Lev Uspensky - you and your name - read the book for free. You and your name You and your name Uspensky Lev Vasilievich

“Uspensky L. You and your name. Stories about names ": Children's literature; L .; 1972
annotation
The book is about language, about a special, little-known, but extremely interesting area of linguistics - onomatology, the science of personal names of people.
What did the name mean and mean to a person? Why do some names live while others are outdated? You will learn about names - pagan and Christian, eastern and western, about the names of literary characters and heroes of past eras in this book. The author, operating now with amusing, now paradoxical and improbably sounding, but always scientifically accurate examples, talks about the origin of proper names, patronymics and surnames in our country and abroad.
Lev USPENSKY
YOU AND YOUR NAME
(Stories about names)
From the author
Knowledge and understanding
Two centuries ago, the great German master of words and thinker Lessing wrote:
“It seems strange to me that we know not only things, but also the names of these things. Nevertheless, I want more: not only to understand the meaning of words, but also to know why they sound like this and not otherwise. "
This is the thought of the sage. But the same question comes to mind sometimes even to the ultimate simpleton.
- I wonder where the word "jacket" came from? - suddenly, in the midst of empty chatter, the puzzled Mr. Arpad, far from being a wise hero of the modern English writer A. Coppard, stumbles over an unexpected riddle.
- Ha ha! - Mr. Platner, his drinking companion, shrugs indifferently. - The clown knows where from! Who can say that?
- Hm! - Arpad is surprised. - Such a simple word! It must have come from somewhere.
Some of my readers will probably join Mr. Platner. In fact, I know a thing - clothes of a certain cut. I know its name: "jacket" (if you call this "thing" in Russian). Therefore, the meaning of the word is completely clear to me. What more could you want?
However, a more lively mind will not stop there. He will agree with Arpad, and hence Lessing. Let both the thing and the name of the thing be known; I still want to know - where did it come from? For what reason was this thing called a jacket, and not a "muck", not "kortka", "vyrtka" or something else? Can I find out before that?
"In fact yes! - the linguist will tell you. - A special department of linguistics - etymology - deals with the origin of individual words, the study of the question of where this or that of them came from in our language.
To learn all this means "to reveal the etymology of the word." And an experienced etymologist will easily answer this question for you. Perhaps, however, his answer will seem somewhat unexpected to you.
“Jacket,” he will tell you, “is primarily a non-Russian word in origin. We didn’t have it in pre-Petrine times, and it could not have been: after all, our ancestors did not know and did not wear any jackets. Then they walked in long-brimmed clothes - caftans, azams, ohabnya. Then, little by little, the “kurguzi German” (that is, foreign) dress began to take root. It was sewn at first by foreign tailors, mainly French; they called him in their own way. In French, “jacket in general” is called “veste”, and “short jacket” is called “west kurt” (veste courte); the word "kurt" just means "short". It is from this French adjective “kurt”, hearing it from French tailors, that our great-great-grandfathers created the Russian noun “jacket” many years ago.
Does this seem implausible to you? In vain. Take another familiar word for another piece of clothing, short pants - "panties." Where did their designation come from? From the verb "to be afraid", that is, "to be afraid"? From the noun "panties" meaning "rabbit"? From another verb - "to be afraid", that is, "to run, at a small trot"?
Imagine, neither from this, nor from the other, nor from the third, but again from the French adjective. In French, “jupe troussée” is a fitted skirt, “culotte troussée” is a rolled up and generally “short pants”. The same foreign tailors, undoubtedly, along with the jacket brought us the word "truss", and we, so to speak, cut out "cowards" out of it to our liking ...
Many of our words (especially not too ancient in origin) lend themselves easily to such a disclosure - etymologization. Some are much more difficult to etymologize. There are also those for which scientists are still powerless: their origin goes very far into the depths of time.
It goes without saying that in any language, words have their own etymology. Mr. Arpad, in the story of the Englishman Coppard, was interested, of course, not in the Russian word "jacket", but in his English word "jacket", which means the same thing. I will not go into a detailed answer to his question now, but the English etymologists could undoubtedly do so. Perhaps they will say that the word "jackit" owes its origin to some skillful tailor or old fashionista named Jack; it may be assumed that it was born from the term "jake" (jake), which once meant first a leather fur for wine, a wineskin, and then the cut of military outerwear. Maybe it came from the French language, where there is a similar word "jacket" (originally "muzhitsky" - "Zhakov", that is, "Yashkin" - half-caftan, common dress). Perhaps the solution will turn out to be completely different: that's their business.
We will now turn our attention to something else. Apparently, a linguist in each word, in addition to its meaning, may be interested in its origin, its connection with other words, in whatever language they are present. But all this is good for those words that have meaning. But what about those who have no meaning, who mean nothing?
Excuse me, but do words exist in the world without meaning, without meaning?
But see for yourself.
From word to name
Let's say you asked your friend: "Who's making noise in the yard?" A friend answers somewhat disrespectfully, but intelligibly: "Yes, so, one dilda ..." Or: "Ah! Some kind of nurse! "
I must say, you will instantly understand: in the first case, we are talking about a lanky man, in the second - about a certain crybaby. Try to look into any dictionary and read: "Nurse is a whiny, spineless person ..." The word "nurse" can even be simply replaced with the word "crybaby" - the meaning will hardly change. The same is with the "dylda". say "club" or "Kolomenskaya verst" - the meaning will remain the same.
Now imagine a different picture. You repeated your question: "Who is making noise in the yard?" - and heard the answer: "This is Vovka!" Do you understand your interlocutor? Still, great! But the question is, what exactly did you understand? What does the word "Vovka" mean? What does it matter? Ponder, and you will begin to think that, perhaps, no one ... Perhaps this is not even a word at all.
Excuse me, why not a word ?! This is not only a word, this noun is no worse than others. It is in the singular. It is convenient to persuade him: “Vovka, Vovka, Vovka, Vovka ...” You can only say: “Vovka is sitting”; "Vovka are sitting" will be wrong. You can write: "dear Vovka", and "dear Vovka" is nonsense. This means that other words agree with "Vovka" according to all the rules: this is undoubtedly a word. And yet it has absolutely no meaning!
So that such a statement does not seem rash to you, let's take a deeper look. When a word has a meaning, we can always express this meaning more or less accurately with one or more other words. On reflection, each of them can also be translated into a foreign language. It is clear.
For example, the word "cart". It is easy to explain at least this way: it is a "wooden cart for the transport of heavy loads." Instead, you can pick up a few close words that can partially replace it: "drogi", "pitching", "wagon", "arba" ... In French, "cart" will be "ball" (char), in German "wagen" ( Wagen), in Spanish “carro” (saggo), in Turkish “talika” or “araba” ... Each language has its own word for this concept.
