resting on his books: Le Pâtissier Royal Parisien (1815); Le Pâtissier Pittoresque (1815); Le Maître d’Hôtel Français (1822); Le Cuisinier Parisien (1828); and, finally, L’Art de la Cuisine Française au Dix-Neuvième Siècle (1833–5), which was finished posthumously by his student Pluméry (All Manners). Mennell suggests that these books embody the first paradigm of professional French cuisine (in Kuhn’s terminology), pointing out that “no previous work had so comprehensively codified the field nor established its dominance as a point of reference for the whole profession in the way that Carême did” (All Manners 149). The most dramatic technological changes came after the industrial revolution. Although there were built up ovens available in bakeries and in large Norman households, the period of general acceptance of new cooking equipment that enclosed fire (such as the Aga stove) is from c.1860 to 1910, with gas ovens following in c.1910 to the 1920s) and Electricity from c.1930. New food processing techniques dates are as follows: canning (1860s), cooling and freezing (1880s), freeze drying (1950s), and motorised delivery vans with cooking (1920s–1950s) (den Hartog). It must also be noted that the supply of fresh food, and fish particularly, radically improved following the birth, and expansion of, the railways. To understand the context of the cookbook, one needs to be aware of the limits of the technology available to the users of those cookbooks. For many lower to middle class families during the twentieth century, the first cookbook they would possess came with their gas or electrical oven. Meals One can follow cooked dishes from the kitchen to the eating place, observing food presentation, carving, sequencing, and serving of the meal and table etiquette. Meal times and structure changed over time. During the Middle Ages, people usually ate two meals a day: a substantial dinner around noon and a light supper in the evening (Adamson). Some of the most important factors to consider are the manner in which meals were served: either à la française or à la russe. One of the main changes that occurred during the nineteenth century was the slow but gradual transfer from service à la française to service à la russe. From medieval times to the middle of the nineteenth century the structure of a formal meal was not by “courses”—as the term is now understood—but by “services”. Each service could comprise of a choice of dishes—both sweet and savoury—from which each guest could select what appealed to him or her most (Davidson). The philosophy behind this form of service was the forementioned humoral physiology— where each diner chose food based on the four humours of blood, yellow bile, black bile, or phlegm. Also known as le grand couvert, the à la française method made it impossible for the diners to eat anything that was beyond arm’s length (Blake, and Crewe). Smooth service, however, was the key to an effective à la russe dinner since servants controlled the flow of food (Eatwell). The taste and temperature of food took centre stage with the à la russe dinner as each course came in sequence. Many historic cookbooks offer table plans illustrating the suggested arrangement of dishes on a table for the à la française style of service. Many of these dishes might be re-used in later meals, and some dishes such as hashes and rissoles often utilised left over components of previous meals. There is a whole genre of cookbooks informing the middle class cooks how to be frugal and also how to emulate haute cuisine using cheaper or ersatz ingredients. The number dining and the manner in which they dined also changed dramatically over time. From medieval to Tudor times, there might be hundreds dining in large banqueting halls. By the Elizabethan age, a small intimate room where master and family dined alone replaced the old dining hall where master, servants, guests, and travellers had previously dined together (Spencer). Dining tables remained portable until the 1780s when tables with removable leaves were devised. By this time, the bread trencher had been replaced by one made of wood, or plate of pewter or precious metal in wealthier houses. Hosts began providing knives and spoons for their guests by the seventeenth century, with forks also appearing but not fully accepted until the eighteenth century (Mason). These silver utensils were usually marked with the owner’s initials to prevent their theft (Flandrin). Cookbooks as Objects and the World of Publishing A thorough examination of the manuscript or printed cookbook can reveal their physical qualities, including indications of post-publication history, the recipes and other matter in them, as well as the language, organization, and other individual qualities. What can the quality of the paper tell us about the book? Is there a frontispiece? Is the book dedicated to an employer or a patron? Does the author note previous employment history in the introduction? In his Court Cookery, Robert Smith, for example, not only mentions a number of his previous employers, but also outlines that he was eight years working with Patrick Lamb in the Court of King William, before revealing that several dishes published in Lamb’s Royal Cookery (1710) “were never made or practis’d (sic) by him and others are extreme defective and imperfect and made up of dishes unknown to him; and several of them more calculated at the purses than the Gôut of the guests”. Both Lamb and Smith worked for the English monarchy, nobility, and gentry, but produced French cuisine. Not all Britons were enamoured with France, however, with, for example Hannah Glasse asserting “if gentlemen will have French cooks, they must pay for French tricks” (4), and “So much is the blind folly of this age, that they would rather be imposed on by a French Booby, than give encouragement to an good English cook” (ctd. in Trubek 60). Spencer contextualises Glasse’s culinary Francophobia, explaining that whilst she was writing the book, the Jacobite army were only a few days march from London, threatening to cut short the Hanoverian lineage. However, Lehmann points out that whilst Glasse was overtly hostile to French cuisine, she simultaneously plagiarised its receipts. Based on this trickling down of French influences, Mennell argues that “there is really no such thing as a pure-bred English cookery book” (All Manners 98), but that within the assimilation and simplification, a recognisable English style was discernable. Mennell also asserts that Glasse and her fellow women writers had an enormous role in the social history of cooking despite their lack of technical originality (“Plagiarism”). It is also important to consider the place of cookbooks within the history of publishing. Albala provides an overview of the immense outpouring of dietary literature from the printing presses from the 1470s. He divides the Renaissance into three periods: Period I Courtly Dietaries (1470–1530)—targeted at the courtiers with advice to those attending banquets with many courses and lots of wine; Period II The Galenic Revival (1530–1570)—with a deeper appreciation, and sometimes adulation, of Galen, and when scholarship took centre stage over practical use. Finally Period III The Breakdown of Orthodoxy (1570–1650)—when, due to the ambiguities and disagreements within and between authoritative texts, authors were freer to pick the ideas that best suited their own. Nutrition guides were consistent bestsellers, and ranged from small handbooks written in the vernacular for lay audiences, to massive Latin tomes intended for practicing physicians. Albala adds that “anyone with an interest in food appears to have felt qualified to pen his own nutritional guide” (1). Would we have heard about Mrs. Beeton if her husband had not been a publisher? How could a twenty-five year old amass such a wealth of experience in household management? What role has plagiarism played in the history of cookbooks? It is interesting to note that a well worn copy of her book (Beeton) was found in the studio of Francis Bacon and it is suggested that he drew inspiration for a number of his paintings from the colour plates of animal carcasses and butcher’s meat (Dawson). Analysing the post-publication usage of cookbooks is valuable to see the most popular recipes, the annotations left by the owner(s) or user(s), and also if any letters, handwritten recipes, or newspaper clippings are stored within the leaves of the cookbook. The Reader, the Cook, the Eater The physical and inner lives and needs and skills of the individuals who used cookbooks and who ate their meals merit consideration. Books by their nature imply literacy. Who is the book’s audience? Is it the cook or is it the lady of the house who will dictate instructions to the cook? Numeracy and measurement is also important. Where clocks or pocket watches were not widely available, authors such as seventeenth century recipe writer Sir Kenelm Digby would time his cooking by the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. Literacy amongst protestant women to enable them to read the Bible, also enabled them to read cookbooks (Gold). How did the reader or eater’s religion affect the food practices? Were there fast days? Were there substitute foods for fast days? What about special occasions? Do historic cookbooks only tell us about the food of the middle and upper classes? It is widely accepted today that certain cookbook authors appeal to confident cooks, while others appeal to competent cooks, and others still to more cautious cooks (Bilton). This has always been the case, as has the differentiation between the cookbook aimed at the professional cook rather than the amateur. Historically, male cookbook authors such as Patrick Lamb (1650–1709) and Robert Smith targeted the professional cook market and the nobility and gentry, whereas female authors such as Eliza Acton (1799–1859) and Isabella Beeton (1836–1865) often targeted the middle class market that aspired to emulate their superiors’ fashions in food and dining. How about Tavern or Restaurant cooks? When did they start to put pen to paper, and did what they wrote reflect the food they produced in public eateries? Conclusions This paper has offered an overview of Barbara Ketchum Wheaton’s methodology for reading historic cookbooks using a structured approach. It has highlighted some of the questions scholars and researchers might ask when faced with an old cookbook, regardless of era or geographical location. By systematically examining the book under the headings of ingredients; the cook’s workplace, techniques and equipment; the meals; cookbooks as objects and the world of publishing; and reader, cook and eater, the scholar can perform magic and extract much more from the cookbook than seems to be there on first appearance. References Ackerman, Roy. The Chef's Apprentice. London: Headline, 1988. Adamson, Melitta Weiss. Food in Medieval Times. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood P, 2004. Albala, Ken. Eating Right in the Renaissance. Ed. Darra Goldstein. Berkeley: U of California P, 2002. Beeton, Isabella. Beeton's Book of Household Management. London: S. Beeton, 1861. Bilton, Samantha. “The Influence of Cookbooks on Domestic Cooks, 1900-2010.” Petit Propos Culinaires 94 (2011): 30–7. Blake, Anthony, and Quentin Crewe. Great Chefs of France. London: Mitchell Beazley/ Artists House, 1978. Brighton Pavilion. 12 Jun. 2013 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/interactive/2011/sep/09/brighton-pavilion-360-interactive-panoramic›. Cashman, Dorothy. “An Exploratory Study of Irish Cookbooks.” Unpublished Master's Thesis. M.Sc. Dublin: Dublin Institute of Technology, 2009. Chartier, Roger. “The Practical Impact of Writing.” Trans. Arthur Goldhammer. A History of Private Lives: Volume III: Passions of the Renaissance. Ed. Roger Chartier. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Belknap P of Harvard U, 1989. 111-59. Davidson, Alan. The Oxford Companion to Food. New York: Oxford U P, 1999. Dawson, Barbara. “Francis Bacon and the Art of Food.” The Irish Times 6 April 2013. den Hartog, Adel P. “Technological Innovations and Eating out as a Mass Phenomenon in Europe: A Preamble.” Eating out in Europe: Picnics, Gourmet Dining and Snacks since the Late Eighteenth Century. Eds. Mark Jacobs and Peter Scholliers. Oxford: Berg, 2003. 263–80. Eatwell, Ann. “Á La Française to À La Russe, 1680-1930.” Elegant Eating: Four Hundred Years of Dining in Style. Eds. Philippa Glanville and Hilary Young. London: V&A, 2002. 48–52. Flandrin, Jean-Louis. “Distinction through Taste.” Trans. Arthur Goldhammer. A History of Private Lives: Volume III : Passions of the Renaissance. Ed. Roger Chartier. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Belknap P of Harvard U, 1989. 265–307. Folch, Christine. “Fine Dining: Race in Pre-revolution Cuban Cookbooks.” Latin American Research Review 43.2 (2008): 205–23. Glasse, Hannah. The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy; Which Far Exceeds Anything of the Kind Ever Published. 4th Ed. London: The Author, 1745. Gold, Carol. Danish Cookbooks: Domesticity and National Identity, 1616-1901. Seattle: U of Washington P, 2007. Grainger, Sally. Cooking Apicius: Roman Recipes for Today. Totnes, Devon: Prospect, 2006. Hampton Court Palace. “The Tudor Kitchens.” 12 Jun 2013 ‹http://www.hrp.org.uk/HamptonCourtPalace/stories/thetudorkitchens› Katz, Solomon H. Ed. Encyclopedia of Food and Culture (3 Vols). New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 2003. Kuhn, T. S. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1962. Lamb, Patrick. Royal Cookery:Or. The Complete Court-Cook. London: Abel Roper, 1710. Lehmann, Gilly. “English Cookery Books in the 18th Century.” The Oxford Companion to Food. Ed. Alan Davidson. Oxford: Oxford U P, 1999. 277–9. Mac Con Iomaire, Máirtín. “The Changing Geography and Fortunes of Dublin’s Haute Cuisine Restaurants 1958–2008.” Food, Culture & Society 14.4 (2011): 525–45. Mac Con Iomaire, Máirtín, and Dorothy Cashman. “Irish Culinary Manuscripts and Printed Cookbooks: A Discussion.” Petit Propos Culinaires 94 (2011): 81–101. Mason, Laura. Food Culture in Great Britain. Ed. Ken Albala. Westport CT.: Greenwood P, 2004. Mennell, Stephen. All Manners of Food. 2nd ed. Chicago: U of Illinois P, 1996. ---. “Plagiarism and Originality: Diffusionism in the Study of the History of Cookery.” Petits Propos Culinaires 68 (2001): 29–38. Sherman, Sandra. “‘The Whole Art and Mystery of Cooking’: What Cookbooks Taught Readers in the Eighteenth Century.” Eighteenth Century Life 28.1 (2004): 115–35. Smith, Andrew F. Ed. The Oxford Companion to American Food and Drink. New York: Oxford U P, 2007. Spencer, Colin. British Food: An Extraordinary Thousand Years of History. London: Grub Street, 2004. Tierney, Mark. Europe and the World 1300-1763. Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1970. Trubek, Amy B. Haute Cuisine: How the French Invented the Culinary Profession. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 2000. Wheaton, Barbara. “Finding Real Life in Cookbooks: The Adventures of a Culinary Historian”. 2006. Humanities Research Group Working Paper. 9 Sep. 2009 ‹http://www.phaenex.uwindsor.ca/ojs/leddy/index.php/HRG/article/view/22/27›. Wheaton, Barbara Ketcham. Savouring the Past: The French Kitchen and Table from 1300-1789. London: Chatto & Windus, 1983. White, Eileen, ed. The English Cookery Book: Historical Essays. Proceedings of the 16th Leeds Symposium on Food History 2001. Devon: Prospect, 2001.

