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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 17/10/2019, SPi
L I B R A R I E S BE F O R E A L E X A N D R I A
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 17/10/2019, SPi
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 17/10/2019, SPi
Libraries before
Alexandria
Ancient Near Eastern Traditions
Edited by
KIM RYHOLT
and
G O J K O B A RJ A M O V I C
1
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 17/10/2019, SPi
3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
United Kingdom
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford.
It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship,
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© Oxford University Press 2019
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted
First Edition published in 2019
Impression: 1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted
by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics
rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the
above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
address above
You must not circulate this work in any other form
and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Data available
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019952282
ISBN 978–0–19–965535–9
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780199655359.003.0001
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CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and
for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials
contained in any third party website referenced in this work.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 17/10/2019, SPi
Preface
Contents
Map
Figures
1.1. Egyptian scribal statue of a high official from the Kushite period,
late eighth century
© Trustees of the British Museum 11
1.2. Papyri with samples of different scripts
Images courtesy of the Papyrus Carlsberg Collection 13
1.3. Ostraca with samples of different scripts
(a) Image courtesy of the National Museum of Denmark
(b and c) Images courtesy of the Papyrus Hauniensis
Collection 14
1.4. Egyptian scribal palette of wood with reed pens
© Trustees of the British Museum 17
1.5. Broken cuneiform tablets that show how objects were prepared
for writing
Photos by K. Wagensonner and courtesy of the Yale Babylonian
Collection 18
1.6. Different tablet types and formats through history
Tablets a–b: photos by K. Wagensonner and courtesy of the Yale
Babylonian Collection. Writing board: photo courtesy of the
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York 20
1.7. Examples of re-used papyri
Images courtesy of the Papyrus Carlsberg Collection 23
1.8. Clay tablet, still in the ground, excavated in 2009 by Prof. Kulakoğlu
and his team from Ankara University at the site of Kültepe in Turkey
Photo by Fikri Kulakoğlu and courtesy of the Kültepe Excavations 24
1.9. Tablets bearing colophons for identification or collection provenience
Photos and drawings by K. Wagensonner and courtesy of the Yale
Babylonian Collection 29
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 17/10/2019, SPi
Whilst every effort has been made to secure permission to reproduce the
illustrations, we may have failed in a few cases to trace the copyright holders. If
contacted, the publisher will be pleased to rectify any omissions at the earliest
opportunity.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 17/10/2019, SPi
List of Tables
List of Contributors
Map 1. Map of Egypt and Western Asia showing the location of libraries
and assemblages of literary manuscripts discussed in the book.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 17/10/2019, SPi
Another random document with
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'When you have finished with those vile calumnies, Messire...' began
Jacqueline coldly.
He released her wrist, having had his say, felt triumphant and elated too
because she had been forced, in spite of herself, to listen to him. Hers was
an intensely mobile face, with sensitive brow and lips that readily betrayed
her thoughts and emotions; and, as he had said very pertinently, the eyes of
hate are sharper than those of love. He had studied her face while he was
pouring the pernicious poison into her ear. He saw that poison filtrating
slowly but surely into her brain. For the moment she looked scornful, aloof,
dignified; but she had listened; she had not called to her servants; she had
not even made a second attempt to escape. Eve once listened to the smooth
persuasion of the serpent; Elsa heard to the end what Ortrude had to say,
and Jacqueline de Broyart, her soul still vibrating in response to Gilles de
Crohin's passionate love, had not closed her ears to de Landas' perfidy.
The serpent, having shed his venom, was content. He was subtle enough
not to spoil the effect of his rhetoric by any further words. Obviously
Jacqueline no longer heard him. Her thoughts were already far away,
wandering mayhap in those labyrinthine regions to which a miscreant's
blind hatred had led them. He turned on his heel and left her standing there,
still dignified and scornful. But there was that in her pose, in the glitter of
her eyes and the set of her lips, which suggested that something of her
former serenity had gone. She still looked calm and indifferent, but her
quietude now was obviously forced; there was a tell-tale quiver round her
lips, the sight of which gave de Landas infinite satisfaction. In her whole
person there was still determination, valour and perfect faith; but it was
militant faith, the courage and trust of a woman fighting in defence of her
love—not the sweet tenderness of childlike belief.
And with an inward sigh of content, the serpent wriggled quietly away.
CHAPTER XX
It was a solemn hour wherein the fate of nations rested in the hand of
men, whilst God withheld His final decree. Gilles had kept his word to the
end. Madame la Reyne could be satisfied. He had put resolutely behind him
all thoughts of his dream and of his own happiness. His exquisite Jacqueline
had ceased to be aught but a vision of loveliness, intangible, and for him—
the poor soldier of fortune—for ever unattainable. For once in his life he
was thankful for the beneficence of the mask. At least he was spared the
effort of concealing the ravages which misery had wrought upon his face.
What the final struggle had cost him, no one would ever know; even Maître
Jehan had been shut out from the narrow room, wherein a man's imprisoned
soul fought out the grim fight 'twixt love and duty.
When, an hour later, Messire called to his faithful henchman to help him
don his richest attire, the battle had been won. The man himself was left
heart-broken and bruised, a mere wreck of his former light-hearted self; but
honour and the sworn word had gained the day. Love lay fettered, passion
vanquished. God's will alone should now be done.
A great sigh of relief came from d'Inchy when Monsieur had pronounced
the final word which bound him irrevocably to the destinies of Flanders. He
and de Lalain bowed their heads almost to the ground. Gilles extended his
hand to them both and they each kissed it almost reverently.
'No Prince could wear a more glorious crown than that of the
Sovereignty of the Netherlands.'
Wearied to the very top of his bent, Messire did his best to bring the
interview to an end.