And try to do the same with our "Vovka". Try to explain to me what "Vovka" is, or to convey this concept in words of other languages.
Of course, Vovka is a boy. But after all, Petya, and Oleg, and Kimka, and even Bobochka are also boys. You cannot say, “I have two brothers; one is Vovka, and the other is a boy. " "Boy" and "Vovka" are not synonyms or antonyms.
And another thing: what is Vovka in Chinese? What do you think will be Jim or Topsy in Russian? This cannot be translated: (It may seem that I am wrong here. The Western name Theodor seems to correspond to Fedor. English John is often explained here as Ivan. Isn't this a translation?
Of course no; it is only the adaptation of the sounds of one language to the customs and tastes of another, with it there is no question of conveying the meaning of a word. Then we will see, translated into Russian, the word Theodor would sound like Bogdan, and John - also like Bogdan. But we are not interested in such translations yet.) Behind these words there are no those meanings, those concepts to which one can fit foreign words ... And it is impossible to match Russian equivalent words to them. It is easy, of course, instead of the same Vovka, to name the guy Volodya or even Vladimir; but this is nothing more than if the "crocodile" is explained either by "crocodile", then by "crocodile".
What is the matter here? It is very simple: before us is not an ordinary word, but "special" - a proper name. Having said that, we called this phenomenon. But naming is half the battle; one must understand it, understand what it is. And as soon as you think about this question, you will see: a proper name is a strange thing!
I baptize and cross
Here is a glass of water. This water can also be called ice, but it needs to be frozen beforehand, otherwise an error will result.
Your name is girl now. Then they will call you a citizen or even aunt. But this will happen only after you change, grow up. And no one will call you a student while you are still a schoolgirl: in order for a word to change, one must notice the change in the thing that it calls; is not it?
But here, for example, Alexei Maksimovich Peshkov from a certain time began to sign: “Maksim Gorky”. And everyone began to call him that, although he remained the same person.
It happens even more surprising. In France, in 1804, a girl was born, named Dudevant. They baptized her with Aurora. She grew up and became a famous writer, but all her life it was not Aurora Dudevant who signed, but Georges Sand, as if she were a man.Every cultured person knows about the writer Georges Sand, but far fewer people will answer you who Aurora Dudevant is. Baptized, baptized, and this did not cause any inconvenience. Isn't it strange?
Or take the famous city, the capital of Norway. In ancient times it was called Oslo. In 1624 it was renamed Christiania, and in 1924 - again in Oslo. It is clear to everyone that this city did not change at all and in nothing at that moment when people calmly re-baptized it in a new way. And if you propose, for example, to call an elephant "rabbit" from tomorrow, your proposal will not win success, even if you promise to rename it "back to elephant" sometime later.
Of course, such, to use the expression of the writer Leskov, "vertices" are possible only because proper names with the objects standing behind them do not quite have the same relationship as common nouns. Most often we have to observe that there is simply no connection between them, that proper names have no meaning, that “direct objective meaning” that all other words have. They name, they don't mean.
Indeed, the meaning of common nouns is connected with various things very closely, and moreover, regardless of our desire; it is not in our power to sever this connection. When a small green stalk breaks out of the ground, an experienced person, looking closely at it, immediately says: "Here is a birch tree!" or: "It's an oak tree!"
And it is understandable: on the one hand, each young birch is in many ways similar to all other birches, even to the largest trees of this species; on the other hand, it differs in many respects from all the oaks, maples, firs and aspens in the world, even the smallest ones.
If you say about a young oak: "Look what kind of cucumber grows here!" - they will laugh at you: you are mistaken.
And when you see an unfamiliar girl on the street, you, no matter how observant and experienced person you are, will in no way determine - Olya in front of you or Tanechka? Maybe it's even Vasilisa!
Therefore, when a child is born, no one ever says to the parents: “Eh, you! Your typical Photius was born, and you named him Kiryusha! " This is absurdity; not a single Cyril can be said to be in any way similar to the rest of the Cyrils of the world, or that he is sharply different from any Photius or Stepan.
Whatever your own name you christen the puppy born into the world, you call him Butka, Sharik, Bobik or Trezor, no one can ever convict you of a mistake. However, if you start to seriously assure people that there is a rabbit or a wolverine in front of them, you will see what happens ... Apparently, there is a significant and curious difference between common and proper names.
Difference or similarity
It would be convenient if confusing similarities were not combined with this conspicuous difference. Here are the names: Vasya, Shura, Oleg, Lev, Vera, Love. As for the first three, nothing new can be said about them compared to what I have already told you: you also have no inner meaning, no real meaning associated with any of them. What does Shura mean? Only Shura, and nothing more. Well, Sanya or Sasha ... Name - and that's it! It is quite understandable why in the old days, entering into "twinning", the named brothers easily and calmly changed their names: Shura became Vasya, Vasya - Shura; there were no inconveniences in this regard. No one was embarrassed when the German princess Sophia, having become the Russian empress, suddenly turned into Catherine (the Second). (Excellent, on a completely different occasion, notes V. B. Shklovsky in his book "Fiction Prose" (p. 476): "When we learn that a woman's name is Katerina, then all our knowledge about her is that she, probably a Christian ... ”This means that we do not find and cannot find any meaning in the name.). The name is not the essence of a person, it costs nothing to change it. It would seem that it could not be otherwise.
However, the last three of the names I have named, each in its own way, violate this impression of simplicity and clarity.
Faith is a proper name, all our reasoning fully applies to it. Yes, but at the same time, "faith" is also a common noun. "Faith" is a property of one who believes or believes. The word "faith" can be translated into any language of the world without any difficulty: in French "faith" - "la foi"; in German, der Glauben, in Turkish, inan or itikat, and so on. It is not so difficult to find words that have exactly the opposite meaning: “disbelief”, “atheism”, “doubt” ... But try to find a word with the opposite meaning to the name Oleg!
It turns out that "faith" can be simultaneously (or alternately) both a proper and a common noun. But then how should we understand this: is it one word or two different, albeit coinciding in sounds? Are both of them related to each other by a common origin? Maybe one of them came from the other? But if so, which word is parent and which word is child?
"Vera" is, of course, no exception. The same questions arise in connection with the name Leo. It is not at all equal to the word "lion." From the word "lion" you can derive the adjective "lion", but from the name "lion" you cannot. "Lev Tolstoy Square" is not at all the same as "Fat Lion Square".