IntroductionCirque du Soleil, the largest live entertainment company in the world, has eight standing shows in Las Vegas alone, KÀ, Love, Mystère, Zumanity, Believe, Michael Jackson ONE, Zarkana and O. Close to 150 million spectators have seen Cirque du Soleil shows since the company’s beginnings in 1984 and it is estimated that over 15 million spectators will see a Cirque du Soleil show in 2014 (Cirque du Soleil). The Cirque du Soleil concept of circus as a form of theatre, with simple, often archetypal, narrative arcs conveyed without words, virtuoso physicality with the circus artists presented as characters in a fictional world, cutting-edge lighting and visuals, extraordinary innovative staging, and the uptake of new technology for special effects can all be linked back to an early form of circus which is sometimes termed illegitimate circus. In the late 18th century and early 19th century, in the age of Romanticism, only two theatres in London, Covent Garden and Drury Lane, plus the summer theatre in the Haymarket, had royal patents allowing them to produce plays or text-based productions, and these were considered legitimate theatres. (These theatres retained this monopoly until the Theatre Regulation Act of 1843; Saxon 301.) Other circuses and theatres such as Astley’s Amphitheatre, which were precluded from performing text-based works by the terms of their licenses, have been termed illegitimate (Moody 1). Perversely, the effect of licensing venues in this way, instead of having the desired effect of enshrining some particular forms of expression and “casting all others beyond the cultural pale,” served instead to help to cultivate a different kind of theatrical landscape, “a theatrical terrain with a new, rich and varied dramatic ecology” (Reed 255). A fundamental change to the theatrical culture of London took place, and pivotal to “that transformation was the emergence of an illegitimate theatrical culture” (Moody 1) with circus at its heart. An innovative and different form of performance, a theatre of the body, featuring spectacle and athleticism emerged, with “a sensuous, spectacular aesthetic largely wordless except for the lyrics of songs” (Bratton 117).This writing sets out to explore some of the strong parallels between the aesthetic that emerged in this early illegitimate circus and the aesthetic of the Montreal-based, multi-billion dollar entertainment empire of Cirque du Soleil. Although it is not fighting against legal restrictions and can in no way be considered illegitimate, the circus of Cirque du Soleil can be seen to be the descendant of the early circus entrepreneurs and their illegitimate aesthetic which arose out of the desire to find ways to continue to attract audiences to their shows in spite of the restrictions of the licenses granted to them. BackgroundCircus has served as an inspiration for many innovatory theatre productions including Peter Brook’s Midsummer Night’s Dream (1970) and Tom Stoppard’s Jumpers (1972) as well as the earlier experiments of Meyerhold, Eisenstein, Mayakovsky and other Soviet directors of the 1920’s (Saxon 299). A. H. Saxon points out, however, that the relationship between circus and theatre is a long-standing one that begins in the late 18th century and the early 19th century, when circus itself was theatre (Saxon 299).Modern circus was founded in London in 1768 by an ex-cavalryman and his wife, Philip and Patty Astley, and consisted of spectacular stunt horse riding taking place in a ring, with acts from traditional fairs such as juggling, acrobatics, clowning and wire-walking inserted to cover the changeovers between riding acts. From the very first shows entry was by paid ticket only and the early history of circus was driven by innovative, risk-taking entrepreneurs such as Philip Astley, who indeed built so many new amphitheatres for his productions that he became known as Amphi-Philip (Jando). After years of legal tussles with the authorities concerning the legal status of this new entertainment, a limited license was finally granted in 1783 for Astley’s Amphitheatre. This license precluded the performing of plays, anything text-based, or anything which had a script that resembled a play. Instead the annual license granted allowed only for “public dancing and music” and “other public entertainments of like kind” (St. Leon 9).Corporeal Dramaturgy and TextIn the face of the ban on scripted text, illegitimate circus turned to the human body and privileged it as a means of dramatic expression. A resultant dramaturgy focusing on the expressive capabilities of the performers’ bodies emerged. “The primacy of rhetoric and the spoken word in legitimate drama gave way […] to a corporeal dramaturgy which privileged the galvanic, affective capacity of the human body as a vehicle of dramatic expression” (Moody 83). Moody proposes that the “iconography of illegitimacy participated in a broader cultural and scientific transformation in which the human body began to be understood as an eloquent compendium of visible signs” (83). Even though the company has the use of text and dramatic dialogue freely available to it, Cirque du Soleil, shares this investment in the bodies of the performers and their “galvanic, affective capacity” (83) to communicate with the audience directly without the use of a scripted text, and this remains a constant between the two forms of circus. Robert Lepage, the director of two Cirque du Soleil shows, KÀ (2004) and more recently Totem (2010), speaking about KÀ in 2004, said, “We wanted it to be an epic story told not with the use of words, but with the universal language of body movement” (Lepage cited in Fink).In accordance with David Graver’s system of classifying performers’ bodies, Cirque du Soleil’s productions most usually present performers’ ‘character bodies’ in which the performers are understood by spectators to be playing fictional roles or characters (Hurley n/p) and this was also the case with illegitimate circus which right from its very beginnings presented its performers within narratives in which the performers are understood to be playing characters. In Cirque du Soleil’s shows, as with illegitimate circus, this presentation of the performers’ character bodies is interspersed with acts “that emphasize the extraordinary training and physical skill of the performers, that is which draw attention to the ‘performer body’ but always within the context of an overall narrative” (Fricker n.p.).Insertion of Vital TextAfter audience feedback, text was eventually added into KÀ (2004) in the form of a pre-recorded prologue inserted to enable people to follow the narrative arc, and in the show Wintuk (2007) there are tales that are sung by Jim Comcoran (Leroux 126). Interestingly early illegitimate circus creators, in their efforts to circumvent the ban on using dramatic dialogue, often inserted text into their performances in similar ways to the methods Cirque du Soleil chose for KÀ and Wintuk. Illegitimate circus included dramatic recitatives accompanied by music to facilitate the following of the storyline (Moody 28) in the same way that Cirque du Soleil inserted a pre-recorded prologue to KÀ to enable audience members to understand the narrative. Performers in illegitimate circus often conveyed essential information to the audience as lyrics of songs (Bratton 117) in the same way that Jim Comcoran does in Wintuk. Dramaturgical StructuresAstley from his very first circus show in 1768 began to set his equestrian stunts within a narrative. Billy Button’s Ride to Brentford (1768), showed a tailor, a novice rider, mounting backwards, losing his belongings and being thrown off the horse when it bucks. The act ends with the tailor being chased around the ring by his horse (Schlicke 161). Early circus innovators, searching for dramaturgy for their shows drew on contemporary warfare, creating vivid physical enactments of contemporary battles. They also created a new dramatic form known as Hippodramas (literally ‘horse dramas’ from hippos the Attic Greek for Horse), a hybridization of melodrama and circus featuring the trick riding skills of the early circus pioneers. The narrative arcs chosen were often archetypal or sourced from well-known contemporary books or poems. As Moody writes, at the heart of many of these shows “lay an archetypal narrative of the villainous usurper finally defeated” (Moody 30).One of the first hippodramas, The Blood Red Knight, opened at Astley’s Amphitheatre in 1810.Presented in dumbshow, and interspersed with grand chivalric processions, the show featured Alphonso’s rescue of his wife Isabella from her imprisonment and forced marriage to the evil knight Sir Rowland and concluded with the spectacular, fiery destruction of the castle and Sir Rowland’s death. (Moody 69)Another later hippodrama, The Spectre Monarch and his Phantom Steed, or the Genii Horseman of the Air (1830) was set in China where the rightful prince was ousted by a Tartar usurper who entered into a pact with the Spectre Monarch and received,a magic ring, by aid of which his unlawful desires were instantly gratified. Virtue, predictably won out in the end, and the discomforted villain, in a final settling of accounts with his dread master was borne off through the air in a car of fire pursued by Daemon Horsemen above THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA. (Saxon 303)Karen Fricker writes of early Cirque du Soleil shows that “while plot is doubtless too strong a word, each of Cirque’s recent shows has a distinct concept or theme, that is urbanity for Saltimbanco; nomadism in Varekai (2002) and humanity’s clownish spirit for Corteo (2005), and tend to follow the same very basic storyline, which is not narrated in words but suggested by the staging that connects the individual acts” (Fricker n/p). Leroux describes the early Cirque du Soleil shows as following a “proverbial and well-worn ‘collective transformation trope’” (Leroux 122) whilst Peta Tait points out that the narrative arc of Cirque du Soleil “ might be summarized as an innocent protagonist, often female, helped by an older identity, seemingly male, to face a challenging journey or search for identity; more generally, old versus young” (Tait 128). However Leroux discerns an increasing interest in narrative devices such as action and plot in Cirque du Soleil’s Las Vegas productions (Leroux 122). Fricker points out that “with KÀ, what Cirque sought – and indeed found in Lepage’s staging – was to push this storytelling tendency further into full-fledged plot and character” (Fricker n/p). Telling a story without words, apart from the inserted prologue, means that the narrative arc of Kà is, however, very simple. A young prince and princess, twins in a mythical Far Eastern kingdom, are separated when a ceremonial occasion is interrupted by an attack by a tribe of enemy warriors. A variety of adventures follow, most involving perilous escapes from bad guys with flaming arrows and fierce-looking body tattoos. After many trials, a happy reunion arrives. (Isherwood)This increasing emphasis on developing a plot and a narrative arc positions Cirque as moving closer in dramaturgical aesthetic to illegitimate circus.Visual TechnologiesTo increase the visual excitement of its shows and compensate for the absence of spoken dialogue, illegitimate circus in the late 18th and early 19th century drew on contemporaneous and emerging visual technologies. Some of the new visual technologies that Astley’s used have been termed pre-cinematic, including the panorama (or diorama as it is sometimes called) and “the phantasmagoria and other visual machines… [which] expanded the means through which an audience could be addressed” (O’Quinn, Governance 312). The panorama or diorama ran in the same way that a film runs in an analogue camera, rolling between vertical rollers on either side of the stage. In Astley’s production The Siege and Storming of Seringapatam (1800) he used another effect almost equivalent to a modern day camera zoom-in by showing scenic back drops which, as they moved through time, progressively moved geographically closer to the battle. This meant that “the increasing enlargement of scale-each successive scene has a smaller geographic space-has a telescopic event. Although the size of the performance space remains constant, the spatial parameters of the spectacle become increasingly magnified” (O’Quinn, Governance 345). In KÀ, Robert Lepage experiments with “cinematographic stage storytelling on a very grand scale” (Fricker n.p.). A KÀ press release (2005) from Cirque du Soleil describes the show “as a cinematic journey of aerial adventure” (Cirque du Soleil). Cirque du Soleil worked with ground-breaking visual technologies in KÀ, developing an interactive projected set. This involves the performers controlling what happens to the