Use the Forks, Henry: Difference between revisions

In 2016, the Polish government unexpectedly broke off ongoing negotiations over the purchase of French-made military helicopters. In response, France withdrew its invitation to the Polish delegation for an arms fair in Paris. This prompted Mr Bartosz Kownacki, Poland’s deputy defence minister at the time, to react with the following remark about the French:

We left off as Queen Bona, estranged from her son, returned from Poland to Italy in 1556 and died by poison a year later. The son, King Sigismund II Augustus, had already married for the third time – to his first wife’s younger sister, Catherine Habsburg. But she, like the two queens before her, failed to provide him with an heir. Thus, with the king’s death in 1572, the entire Jagiellonian dynasty came to an end and Poland’s 65-year-long Sigismundian golden age – spanning the reigns of Sigismunds I and II – drew to a close. This raised a number of intriguing constitutional questions (which we won’t be exploring here), made all the more pressing by the fact that none of the living politicians could even remember what a royal election was supposed to look like – since Augustus had been crowned without one, in an unconstitutional exception. After lengthy debate, the nobility and the magnates agreed on new rules for choosing a monarch: any noble-born Catholic could be a candidate, though ideally someone from a reigning European dynasty.

Henry set off for his new kingdom in early November 1573; he had crossed the Polish border by late January, and by mid-February he’d reached Cracow, Poland’s then capital city. The king-elect and his French retinue’s journey thus took place at the height of a frosty Polish winter, which failed to make a good first impression on the warm-blooded arrivals. The Poles, in turn, were shocked by the king’s appearance: dressed in wide ruffs and lace, wearing makeup and perfumes, bedecked with jewels and pearl earrings. The look sported by his closest courtiers was no less unsettling; flamboyantly attired in bright colours and affectionately referred to by Henry as his “minions” (''les mignons''), they were widely suspected of doubling as the king’s boy toys. Worse still, put off by the constraints imposed on royal power by Poland’s unique quasi-democratic system of  government, Henry shied away from the tedious duties of a head of state. Instead, he spent most of his time taking naps, dancing the volta (a dance so lewd, you’d never see any Pole dancing it), losing tremendous amounts of money at cards, and writing letters back to France. He also shied away from the fifty-year-old and not-especially-comely Princess Anna Jagiellon, Bona and Sigismund I’s last unmarried daughter – despite the senators’ expectation that the king would propose to the Polish ''infanta'' in order to preserve dynastic continuity.

Barely four months had passed since Henry’s coronation at Cracow’s Wawel Cathedral when he received word that the younger of his elder brothers had succumbed to a&nbsp;brief illness. Unlike in Poland, the French monarchy was hereditary: King Charles&nbsp;IX was dead – long live King Henry&nbsp;III ! Therefore Catherine de’ Medici promptly summoned her favourite son, urging him to return to France without delay and claim the throne left vacant by his late brother. The snag was that the King of Poland wasn’t allowed to leave the country without the parliament’s consent. Henry, however, had no intention of waiting for the parliament to convene and graciously grant him permission. And so, on the night of 18–19 June 1574, he slipped out through the back passages of Wawel Castle and – in the company of just a&nbsp;handful of his most trusted minions – fled his own kingdom. When Polish courtiers realized a&nbsp;few hours later that the king had gone missing, Chamberlain Jan Tęczyński (uncle of Palatine Jan Baptysta Tęczyński, whom I mentioned in the [[Italian Greens from Italian Queens|previous post]] and whom he accompanied in his Danish captivity) quickly gave pursuit. Presumably to reassure the French that Poland was a&nbsp;full-fledged member of Western civilization and not some wild Asiatic steppe, he brought along a&nbsp;small detachment of Tatar light cavalry. He caught up with the king just across the border with the Kingdom of Bohemia (part of the Holy Roman Empire). The minions were ready to defend their monarch, but breathed a&nbsp;sigh of relief when Tęczyński revealed he intended only verbally to persuade the king to return. As it turned out, to no avail. The chamberlain had to settle for a&nbsp;few lavish gifts and Henry’s solemn promise that he would still return to Poland one day.<ref name=Noailles>{{Cyt  

Manuals of good manners – often written in verse and addressed to young men of noble birth – enjoyed great popularity. ''Of the Bread Table'' (''O chlebowym stole''), dating from the early 15th century and attributed to a&nbsp;certain Przecław Słota, is the oldest such text in Polish. The poem ridicules those knights and squires who betray their lack of refinement at a&nbsp;courtly banquet.

Well, according to Tadeusz Przypkowski – already known to us as the founder of [[the Gastronomic Order of Pomiane]] – Henry was first introduced to this novelty during his brief stay on the banks of the Vistula.

  | inni    = trans. Eleanor Merchant

The first edition of the manual came out in 1530. Two years later, while returning from a&nbsp;diplomatic mission to Rome, Erazm Ciołek, the Abbot of Mogiła, stopped off in Freiburg im Breisgau to pay a&nbsp;visit to his famous namesake from Rotterdam. Upon returning to Poland, as a&nbsp;token of gratitude for the hospitality, the abbot sent him a&nbsp;gift: a&nbsp;pair of exquisitely decorated utensils, a&nbsp;knife and a&nbsp;fork of gilt silver.<ref>{{Cyt  

== The Franco–Polish Rap Battle ==

  | inni    = red. Alfred Michiels

Jan Kochanowski, Poland’s foremost poet of the age, promptly rose to defend his nation, thus maligned by accusations of barbarism, with a&nbsp;dignified response in Latin verse. Here is my abridged paraphrase in English:

The highlight of the entire journey was undoubtedly the visit to Venice, where Henry was greeted with great enthusiasm by both the highest dignitaries – including the Doge and the Patriarch of Venice – and by ordinary citizens, who no doubt appreciated the fact that the monarch of France and Poland was visiting their city as an honoured guest rather than a&nbsp;bloodthirsty conqueror. Throughout the week of his stay (18–24 July 1574), the king travelled the canals aboard a&nbsp;grand golden galley, surrounded by dozens of gondolas and accompanied by music, cannon salutes and the ringing of bells. He toured local landmarks and art collections, paid visits to luxurious courtesans, attended theatrical performances and firework displays, witnessed a&nbsp;demonstration of Venetian glassmaking and watched a&nbsp;traditional fistfight staged on the Bridge of Fists. And, of course, he enjoyed lavish banquets, which were so extravagant that the authorities of the Venetian Republic had to temporarily suspend the local sumptuary laws.<ref>{{Cyt  

   | innie          = trans. Nicola Imrie

It’s worth noting one further detail. The Italian word for “forks” is ''“forchette”'', but the term used in the passage quoted above is ''“pironi”'' – which comes from the Venetian dialect. And that word bears a&nbsp;striking resemblance to ''“pirounia”'' (''πιρούνια''), which is what forks are called in Greek. That shouldn’t be surprising, though. The Venetians had, after all, learned to eat with forks from the Greeks – and did so several centuries before Henry Valois ever came on the scene.

The person traditionally credited with introducing the fork to Venice was a&nbsp;Greek princess, Maria Argyropoulina, granddaughter of a&nbsp;Byzantine emperor, who in 1004 married the son of a&nbsp;Doge of Venice. The devilish contraption she wielded in her hand reportedly caused immense scandal among medieval Italian moralists, who deemed her death from smallpox three years later a&nbsp;fitting punishment from God for such outrageous excess.

Even Renaissance artists had to tread carefully when it came to forks, as is evident from the case of Paolo Veronese. A&nbsp;year before King Henry’s visit to Venice, Veronese received a&nbsp;commission to paint the Last Supper for the refectory of a&nbsp;Dominican monastery in the same city. But when executing the work, the painter got… somewhat carried away. His Last Supper unfolded in the arcaded loggia of an ornate palace, where Jesus and the apostles were surrounded by German halberdiers, dwarf jesters, black servants, Turks in turbans, women in windows, even cats, dogs and a&nbsp;parrot… Like in a&nbsp;[https://youtu.be/1jEljvNMlZ8?si=6QiEFqAwCJEirWyB Monty Python sketch,] all that was missing were kangaroos and a&nbsp;mariachi band! And to top it all off – horror of horrors – two apostles were seated at the table with forks in their hands! Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, yet it’s hardly surprising that the Inquisition (Venetian, in this case) summoned Veronese for questioning and ordered him to alter the painting.<ref>{{Cyt  

By the 16th century, the sinful utensil was already widespread enough in Italy that it did not escape the notice of travellers from other parts of Europe – for whom it still remained a&nbsp;rather exotic novelty. Jacques Lesaige, a&nbsp;silk merchant from northern France who undertook a&nbsp;pilgrimage to the Holy Land in 1518, recorded the following observation during a&nbsp;stopover in Venice:

We have no direct evidence that Catherine herself ever used a&nbsp;fork, but it’s unlikely that she was unfamiliar with the utensil. For while we don’t know for sure whether she brought the fork from Italy to France, it is certain that she procured for herself an Italian cookbook. And not just any cookbook! It was the work of Bartolomeo Scappi, titled ''Opera di Bartolomeo Scappi'', or ''The Work of Bartolomeo Scappi''. Scappi, papal master chef during the pontificates of Piuses IV and V, published in 1570 the most extensive compendium of culinary knowledge produced in the entire 16th century. What is more – and this was a&nbsp;complete novelty – the book was rich in instructive (not merely decorative) illustrations. Among them, for the first time in any book, appeared an image showing what a&nbsp;table fork looked like. One may therefore assume that Catherine possessed at least a&nbsp;theoretical knowledge of the fork.

With Henry’s demise, the Valois dynasty came to an end and the French throne passed to the Bourbons. The latter were initially less persuaded of the fork than their predecessors. Louis XIV (r.&nbsp;1643–1715) preferred, throughout his life, to eat conservatively with his fingers. It was only his great‑grandson and successor, Louis XV (r.&nbsp;1715–1774), who finally grew accustomed to the fork. Across Europe, in fact, the process of adopting the table fork was protracted and gradual. What may have helped accelerate it was the growing popularity of another Italian novelty: pasta. More traditional foodstuffs could still be eaten with the fingers, but pasta – especially the long and thin kind, slippery with sauce – was far easier to twirl on a&nbsp;fork. Italians had long eaten pasta in this way, as attested, for example, in a&nbsp;story by the 14th‑century writer Franco Sacchetti, which includes a&nbsp;description of a&nbsp;pasta speed-eating contest.

Only here arises a&nbsp;puzzle: I was trying to gather some iconographic examples illustrating the shared history of the fork and pasta, but among all of the early modern paintings I’ve managed to find that show people enjoying pasta, every single one depicts the pasta being grabbed with the fingers! It seems, however, that these paintings mostly portray peasants or the urban poor. Perhaps the image of a&nbsp;pauper greedily stuffing handfuls of pasta into his mouth was more appealing to painters of the time than that of nobles elegantly twirling it on their forks.

{{Nawigacja|poprz=Włoszka z&nbsp;włoszczyzną w&nbsp;posagu}}

[[Category: Maria Agryropoulina]]