On the contrary, it is easy to sprout the diminutive Leo from the name of Leo, and even the most meek barbarian lion can be called "levaya" only for fun, for fun. If Leo is a man, then you and I calmly call his children Lvovichs, but it would never occur to anyone to seriously tell: “In the cage, you know, there was a lioness with two little Lvovichs.” On the contrary: we almost never form a diminutive “lion cub” from male name Leo; we are not able to say in earnest: "There is Marya Petrovna coming with her two lion cubs," even if Marya Petrovna's husband is called Leo.
The question is again: what relationship exists in the language between these two so similar and together so in many respects different, words - common nouns and proper? Between a lion and a lion, hope and hope?
Apparently, these are completely different words. Yet all the time it is felt that they are closely related, that one of them, undoubtedly, was born from the other. Only now - where is the ancestor and where is the descendant?
This is not a meaningless question; it leads us to another, broader and more important: where did human names come from? Let's try to form at least a first and rough idea about this.
The only difficulty is that, having said "name", "names", we touched a phenomenon much darker and more confusing than you probably thought until now.
First of all: even if we talk only about the names of people, surprises await us. Let's say you have a name: Nikolai. But, in addition, you also have a patronymic and a surname. They are also part of your "own name" - not without reason - they are also written with capital letters. Does it follow from this that every human name necessarily consists of three parts?
This is a completely wrong conclusion. One Chukchi writer lives in Leningrad. When, when meeting with him, readers are interested in his last name, he replies: "Rytkheu". If they ask: "What about the name?" - he again answers: "Rytkheu!" The Chukchi do not know our three-step names; one name per person seems to them quite enough. (Readers of Rytkheu's works can reproach me for inaccuracies: they always have the signature: “Yuri Rytkheu.” But still I'm right: the Chukchi writer added a Russian name to his Chukchi first name and surname only since he began to constantly visit Moscow and Leningrad, and precisely so that the absence of a name does not surprise his Russian acquaintances and does not go into explanations on this matter every minute. Thus, "Yuri" is not his name at all. Rather, "Yuri Rytkheu" can be called the pseudonym of the writer.).
However, there is nothing to be surprised at: our separate word - patronymic, combined with both first and last names, is not known to many peoples of the earth. But very often the father's name is entered there in the surname itself. Many German and English surnames ending in "zones" or "sleep", Scandinavian - in "sen", simply mean: "son of such and such"; Thorvaldsen is the son of Thorvald, Robinson is the son of Robin, Amundsen is the son of Amund. This is known to many.
Fewer people who know that the Georgian "shvili" (Baratashvili), and the Armenian "yants", "yang" (Khachaturian), and the Turkish "oglu" (Akhmet-oglu), and the Iranian "zade" (Tursun-zade) also mean "son." There are peoples in which the same role is played not by endings, but, on the contrary, by prefixes. Do you remember the glorious major, relative of Lord Glenarvan and his guest aboard the Duncan? As a true Scotsman, he bore the surname McNabs, which means "son of the Nabs." Other Scottish surnames - "McIntosh", "McFerlan", "McPherson", "McDonald" - are built according to the same rule. The closest relatives of the Scots, residents of Green Erin - Ireland, know the names in which the northern "Mac" is replaced by another prefix - "O": O "Brian, O" Leary, O "Connel, etc. Yes, and in the Slavic languages closely related to Russian very often the father's name is included in the surname with the help of various suffixes; -ov, -ev, -in, -ich; PetrOV, Grigoriev, Vanin, Petrich, Mirkich, etc.
Thus, it becomes clear: the issue with the names of people in different parts of the world looks different, but we have just touched it. On the other hand, the category of "proper names" is not at all limited to personal names, with all their diversity. Along with them, we all, from early childhood to ripe old age, are constantly confronted with proper names of a completely different category - with geographical names. And I must say that this group of names gives us riddles that are no less complex and cunning than the first.
And in it there are, next to the understandable, completely incomprehensible and even mysterious. In some, the etymology is visible, so to speak, even to a layman in the palm of his hand. In front of others, the most experienced linguist stops in thought.
Think for yourself, do you need to rack your brains for a long time to understand where the name Novgorod came from? Yes, it is worth comparing it with such names as Staroselye, Novoslobodka, Belgorod, and everything becomes clear by itself: Novgorod is a New City. Changing their habitat, people from time immemorial called the young settlement by the old name, adding the word "new" to it; this is completely natural.
But what can you say about the names of the eternal neighbors of “the lord of the great Novgorod”: about freedom-loving Pskov, about proud Tver, glorious Tula or distant Suzdal? How will you decipher their bizarre in their sounds, nothing to the Russian mind, but at the same time such familiar names? Not only will you fail to explain them yourself; often even linguistic scholars will offer you, instead of one, two or three far from indisputable interpretations.
The difference is striking here too. It's one thing - Krasny Kut, Magnitnaya Mountain, Belukha Mountain, Belaya River, Lake Verkhnee, Stanovoy Ridge ... These names do not cause any doubts, they are understandable.
But here's Perm, Vyatka, Buguruslan, Kostroma, Elbrus, Ural, Sudoma-gora, Vyg-lake, rivers Chusovaya, Pyasina, Ob - you, perhaps, will not find such or similar words in any Russian dictionary. Where did they come from?
Of course, in this case, too, it should not be allowed that our ancestors centuries ago, as if amusing themselves, composed names from meaningless sounds for the rivers, mountains and lakes surrounding them, pouring these sounds like motley glass in a kaleidoscope: I wonder what happens? Nothing of the kind could have been. Of course, every name that now seems completely irrelevant to us should have had one. But to find out, to get to the bottom of this value is sometimes very difficult. Is it worth it to spend time, effort, work on this occupation?
To make it clear to you what is worth, we will talk in turn about the three largest groups of proper names: personal names, so-called patronymics and surnames.
It is clear that a lot can be written and said about each such group. Impressive volumes of scientific research have been created about them. There are names that gray-haired professors have fiercely argued about for many decades. Of course, in a small book I will not be able to acquaint you not only with everything that is known about them, but even with the most important thing. Of course not: I have a different goal.
I just want to interest you in one of the most peculiar corners of linguistic science, to throw splashes in your face from such a reservoir, which, in fact, sways right under your feet: bend over and scoop ... Why? Or maybe this will induce you to take a deeper, more thorough study of the language, resorting, as to assistants, not to thin popular brochures, but to solid and sometimes difficult to read scientific works.