projected environment in real time, with the projected scenery responding to their movements. The performers’ movements are tracked by an infra-red sensitive camera above the stage, and by computer software written by Interactive Production Designer Olger Förterer. “In essence, what we have is an intelligent set,” says Förterer. “And everything the audience sees is created by the computer” (Cirque du Soleil).Contemporary Technology Cutting edge technologies, many of which came directly from contemporaneous warfare, were introduced into the illegitimate circus performance space by Astley and his competitors. These included explosions using redfire, a new military explosive that combined “strontia, shellac and chlorate of potash, [which] produced […] spectacular flame effects” (Moody 28). Redfire was used for ‘blow-ups,’ the spectacular explosions often occurring at the end of the performance when the villain’s castle or hideout was destroyed. Cirque du Soleil is also drawing on contemporary military technology for performance projects. Sparked: A Live interaction between Humans and Quadcopters (2014) is a recent short film released by Cirque du Soleil, which features the theatrical use of drones. The new collaboration between Cirque du Soleil, ETH Zurich and Verity Studios uses 10 quadcopters disguised as animated lampshades which take to the air, “carrying out the kinds of complex synchronized dance manoeuvres we usually see from the circus' famed acrobats” (Huffington Post). This shows, as with early illegitimate circus, the quick theatrical uptake of contemporary technology originally developed for use in warfare.Innovative StagingArrighi writes that the performance space that Astley developed was a “completely new theatrical configuration that had not been seen in Western culture before… [and] included a circular ring (primarily for equestrian performance) and a raised theatre stage (for pantomime and burletta)” (177) joined together by ramps that were large enough and strong enough to allow horses to be ridden over them during performances. The stage at Astley’s Amphitheatre was said to be the largest in Europe measuring over 130 feet across. A proscenium arch was installed in 1818 which could be adjusted in full view of the audience with the stage opening changing anywhere in size from forty to sixty feet (Saxon 300). The staging evolved so that it had the capacity to be multi-level, involving “immense [moveable] platforms or floors, rising above each other, and extending the whole width of the stage” (Meisel 214). The ability to transform the stage by the use of draped and masked platforms which could be moved mechanically, proved central to the creation of the “new hybrid genre of swashbuckling melodramas on horseback, or ‘hippodramas’” (Kwint, Leisure 46). Foot soldiers and mounted cavalry would fight their way across the elaborate sets and the production would culminate with a big finale that usually featured a burning castle (Kwint, Legitimization 95). Cirque du Soleil’s investment in high-tech staging can be clearly seen in KÀ. Mark Swed writes that KÀ is, “the most lavish production in the history of Western theatre. It is surely the most technologically advanced” (Swed). With a production budget of $165 million (Swed), theatre designer Michael Fisher has replaced the conventional stage floor with two huge moveable performance platforms and five smaller platforms that appear to float above a gigantic pit descending 51 feet below floor level. One of the larger platforms is a tatami floor that moves backwards and forwards, the other platform is described by the New York Times as being the most thrilling performer in the show.The most consistently thrilling performer, perhaps appropriately, isn't even human: It's the giant slab of machinery that serves as one of the two stages designed by Mark Fisher. Here Mr. Lepage's ability to use a single emblem or image for a variety of dramatic purposes is magnified to epic proportions. Rising and falling with amazing speed and ease, spinning and tilting to a full vertical position, this huge, hydraulically powered game board is a sandy beach in one segment, a sheer cliff wall in another and a battleground, viewed from above, for the evening's exuberantly cinematic climax. (Isherwood)In the climax a vertical battle is fought by aerialists fighting up and down the surface of the sand stone cliff with defeated fighters portrayed as tumbling down the surface of the cliff into the depths of the pit below. Cirque du Soleil’s production entitled O, which phonetically is the French word eau meaning water, is a collaboration with director Franco Dragone that has been running at Las Vegas’ Bellagio Hotel since 1998. O has grossed over a billion dollars since it opened in 1998 (Sylt and Reid). It is an aquatic circus or an aquadrama. In 1804, Charles Dibdin, one of Astley’s rivals, taking advantage of the nearby New River, “added to the accoutrements of the Sadler’s Wells Theatre a tank three feet deep, ninety feet long and as wide as twenty-four feet which could be filled with water from the New River” (Hays and Nickolopoulou 171) Sadler’s Wells presented aquadramas depicting many reconstructions of famous naval battles. One of the first of these was The Siege of Gibraltar (1804) that used “117 ships designed by the Woolwich Dockyard shipwrights and capable of firing their guns” (Hays and Nickolopoulou 5). To represent the drowning Spanish sailors saved by the British, “Dibdin used children, ‘who were seen swimming and affecting to struggle with the waves’”(5).O (1998) is the first Cirque production to be performed in a proscenium arch theatre, with the pool installed behind the proscenium arch. “To light the water in the pool, a majority of the front lighting comes from a subterranean light tunnel (at the same level as the pool) which has eleven 4" thick Plexiglas windows that open along the downstage perimeter of the pool” (Lampert-Greaux). Accompanied by a live orchestra, performers dive into the 53 x 90 foot pool from on high, they swim underwater lit by lights installed in the subterranean light tunnel and they also perform on perforated platforms that rise up out of the water and turn the pool into a solid stage floor. In many respects, Cirque du Soleil can be seen to be the inheritors of the spectacular illegitimate circus of the 18th and 19th Century. The inheritance can be seen in Cirque du Soleil’s entrepreneurial daring, the corporeal dramaturgy privileging the affective power of the body over the use of words, in the performers presented primarily as character bodies, and in the delivering of essential text either as a prologue or as lyrics to songs. It can also be seen in Cirque du Soleil’s innovative staging design, the uptake of military based technology and the experimentation with cutting edge visual effects. Although re-invigorating the tradition and creating spectacular shows that in many respects are entirely of the moment, Cirque du Soleil’s aesthetic roots can be clearly seen to draw deeply on the inheritance of illegitimate circus.ReferencesBratton, Jacky. “Romantic Melodrama.” The Cambridge Companion to British Theatre 1730-1830. Eds. Jane Moody and Daniel O'Quinn. Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2007. 115-27. Bratton, Jacky. “What Is a Play? Drama and the Victorian Circus in the Performing Century.” Nineteenth-Century Theatre’s History. Eds. Tracey C. Davis and Peter Holland. Hampshire, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007. 250-62.Cavendish, Richard. “Death of Madame Tussaud.” History Today 50.4 (2000). 15 Aug. 2014 ‹http://www.historytoday.com/richard-cavendish/death-madame-tussaud›.Cirque du Soleil. 2014. 10 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.cirquedusoleil.com/en/home/about-us/at-a-glance.aspx›.Davis, Janet M. The Circus Age: Culture and Society under the American Big Top. Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 2002. Hays, Michael, and Anastasia Nikolopoulou. Melodrama: The Cultural Emergence of a Genre. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 1999.House of Dancing Water. 2014. 17 Aug. 2014 ‹http://thehouseofdancingwater.com/en/›.Isherwood, Charles. “Fire, Acrobatics and Most of All Hydraulics.” New York Times 5 Feb. 2005. 12 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.nytimes.com/2005/02/05/theater/reviews/05cirq.html?_r=0›.Fink, Jerry. “Cirque du Soleil Spares No Cost with Kà.” Las Vegas Sun 2004. 17 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.lasvegassun.com/news/2004/sep/16/cirque-du-soleil-spares-no-cost-with-ka/›.Fricker, Karen. “Le Goût du Risque: Kà de Robert Lepage et du Cirque du Soleil.” (“Risky Business: Robert Lepage and the Cirque du Soleil’s Kà.”) L’Annuaire théâtral 45 (2010) 45-68. Trans. Isabelle Savoie. (Original English Version not paginated.)Hurley, Erin. "Les Corps Multiples du Cirque du Soleil." Globe: Revue Internationale d’Études Quebecoise. Les Arts de la Scene au Quebec, 11.2 (2008). (Original English n.p.)Jacob, Pascal. The Circus Artist Today: Analysis of the Key Competences. Brussels: FEDEC: European Federation of Professional Circus Schools, 2008. 5 June 2010 ‹http://sideshow-circusmagazine.com/research/downloads/circus-artist-today-analysis-key-competencies›.Jando, Dominique. “Philip Astley, Circus Owner, Equestrian.” Circopedia. 15 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.circopedia.org/Philip_Astley›.Kwint, Marius. “The Legitimization of Circus in Late Georgian England.” Past and Present 174 (2002): 72-115.---. “The Circus and Nature in Late Georgian England.” Histories of Leisure. Ed. Rudy Koshar. Oxford: Berg Publishers, 2002. 45-60. ---. “The Theatre of War.” History Today 53.6 (2003). 28 Mar. 2012 ‹http://www.historytoday.com/marius-kwint/theatre-war›.Lampert-Greaux, Ellen. “The Wizardry of O: Cirque du Soleil Takes the Plunge into an Underwater World.” livedesignonline 1999. 17 Aug. 2014 ‹http://livedesignonline.com/mag/wizardry-o-cirque-du-soleil-takes-plunge-underwater-world›.Lavers, Katie. “Sighting Circus: Perceptions of Circus Phenomena Investigated through Diverse Bodies.” Doctoral Thesis. Perth, WA: Edith Cowan University, 2014. Leroux, Patrick Louis. “The Cirque du Soleil in Las Vegas: An American Striptease.” Revista Mexicana de Estudio Canadiens (Nueva Época) 16 (2008): 121-126.Mazza, Ed. “Cirque du Soleil’s Drone Video ‘Sparked’ is Pure Magic.” Huffington Post 22 Sep. 2014. 23 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/09/22/cirque-du-soleil-sparked-drone-video_n_5865668.html›.Meisel, Martin. Realizations: Narrative, Pictorial and Theatrical Arts in Nineteenth-Century England. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1983.Moody, Jane. Illegitimate Theatre in London, 1770-1840. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. O'Quinn, Daniel. Staging Governance: Teatrical Imperialism in London 1770-1800. Baltimore, Maryland, USA: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005. O'Quinn, Daniel. “Theatre and Empire.” The Cambridge Companion to British Theatre 1730-1830. Eds. Jane Moody and Daniel O'Quinn. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. 233-46. Reed, Peter P. “Interrogating Legitimacy in Britain and America.” The Oxford Handbook of Georgian Theatre. Eds. Julia Swindells and Francis David. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. 247-264.Saxon, A.H. “The Circus as Theatre: Astley’s and Its Actors in the Age of Romanticism.” Educational Theatre Journal 27.3 (1975): 299-312.Schlicke, P. Dickens and Popular Entertainment. London: Unwin Hyman, 1985.St. Leon, Mark. Circus: The Australian Story. Melbourne: Melbourne Books, 2011. Stoddart, Helen. Rings of Desire: Circus History and Representation. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000. Swed, Mark. “Epic, Extravagant: In Ka the Acrobatics and Dazzling Special Effects Are Stunning and Enchanting.” Los Angeles Times 5 Feb. 2005. 22 Aug. 2014 ‹http://articles.latimes.com/2005/feb/05/entertainment/et-ka5›.Sylt, Cristian, and Caroline Reid. “Cirque du Soleil Swings to $1bn Revenue as It Mulls Shows at O2.” The Independent Oct. 2011. 14 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.independent.co.uk/news/business/news/cirque-du-soleil-swings-to-1bn-revenue-as-it-mulls-shows-at-o2-2191850.html›.Tait, Peta. Circus Bodies: Cultural Identity in Aerial Performance. London: Routledge, 2005.Terdiman, Daniel. “Flying Lampshades: Cirque du Soleil Plays with Drones.” CNet 2014. 22 Sept 2014 ‹http://www.cnet.com/news/flying-lampshades-the-cirque-du-soleil-plays-with-drones/›.Venables, Michael. “The Technology Behind the Las Vegas Magic of Cirque du Soleil.” Forbes Magazine 30 Aug. 2013. 16 Aug. 2014 ‹http://www.forbes.com/sites/michaelvenables/2013/08/30/technology-behind-the-magical-universe-of-cirque-du-soleil-part-one/›.

