Monthly Archives: April 2024

succour, secure

Jacques’s job came with a certain security, but it was no sinecure. He worked at a branch office (“succursale,” en français) of an underwriter, and they were a bit oversubscribed. Although he was by nature carefree, at this particular moment he was overrun, and he called me up. “Au secours!” he said. “Can you run over?” 

“I’m not so sure,” I replied. “What can I give you?” 

Jacques shrugged audibly. “Succour?” 

“How about a sucker, au sucre?” I said. 

“Sure,” he replied. I grabbed a lollipop and my jacket and headed over.

Not that a sucker is necessarily appropriate succour; although some of us may think of succour as encouragement, it really means ‘relief’ or ‘help’ – if you run to give someone succour, a bit of alimentary energy is the bare minimum, and they might prefer lawyers, guns, and money.

And in a plurality, if possible. Succour is a fake singular – the original form English took from Norman French was socours, which was subsequently mistaken for a plural. But in fact it came from Old French secours (which became modern French secours, as in au secours, ‘help!’), which was from Medieval Latin succursus, a participle of succurrere, ‘run to help’, from sub ‘under’ and currere ‘run’ – so if you are overrun, you need someone to underrun. The sense of assisting also gave rise to the French derived form succursale, ‘branch office’ (there is an English word succursal, referring to a religious subsidiary or a ‘chapel of ease’, but I’ve never seen it actually used in the wild).

Secure may seem to be related, but don’t be so sure. In fact it comes from securus, from se- ‘without’ and curus ‘care’ – compare the nearly identical sinecure, from sine ‘without’ and curus ‘care’. Securus passed into Old French and became seür, which became modern French sur(e) and English sure. And of course English also borrowed the Latin more directly to make secure.

And sucker, and sucre? Sorry. The latter is from Sanskrit (via Arabic); the former is as English and Germanic in origin as any word can be (though it does connect at the Proto-Indo-European with Latin sugo, source of French sucer ‘suck’). So it goes. Etymology solely by sound is insecure and gives no succour – it’s for suckers.

figment

“I wonder what that fig meant,” Maury said, as we walked through the art gallery.

“What that figment what?” I said. “Which figment?”

“No, the fig,” Maury said. “In the painting.”

“Which one?” I looked around us to see which he meant; there were paintings in all directions.

He nodded his head back towards a room we had lately left. “The Bosch. The busy one.”

“I saw no fig,” I said. “Perhaps it was a pigment of your imagination.”

“No, I gave it a paints-taking examination.”

“Well, why would there a be a fig there? They’re not natural to the Netherlands.”

“Nor the netherworld, but no matter: it’s fiction, you know.”

“Ah,” I said, “a figment indeed, then: the ficus was fictus.” 

I will explain this: ficus is Latin for ‘fig’ and is where we get our word fig from; fictus (not related to ficus) is where we get our word fiction from, and is the Latin past participle of fingo, ‘I make’ or ‘I fake’, which is the source of our figment – and also our feign. Maury knew this, of course, since he is also a figment of my mind (you do know these vignettes are fiction, right? The narrative details, that is – the linguistic facts are facts. By the way, fact is from factus, which, like fictus, means ‘made’, but in a different way and from a different verb).

“But it was not just my imagination, running away with me,” Maury said. “It was Bosch who was the boss. He decided to inflict the ficus on us.” He halted and held up a finger. “Let us reconfigure.” He turned and headed back towards the Early Netherlandish room.

“And you decided to focus on it,” I said, following him. “But I think you were foggy. This fig leaves some questions unanswered.”

“Oh,” said Maury, feigning befuddlement, “there were no fig leaves in the painting. All figures were unimpeachably there.”

“And apple-y so,” I said. “The fruits were looming. But a fig? Under where?”

Maury rolled his eyes and turned the corner into the room. “In short, over there.”

We made a bee-line for the painting. “Is that it?” I pointed.

“No, that’s fragmentary. Over there.”

“That dab of pigment?” I gestured to a roundish pinkish patch.

“Yes, I think… oh, my word.”

“What is your word?” I asked.

“Nothing at all, in fact. It’s just a figure of peach.” He turned away in disappointment.

“Well, then,” I said. “That fig meant your imagination.”

philtre

Kendy looked at her phone and wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, no.” She swiped left on the photo in her dating app.

Janille, who was sitting beside her, looked over. “What was it?”

“Felt fedora.”

“You don’t like hat guys?”

“That is an automatic fail. I’d set up a filter if I could.”

“Huh,” Janille said. “I’m kind of a sucker for a feutre, myself.”