YOU AND YOUR NAME
There are no living people, and there cannot be, nameless:
At the very first moment after birth, everyone, poor and noble,
The name, as a sweet gift, gets from his relatives ...
Homer and Gogol
These are the sonorous verses that the great Elder Homer once narrated about human names. Well, what then? Thousands of years have passed, and what he said remains true even now.
And today a person carries the name through his whole life, takes it with him even to the grave. It also happens: the bones of the deceased will crumble to dust, the monument erected over the grave will collapse, the clan and tribe will cease, and the most fragile, most volatile of everything that the deceased once had, his sonorous name, still lives and flutters around the world.
How do the elders choose the younger ones, newborns, their names? From what reserves does mankind draw these sweet treasures?
Let's leave Homer, remember Gogol:
“… Akaki Akakievich was born against the night, if only his memory serves, on March 23… The mother was given a choice of any of three [names], which she wants to choose: Mokiya, Sossia, or to name the child in the name of the martyr Khozdazat.
"No, - thought the deceased, - the names are all like that."
To please her, they unrolled the calendar elsewhere; three names came out again: Triphyllius, Dula and Varakhasius.
- This is the punishment, - said the old woman ... - Let it be Varadat or Baruch, and then Triphyllius and Varakhasius.
They also turned the page and left: Pavsikakiy and Vakhtisiy. “Well, I can see,” said the old woman, “that, apparently, his fate is like that. If so, let it be better to be called like his father. The father was Akaki, so let the son be Akaki. " This is how Akaki Akakievich happened. "
(N. V. Gogol somewhat sinned here against a strict truth. In the old "cross" calendars, these names did not stand in such triplets. Mokiy is listed there on January 29, March 11 and June 3; Sossia was celebrated on April 21 and September 19. July (13), and Varakhisiy (in the calendar this name was spelled like this) - in March. The closest to each other were Pavsikakiy and Vakhtisiy (March 13 and 18), but five days fell between them. it didn't matter.).
The little man was out of luck! Just think: we went over eleven names and settled on Akaki: others were even worse. And all eleven, as one, spoke absolutely nothing to the Russian ear, meant nothing in Russian. The question is - where did they come from then?
No matter how much you rummage through the dictionaries of the Russian language, you will never come across words there, even a little reminiscent of "Pavsikakiy" or "Varakhisiy". Foreign languages are another matter.
Isn't the name Akakiy similar to the word "acacia", the name of the plant? Of course, yes: especially if we take into account that this Greek word in Greece would have been pronounced differently from ours: "akakia". It means: "good-natured, good-natured"; "Kakos" in Greek is bad, bad, but you find the negation of "a-" in many borrowed words from the Greeks: "septic" (infectious), "aseptic" (disinfected); "Theology" (theology), "atheism" (godlessness) and so on. If the ancient Greek called his son Akakios, it was both meaningful and beautiful from his point of view. We have forgotten the meaning of the name, but it sounds completely unpleasant.
A-what - "good-natured, innocent." What, then, can what Pausi mean? Perhaps there is some connection between them?
Yes, there is; in Greek there was a verb "pauo" - to stop. Pausi-kakiy - "stopping evil" - is a very good name for someone who knows Greek.
The name Triphyllium will remind many of the botanical name of clover - "trifolium", "trefoil". This is not an accidental resemblance; the word "trifolium" is Latin; in Latin tres means three, and folium means leaf. Greek is close to Latin; in Greece, the shamrock is “triphyllon” because the “leaf” here sounds like “phillon”. Everything is clear, except for one thing: how could it occur to people to call their sons "shamrocks."
Strange, however, this is not enough: the leaves of the triad have long been considered for some reason a lucky talisman; in the West, and now, clover is willingly depicted on greeting cards, key chains and other trinkets. Superstition helped the word "triphillos" (trefoil) to become first the Greek, and then the Russian name of Triphyllius.
Enough for us long explanations; I will say briefly: of the eleven names mentioned by Gogol in The Overcoat, six turn out to be Greek in origin. "Mokiy" - "mocker"; in Hellas Momos was the god of all buffoonery. "Sossiy" can be understood either as "faithful" or as "sound, unharmed." Dula means slave, servant; It was not for nothing that the servants in Greek temples were called "hierodules" - priests. Worse with the other five names. Khozdazat is apparently a word of Iranian root; it probably meant something like "a gift from God, a gift from God." In ancient Indian language, Varadat means "gift of a loved one." As for Vakhtisiy, Varukh and Varakhisiy, even experts disagree. One thing is clear: all these names are of some oriental origin. Baruch, for example, is probably a Hebrew word and means blessed.
Another thing is no less clear: a hundred years ago a child was baptized in a Russian bureaucratic family, and no matter how many names were chosen for him, among them, as if by sin, not a single purely Russian was caught. What is this parable? Why not stop at one of the simplest Russian names - Peter, Andrey, Alexey instead of these difficult, ugly, incomprehensible and alien nicknames? .. Or call the boy Fedya ... After all, these are our names, our own! You think so?
Russian foreigners
Take the name Aleksey (in the calendar it is written: Alexy (Orthodox Christians called the holy calendar a church book containing months (calendar), compiled in the order of months and days of the year, to which the church has timed the religious celebration of each saint. This was necessary because it was accepted " to name the babies after that of the saints whose memory fell on the birthday of this child. A girl was born on March 1 - to be Antonina or Evdokia; a boy was born on April 23 (old style) - he will have to bear the name of George.
Gradually, this rule ceased to be strictly observed: names began to be chosen according to the taste of parents, like Akaki Bashmachkina in Gogol.).). Try to guess which Russian word has the same root with it. Wasted labor; no matter how much you search in dictionaries, you will not find anything similar. The only scientific term in the encyclopedia is the alexin. What does it mean? This is the name of the special substances contained in the blood. Why are they so named? Because their purpose is to protect the body from harmful microbes, and in Greek the verb "alexo" means: "I protect." The word "alexin" was not in Greece, it was our contemporaries who artificially created it from ancient parts; so they do it all the time. But if it were there, it would mean something like "protective substance".
The question has been resolved: our name Alexy is taken from the Greeks; it means "protector, guardian". The name Andrei turns out to be the same Greek word: “andreyos” in Greece meant “masculine, courageous”. And if so, it is not difficult to understand the meaning of another of our names - Alexander: it is composed of two parts: Alex (protection) + andr (male) and can be translated as “courageous warrior” (that is, a brave warrior).
So what happens? The most familiar Russian names to us are no more than accustomed foreigners, the ancient Greeks. Calling some Trifillia Mokievich by name and patronymic, you did not even suspect that it really means "Trefoil Mockery". Reading Krylov's fable about Demyan and Foka, could you think that Foka is a "seal" and Damian is a "tamed" one? Even greeting the physics teacher: "Petr Nikitich, hello!" - you, in fact, say: "Hello, Kamen Pobeditelevich!"
There is no need to be surprised: since for some reason we, Russian people, have names that are non-Russian in origin, alien in sounds, there is certainly no way to avoid misunderstandings. Here, for example, is one curiosity.
Fedor = Ivan, Ivan = Matvey
Strange equality: how can "Vanya" mean "Fedya"? Before, however, we are indignant, let us understand the origin of these three names, adding to them also Bogdan.
The word "Fedor" used to be written: "Theodore" Then it was exactly like the Western European Theodore. This is natural: both are taken from the Greek language, and the Greeks have their letter? at different times it was read in different ways, in ancient times as "tkh", later as "f". We, through Byzantium, took it in the sound "f", Western peoples began to depict it in the Latin way, like "th".
Therefore our Theodore and the foreign Theodor are simply two different pronunciations of the same Greek word-name; looking closely, you can understand that it consists of two parts: "Theo + + dor".