Cultural sociologists (Bourdieu; DiMaggio, “Cultural Capital”, “Classification”; Gans; Lamont & Foumier; Halle; Erickson) wrote about high culture and popular culture in an attempt to explain the growing social and economic inequalities, to find consensus on culture hierarchies, and to analyze cultural complexities. Halle states that this categorisation of culture into “high culture” and “popular culture” underlined most of the debate on culture in the last fifty years. Gans contends that both high culture and popular culture are stereotypes, public forms of culture or taste cultures, each sharing “common aesthetic values and standards of tastes” (8). However, this article is not concerned with these categorisations, or macro analysis. Rather, it is a reflection piece that inquires if opera, which is usually considered high culture, has become more equal to popular culture, and why some directors change the time and place of opera plots, whereas others will stay true to the original setting of the story. I do not consider these productions “adaptations,” but “post-modern morphologies,” and I will refer to this later in the paper. In other words, the paper is seeking to explain a social phenomenon and explore the underlying motives by quoting interviews with directors. The word ‘opera’ is defined in Elson’s Music Dictionary as: “a form of musical composition evolved shortly before 1600, by some enthusiastic Florentine amateurs who sought to bring back the Greek plays to the modern stage” (189). Hence, it was an experimentation to revive Greek music and drama believed to be the ideal way to express emotions (Grout 186). It is difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when stage directors started changing the time and place of the original settings of operas. The practice became more common after World War II, and Peter Brook’s Covent Garden productions of Boris Godunov (1948) and Salome (1949) are considered the prototypes of this practice (Sutcliffe 19-20). Richard Wagner’s grandsons, the brothers Wieland and Wolfgang Wagner are cited in the music literature as using technology and modern innovations in staging and design beginning in the early 1950s. Brief Background into the History of Opera Grout contends that opera began as an attempt to heighten the dramatic expression of language by intensifying the natural accents of speech through melody supported by simple harmony. In the late 1590s, the Italian composer Jacopo Peri wrote what is considered to be the first opera, but most of it has been lost. The first surviving complete opera is Euridice, a version of the Orpheus myth that Peri and Giulio Caccini jointly set to music in 1600. The first composer to understand the possibilities inherent in this new musical form was Claudio Monteverdi, who in 1607 wrote Orfeo. Although it was based on the same story as Euridice, it was expanded to a full five acts. Early opera was meant for small, private audiences, usually at court; hence it began as an elitist genre. After thirty years of being private, in 1637, opera went public with the opening of the first public opera house, Teatro di San Cassiano, in Venice, and the genre quickly became popular. Indeed, Monteverdi wrote his last two operas, Il ritorno d’Ulisse in patria and L’incoronazione di Poppea for the Venetian public, thereby leading the transition from the Italian courts to the ‘public’. Both operas are still performed today. Poppea was the first opera to be based on a historical rather than a mythological or allegorical subject. Sutcliffe argues that opera became popular because it was a new mixture of means: new words, new music, new methods of performance. He states, “operatic fashion through history may be a desire for novelty, new formulas displacing old” (65). By the end of the 17th century, Venice alone had ten opera houses that had produced more than 350 operas. Wealthy families purchased season boxes, but inexpensive tickets made the genre available to persons of lesser means. The genre spread quickly, and various styles of opera developed. In Naples, for example, music rather than the libretto dominated opera. The genre spread to Germany and France, each developing the genre to suit the demands of its audiences. For example, ballet became an essential component of French opera. Eventually, “opera became the profligate art as large casts and lavish settings made it the most expensive public entertainment. It was the only art that without embarrassment called itself ‘grand’” (Boorstin 467). Contemporary Opera Productions Opera continues to be popular. According to a 2002 report released by the National Endowment for the Arts, 6.6 million adults attended at least one live opera performance in 2002, and 37.6 million experienced opera on television, video, radio, audio recording or via the Internet. Some think that it is a dying art form, while others think to the contrary, that it is a living art form because of its complexity and “ability to probe deeper into the human experience than any other art form” (Berger 3). Some directors change the setting of operas with perhaps the most famous contemporary proponent of this approach being Peter Sellars, who made drastic changes to three of Mozart’s most famous operas. Le Nozze di Figaro, originally set in 18th-century Seville, was set by Sellars in a luxury apartment in the Trump Tower in New York City; Sellars set Don Giovanni in contemporary Spanish Harlem rather than 17th century Seville; and for Cosi Fan Tutte, Sellars chose a diner on Cape Cod rather than 18th century Naples. As one of the more than six million Americans who attend live opera each year, I have experienced several updated productions, which made me reflect on the convergence or cross-over between high culture and popular culture. In 2000, I attended a production of Don Giovanni at the Estates Theatre in Prague, the very theatre where Mozart conducted the world premiere in 1787. In this production, Don Giovanni was a fashion designer known as “Don G” and drove a BMW. During the 1999-2000 season, Los Angeles Opera engaged film director Bruce Beresford to direct Verdi’s Rigoletto. Beresford updated the original setting of 16th century Mantua to 20th century Hollywood. The lead tenor, rather than being the Duke of Mantua, was a Hollywood agent known as “Duke Mantua.” In the first act, just before Marullo announces to the Duke’s guests that the jester Rigoletto has taken a mistress, he gets the news via his cell phone. Director Ian Judge set the 2004 production of Le Nozze di Figaro in the 1950s. In one of the opening productions of the 2006-07 LA opera season, Vincent Patterson also chose the 1950s for Massenet’s Manon rather than France in the 1720s. This allowed the title character to appear in the fourth act dressed as Marilyn Monroe. Excerpts from the dress rehearsal can be seen on YouTube. Most recently, I attended a production of Ariane et Barbe-Bleu at the Paris Opera. The original setting of the Maeterlinck play is in Duke Bluebeard’s castle, but the time period is unclear. However, it is doubtful that the 1907 opera based on an 1899 play was meant to be set in what appeared to be a mental institution equipped with surveillance cameras whose screens were visible to the audience. The critical and audience consensus seemed to be that the opera was a musical success but a failure as a production. James Shore summed up the audience reaction: “the production team was vociferously booed and jeered by much of the house, and the enthusiastic applause that had greeted the singers and conductor, immediately went nearly silent when they came on stage”. It seems to me that a new class-related taste has emerged; the opera genre has shot out a subdivision which I shall call “post-modern morphologies,” that may appeal to a larger pool of people. Hence, class, age, gender, and race are becoming more important factors in conceptualising opera productions today than in the past. I do not consider these productions as new adaptations because the libretto and the music are originals. What changes is the fact that both text and sound are taken to a higher dimension by adding iconographic images that stimulate people’s brains. When asked in an interview why he often changes the setting of an opera, Ian Judge commented, “I try to find the best world for the story and characters to operate in, and I think you have to find a balance between the period the author set it in, the period he conceived it in and the nature of theatre and audiences at that time, and the world we live in.” Hence, the world today is complex, interconnected, borderless and timeless because of advanced technologies, and updated opera productions play with symbols that offer multiple meanings that reflect the world we live in. It may be that television and film have influenced opera production. Character tenor Graham Clark recently observed in an interview, “Now the situation has changed enormously. Television and film have made a lot of things totally accessible which they were not before and in an entirely different perception.” Director Ian Judge believes that television and film have affected audience expectations in opera. “I think audiences who are brought up on television, which is bad acting, and movies, which is not that good acting, perhaps require more of opera than stand and deliver, and I have never really been happy with someone who just stands and sings.” Sociologist Wendy Griswold states that culture reflects social reality and the meaning of a particular cultural object (such as opera), originates “in the social structures and social patterns it reflects” (22). Screens of various technologies are embedded in our lives and normalised as extensions of our bodies. In those opera productions in which directors change the time and place of opera plots, use technology, and are less concerned with what the composer or librettist intended (which we can only guess), the iconographic images create multi valances, textuality similar to Mikhail Bakhtin’s notion of multiplicity of voices. Hence, a plurality of meanings. Plàcido Domingo, the Eli and Edyth Broad General Director of Los Angeles Opera, seeks to take advantage of the company’s proximity to the film industry. This is evidenced by his having engaged Bruce Beresford to direct Rigoletto and William Friedkin to direct Ariadne auf Naxos, Duke Bluebeard’s Castle and Gianni Schicchi. Perhaps the most daring example of Domingo’s approach was convincing Garry Marshall, creator of the television sitcom Happy Days and who directed the films Pretty Woman and The Princess Diaries, to direct Jacques Offenbach’s The Grand Duchess of Gerolstein to open the company’s 20th anniversary season. When asked how Domingo convinced him to direct an opera for the first time, Marshall responded, “he was insistent that one, people think that opera is pretty elitist, and he knew without insulting me that I was not one of the elitists; two, he said that you gotta make a funny opera; we need more comedy in the operetta and opera world.” Marshall rewrote most of the dialogue and performed it in English, but left the “songs” untouched and in the original French. He also developed numerous sight gags and added characters including a dog named Morrie and the composer Jacques Offenbach himself. Did it work? Christie Grimstad wrote, “if you want an evening filled with witty music, kaleidoscopic colors and hilariously good singing, seek out The Grand Duchess. You will not be disappointed.” The FanFaire Website commented on Domingo’s approach of using television and film directors to direct opera: You’ve got to hand it to Plàcido Domingo for having the vision to draw on Hollywood’s vast pool of directorial talent. Certainly something can be gained from the cross-fertilization that could ensue from this sort of interaction between opera and the movies, two forms of entertainment (elitist and perennially struggling for funds vs. popular and, it seems, eternally rich) that in Los Angeles have traditionally lived separate lives on opposite sides of the tracks. A wider audience, for example, never a problem for the movies, can only mean good news for the future of opera. So, did the Marshall Plan work? Purists of course will always want their operas and operettas ‘pure and unadulterated’. But with an audience that seemed to have as much fun as the stellar cast on stage, it sure did. Critic Alan Rich disagrees, calling Marshall “a representative from an alien industry taking on an artistic product, not to create something innovative and interesting, but merely to insult.” Nevertheless, the combination of Hollywood and opera seems to work. The Los Angeles Opera reported that the 2005-2006 season was its best ever: “ticket revenues from the season, which ended in June, exceeded projected figures by nearly US$900,000. Seasonal attendance at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion stood at more than 86% of the house’s capacity, the largest percentage in the opera’s history.” Domingo continues with the Hollywood connection in the upcoming 2008-2009 season. He has reengaged William Friedkin to direct two of Puccini’s three operas titled collectively as Il Trittico. Friedkin will direct the two tragedies, Il Tabarro and Suor Angelica. Although Friedkin has already directed a production of the third opera in Il Trittico for Los Angeles, the comedy Gianni Schicchi, Domingo convinced Woody Allen to make his operatic directorial debut with this work. This can be viewed as another example of the desire to make opera and popular culture more equal. However, some, like Alan Rich, may see this attempt as merely insulting rather than interesting and innovative. With a top ticket price in Los Angeles of US$238 per seat, opera seems to continue to be elitist. Berger (2005) concurs with this idea and gives his rationale for elitism: there are rich people who support and attend the opera; it is an imported art from Europe that causes some marginalisation; opera is not associated with something being ‘moral,’ a concept engrained in American culture; it is expensive to produce and usually funded by kings, corporations, rich people; and the opera singers are rare –usually one in a million who will have the vocal quality to sing opera arias. Furthermore, Nicholas Kenyon commented in the early 1990s: “there is suspicion that audiences are now paying more and more money for their seats to see more and more money spent on stage” (Kenyon 3). Still, Garry Marshall commented that the budget for The Grand Duchess was US$2 million, while his budget for Runaway Bride was US$72 million. Kenyon warns, “Such popularity for opera may be illusory. The enjoyment of one striking aria does not guarantee the survival of an art form long regarded as over-elitist, over-recondite, and over-priced” (Kenyon 3). A recent development is the Metropolitan Opera’s decision to simulcast live opera performances from the Met stage to various cinemas around the