“A what?” Kendy was used to Janille slipping French in at random moments, but that didn’t mean she’d just let it slide past.

“Felt hat. It’s one of my favourite features. Sets my heart aflutter.”

“For a moment there I thought you said ‘foutre’.”

“No need to be filthy. For me a feutre is a philtre.”

“A filter in, apparently.”

“No,” Janille said. “Not filter, as in coffee. Philtre, as in love potion.” She typed the word into her phone and showed Kendy.

Kendy looked at it. “I mean, filter coffee is my love potion, so it still sounds the same to me. But of course French would have a special word for a love potion.”

“It’s a word in English too!” Janille typed the word into her Merriam-Webster app. It said “chiefly British spelling of PHILTER.” She snorted as a Canadian would (“chiefly British!”) and tapped through to philter; it rewarded her with the definitions “a potion credited with magical power” and “a potion, drug, or charm held to have the power to arouse sexual passion.” She held up the phone for Kendy to see.

“Huh,” Kendy said. “So is it because the potion is filtered?”

“They’re not even related,” Janille said. “This philtre is spelled with a ph because it’s from the Greek philos, which refers to love. As in bibliophile. Lover of books. Or logophile. Lover of words.”

“I can think of another -phile that felt fedora wearers might be,” Kendra said, half aside.

“Well, maybe if they’re from Philadelphia,” Janille said with a giggle.

“Say,” Kendy said, “do you think that fedora and felt are related?”

“I know they’re not!” Janille said. “The fedora is named after a heroine in a play—”

“Wait, that was where we also got Svengali, right?”

“No! But great connection. Svengali comes from the book and play Trilby, which also gave us a hat named after a heroine. In this case, though, Fedora is the Russian version of Theodora, which means ‘gift of god’.”

“So no felt.”

“No felt, no feutre. But felt and feutre both have the same Germanic root, and that root also came to Latin as filtrum, which meant ‘felt’ but also meant the kind of cloth that you use a sieve. And from that we get our word filter.” She glanced over at Kendy’s phone, which was displaying another photo on the dating app. “Meanwhile, philtrum with a ph – from the same source as philtre with a ph – is the name for the groove between the nose and the upper lip.” She pointed at the distinct groove on the face of the fellow on screen.

“Wow,” Kendy said. She looked at her phone for a moment and swiped left. “Huh. You sure know a lot about words.” She looked at Janille again. “No wonder you like guys with fedoras.”

Janille winced. “I felt that.”

tatterdemalion

Little Italian tatterdemalion
fluttered a scallion at an Australian,
sat at a mullion, butt on a railion’,
frittered his bullion, glittering gaily, an’,
settling fully in, dabbled in paleon-
tology: million coccoliths salient…
Latter-day valiant butterflies flailion’
battled a stallion, prettily alien.
Startled, the silly ’un, muttering grayly in
medical dalliance sesquipedalian,
started to sally in, as he did daily in
pattering madly his tatterdemalion rag.

Well, it does get tattered and ragged by the end, doesn’t it? But still, there’s something pretty about tatterdemalion, even if it’s just another word for ragamuffin, more or less: one of the seedy dandelions of society, a person who’s not afraid of being a frayed knot. And, from that, it has made an adjective: “The perfectly appointed Letitia contrasted sharply with her tatterdemalion paramour.”

As illustrated by the patter above, tatterdemalion rhymes with alien and sesquipedalian and so on. But it didn’t always, and there’s a hint at its origin in this. The Oxford English Dictionary’s first citation for it, from 1611, by one L. Whitaker, has “This Horse pictur’d showes, that our Tatter-de-mallian Did ride the French Hackneyes, and lye with th’ Italian.” A double l, and rhyming with Italian! Indeed, it is speculated that it was a fanciful formation meant to match Italian and other nouns of nationality; see this 1614 quote from one J. Cooke: “Puh, the Italian fashion? the tatterd-de-malian fashion hee meanes.”

We don’t know for certain, mind you; the cord of evidence is frayed and will not lead us to a definite end. But the tatter is just as it looks, the same tatter as in ‘shredded rag’, coming from old Scandinavian roots. The rest is just added fabric to flap inimitably gaily in the breeze.

