J. Winter once expanded on an interesting topic: how he met his wife.
Winter writes: "It had been a rough day, so when I walked into the party I
was very chalant, despite my efforts to appear gruntled and consolate. I
was furling my wieldy umbrella for the coat check when I saw her standing
alone in a corner. She was a descript person, a woman in a state of total
array. Her hair was kempt, her clothing shevelled, and she moved in a gainly
way. I wanted desperately to meet her, but I knew I'd have to make bones
about it since I was travelling cognito. Beknownst to me, the
hostess, whom I could see both hide and hair of, was very proper, so it
would be skin off my nose if anything bad happened. And even though I had
only swerving loyalty to her, my manners couldn't be peccable. Only toward
and heard-of behavior would do. Fortunately, the embarrassment that my
maculate appearance might cause was evitable. There were two ways about it,
but
the chances that someone as flappable as I would be ept enough to become
persona grata or a sung hero were slim. I was, after all, something to
sneeze at, someone you could easily hold a candle to, someone who usually
aroused bridled passion. So I decided not to risk it. But then, all at once,
for some apparent reason, she looked in my direction and smiled in a way that
I could make heads and tails of. I was plussed. It was concerting to see
that she was communicado, and it nerved me that she was interested in a
pareil like me, sight seen. Normally, I had a domitable spirit, but, being
corrigible, I felt capacitated---as if this were something I was great shakes
at---and forgot that I had succeeded in situations like this only a told
number of times. So, after a terminable delay, I acted with mitigated gall
and made my way through the ruly crowd with strong givings. Nevertheless,
since this was all new hat to me and I had no time to prepare a promptu
speech, I was petuous. Wanting to make only called-for remarks, I started
talking about the hors d'oeuvres, trying to abuse her of the notion that I was
sipid, and perhaps even bunk a few myths about myself. She responded well,
and I was mayed that she considered me a savory character who was up to some
good. She told me who she was. "What a perfect nomer," I said,
advertently. The conversation became more and more choate, and we spoke at
length
to much avail. But I was defatigable, so I had to leave at a godly hour. I
asked if she wanted to come with me. To my delight, she was committal.
We left the party together and have been together ever since. I have given
her my love, and she has requited it."
But the topic of this post is not so much how Winter met his wife, but how
couth he is about the whole affair.
The Etymology Online site tells us that 'couth', figuratively, "died out as
such 16c. with the emergence of could, but the old word was reborn 1896,
with a new sense of "cultured, refined," as a back-formation from uncouth."
As Grice would say, "How clever language is!"
Words of course don't die. Their spellings change though. Thus we read in
an entertaining passage by Malory (I'm quoting from p. 15 of the 2nd edition
by Vinaver):
"Than the kynge lette purvey for a grete feste,
and also he lette cry both turnementis and
justis thorowoute all his realme, and the
day appoynted and sette at Allhalowmasse.
And so the tyme drove on and all thynges
redy ipurveyed. The two noble kynges were
entirde the londe and comyn ovir the see with three
hondred knyghtes full well arrayed both for the
pees and also for the werre. And so royally
they were resceyved and brought towarde the cite of London.
And so Arthure mette them ten myle oute of London, and there was
grete joy made as couthe be thought."
That is,
i. There was great joy made as could be thought (to be, that is).
Turning too Vinaver's "Glossary" (as Alice would NOT say, "What's the good
of a book without a glossary), one finds:
can, v.;
couthe, cowth, couthe
cowde, cowude,
pret. to know; to know of; to have learnt -- "can thanke", express thanks.
Of course, the relationship between "couthe" and "uncouth" may interest a
few, especially if you have Bausch & Lomb in the 2-vol. edition OED.
The OED in the *"uncouth"* definition has "couth" meaning "known" rather
than "know." That is, an agent can be couth and know. An uncouth person, in
the modern "sense" (but be reminded -- "Do not multiply senses beyond
necessity") is someone who (seen objectively) doesn't know.
(A definition which would please Popper who is so much into 'objective
knowledge').
Thus, in the Mallory "sense", one might couth (that is "know") something.
And then something I don't know would be thus uncouth.
The first OED definition (or 'use' if you must) for "uncouth" is "not
certainly known, uncertain."
The second OED definition (or again, perhaps better, 'use', to follow
Witters) is "With which one is not acquainted or familiar."
Definition (or use) three is "of an unknown or unfamiliar character;
unusual; uncommon; strange."
Definition (or use) four is "of strange and unpleasant or distasteful
character."
If words don't "die" (but figuratively), the note on some of these
definitions being "obsolete", is otiose, seeing that language, as Chomsky
says, is
creative, and productive.
So back to Malory:
"and there was grete joy made as couthe be thought."
In modern spelling,
"as could be thought".
Why this connection of 'could' with 'know' in the 'uses' of 'couth' and
'uncouth'? The answer should be general enough to encompass all Germanic
languages. After all, in Cumberland, as Rupert Brooke said (in the biography by
Hassall), 'everybody knows, "Do you ken John Peele?", and every school boy
knows that in "Do you ken John Peele?", the modern spelling would be, "Do
you can John Peele?". Back again to Etymology Online, now on "can":
While English philosophers are obsessed with 'knowledge', Continental
philosophers (like Witters), who speak German, are obsessed with Erkenntnis,
i.e. 'can' and its conceptual analysis (the '-ken-' in Erknenntnis being
cognate with 'ken' in "John Peele").
The entry goes on for "can": Old English 1st & 3rd person singular present
indicative of "cunnan" (rendered roughly as "to know", "to have power to",
"to be able", and, ironically, in the Biblical sense (cfr. Woody Allen,
"Everything you always wanted to know about sex* *but were afraid to ask":
also "to have carnal knowledge" (or as Geary prefers, "literally, knowledge of
the flesh").
It's all, as Popper should know (or can know) from Proto-Germanic *kunnan
"to be mentally able, to have learned". Note the cognates in Old Norse (if
you speak it, "kenna", "to know, make known," Old Frisian kanna "to
recognize, admit" -- and cfr. Hazlitt, "Bread, butter, and green cheese: very
good
English, very good Friese"), German "kennen", "to know," Gothic "kannjan"
"to MAKE known"). Ultimately from a Proto-Indo-European root *gno- (which
happens to be cognate with the very English and philosophically loved lexical
item, "know").
Now, Winter is couth because, absorbs one use of "to know," that of "to
know how TO DO something" (in addition to "to know as a fact" and "to be
acquainted with" something or someone).
For the record, the Old English preterite-present verb, in its original
past participle, "couth," survived -- but only in its negation, "uncouth" (as
many other items do, as couth Winters can), but see also could.
The present participle has spun off as cunning.
But what about Malory's spelling? "couth". Of course, the 'th' is just the
rune, the thorn, "cuðe", the past tense of "cunnan."
And 'couth' becomes modern English 'could'.
As an adjective, which is not the way Malory uses it, 'couth' is Old
English cuðe "known," past participle of "cunnan", and the interesting thing,
to
some, is that this adjectival form is Proto-Germanic -- hypothetical form
*kunthaz (with found cognates in again Old Frisian "kuth", "known," Old
Saxon "cuth," Old High German "kund" -- whtich gives modern English German
"kund" -- as Witters does not use it) and Gothic "kunþs", "known".
But more about knowledge is found in Popper.
Cheers,
Speranza
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