What can "Theo" mean? This is easy to grasp if you compare with him such words as "theology + science" (the science of God), "theo + cratia" (divine rule), "a-theism" (godlessness). "Teos" (or "Theos") in Greek is god. And Theodore (Theodore) is a "gift from God." In the same way, all the names containing these syllables "theo" or "pheo" are associated with the concept of god, deity. We have a lot of them: Timo-Fey (Timotheos) (God-fearing), Theophil (God-lover), Theodosy (given by God), etc. (See the list of names at the end of the book (p. 242 ff.) .).
This means that Theodore is “God's gift” in Greek. But “Ivan” (more precisely, Yohanaan) is the same “God's gift”, but in Hebrew.
In truth, this needs clarification. There is no word "Ivan" in the Hebrew language. But this name, which all European peoples now sounds differently (the Germans - Johann, the French - Jean, the British - John, the Georgians - Ivane, the Finns and Estonians - Juhan, the Poles - Jan), when- then in Ancient Judea it was pronounced as Yehohanan, or Yohanaan. And this word meant "God's grace", "God's gift", that is - Fedor.
Yes, but the name Matvey in Hebrew again means "given by the Lord," and as for the Russian God-dan, there is no need to speak here for a long time: everyone knows what this name means. Here's another Feo-dor for you.
It turns out that the strange equality I put in the heading on the previous page is by no means nonsense. I could only greatly expand it by adding names taken from other languages. We have already met the Persian Bogdan; he looked like Khozdazat. The French also have their own special Bogdan (except for Theodore); there he looks like Dieudonne (in French “dieu” means god, and the verbal participle “donne” means given). Bogdans are everywhere where the church, religion interfered in the choice of names for newborns, and this was the case among many peoples of the world.
What did we learn in the end?
Most of our most common names turn out to be non-Russian. Among them are many ancient Greek and Hebrew. There are those taken from other peoples of the East. There are also many Latin, ancient Roman names; Valentina, for example, means "healthy" (more precisely, "the daughter of a healthy man"), Akulina (in the churchly Akilina) - "eagle", Victor - "winner". (True, over the long and long centuries of their constant use, these imported, foreign names have become familiar to our ears, became familiar. In addition, most of them have become strongly Russified, it is difficult to recognize the Greek Theodore in our Fedya, between the Russian Vanya, the French Jeannot, English Johnny not everyone will find similarities, although they all descended from the same name - John.
But this does not change matters. The name Vera is a Russian word both in origin and in its possible meaning. The name Misha either does not matter at all, or is connected with the meaning that the word Mikhail (see p. 260) once had in a completely different language.).
What's the matter? How could there be a custom to call children not by their own names, but by strangers, incomprehensible, ugly, and even taken from dead, long-silenced languages? Does this oddity exist everywhere or has it taken root only here, in Russia, and what is its meaning?
Hawk claws
Think of Fenimore Cooper's novel The Pathfinder; you will certainly remember his hero, a noble and stern Indian-hunter, named Montigomo. They say that the name in Indian means: "Hawk's claw."
It doesn't matter if this translation is accurate: names like this are indeed typical of the American Indian tribes. This is natural: the claws of a hawk are sharp, terrible to both the enemy and prey. It is understandable why the warrior and trapper-tracker calls his son "Hawk's Claw": after all, even today, Soviet pilots do not mind if they - fighters - are called "hawks" with affectionate familiarity.
North American Indians are a people with an extraordinary history: in the 18th, and even in the first half of the 19th century, they lived in the "Stone Age", which for our ancestors passed millennia ago. Their lives were studied by people of science; Friedrich Engels judged by it about the life of mankind at the dawn of history. Many novels and poems have been written about them; complex, outlandish-sounding names are abundant there. Listening to them, it is easy to understand: when an Indian needs to give a name to a child, he goes through the simplest, most common words of his language, listens to how they sound, ponders their meaning, and calmly makes the name that seems most appropriate.
In the novel "The Hunter" by the modern English writer Aldridge, the taciturn, hard-living trapper, Indian Bill, is depicted. But only the English call him Bill: they cannot pronounce his real Indian name. His tribesmen call him Huma-Humani; it means: "The first cloud in the sky." Beautiful name? Very beautiful; probably little Huma was the firstborn and favorite of his parents. Probably, there were no more beautiful children in the district, in their opinion ...
The famous naturalist writer Seton-Thompson also has a wonderful hero, also a hunter, in many ways reminiscent of the familiar Dersu-Uzal gold from the books of V.K.Arseniev. The name of this calm, wise and unhappy man is Kuoneb. Thompson does not say anywhere what the word "Kuoneb" means, but he makes him think of the dead baby son; this baby was called "Wee-Wees" (Owlet, or Little Owl). Much tenderness and affection have been invested by Kuoneb and his sweet young wife in a name dear to them. Apparently, the big-eyed was this Wee-Whys; evidently, he turned his round head very funny, delighting and touching the young father and mother.
And the girlish Indian names? Take a look at the collected works of Pushkin. There, in the "Notes of John Tenner" translated by the poet, an Englishman who became the adopted son of an Indian woman and a real "red-skinned" in his liking, you will come across a number of complex, unusual names for our ears:
Monito-o-gezik Ta-bu-shish
Kish-kau-ko Moon-kwa
No-no-kua, etc.
Wah-me-gon-e-beat
Pushkin gives the meaning of only a few of them.
"Mun-kwa" (that was the name of the Indian medicine man from the Cree tribe) means "Bear". John's own name, given to him by his otavuav friends, sounded: Sho-sho-wa-not-ba-se, which means "Falcon." But the name of a young Indian woman, Tenner's bride, seems to the Russian poet most surprising.
“His beauty,” writes Pushkin with a sly grin, “bore a name that had a very poetic meaning, but which could hardly fit into an elegy (Elegy is a sad poem. Pushkin wants to say that such a long name cannot be put into our European poetry. ): she was called Mis-kua-boon-o-kua, which in Indian means "Dawn".
It should also be added that Wa-me-gon-e-bu is translated as "He who puts on a feather dress."
Well? For a young forest dweller, the name "Zarya" is the same as the name "Hawk's Claw" to an old hunter for grizzlies and caribou (Grizzlies are the largest breed of bears, caribou is a Canadian deer.). Apparently, the Indians are masters of naming their children.
But they acted this way, they are doing this, and now they are far from alone. And in Asia, and in Africa, and even "at home" in Europe, we can meet with exactly the same custom.
In the book of a Frenchman, I came across a beautiful Indian female name "Jalan-takhchandrachapala" - "Unsteady, like a reflection of a moonbeam in the water." You've probably heard the name of the opera Madame Butterfly; "Butterfly" in English is "butterfly". The opera is set in Japan, and its heroine bears the Japanese name Chio-Chio-san, at least as the European author calls her.
The word "san" can be translated as "madam", "madam". Generally speaking, there is no word "Chio-Chio" in Japanese: it was the translators who distorted another Japanese word "Chio-Chio" in such a way. It really means: "butterfly, moth" and, if you like, suits a young impetuous girl. This is Asia. Among the tribes of Central Africa, the situation is even more peculiar. Here are two interesting examples from the history of the names there.
One young black woman bore the beautiful name Datini. It means: "What did I say?"
How so?
And here's how: while expecting the birth of a child, the parents argued: the father thought that a son would appear, the mother - that a daughter. When the daughter was born, the mother cried out triumphantly:
"Datini!", That is, "What did I say?" That was the name of the girl.
Nearby lived another Negro woman by the name of Kabisitia, that is, "Stumbling over the korchaga." But this name can be easily explained: she always walked with her head held high, and every time she left the hut, she bumped her foot on the bowls stacked at the door.
Apparently, the Negroes even have a custom, as necessary, to replace one name with another, more suitable;