Pronunciation tip: Modern artists from the Albright-Knox

I love the Albright-Knox Art Gallery in Buffalo. It’s where I was first introduced to modern art. In 1987 my cousin Sharon bought me a book of 125 artworks from the Albright-Knox, commemorating its 125th anniversary. I’m using that as the guide for this pronunciation tip, which covers the names of really quite a lot of modern artists. Not 125 of them, though, because I skipped all the obvious American ones. It’s just a guide to how the artists’ names were pronounced in their original home languages, for those who want to know – and especially for those who insist they always pronounce names in the “original.” (If they don’t like modern art, well, I take no responsibility for the etiolated state of their existence.)

Names covered: Albert Bierstadt, Honoré-Victorin Daumier, Gustave Courbet, Alfred Sisley, Jean-François Millet, Camille Pissaro, Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Jacques-Joseph (James) Tissot, Edgar Degas, Vincent van Gogh, Paul Gauguin, Georges Seurat, Paul Cézanne, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri Matisse, Édouard Vuillard, Raoul Dufy, Pablo Picasso, André Derain, Henri Rousseau, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Wilhelm Lehmbruck, Max Weber, Giacomo Balla, Fernand Léger, Jean Metzinger, Francis Picabia, Maurice Utrillo, Robert Delaunay, Albert Gleizes, Wassily Kandinsky, Franz Marc, Giorgio de Chirico, Amedeo Modigliani, Constantin Brâncuși, František Kupka, Juan Gris, László Moholy-Nagy, Joan Miró, Marc Chagall, Max Ernst, Oskar Kokoschka, Chaïm Soutine, René Magritte, Julio González, Alberto Giacometti, Paul Klee, Salvador Dalí, Yasuo Kuniyoshi, Rufino Tamayo, Piet Mondrian, Yves Tanguy, Arshile Gorky, Max Beckmann, Auguste Herbin, Hans Hofmann, Willem de Kooning, Mark Rothko, Naum Gabo, Jean Arp, Lucas Samaras, Victor Vasarely, Antoni Tápies, Jean Dubuffet, Francesco Clemente

Scaramouche, skirmish, scrimmage, scrum

“Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?”

Well, he may or may not, but either way, he’s sure to boast about being the absolute best at it. That’s what Scaramouche (also spelled Scaramouch) does. We may think of Scaramouche vaguely as a mischievous character, or perhaps more to the point as a lowlife scoundrel, but the original Scaramouche, a character in the travelling Commedia dell’Arte troupes performing in France in the 1600s (he had a different name in the original Italian, but we’ll get to that), was in particular a conceited braggart of a soldier and – as conceited braggarts generally are – a coward.

So you can picture Scaramouches through history. 

In the 17th century, being a soldier was a common occupation, and a Scaramouche would be sure to boast about any skirmish he had been in – a mere bar brawl in which he received a kick to the pants would be transmuted in the telling to a glorious raid on a tavern in which he prevailed.

In more recent times, when sport has generally replaced military action as the main vehicle for civic pride and competition, a Scaramouche might more likely regale the bar with tales of the stomping he delivered in the football scrimmage the night before – a stomping he more accurately received.

And now in the world of business, a Scaramouche might talk about how he came out of the latest agile scrum with everyone following his lead and hanging onto his words, when in fact the phrase most often directed at him was not “That’s right!” but “Let’s put that in the parking lot.”

And in that other world of combat, politics? We know exactly what a Scaramouche would say, and much of it is not printable in a polite medium: vulgar braggadocio, with plenty of invective against his enemies. For examples, if your sensibilities aren’t especially delicate, google Anthony Scaramucci.

As it happens, Scaramucci is also the Italian name from which Scaramouche was taken – well, almost. The Commedia dell’Arte character was Scaramuccia, with an a on the end. His name meant ‘skirmish’. In fact, his name was the origin of the word skirmish.

Yes, that’s right. There is debate as to where scaramuccia came from – some propose a German origin, others say Lombardic or Frankish, but the true path of this rogue word has been lost in all the little linguistic sallies and raids of history – but the word gave rise both to the character Scaramuccia, who became Scaramouche, and also – and earlier – to the French escarmouche, which also means ‘skirmish’ and is the immediate source of English skirmish, which we have had since the 1300s.

But why stop there? English didn’t. Like the wanton wanderings of warriors on the field, fighting willy-nilly and making a mess of the best battle plans, this word entered into several more exchanges and took on subsequent forms under the influence of other English words. Scrimmage, for one, which started as another form of skirmish referring to little random battles and ended up on the football field. That morphed into scrummage, which was adopted by rugby for its combative huddles. From that we clipped scrum, which went from a disorderly tussle to a disorderly crowd to a press of journalists around a politician, and finally became a term used in “agile” project management.

Now, that’s quite the etymological fandango. And I’m not making it up.