world. These HD transmissions began with the 2006-2007 season when six performances were broadcast. In the 2007-2008 season, the schedule has expanded to eight live Saturday matinee broadcasts plus eight recorded encores broadcast the following day. According to The Los Angeles Times, “the Met’s experiment of merging film with live performance has created a new art form” (Aslup). Whether or not this is a “new art form,” it certainly makes world-class live opera available to countless persons who cannot travel to New York and pay the price for tickets, when they are available. In the US alone, more than 350 cinemas screen these live HD broadcasts from the Met. Top ticket price for these performances at the Met is US$375, while the lowest price is US$27 for seats with only a partial view. Top price for the HD transmissions in participating cinemas is US$22. This experiment with live simulcasts makes opera more affordable and may increase its popularity; combined with updated stagings, opera can engage a much larger audience and hope for even a mass consumption. Is opera moving closer and closer to popular culture? There still seems to be an aura of elitism and snobbery about opera. However, Plàcido Domingo’s attempt to join opera with Hollywood is meant to break the barriers between high and popular culture. The practice of updating opera settings is not confined to Los Angeles. As mentioned earlier, the idea can be traced to post World War II England, and is quite common in Europe. Examples include Erich Wonder’s approach to Wagner’s Ring, making Valhalla, the mythological home of the gods and typically a mountaintop, into the spaceship Valhalla, as well as my own experience with Don Giovanni in Prague and Ariane et Barbe-Bleu in Paris. Indeed, Sutcliffe maintains, “Great classics in all branches of the arts are repeatedly being repackaged for a consumerist world that is increasingly and neurotically self-obsessed” (61). Although new operas are being written and performed, most contemporary performances are of operas by Verdi, Mozart, and Puccini (www.operabase.com). This means that audiences see the same works repeated many times, but in different interpretations. Perhaps this is why Sutcliffe contends, “since the 1970s it is the actual productions that have had the novelty value grabbed by the headlines. Singing no longer predominates” (Sutcliffe 57). If then, as Sutcliffe argues, “operatic fashion through history may be a desire for novelty, new formulas displacing old” (Sutcliffe 65), then the contemporary practice of changing the original settings is simply the latest “new formula” that is replacing the old ones. If there are no new words or new music, then what remains are new methods of performance, hence the practice of changing time and place. Opera is a complex art form that has evolved over the past 400 years and continues to evolve, but will it survive? The underlining motives for directors changing the time and place of opera performances are at least three: for aesthetic/artistic purposes, financial purposes, and to reach an audience from many cultures, who speak different languages, and who have varied tastes. These three reasons are interrelated. In 1996, Sutcliffe wrote that there has been one constant in all the arguments about opera productions during the preceding two decades: “the producer’s wish to relate the works being staged to contemporary circumstances and passions.” Although that sounds like a purely aesthetic reason, making opera relevant to new, multicultural audiences and thereby increasing the bottom line seems very much a part of that aesthetic. It is as true today as it was when Sutcliffe made the observation twelve years ago (60-61). My own speculation is that opera needs to attract various audiences, and it can only do so by appealing to popular culture and engaging new forms of media and technology. Erickson concludes that the number of upper status people who are exclusively faithful to fine arts is declining; high status people consume a variety of culture while the lower status people are limited to what they like. Research in North America, Europe, and Australia, states Erickson, attest to these trends. My answer to the question can stage directors make opera and popular culture “equal” is yes, and they can do it successfully. Perhaps Stanley Sharpless summed it up best: After his Eden triumph, When the Devil played his ace, He wondered what he could do next To irk the human race, So he invented Opera, With many a fiendish grin, To mystify the lowbrows, And take the highbrows in. References The Grand Duchess. 2005. 3 Feb. 2008 < http://www.ffaire.com/Duchess/index.htm >.Aslup, Glenn. “Puccini’s La Boheme: A Live HD Broadcast from the Met.” Central City Blog Opera 7 Apr. 2008. 24 Apr. 2008 < http://www.centralcityopera.org/blog/2008/04/07/puccini%E2%80%99s- la-boheme-a-live-hd-broadcast-from-the-met/ >.Berger, William. Puccini without Excuses. New York: Vintage, 2005.Boorstin, Daniel. The Creators: A History of Heroes of the Imagination. New York: Random House, 1992.Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1984.Clark, Graham. “Interview with Graham Clark.” The KCSN Opera House, 88.5 FM. 11 Aug. 2006.DiMaggio, Paul. “Cultural Capital and School Success.” American Sociological Review 47 (1982): 189-201.DiMaggio, Paul. “Classification in Art.”_ American Sociological Review_ 52 (1987): 440-55.Elson, C. Louis. “Opera.” Elson’s Music Dictionary. Boston: Oliver Ditson, 1905.Erickson, H. Bonnie. “The Crisis in Culture and Inequality.” In W. Ivey and S. J. Tepper, eds. Engaging Art: The Next Great Transformation of America’s Cultural Life. New York: Routledge, 2007.Fanfaire.com. “At Its 20th Anniversary Celebration, the Los Angeles Opera Had a Ball with The Grand Duchess.” 24 Apr. 2008 < http://www.fanfaire.com/Duchess/index.htm >.Gans, J. Herbert. Popular Culture and High Culture: An Analysis and Evaluation of Taste. New York: Basic Books, 1977.Grimstad, Christie. Concerto Net.com. 2005. 12 Jan. 2008 < http://www.concertonet.com/scripts/review.php?ID_review=3091 >.Grisworld, Wendy. Cultures and Societies in a Changing World. Thousand Oaks, CA: Pine Forge Press, 1994.Grout, D. Jay. A History of Western Music. Shorter ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc, 1964.Halle, David. “High and Low Culture.” The Blackwell Encyclopedia of Sociology. London: Blackwell, 2006.Judge, Ian. “Interview with Ian Judge.” The KCSN Opera House, 88.5 FM. 22 Mar. 2006.Harper, Douglas. Online Etymology Dictionary. 2001. 19 Nov. 2006 < http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=opera&searchmode=none >.Kenyon, Nicholas. “Introduction.” In A. Holden, N. Kenyon and S. Walsh, eds. The Viking Opera Guide. New York: Penguin, 1993.Lamont, Michele, and Marcel Fournier. Cultivating Differences: Symbolic Boundaries and the Making of Inequality. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992.Lord, M.G. “Shlemiel! Shlemozzle! And Cue the Soprano.” The New York Times 4 Sep. 2005.Los Angeles Opera. “LA Opera General Director Placido Domingo Announces Results of Record-Breaking 20th Anniversary Season.” News release. 2006.Marshall, Garry. “Interview with Garry Marshall.” The KCSN Opera House, 88.5 FM. 31 Aug. 2005.National Endowment for the Arts. 2002 Survey of Public Participation in the Arts. Research Division Report #45. 5 Feb. 2008 < http://www.nea.gov/pub/NEASurvey2004.pdf >.NCM Fanthom. “The Metropolitan Opera HD Live.” 2 Feb. 2008 < http://fathomevents.com/details.aspx?seriesid=622&gclid= CLa59NGuspECFQU6awodjiOafA >.Opera Today. James Sobre: Ariane et Barbe-Bleue and Capriccio in Paris – Name This Stage Piece If You Can. 5 Feb. 2008 < http://www.operatoday.com/content/2007/09/ariane_et_barbe_1.php >.Rich, Alan. “High Notes, and Low.” LA Weekly 15 Sep. 2005. 6 May 2008 < http://www.laweekly.com/stage/a-lot-of-night-music/high-notes-and-low/8160/ >.Sharpless, Stanley. “A Song against Opera.” In E. O. Parrott, ed. How to Be Tremendously Tuned in to Opera. New York: Penguin, 1990.Shore, James. Opera Today. 2007. 4 Feb. 2008 < http://www.operatoday.com/content/2007/09/ariane_et_barbe_1.php >.Sutcliffe, Tom. Believing in Opera. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton UP, 1996.YouTube. “Manon Sex and the Opera.” 24 Apr. 2008 < http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YiBQhr2Sy0k >.

Biology teaches us that organisms adapt—or don’t; sociology claims that people adapt—or don’t. We know that ideas can adapt; sometimes even institutions can adapt. Or not. Various papers in this issue attest in exciting ways to precisely such adaptations and maladaptations. (See, for example, the articles in this issue by Lelia Green, Leesa Bonniface, and Tami McMahon, by Lexey A. Bartlett, and by Debra Ferreday.) Adaptation is a part of nature and culture, but it’s the latter alone that interests me here. (However, see the article by Hutcheon and Bortolotti for a discussion of nature and culture together.) It’s no news to anyone that not only adaptations, but all art is bred of other art, though sometimes artists seem to get carried away. My favourite example of excess of association or attribution can be found in the acknowledgements page to a verse drama called Beatrice Chancy by the self-defined “maximalist” (not minimalist) poet, novelist, librettist, and critic, George Elliot Clarke. His selected list of the incarnations of the story of Beatrice Cenci, a sixteenth-century Italian noblewoman put to death for the murder of her father, includes dramas, romances, chronicles, screenplays, parodies, sculptures, photographs, and operas: dramas by Vincenzo Pieracci (1816), Percy Bysshe Shelley (1819), Juliusz Slowacki (1843), Waldter Landor (1851), Antonin Artaud (1935) and Alberto Moravia (1958); the romances by Francesco Guerrazi (1854), Henri Pierangeli (1933), Philip Lindsay (1940), Frederic Prokosch (1955) and Susanne Kircher (1976); the chronicles by Stendhal (1839), Mary Shelley (1839), Alexandre Dumas, père (1939-40), Robert Browning (1864), Charles Swinburne (1883), Corrado Ricci (1923), Sir Lionel Cust (1929), Kurt Pfister (1946) and Irene Mitchell (1991); the film/screenplay by Bertrand Tavernier and Colo O’Hagan (1988); the parody by Kathy Acker (1993); the sculpture by Harriet Hosmer (1857); the photograph by Julia Ward Cameron (1866); and the operas by Guido Pannain (1942), Berthold Goldschmidt (1951, 1995) and Havergal Brian (1962). (Beatrice Chancy, 152) He concludes the list with: “These creators have dallied with Beatrice Cenci, but I have committed indiscretions” (152). An “intertextual feast”, by Clarke’s own admission, this rewriting of Beatrice’s story—especially Percy Bysshe Shelley’s own verse play, The Cenci—illustrates brilliantly what Northrop Frye offered as the first principle of the production of literature: “literature can only derive its form from itself” (15). But in the last several decades, what has come to be called intertextuality theory has shifted thinking away from looking at this phenomenon from the point of view of authorial influences on the writing of literature (and works like Harold Bloom’s famous study of the Anxiety of Influence) and toward considering our readerly associations with literature, the connections we (not the author) make—as we read. We, the readers, have become “empowered”, as we say, and we’ve become the object of academic study in our own right. Among the many associations we inevitably make, as readers, is with adaptations of the literature we read, be it of Jane Austin novels or Beowulf. Some of us may have seen the 2006 rock opera of Beowulf done by the Irish Repertory Theatre; others await the new Neil Gaiman animated film. Some may have played the Beowulf videogame. I personally plan to miss the upcoming updated version that makes Beowulf into the son of an African explorer. But I did see Sturla Gunnarsson’s Beowulf and Grendel film, and yearned to see the comic opera at the Lincoln Centre Festival in 2006 called Grendel, the Transcendence of the Great Big Bad. I am not really interested in whether these adaptations—all in the last year or so—signify Hollywood’s need for a new “monster of the week” or are just the sign of a desire to cash in on the success of The Lord of the Rings. For all I know they might well act as an ethical reminder of the human in the alien in a time of global strife (see McGee, A4). What interests me is the impact these multiple adaptations can have on the reader of literature as well as on the production of literature. Literature, like painting, is usually thought of as what Nelson Goodman (114) calls a one-stage art form: what we read (like what we see on a canvas) is what is put there by the originating artist. Several major consequences follow from this view. First, the implication is that the work is thus an original and new creation by that artist. However, even the most original of novelists—like Salman Rushdie—are the first to tell you that stories get told and retold over and over. Indeed his controversial novel, The Satanic Verses, takes this as a major theme. Works like the Thousand and One Nights are crucial references in all of his work. As he writes in Haroun and the Sea of Stories: “no story comes from nowhere; new stories are born of old” (86). But illusion of originality is only one of the implications of seeing literature as a one-stage art form. Another is the assumption that what the writer put on paper is what we read. But entire doctoral programs in literary production and book history have been set up to study how this is not the case, in fact. Editors influence, even change, what authors want to write. Designers control how we literally see the work of literature. Beatrice Chancy’s bookend maps of historical Acadia literally frame how we read the historical story of the title’s mixed-race offspring of an African slave and a white slave owner in colonial Nova Scotia in 1801. Media interest or fashion or academic ideological focus may provoke a publisher to foreground in the physical presentation different elements of a text like this—its stress on race, or gender, or sexuality. The fact that its author won Canada’s Governor General’s Award for poetry might mean that the fact that this is a verse play is emphasised. If the book goes into a second edition, will a new preface get added, changing the framework for the reader once again? As Katherine Larson has convincingly shown, the paratextual elements that surround a work of literature like this one become a major site of meaning generation. What if literature were not a one-stage an art form at all? What if it were, rather, what Goodman calls “two-stage” (114)? What if we accept that other artists, other creators, are needed to bring it to life—editors, publishers, and indeed readers? In a very real and literal sense, from our (audience) point of view, there may be no such thing as a one-stage art work. Just as the experience of literature is made possible for readers