) - Olympic. Wed the name of sports competitions held in ancient times in Greek. the city of Olympia: the Olympics.

Olga (scandal.) - Female, f. from Oleg. From the Varangian Helga, Helgla.

Name (gr.) - useful. See Anisim.

Onuphrius (Egyptian) is a sacred bull. In VA Zhukovsky's "The War of Mice and Frogs" this name is used comically: "the old rat - Onufriy ..."

Orestes (gr.) - highlander, savage.

Pavel (b.) Is a kid. From "Paulus" (small, small).

Paul. - Zhensk, f. from Paul.

Pavlina and Paulina.-Female. f. from Paul (daughter of Paul).

Pavsikakiy (gr.) - a fighter against evil. See page 20.

Pamphil (gr.) - dear to everyone, a common favorite. See page 237.

Pankraty (gr.) - omnipotent, omnipotent. Russian. People - Pankrat. Wed such words as "aristocracy" (the rule of the "best"), "democracy" (the rule of the people).

Panteleimon (gr.) - all-merciful. Particles "pan-", "panto" in Greek. words give them the meaning of universality, completeness of coverage: "pan-Slavic" - all-Slavic, "pantograph" - all drawing.

Paramon (gr.) - solid, reliable.

Paraskeva (gr.) - the eve of the holiday. Russian. f. this name is Paraskovya, Praskovya. Since before the introduction of "Sunday" Christians, like Jews, celebrated "Saturday", and its eve was Friday, the word "paraskeve", which had a general meaning: "waiting, preparation", came to mean "the fifth day of the week" in Greek. In Russian everyday life in the old days, Saint Paraskeva was called that way; "Paraskeva-Friday", where many churches "in the name of Holy Friday" came from, the spiritual surname Pyatnitsky, etc. The word "Friday" almost turned into an independent female name that could exist next to Praskovya, like the names Warrior and Postnik ... It is curious to recall the only Friday-man, the servant of Robinson Crusoe. Here the name is a translation of the English "Friday", as D. Defoe called his hero-Carib. The word "Friday", like all English words, is devoid of signs of grammatical gender and therefore does not make such a strange impression in the English context as we have: "a man, and suddenly it's Friday!"

Parthenius (gr.) - girlish, virgin. Wed the name of the famous temple of Athena the Virgin in Athens - Parthenon. Russian. bunk bed f. - Parfyon.

Patrick (b.) - the son of a noble father. Wed the word "patrician" (aristocrat). For the sounds "k" and "c" in ancient languages, see the name Glyceria. In Russian. bunk bed speeches- Patrick: Lisa Patrikeevna.

Pachomius (gr.) - broad-shouldered. Russian. f. - Groin - among the writers of the early 19th century, used as typical for elderly peasants, bearded men.

Pelageya (gr.) - sea (parallel lat, Marina). Wed the term of geography "arch-pelagus". In Russian - Pelageya; diminutives: Broadsword, Fields, Pasha.

Peter (gr) - stone. See Keefe. Pronunciation with "ё" - only in Russian; everywhere-Peter. Wed "Petrography" (the science of stones); "Petroglyphs" (ancient drawings on rocks).

Pinna - See Inna and Rimma. In old reference books - "pearl". Possibility Greek "Pinna" - a type of mollusk with a mother-of-pearl shell, pearl barley.

Plato (gr.) - broad-shouldered. Wed Pachomius.

Polycarp (gr.) - multiple. See Carp.

Polyxenia (gr.) - hospitable, receiving many guests. Wed Xenia, as well as "poly-vita-mines" (a mixture of many vitamins), "Poly-nezia" (many islands).

Porphyry (gr.) - purple-red. Wed "Porphyry" (purple royal mantle). In A. Pushkin: "Porphyry Widow". Red porphyry stone.

Praskovya.-Russian. f. from Paraskev. Mother of Tatiana Larina. (“Eugene Onegin”) it is not by chance that in her youth she “called Polina Praskovya”: the name sounded like a common name then. However, “Polina” is Pavlina, not Paraskeva: Larina was not an expert in onomatology.

Procopius, Prokofiy (gr.) - ready for battle. In Russian. lang. - Prokop. See "Lieutenant Prokop" in Hector Servadac by Jules Verne.

Two centuries ago, the great German master of words and thinker Lessing wrote:

“It seems strange to me that we know not only things, but also the names of these things. Nevertheless, I want more: not just to understand the meaning of words, but also know why they sound like this and not otherwise. "

This is the thought of the sage. But the same question comes to mind sometimes even to the ultimate simpleton.

I wonder where the word "jacket" came from? - suddenly, in the midst of empty chatter, the puzzled Mr. Arpad, far from being a wise hero of the modern English writer A. Coppard, stumbles over an unexpected riddle.

Ha ha! - Mr. Platner, his drinking companion, shrugs indifferently. - The clown knows where from! Who can say that?

Hm! - Arpad is surprised. - Such a simple word! It must have come from somewhere.

Some of my readers will probably join Mr. Platner. Indeed, I know thing- clothes of a certain cut. I know her title: "Jacket" (if you call this "thing" in Russian). Therefore, the meaning of the word is completely clear to me. What more could you want?

However, a more lively mind will not stop there. He will agree with Arpad, and hence Lessing. Let both the thing and the name of the thing be known; I still want to know - where did it come from? For what reason this thing was named exactly jacket, and not a "muck", not a "kortka", "vyrtka" or something else? Can I find out before that?

"In fact yes! - the linguist will tell you. - A special department of linguistics - etymology - deals with the origin of individual words, the study of the question of where this or that of them came from in our language.

To learn all this means "to reveal the etymology of the word." And experienced etymologist without much difficulty will answer you this question. Perhaps, however, his answer will seem somewhat unexpected to you.

“Jacket,” he will tell you, “is primarily a non-Russian word in origin. We didn’t have it in pre-Petrine times, and it could not have been: after all, our ancestors did not know and did not wear any jackets. Then they walked in long-brimmed clothes - caftans, azams, ohabnya. Then, little by little, the “kurguzi German” (that is, foreign) dress began to take root. It was sewn at first by foreign tailors, mainly French; they called him in their own way. In French, “jacket in general” is called “veste”, and “short jacket” is called “west kurt” (veste courte); the word "kurt" just means "short". It is from this French adjective “kurt”, hearing it from French tailors, that our great-great-grandfathers created the Russian noun “jacket” many years ago.

Does this seem implausible to you? In vain. Take another familiar word for another piece of clothing, short pants - "panties." Where did their designation come from? From the verb "to be afraid", that is, "to be afraid"? From the noun "panties" meaning "rabbit"? From another verb - "to be afraid", that is, "to run, at a small trot"?

Imagine, neither from this, nor from the other, nor from the third, but again from the French adjective. In French, “jupe troussée” is a fitted skirt, “culotte troussée” is a rolled up and generally “short pants”. The same foreign tailors, undoubtedly, along with the jacket brought us the word "truss", and we, so to speak, cut out "cowards" out of it to our liking ...

Many of our words (especially not too ancient in origin) lend themselves easily to such a disclosure - etymologization... Some are much more difficult to etymologize. There are also those for which scientists are still powerless: their origin goes very far into the depths of time.

It goes without saying that in any language words have its etymology... Mr. Arpad, in the story of the Englishman Coppard, was interested, of course, not in the Russian word "jacket", but in his English word "jacket", which means the same thing. I will not go into a detailed answer to his question now, but the English etymologists could undoubtedly do so. Perhaps they will say that the word "jackit" owes its origin to some skillful tailor or old fashionista named Jack; it may be assumed that it was born from the term "jake" (jake), which once meant first a leather fur for wine, a wineskin, and then the cut of military outerwear. Maybe it came from the French language, where there is a similar word "jacket" (originally "muzhitsky" - "Zhakov", that is, "Yashkin" - half-caftan, common dress). Perhaps the solution will turn out to be completely different: that's their business.

We will now turn our attention to something else. Apparently, a linguist in every word, apart from its meaning, may be interested in his origin, its connection with other words, in whatever language they are present. But all this is good for those words that have there is a value... But what about those who no value, which don't mean anything?

Excuse me, but do words exist in the world without meaning, without meaning?

But see for yourself.

From word to name

Let's say you asked your friend: "Who's making noise in the yard?" A friend answers somewhat disrespectfully, but intelligibly: "Yes, so, one dilda ..." Or: "Ah! Some kind of nurse! "

I must say, you will instantly understand: in the first case, we are talking about a lanky man, in the second - about a certain crybaby. Try to look into any dictionary and read: “ Nyunya- a whiny, spineless person ... "The word" nurse "can even be simply replaced with the word" crybaby "- the meaning will hardly change. The same is with the "dylda". say "club" or "Kolomenskaya verst" - the meaning will remain the same.