by the writer, in conjunction with a team of professional and creative people, so, arguably all art needs its audience to be art; the un-interpreted, un-experienced art work is not worth calling art. Goodman resists this move to considering literature a two-stage art, not at all sure that readings are end products the way that performance works are (114). Plays, films, television shows, or operas would be his prime examples of two-stage arts. In each of these, a text (a playtext, a screenplay, a score, a libretto) is moved from page to stage or screen and given life, by an entire team of creative individuals: directors, actors, designers, musicians, and so on. Literary adaptations to the screen or stage are usually considered as yet another form of this kind of transcription or transposition of a written text to a performance medium. But the verbal move from the “book” to the diminutive “libretto” (in Italian, little book or booklet) is indicative of a view that sees adaptation as a step downward, a move away from a primary literary “source”. In fact, an entire negative rhetoric of “infidelity” has developed in both journalistic reviewing and academic discourse about adaptations, and it is a morally loaded rhetoric that I find surprising in its intensity. Here is the wonderfully critical description of that rhetoric by the king of film adaptation critics, Robert Stam: Terms like “infidelity,” “betrayal,” “deformation,” “violation,” “bastardisation,” “vulgarisation,” and “desecration” proliferate in adaptation discourse, each word carrying its specific charge of opprobrium. “Infidelity” carries overtones of Victorian prudishness; “betrayal” evokes ethical perfidy; “bastardisation” connotes illegitimacy; “deformation” implies aesthetic disgust and monstrosity; “violation” calls to mind sexual violence; “vulgarisation” conjures up class degradation; and “desecration” intimates religious sacrilege and blasphemy. (3) I join many others today, like Stam, in challenging the persistence of this fidelity discourse in adaptation studies, thereby providing yet another example of what, in his article here called “The Persistence of Fidelity: Adaptation Theory Today,” John Connor has called the “fidelity reflex”—the call to end an obsession with fidelity as the sole criterion for judging the success of an adaptation. But here I want to come at this same issue of the relation of adaptation to the adapted text from another angle. When considering an adaptation of a literary work, there are other reasons why the literary “source” text might be privileged. Literature has historical priority as an art form, Stam claims, and so in some people’s eyes will always be superior to other forms. But does it actually have priority? What about even earlier performative forms like ritual and song? Or to look forward, instead of back, as Tim Barker urges us to do in his article here, what about the new media’s additions to our repertoire with the advent of electronic technology? How can we retain this hierarchy of artistic forms—with literature inevitably on top—in a world like ours today? How can both the Romantic ideology of original genius and the capitalist notion of individual authorship hold up in the face of the complex reality of the production of literature today (as well as in the past)? (In “Amen to That: Sampling and Adapting the Past”, Steve Collins shows how digital technology has changed the possibilities of musical creativity in adapting/sampling.) Like many other ages before our own, adaptation is rampant today, as director Spike Jonze and screenwriter Charlie Kaufman clearly realised in creating Adaptation, their meta-cinematic illustration-as-send-up film about adaptation. But rarely has a culture denigrated the adapter as a secondary and derivative creator as much as we do the screenwriter today—as Jonze explores with great irony. Michelle McMerrin and Sergio Rizzo helpfully explain in their pieces here that one of the reasons for this is the strength of auteur theory in film criticism. But we live in a world in which works of literature have been turned into more than films. We now have literary adaptations in the forms of interactive new media works and videogames; we have theme parks; and of course, we have the more common television series, radio and stage plays, musicals, dance works, and operas. And, of course, we now have novelisations of films—and they are not given the respect that originary novels are given: it is the adaptation as adaptation that is denigrated, as Deborah Allison shows in “Film/Print: Novelisations and Capricorn One”. Adaptations across media are inevitably fraught, and for complex and multiple reasons. The financing and distribution issues of these widely different media alone inevitably challenge older capitalist models. The need or desire to appeal to a global market has consequences for adaptations of literature, especially with regard to its regional and historical specificities. These particularities are what usually get adapted or “indigenised” for new audiences—be they the particularities of the Spanish gypsy Carmen (see Ioana Furnica, “Subverting the ‘Good, Old Tune’”), those of the Japanese samurai genre (see Kevin P. Eubanks, “Becoming-Samurai: Samurai [Films], Kung-Fu [Flicks] and Hip-Hop [Soundtracks]”), of American hip hop graffiti (see Kara-Jane Lombard, “‘To Us Writers, the Differences Are Obvious’: The Adaptation of Hip Hop Graffiti to an Australian Context”) or of Jane Austen’s fiction (see Suchitra Mathur, “From British ‘Pride’ to Indian ‘Bride’: Mapping the Contours of a Globalised (Post?)Colonialism”). What happens to the literary text that is being adapted, often multiple times? Rather than being displaced by the adaptation (as is often feared), it most frequently gets a new life: new editions of the book appear, with stills from the movie adaptation on its cover. But if I buy and read the book after seeing the movie, I read it differently than I would have before I had seen the film: in effect, the book, not the adaptation, has become the second and even secondary text for me. And as I read, I can only “see” characters as imagined by the director of the film; the cinematic version has taken over, has even colonised, my reader’s imagination. The literary “source” text, in my readerly, experiential terms, becomes the secondary work. It exists on an experiential continuum, in other words, with its adaptations. It may have been created before, but I only came to know it after. What if I have read the literary work first, and then see the movie? In my imagination, I have already cast the characters: I know what Gabriel and Gretta Conroy of James Joyce’s story, “The Dead,” look and sound like—in my imagination, at least. Then along comes John Huston’s lush period piece cinematic adaptation and the director superimposes his vision upon mine; his forcibly replaces mine. But, in this particular case, Huston still arguably needs my imagination, or at least my memory—though he may not have realised it fully in making the film. When, in a central scene in the narrative, Gabriel watches his wife listening, moved, to the singing of the Irish song, “The Lass of Aughrim,” what we see on screen is a concerned, intrigued, but in the end rather blank face: Gabriel doesn’t alter his expression as he listens and watches. His expression may not change—but I know exactly what he is thinking. Huston does not tell us; indeed, without the use of voice-over, he cannot. And since the song itself is important, voice-over is impossible. But I know exactly what he is thinking: I’ve read the book. I fill in the blank, so to speak. Gabriel looks at Gretta and thinks: There was grace and mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. … Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter. (210) A few pages later the narrator will tell us: At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart. (212) This joy, of course, puts him in a very different—disastrously different—state of mind than his wife, who (we later learn) is remembering a young man who sang that song to her when she was a girl—and who died, for love of her. I know this—because I’ve read the book. Watching the movie, I interpret Gabriel’s blank expression in this knowledge. Just as the director’s vision can colonise my visual and aural imagination, so too can I, as reader, supplement the film’s silence with the literary text’s inner knowledge. The question, of course, is: should I have to do so? Because I have read the book, I will. But what if I haven’t read the book? Will I substitute my own ideas, from what I’ve seen in the rest of the film, or from what I’ve experienced in my own life? Filmmakers always have to deal with this problem, of course, since the camera is resolutely externalising, and actors must reveal their inner worlds through bodily gesture or facial expression for the camera to record and for the spectator to witness and comprehend. But film is not only a visual medium: it uses music and sound, and it also uses words—spoken words within the dramatic situation, words overheard on the street, on television, but also voice-over words, spoken by a narrating figure. Stephen Dedalus escapes from Ireland at the end of Joseph Strick’s 1978 adaptation of Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man with the same words as he does in the novel, where they appear as Stephen’s diary entry: Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. … Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead. (253) The words from the novel also belong to the film as film, with its very different story, less about an artist than about a young Irishman finally able to escape his family, his religion and his country. What’s deliberately NOT in the movie is the irony of Joyce’s final, benign-looking textual signal to his reader: Dublin, 1904 Trieste, 1914 The first date is the time of Stephen’s leaving Dublin—and the time of his return, as we know from the novel Ulysses, the sequel, if you like, to this novel. The escape was short-lived! Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man has an ironic structure that has primed its readers to expect not escape and triumph but something else. Each chapter of the novel has ended on this kind of personal triumphant high; the next has ironically opened with Stephen mired in the mundane and in failure. Stephen’s final words in both film and novel remind us that he really is an Icarus figure, following his “Old father, old artificer”, his namesake, Daedalus. And Icarus, we recall, takes a tumble. In the novel version, we are reminded that this is the portrait of the artist “as a young man”—later, in 1914, from the distance of Trieste (to which he has escaped) Joyce, writing this story, could take some ironic distance from his earlier persona. There is no such distance in the film version. However, it stands alone, on its own; Joyce’s irony is not appropriate in Strick’s vision. His is a different work, with its own message and its own, considerably more romantic and less ironic power. Literary adaptations are their own things—inspired by, based on an adapted text but something different, something other. I want to argue that these works adapted from literature are now part of our readerly experience of that literature, and for that reason deserve the same attention we give to the literary, and not only the same attention, but also the same respect. I am a literarily trained person. People like me who love words, already love plays, but shouldn’t we also love films—and operas, and musicals, and even videogames? There is no need to denigrate words that are heard (and visualised) in order to privilege words that are read. Works of literature can have afterlives in their adaptations and translations, just as they have pre-lives, in terms of influences and models, as George Eliot Clarke openly allows in those acknowledgements to Beatrice Chancy. I want to return to that Canadian work, because it raises for me many of the issues about adaptation and language that I see at the core of our literary distrust of the move away from the written, printed text. I ended my recent book on adaptation with a brief examination of this work, but I didn’t deal with this particular issue of language. So I want to return to it, as to unfinished business. Clarke is, by the way, clear in the verse drama as well as in articles and interviews that among the many intertexts to Beatrice Chancy, the most important are slave narratives, especially one called Celia, a Slave, and Shelley’s play, The Cenci. Both are stories of mistreated and subordinated women who fight back. Since Clarke himself has written at length about the slave narratives, I’m going to concentrate here on Shelley’s The Cenci. The distance from Shelley’s verse play to Clarke’s verse play is a temporal one, but it is also geographic and ideological one: from the old to the new world, and from a European to what Clarke calls an “Africadian” (African Canadian/African Acadian) perspective. Yet both poets were writing political protest plays against unjust authority and despotic power. And they have both become plays that are more read than performed—a sad fate, according to Clarke, for two works that are so concerned with voice. We know that Shelley sought to calibrate the stylistic registers of his work with various dramatic characters and effects to create a modern “mixed” style that was both a return to the ancients and offered a new drama of great range and flexibility where the expression fits what is being expressed (see Bruhn). His polemic against eighteenth-century European dramatic conventions has been seen as leading the way for realist drama later in the nineteenth century, with what has been called its “mixed style mimesis” (Bruhn) Clarke’s adaptation does not aim for Shelley’s perfect linguistic decorum. It mixes the elevated and the biblical with the idiomatic and the sensual—even the vulgar—the lushly poetic with the coarsely powerful. But perhaps Shelley’s idea of appropriate language fits, after all: Beatrice Chancy is a woman of mixed blood—the child of a slave woman and her slave owner; she has been educated by her white father in a convent school. Sometimes that educated, elevated discourse is heard; at other times, she uses the variety of discourses operative within slave society—from religious to colloquial. But all the time, words count—as in all printed and oral literature. Clarke’s verse drama was given a staged reading in Toronto in 1997, but the story’s, if not the book’s, real second life came when it was used as the basis for an opera libretto. Actually the libretto commission came first (from Queen of Puddings Theatre in Toronto), and Clarke started writing what was to be his first of many opera texts. Constantly frustrated by the art form’s demands for concision, he found himself writing two texts at once—a short libretto and a longer, five-act tragic verse play to be published