Now imagine a different picture. You repeated your question: "Who is making noise in the yard?" - and heard the answer: "This is Vovka!" Do you understand your interlocutor? Still, great! But the question is, what exactly did you understand? What means word Vovka? Which meaning it has? Ponder, and you will begin to think that, perhaps, no one ... Perhaps this is not even a word at all.

Excuse me, why not a word ?! This is not only a word, this noun is no worse than others. It is in the singular. It is convenient to persuade him: “Vovka, Vovka, Vovka, Vovka ...” You can only say: “Vovka is sitting”; "Vovka are sitting" will be wrong. You can write: "dear Vovka", and "dear Vovka" is nonsense. This means that other words agree with "Vovka" according to all the rules: this is undoubtedly a word. And still meaning he has absolutely none!

So that such a statement does not seem rash to you, let's take a deeper look. When a word has a meaning, we can always express this meaning more or less accurately with one or more other words. On reflection, each of them can also be translated into a foreign language. It is clear.

For example, the word "cart". It is easy to explain at least this way: it is a "wooden cart for the transport of heavy loads." Instead, you can pick up several close words that can partially replace it: "drogi", "pitching", "wagon", "arba" ... In French, "cart" will be "ball" (char), in German "wagen" ( Wagen), in Spanish “carro” (saggo), in Turkish “talika” or “araba” ... concepts your own word.

And try to do the same with our "Vovka". Try it explain me what "Vovka" is, or pass it on concept words of other languages.

Of course, Vovka is a boy. But after all, Petya, and Oleg, and Kimka, and even Bobochka are also boys. You cannot say, “I have two brothers; one is Vovka, and the other is a boy. " "Boy" and "Vovka" are not synonyms or antonyms.

Lev USPENSKY

YOU AND YOUR NAME

Knowledge and understanding

Two centuries ago, the great German master of words and thinker Lessing wrote:

This is the thought of the sage. But the same question comes to mind sometimes even to the ultimate simpleton.

Ha ha! - Mr. Platner, his drinking companion, shrugs indifferently. - The clown knows where from! Who can say that?

Hm! - Arpad is surprised. - Such a simple word! It must have come from somewhere.

Excuse me, but do words exist in the world without meaning, without meaning?

But see for yourself.

From word to name

Let's say you asked your friend: "Who's making noise in the yard?" A friend answers somewhat disrespectfully, but intelligibly: "Yes, so, one dilda ..." Or: "Ah! Some kind of nurse! "

And try to do the same with our "Vovka". Try it explain me what "Vovka" is, or pass it on concept words of other languages.

K niga about language, about a special, little-known, but extremely interesting area of linguistics - onomatology, the science of personal names of people.

What did the name mean and mean to a person? Why do some names live while others are outdated? You will learn about names - pagan and Christian, eastern and western, about the names of literary characters and heroes of past eras in this book. The author, operating now with amusing, now paradoxical and improbably sounding, but always scientifically accurate examples, talks about the origin of proper names, patronymics and surnames in our country and abroad.

From the author

Knowledge and understanding

Two centuries ago, the great German master of words and thinker Lessing wrote:

“It seems strange to me that we know not only things, but also the names of these things. Nevertheless, I want more: not just to understand the meaning of words, but also

know why they sound like this and not otherwise. "

This is the thought of the sage. But the same question comes to mind sometimes even to the ultimate simpleton.

Ha ha! - Mr. Platner, his drinking companion, shrugs indifferently. - The clown knows where from! Who can say that?

From word to name

Let's say you asked your friend: "Who's making noise in the yard?" A friend answers somewhat disrespectfully, but intelligibly: "Yes, so, one dilda ..." Or: "Ah! Some kind of nurse! "

I must say, you will instantly understand: in the first case, we are talking about a lanky man, in the second - about a certain crybaby. Try to look into any dictionary and read: “

A whiny, spineless person ... "The word" nurse "can even be simply replaced with the word" crybaby "- the meaning will hardly change. The same is with the "dylda". say "club" or "Kolomenskaya verst" - the meaning will remain the same.

Vovka? Which

meaning

it has? Ponder, and you will begin to think that, perhaps, no one ... Perhaps this is not even a word at all.

meaning

he has absolutely none!

I baptize and cross

Here is a glass

This water can be called

you need it to freeze beforehand

Otherwise, you get an error.

Your name is now

a girl

Then they will call you a citizen or even aunt. But it will happen

only after you change

Grow up. And no one will call you a student while you are still a schoolgirl: in order for a word to change, one must notice the change in the thing that it calls; is not it?

But here, for example, Alexei Maksimovich Peshkov from a certain time began to sign: “Maksim Gorky”. And everyone began to call him that, although he remained the same person.

It happens even more surprising. In France, in 1804, a girl was born, by the last name

Baptized her

She grew up and became a famous writer, but all her life she signed not Aurora Dudevant, but

Georges Sand

As if she were a man, Every cultured person knows about the writer Georges Sand, but far fewer people will answer you who she is.

Aurora Dudevant

Baptized, baptized, and this did not cause any inconvenience. Isn't it strange?

Or take the famous city, the capital of Norway. In ancient times it was called Oslo. In 1624 it was renamed Christiania, and in 1924 - again in Oslo. It is clear to everyone that this city did not change at all and in nothing at that moment when people calmly re-baptized it in a new way. And if you propose, for example, to call an elephant "rabbit" from tomorrow, your proposal will not win success, even if you promise to rename it "back to elephant" sometime later.

Difference or similarity

It would be convenient if confusing similarities were not combined with this conspicuous difference. Here are the names: Vasya, Shura, Oleg, Lev, Vera, Love. As for the first three, you cannot say anything new about them compared to what I have already told you: you also have no connection with any of them.

internal

meaning, no real meaning. What does Shura mean? Only Shura, and nothing more. Well, Sanya or Sasha ... Name - and that's it! It is quite understandable why in the old days, entering into "twinning", the named brothers easily and calmly changed their names: Shura became Vasya, Vasya - Shura; there were no inconveniences in this regard. No one was embarrassed when the German princess Sophia, having become the Russian empress, suddenly turned into Catherine (the Second). (Great, on a completely different occasion, notes V. B. Shklovsky in his book "Fiction Prose" (p. 476): "When we learn that a woman's name is Katerina, then all our knowledge about her is that she, probably a Christian ... ”So, no

meaning

in the name we do not find and cannot find.). The name is not the essence of a person, it costs nothing to change it. It would seem that it could not be otherwise.

However, the last three of the names I have named, each in its own way, violate this impression of simplicity and clarity.

Faith is a proper name, all our reasoning fully applies to it. Yes, but at the same time, "faith" is also a common noun. "Faith" is a property of one who believes or believes. The word "faith" can be translated into any language of the world without any difficulty: in French "faith" - "la foi"; in German, der Glauben, in Turkish, inan or itikat, and so on. It is not so difficult to find words that have exactly the opposite meaning: "disbelief", "atheism", "doubt" ... But try to find a word with

opposite

meaning to the name Oleg!

It turns out that "faith" can be simultaneously (or alternately) both a proper and a common noun. But then how should we understand this: is it one word or two different, albeit coinciding in sounds? Are both of them related to each other by a common origin? Maybe one of them came from the other? But if so, which word is parent and which word is child?

"Vera" is, of course, no exception. The same questions arise in connection with

YOU AND YOUR NAME

Homer and Gogol

These are the sonorous verses that the great Elder Homer once narrated about human names. Well, what then? Thousands of years have passed, and what he said remains true even now.