separately. Since it takes considerably longer to sing than to speak (or read) a line of text, the composer James Rolfe keep asking for cuts—in the name of economy (too many singers), because of clarity of action for audience comprehension, or because of sheer length. Opera audiences have to sit in a theatre for a fixed length of time, unlike readers who can put a book down and return to it later. However, what was never sacrificed to length or to the demands of the music was the language. In fact, the double impact of the powerful mixed language and the equally potent music, increases the impact of the literary text when performed in its operatic adaptation. Here is the verse play version of the scene after Beatrice’s rape by her own father, Francis Chancey: I was black but comely. Don’t glance Upon me. This flesh is crumbling Like proved lies. I’m perfumed, ruddied Carrion. Assassinated. Screams of mucking juncos scrawled Over the chapel and my nerves, A stickiness, as when he finished Maculating my thighs and dress. My eyes seep pus; I can’t walk: the floors Are tizzy, dented by stout mauling. Suddenly I would like poison. The flesh limps from my spine. My inlets crimp. Vultures flutter, ghastly, without meaning. I can see lice swarming the air. … His scythe went shick shick shick and slashed My flowers; they lay, murdered, in heaps. (90) The biblical and the violent meet in the texture of the language. And none of that power gets lost in the opera adaptation, despite cuts and alterations for easier aural comprehension. I was black but comely. Don’t look Upon me: this flesh is dying. I’m perfumed, bleeding carrion, My eyes weep pus, my womb’s sopping With tears; I can hardly walk: the floors Are tizzy, the sick walls tumbling, Crumbling like proved lies. His scythe went shick shick shick and cut My flowers; they lay in heaps, murdered. (95) Clarke has said that he feels the libretto is less “literary” in his words than the verse play, for it removes the lines of French, Latin, Spanish and Italian that pepper the play as part of the author’s critique of the highly educated planter class in Nova Scotia: their education did not guarantee ethical behaviour (“Adaptation” 14). I have not concentrated on the music of the opera, because I wanted to keep the focus on the language. But I should say that the Rolfe’s score is as historically grounded as Clarke’s libretto: it is rooted in African Canadian music (from ring shouts to spirituals to blues) and in Scottish fiddle music and local reels of the time, not to mention bel canto Italian opera. However, the music consciously links black and white traditions in a way that Clarke’s words and story refuse: they remain stubbornly separate, set in deliberate tension with the music’s resolution. Beatrice will murder her father, and, at the very moment that Nova Scotia slaves are liberated, she and her co-conspirators will be hanged for that murder. Unlike the printed verse drama, the shorter opera libretto functions like a screenplay, if you will. It is not so much an autonomous work unto itself, but it points toward a potential enactment or embodiment in performance. Yet, even there, Clarke cannot resist the lure of words—even though they are words that no audience will ever hear. The stage directions for Act 3, scene 2 of the opera read: “The garden. Slaves, sunflowers, stars, sparks” (98). The printed verse play is full of these poetic associative stage directions, suggesting that despite his protestations to the contrary, Clarke may have thought of that version as one meant to be read by the eye. After Beatrice’s rape, the stage directions read: “A violin mopes. Invisible shovelsful of dirt thud upon the scene—as if those present were being buried alive—like ourselves” (91). Our imaginations—and emotions—go to work, assisted by the poet’s associations. There are many such textual helpers—epigraphs, photographs, notes—that we do not have when we watch and listen to the opera. We do have the music, the staged drama, the colours and sounds as well as the words of the text. As Clarke puts the difference: “as a chamber opera, Beatrice Chancy has ascended to television broadcast. But as a closet drama, it play only within the reader’s head” (“Adaptation” 14). Clarke’s work of literature, his verse drama, is a “situated utterance, produced in one medium and in one historical and social context,” to use Robert Stam’s terms. In the opera version, it was transformed into another “equally situated utterance, produced in a different context and relayed through a different medium” (45-6). I want to argue that both are worthy of study and respect by wordsmiths, by people like me. I realise I’ve loaded the dice: here neither the verse play nor the libretto is primary; neither is really the “source” text, for they were written at the same time and by the same person. But for readers and audiences (my focus and interest here), they exist on a continuum—depending on which we happen to experience first. As Ilana Shiloh explores here, the same is true about the short story and film of Memento. I am not alone in wanting to mount a defence of adaptations. Julie Sanders ends her new book called Adaptation and Appropriation with these words: “Adaptation and appropriation … are, endlessly and wonderfully, about seeing things come back to us in as many forms as possible” (160). The storytelling imagination is an adaptive mechanism—whether manifesting itself in print or on stage or on screen. The study of the production of literature should, I would like to argue, include those other forms taken by that storytelling drive. If I can be forgiven a move to the amusing—but still serious—in concluding, Terry Pratchett puts it beautifully in his fantasy story, Witches Abroad: “Stories, great flapping ribbons of shaped space-time, have been blowing and uncoiling around the universe since the beginning of time. And they have evolved. The weakest have died and the strongest have survived and they have grown fat on the retelling.” In biology as in culture, adaptations reign. References Bloom, Harold. The Anxiety of Influence. New York: Oxford University Press, 1975. Bruhn, Mark J. “’Prodigious Mixtures and Confusions Strange’: The Self-Subverting Mixed Style of The Cenci.” Poetics Today 22.4 (2001). Clarke, George Elliott. “Beatrice Chancy: A Libretto in Four Acts.” Canadian Theatre Review 96 (1998): 62-79. ———. Beatrice Chancy. Victoria, BC: Polestar, 1999. ———. “Adaptation: Love or Cannibalism? Some Personal Observations”, unpublished manuscript of article. Frye, Northrop. The Educated Imagination. Toronto: CBC, 1963. Goodman, Nelson. Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1968. Hutcheon, Linda, and Gary R. Bortolotti. “On the Origin of Adaptations: Rethinking Fidelity Discourse and “Success”—Biologically.” New Literary History. Forthcoming. Joyce, James. Dubliners. 1916. New York: Viking, 1967. ———. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. 1916. Penguin: Harmondsworth, 1960. Larson, Katherine. “Resistance from the Margins in George Elliott Clarke’s Beatrice Chancy.” Canadian Literature 189 (2006): 103-118. McGee, Celia. “Beowulf on Demand.” New York Times, Arts and Leisure. 30 April 2006. A4. Rushdie, Salman. The Satanic Verses. New York: Viking, 1988. ———. Haroun and the Sea of Stories. London: Granta/Penguin, 1990. Sanders, Julie. Adaptation and Appropriation. London and New York: Routledge, 160. Shelley, Percy Bysshe. The Cenci. Ed. George Edward Woodberry. Boston and London: Heath, 1909. Stam, Robert. “Introduction: The Theory and Practice of Adaptation.” Literature and Film: A Guide to the Theory and Practice of Film Adaptation. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005. 1-52. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Hutcheon, Linda. "In Defence of Literary Adaptation as Cultural Production." M/C Journal 10.2 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0705/01-hutcheon.php>. APA Style Hutcheon, L. (May 2007) "In Defence of Literary Adaptation as Cultural Production," M/C Journal, 10(2). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0705/01-hutcheon.php>.

Historical fiction, a widely-read genre, continues to engender contradiction and controversy within the fields of literature and historiography. This paper begins with a discussion of the differences and similarities between historical writing and the historical novel, focusing on the way these forms interpret and represent the past. It then examines the dilemma facing historians as they try to come to terms with the modern era and the growing competition from other modes of presenting history. Finally, it considers claims by Australian historians that so-called “fictive history” has been bestowed with historical authority to the detriment of traditional historiography. The Fact/Fiction Dichotomy Hayden White, a leading critic in the field of historiography, claims that the surge in popularity of historical fiction and the novel form in the nineteenth century caused historians to seek recognition of their field as a serious “science” (149). Historians believed that, to be scientific, historical studies had to cut ties with any form of artistic writing or imaginative literature, especially the romantic novel. German historian Leopold von Ranke “anathematized” the historical novel virtually from its first appearance in Scott’s Waverley in 1814. Hayden White argues that Ranke and others after him wrote history as narrative while eschewing the use of imagination and invention that were “exiled into the domain of ‘fiction’ ” (149-150). Early critics in the nineteenth century questioned the value of historical fiction. Famous Cuban poet Jose Maria Heredia believed that history was opposite and superior to fiction; he accused the historical novel of degrading history to the level of fiction which, he argued, is lies (cited in de Piérola 152). Alessandro Manzoni, though partially agreeing with Heredia, argued that fiction had value in its “poetic truth” as opposed to the “positive truth” of history (153). He eventually decided that the historical novel fails through the mixing of the incompatible elements of history and fiction, which can lead to deception (ibid). More than a hundred years after Heredia, Georg Lukács, in his much-cited The Historical Novel, first published in 1937, was more concerned with the social aspect of the historical novel and its capacity to portray the lives of its protagonists. This form of writing, through its attention to the detail of minor events, was better at highlighting the social aspects than the greater moments of history. Lukács argues that the historical novel should focus on the “poetic awakening” of those who participated in great historical events rather than the events themselves (42). The reader should be able to experience first-hand “the social and human motives which led men to think, feel and act just as they did in historical reality” (ibid). Through historical fiction, the reader is thus able to gain a greater understanding of a specific period and why people acted as they did. In contrast to these early critics, historian and author of three books on history and three novels, Richard Slotkin, argues that the historical novel can recount the past as accurately as history, because it should involve similar research methods and critical interpretation of the data (225). Kent den Heyer and Alexandra Fidyk go even further, suggesting that “historical fiction may offer a more plausible representation of the past than those sources typically accepted as more factual” (144). In its search for “poetic truth,” the novel tries to create a sense of what the past was, without necessarily adhering to all the factual details and by eliminating facts not essential to the story (Slotkin 225). For Hayden White, the difference between factual and fictional discourse, is that one is occupied by what is “true” and the other by what is “real” (147). Historical documents may provide a basis for a “true account of the world” in a certain time and place, but they are limited in their capacity to act as a foundation for the exploration of all aspects of “reality.” In White’s words: The rest of the real, after we have said what we can assert to be true about it, would not be everything and anything we could imagine about it. The real would consist of everything that can be truthfully said about its actuality plus everything that can be truthfully said about what it could possibly be. (ibid) White’s main point is that both history and fiction are interpretative by nature. Historians, for their part, interpret given evidence from a subjective viewpoint; this means that it cannot be unbiased. In the words of Beverley Southgate, “factual history is revealed as subjectively chosen, subjectively interpreted, subjectively constructed and incorporated within a narrative” (45). Both fiction and history are narratives, and “anyone who writes a narrative is fictionalising,” according to Keith Jenkins (cited in Southgate 32). The novelist and historian find meaning through their own interpretation of the known record (Brown) to produce stories that are entertaining and structured. Moreover, historians often reach conflicting conclusions in their translations of the same archival documents, which, in the extreme, can spark a wider dispute such as the so-called history wars, the debate about the representation of the Indigenous peoples in Australian history that has polarised both historians and politicians. The historian’s purpose differs from that of the novelist. Historians examine the historical record in fine detail in an attempt to understand its complexities, and then use digressions and footnotes to explain and lend authority to their findings. The novelist on the other hand, uses their imagination to create personalities and plot and can leave out important details; the novelist achieves authenticity through detailed description of setting, customs, culture, buildings and so on (Brown). Nevertheless, the main task of both history and historical fiction is to represent the past to a reader in the present; this “shared concern with the construction of meaning through narrative” is a major component in the long-lasting, close relationship between fiction and history (Southgate 19). However, unlike history, the historical novel mixes fiction and fact, and is therefore “a hybrid of two genres” (de Piérola 152); this mixture of supposed opposites of fact and fiction creates a dilemma for the theorist, because historical fiction cannot necessarily be read as belonging to either category. Attitudes towards the line drawn between fiction and history are changing as more and more critics and theorists explore the area where the two genres intersect. Historian John Demos argues that with the passing of time, this distinction “seems less a boundary than a borderland of surprising width and variegated topography” (329). While some historians are now willing to investigate the wide area where the two genres overlap, this approach remains a concern for traditionalists. History’s Dilemma Historians face a crisis as they try to come to terms with the postmodern era which has seen unprecedented questioning of the validity of history’s claim to accuracy in recounting the past. In the words of Jenkins et al., “ ‘history’ per se wobbles” as it experiences a period of uncertainty and challenge; the field is “much changed and deeply contested,” as historians seek to understand the meaning of history itself (6). But is postmodernism the cause of the problem? Writing in 1986 Linda Hutcheon, well known for her work on postmodernism, attempted to clarify the term as it is applied in modern times in reference to fiction, where, she states, it is usually taken to mean “metafiction, or texts which are in some dominant and constitutive way self-referential and auto-representational” (301). To eliminate any confusion with regard to concept or terminology, Hutcheon coined the phrase “historiographic metafiction," which includes “the presence of the past” in “historical, social, and ideological” form (302). As examples, she cites contemporary novels The French Lieutenant’s Woman, The White Hotel, Midnight’s Children and Famous Last Words. Hutcheon explains that all these works “self-consciously focus on the processes of producing and receiving paradoxically fictive historical writing” (ibid). In the Australian context, Peter Carey’s True History of the Kelly Gang and Richard Flanagan’s Gould’s Book of Fish could be added to the list. Like the others, they question how historical sources maintain their status as authentic historical documents in the context of a fictional work (302). However, White argues that the crisis in historical studies is not due to postmodernism but has materialised because historians have failed to live up to their nineteenth century expectations of history being recognised as a science (149). Postmodernists are not against history, White avows; what they do not accept “is a professional historiography” that serves self-seeking governing bodies with its outdated and severely limited approach to objectivity (152). This kind of historiography has denied itself access to aesthetic writing and the imaginary, while it has also cut any links it had “to what was most creative in the real sciences it sought half-heartedly to emulate” (ibid). Furthering White’s argument, historian Robert Rosenstone states that past certitude in the claims of historians to be the sole guardians of historical truth now seem outdated in the light of our accumulated knowledge. The once impregnable position of the historian is no longer tenable because: We know too much about framing images and stories, too much about narrative, too much about the problematics of causality, too much about the subjectivity of perception, too much about our own cultural imperatives and biases, too much about the disjuncture between language and the world it purports to describe to believe we can actually capture the world of the past on the page. (Rosenstone 12) While the archive confers credibility on history, it does not confer the right to historians to claim it as the truth (Southgate 6); there are many possible versions of the past, which can be presented to us in any number of ways as history (Jenkins et al. 1). And this is a major challenge for historians as other modes of representing the past cater to public demand in place of traditional approaches. Public interest in history has grown over the last 20 years (Harlan 109). Historical novels fill the shelves of bookstores and libraries, while films, television series and documentaries about the past attract large audiences. In the words of Rosenstone, “people are hungry for the past, as various studies tell us and the responses to certain films, TV series and museums indicate” (17). Rosenstone laments the fact that historians, despite this attraction to the past, have failed to stir public interest in their own writings. While works of history have their strengths, they target a specific, extremely limited audience in an outdated format (17). They have forgotten the fact that, in the words of White, “the conjuring up of the past requires art as well as information” (149). This may be true of some historians, but there are many writers of non-fiction, including historians, who use the narrative voice and other fictional techniques in their writings (Ricketson). Matthew Ricketson accuses White of confusing “fiction with literariness,” while other scholars take fiction and narrative to be the same thing. He argues that “the use of a wide range of modes of writing usually associated with fiction are not the sole province of fiction” and that narrative theorists have concentrated their attention on fictional narrative, thereby excluding factual forms of writing (ibid). One of the defining elements of creative non-fiction is its use of literary techniques in writing about factual events and people. At the same time, this does not make it fiction, which by definition, relies on invention (ibid). However, those historians who do write outside the limits of traditional history can attract criticism. Historian Richard Current argues that if writers of history and biography try to be more effective through literary considerations, they sometimes lose their objectivity and authenticity. While it is acceptable to seek to write with clarity and force, it is out of the question to present “occasional scenes in lifelike detail” in the manner of a novelist. Current contends that if only one source is used, this violates “the historiographical requirement of two or more independent and competent witnesses.” This requirement is important because it explains why much of the writing by academic historians is perceived as “dry-as-dust” (Current 87). Modern-day historians are contesting this viewpoint as they analyse the nature and role of their writings, with some turning to historical fiction as an alternative mode of expression. Perhaps one of the more well-known cases in recent times was that of historian Simon Schama, who, in writing Dead Certainties (Unwarranted Speculations), was criticised for creating dramatic scenes based on dubious historical sources without informing the reader of his fabrications (Nelson). In this work, Schama questions notions of factual history and the limitations of historians. The title is suggestive in itself, while the afterword to the book is explicit, as “historians are left forever chasing shadows, painfully aware of their inability ever to reconstruct a dead world in its completeness however thorough or revealing their documentation . . . We are doomed to be forever hailing someone who has just gone around the corner and out of earshot” (320). Another example is Rosenstone’s Mirror in the Shrine, which was considered to be “postmodern” and not acceptable to publishers and agents as the correct way to present history, despite the author’s reassurance that nothing was invented, “it just tells the story a different way” ("Space for the Birds to Fly" 16). Schama is not the only author to draw fire from critics for neglecting to inform the reader of the veracity or not of their writing. Richard Current accused Gore Vidal of getting his facts wrong and of inaccurately portraying Lincoln in his work, Lincoln: A Novel (81). Despite the title, which is a form of disclaimer itself, Current argued that Vidal could have avoided criticism if he had not asserted that his work was authentic history, or had used a disclaimer in a preface to deny any connection between the novel’s characters and known persons (82). Current is concerned about this form of writing, known as “fictional history," which, unlike historical fiction, “pretends to deal with real persons and events but actually reshapes them—and thus rewrites the past” (77). This concern is shared by historians in Australia. Fictive History Historian Mark McKenna, in his essay, Writing the Past, argues that “fictive history” has become a new trend in Australia; he is unhappy with the historical authority bestowed on this form of writing and would like to see history restored to its rightful place. He argues that with the decline of academic history, novelists have taken over the historian’s role and fiction has become history (3). In sympathy with McKenna, author, historian and anthropologist Inga Clendinnen claims that “novelists have been doing their best to bump historians off the track” (16). McKenna accuses writers W.G. Sebald and David Malouf of supporting “the core myth of historical fiction: the belief that being there is what makes historical understanding possible.” Malouf argues, in a conversation with Helen Daniel in 1996, that: Our only way of grasping our history—and by history I really mean what has happened to us, and what determines what we are now and where we are now—the only way of really coming to terms with that is by people's entering into it in their imagination, not by the world of facts, but by being there. And the only thing really which puts you there in that kind of way is fiction. Poetry may do so, drama may do so, but it's mostly going to be fiction. It's when you have actually been there and become a character again in that world. (3) From this point of view, the historical novel plays an important role in our culture because it allows people to interact with the past in a meaningful way, something factual writing struggles to do. McKenna recognises that history is present in fiction and that history can contain fiction, but they should not be confused. Writers and critics have a responsibility towards their readers and must be clear that fiction is not history and should not be presented as such (10). He takes writer Kate Grenville to task for not respecting this difference. McKenna argues that Grenville has asserted in public that her historical novel The Secret River is history: “If ever there was a case of a novelist wanting her work to be taken seriously as history, it is Grenville” (5). The Secret River tells the story of early settlement along the Hawkesbury River in New South Wales. Grenville’s inspiration for the story emanated from her ancestor Solomon Wiseman’s life. The main protagonist, William Thornhill (loosely based on Wiseman), is convicted of theft in 1806 and transported to Australia. The novel depicts the poverty and despair in England at the time, and describes life in the new colony where Grenville explores the collision between the colonists and the Aborigines. McKenna knows that Grenville insists elsewhere that her book is not history, but he argues that this conflicts with what she said in interviews and he worries that “with such comments, it is little wonder that many people might begin to read fiction as history” (5). In an article on her website, Grenville refutes McKenna’s arguments, and those of Clendinnen: “Here it is in plain words: I don’t think The Secret River is history…Nor did I ever say that I thought my novel was history.” Furthermore, the acknowledgements in the back of the book state clearly that it is a work of fiction. She accuses the two above-mentioned historians of using quotes that “have been narrowly selected, taken out of context, and truncated” ("History and Fiction"). McKenna then goes on to say how shocked he was on hearing Grenville, in an interview with Ramona Koval on Radio National, make her now infamous comments about standing on a stepladder looking down at the history wars, and that he “felt like ringing the ABC and leaping to the defence of historians.” He accuses Grenville of elevating fiction above history as an “interpretive power” (6). Koval asked Grenville where her book stood in regard to the history wars; she answered: Mine would be up on a ladder, looking down at the history wars. . . I think the historians, and rightly so, have battled away about the details of exactly when and where and how many and how much, and they’ve got themselves into these polarised positions, and that’s fine, I think that’s what historians ought to be doing; constantly questioning the evidence and perhaps even each other. But a novelist can stand up on a stepladder and look down at this, outside the fray, [emphasis in original audio] and say there is another way to understand it. ("Interview") Grenville claims that she did not use the stepladder image to imply that her work was superior to history, but rather to convey a sense of being outside the battle raging between historians as an uninvolved observer, “an interested onlooker who made the mistake of climbing a stepladder rather than a couple of fruit-boxes to get a good view.” She goes on to argue that McKenna’s only sources in his essay, Writing the Past, are interviews and newspaper articles, which in themselves are fine, but she disagrees with how they have been used “uncritically, at face value, as authoritative evidence” ("History and Fiction"), much in contrast to the historian’s desire for authenticity in all sources. It appears that the troubles between history and fiction will continue for some time yet as traditional historians are bent on keeping faith with the tenets of their nineteenth century predecessors by defending history from the insurgence of fiction at all costs. While history and historical fiction share a common purpose in presenting the past, the novel deals with what is “real” and can tell the past as accurately or even in a more plausible way than history, which deals with what is “true”. However, the “dry-as-dust” historical approach to writing, and postmodernism’s questioning of historiography’s role in presenting the past, has contributed to a reassessment of the nature of history. Many historians recognise the need for change in the way they present their work, but as they have often doubted the worth of historical fiction, they are wary of the genre and the narrative techniques it employs. Those historians who do make an attempt to write differently have often been criticised by traditionalists. In Australia, historians such as McKenna and Clendinnen are worried by the incursion of historical fiction into their territory and are highly critical of novelists who claim their works are history. The overall picture that emerges is of two fields that are still struggling to clarify a number of core issues concerning the nature of both the historical novel and historiographical writing, and the role they play in portraying the past. References Brown, Joanne. "Historical Fiction or Fictionalized History? Problems for Writers of Historical Novels for Young Adults." ALAN Review 26.1 (1998). 1 March 2010 ‹http://scholar.lib.vt.edu/ejournals/ALAN/fall98/brown.html›. Carey, Peter. True History of the Kelly Gang. St Lucia, Qld: U of Queensland P, 2000. Clendinnen, Inga. "The History Question: Who Owns the Past?" Quarterly Essay 23 (2006): 1-72. Current, Richard. 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