And today a person carries the name through his whole life, takes it with him even to the grave. It also happens: the bones of the deceased will crumble to dust, the monument erected over the grave will collapse, the clan and tribe will cease, and the most fragile, most volatile of everything that the deceased once had, his sonorous name, still lives and flutters around the world.

How do the elders choose the younger ones, newborns, their names? From what reserves does mankind draw these sweet treasures?

Let's leave Homer, remember Gogol:

“… Akaki Akakievich was born against the night, if only his memory serves, on March 23… The mother was given a choice of any of three [names], which she wants to choose: Mokiya, Sossia, or to name the child in the name of the martyr Khozdazat.

Russian foreigners

Take the name Aleksey (in the calendar it is written: Alexy (Orthodox Christians called the holy calendar a church book containing months (calendar), compiled in the order of months and days of the year, to which the church has timed the religious celebration of each saint. This was necessary because it was accepted " to name the babies after that of the saints whose memory fell on the birthday of this child. A girl was born on March 1 - to be Antonina or Evdokia; a boy was born on April 23 (old style) - he will have to bear the name of George.

Gradually, this rule ceased to be strictly observed: names began to be chosen according to the taste of parents, like Akaki Bashmachkina in Gogol.).). Try to guess which Russian word has the same root with it. Wasted labor; no matter how much you search in dictionaries, you will not find anything similar. The only scientific term in the encyclopedia is the alexin. What does it mean? This is the name of the special substances contained in the blood. Why are they so named? Because their purpose is to protect the body from harmful microbes, and

in greek

the verb "alexo" means "I protect." The word "alexin" was not in Greece, it was our contemporaries who artificially created it from ancient parts; so they do it all the time. But if it were there, it would mean something like "protective substance".

The question has been resolved: our name Alexy is taken from the Greeks; it means "protector, guardian". The name Andrei turns out to be the same Greek word: “andreyos” in Greece meant “masculine, courageous”. And if so, it is not difficult to understand the meaning of another of our names - Alexander: it is composed of two parts: Alex (protection) + andr (male) and can be translated as “courageous warrior” (that is, a brave warrior).

So what happens? The most familiar Russian names to us are no more than accustomed foreigners, the ancient Greeks. Calling some Trifillia Mokievich by name and patronymic, you did not even suspect that it really means "Trefoil Mockery". Reading Krylov's fable about Demyan and Foka, could you think that Foka is a "seal" and Damian is a "tamed" one? Even greeting the physics teacher: "Petr Nikitich, hello!" - you, in fact, say: "Hello, Kamen Pobeditelevich!"

There is no need to be surprised: since for some reason we, Russian people, have names that are non-Russian in origin, alien in sounds, there is certainly no way to avoid misunderstandings. Here, for example, is one curiosity.

Fedor = Ivan, Ivan = Matvey

Strange equality: how can "Vanya" mean "Fedya"? Before, however, we are indignant, let us understand the origin of these three names, adding to them also Bogdan.

The word "Fedor" used to be written: "Theodore" Then it was exactly like the Western European Theodore. This is natural: both are taken from the Greek language, and among the Greeks their letter Θ was read differently at different times, in ancient times as "tx", later as "f". We, through Byzantium, took it in the sound "f", Western peoples began to depict it in the Latin way, like "th".

Therefore our Theodore and the foreign Theodor are simply two different pronunciations of the same Greek word-name; looking closely, you can understand that it consists of two parts: "Theo + + dor".

What can "Theo" mean? This is easy to grasp if you compare with him such words as "theology + science" (the science of God), "theo + cratia" (divine rule), "a-theism" (godlessness). "Teos" (or "Theos") in Greek is god. And Theodore (Theodore) is a "gift from God." In the same way, all the names containing these syllables "theo" or "pheo" are associated with the concept of god, deity. We have a lot of them: Timo-Fey (Timotheos) (God-fearing), Theophil (God-lover), Theodosy (given by God), etc. (See the list of names at the end of the book (p. 242 ff.) .).

This means that Theodore is “God's gift” in Greek. But “Ivan” (more precisely, Yohanaan) is the same “God's gift”, but in Hebrew.

Hawk claws

Think of Fenimore Cooper's novel The Pathfinder; you will certainly remember his hero, a noble and stern Indian-hunter, named Montigomo. They say that the name in Indian means: "Hawk's claw."

It doesn't matter if this translation is accurate: names like this are indeed typical of the American Indian tribes. This is natural: the claws of a hawk are sharp, terrible to both the enemy and prey. It is understandable why the warrior and trapper-tracker calls his son "Hawk's Claw": after all, even today, Soviet pilots do not mind if they - fighters - are called "hawks" with affectionate familiarity.

North American Indians are a people with an extraordinary history: in the 18th, and even in the first half of the 19th century, they lived in the "Stone Age", which for our ancestors passed millennia ago. Their lives were studied by people of science; Friedrich Engels judged by it about the life of mankind at the dawn of history. Many novels and poems have been written about them; complex, outlandish-sounding names are abundant there. Listening to them, it is easy to understand: when an Indian needs to give a name to a child, he goes through the simplest, most common words of his language, listens to how they sound, ponders their meaning, and calmly makes the name that seems most appropriate.

In the novel "The Hunter" by the modern English writer Aldridge, the taciturn, hard-living trapper, Indian Bill, is depicted. But only the English call him Bill: they cannot pronounce his real Indian name. His tribesmen call him Huma-Humani; it means: "The first cloud in the sky." Beautiful name? Very beautiful; probably little Huma was the firstborn and favorite of his parents. Probably, there were no more beautiful children in the district, in their opinion ...

The famous naturalist writer Seton-Thompson also has a wonderful hero, also a hunter, in many ways reminiscent of the familiar Dersu-Uzal gold from the books of V.K.Arseniev. The name of this calm, wise and unhappy man is Kuoneb. Thompson does not say anywhere what the word "Kuoneb" means, but he makes him think of the dead baby son; this baby was called "Wee-Wees" (Owlet, or Little Owl). Much tenderness and affection have been invested by Kuoneb and his sweet young wife in a name dear to them. Apparently, the big-eyed was this Wee-Whys; evidently, he turned his round head very funny, delighting and touching the young father and mother.

From the distant times

The ancient Europeans held the wolf in high esteem: he was the master of the forest; who could then guarantee whether people will prevail over the gray flocks? To make the name of such a terrible beast seemed quite honorable. And when a word becomes a name, it remains for a long time, even if the world around changes and the reasons that elevated the name disappear.

This is not enough; our ancestors treated the name differently from you and me. What is it for us? A simple nickname, and nothing more. And they believed: the name given to a person is not just stuck to him by the random whim of his parents, it merges with the person; who will say which is more important - the person or his name?

This was natural: then every word was still regarded as a spell with a dangerous mysterious power.

For example, the most terrible, strongest animal lives in the forest, the one that can walk on its hind legs. Let's say my tribe named it like this: Brown. We must beware of uttering this dangerous name in vain: you will pronounce it inadvertently, and after him his master will appear to you. Better, let's call the monster in some other way: we will understand everything about whom we are talking about, and he himself will not know. Let's call him at least Kosolapy, or Toptygin, or even Lesny. In our word "bear", which means "one who eats honey", the memory of this distant past has survived to this day: it was once just such a second, spare name of the fierce master of the forest.