'And now, Messeigneurs,' he said at last, 'I will, by your leave, bid you
farewell. My Maître de Camp, Messire de Balagny, has, as you know,
arrived in Cambray. He will represent me here the while I go to rejoin my
armies.'
'Your Highness would leave us?' exclaimed d'Inchy with a frown. 'So
soon?'
'Then the sooner I go ... and return to claim my bride,' rejoined Gilles
dryly, 'the better it will be for us all.'
'Yes, Monseigneur—but——'
'But what?'
'The people of Cambray will wish to see Your Highness with Madame
Jacqueline by your side—her hand in yours—in token of an irrevocable
pledge.'
'Starving people care little for such flummery, Messire. They will prefer
to see the sentimental ceremony when mine armies have driven the foe
from their city's gates.'
'But——'
'Ah, ça, Messeigneurs!' suddenly queried Gilles with growing
impatience. 'Do you, perchance, mistrust me?'
The protest which came from the two Flemish lords in response to this
suggestion was not perhaps as whole-hearted as it might have been. Gilles
frowned beneath his mask. Here was a complication which he had not
foreseen. He could part from Jacqueline—yes!—he could tear her sweet
image from out his heart, since she could never become his. He could play
his part in the odious comedy to the end—but only on the condition that he
should not see her again or attempt to carry through the deception which, in
her presence, would anyhow be foredoomed to failure.
This in its turn had the effect of stiffening Gilles' temper. He felt like a
gambler now, whose final stake was in jeopardy.
This final 'either—or' was a bold stroke, no doubt: the losing gambler's
last throw. If the Flemings demurred, all was lost. Gilles, by an almost
superhuman effort, contrived to remain outwardly calm, keeping up that air
of supercilious carelessness which had all along kept the Flemish lords on
tenterhooks. Obviously the tone had aroused their ire, just as it had done
many a time before, and Gilles could see well enough that a final
repudiation of the whole bargain hovered on M. d'Inchy's lips. But once
again the counsels of prudence prevailed; the implied 'take it or leave it,' so
insolently spoken by Monsieur, had the effect of softening the two men's
obstinacy. Perhaps they both felt that matters had anyhow gone too far, even
for a man of Monsieur's vacillating temperament to withdraw from the
bargain with a shred of honour. Be that as it may, when Gilles rejoined a
moment or two later with marked impatience: 'Which is it to be, Messire? Is
a Prince of the House of Valois not to be trusted to keep his word?' d'Inchy
replied quite glibly:
'You are more than gracious, Messire,' said Gilles, who had some
difficulty in disguising the intense relief which he felt. 'As you know, my
Maître de Camp, Messire de Balagny, is in Cambray now. He will be my
representative during my brief absence.'
After that, little more was said. Formal leave-taking took up the last few
minutes of this momentous interview. Gilles had some difficulty in
concealing his eagerness to get away: a dozen times within those same few
minutes he was on the point of betraying himself, for indeed it seemed
ludicrous that the Duc d'Anjou should be quite so eager to go. However, the
two Flemings were in a distinctly conciliatory mood now. They appeared to
desire nothing save the keeping of His Highness' good graces.
'Monseigneur will remember that Cambray is on the edge of starvation!'
said d'Inchy earnestly at the last.
'Give me three months, Messire,' rejoined Gilles lightly, 'and her joy-
bells will be ringing for her deliverance.'
'And a proud one for me, Messire,' concluded Gilles solemnly. 'For the
Prince of the House of France will not lead his bride to the altar empty-
handed. The freedom of the Netherlands will be her marriage-portion.'
II
They kissed the gracious hand which was extended to them; they bent
the knee and took leave of their exalted guest with all the ceremonial due to
his rank.
But the moment that Gilles had finally succeeded in effecting his escape,
and even before his firm footstep had ceased to echo along the corridors of
the Palace, a complete change took place in the demeanour of these two
noble lords.
Monseigneur the governor drew inkhorn, pen and paper close to him,
with almost feverish haste; then he began to write, letter after letter, while
his friend watched him in silence. For over half an hour no sound was heard
in tie room save the ceaseless scratching of d'Inchy's pen upon the paper.
Only when half a dozen letters were written and each had been duly signed
and sealed did de Lalain make a remark.
'You are sending out orders for a holiday to-morrow?' he asked.
'And orders to de Landas not to allow any one to leave the city?'
'Yes.'
Then, as de Lalain made no reply, since indeed that reply was obvious,
d'Inchy went on, in a quick, sharp tone of command:
'Will you see the Chief Magistrate yourself, my good de Lalain? Explain
to him just what we have in contemplation. A reception in the Town Hall,
the presence of the Provosts of the city and of the Mayors of the several
guilds; the announcement of the betrothal to be read to the people from the
balcony. The Provosts must see to it that there is a large concourse of
people upon the Grand' Place and that the whole city is beflagged by ten
o'clock in the morning, and wears an air of general festivity.'
D'Inchy then rang the bell and summoned one of his special messengers
to his presence. As soon as the man appeared, he gave him one of the letters
which he had just written.
The man retired, and when d'Inchy was once more alone with his friend,
he added complacently:
When the two old cronies finally took leave of one another, they had
prepared everything for their next day's box of surprise. A surprise it would
be for everybody, and Monseigneur d'Inchy could indeed congratulate
himself on the happy cannon-shot which he would fire off on the morrow,
and which would wake this sad and dormant city from its weary
somnolence. The alliance with the Royal House of France would prove a
splendid stimulus for the waning courage of the people, whilst a fickle
Valois Prince would at the same time learn that it is not easy to play fast and
loose with a nation that was ruled by such diplomatic and determined men
as were M. le Comte de Lalain and Monseigneur d'Inchy, governor of
Cambray.
III
De Landas crushed the welcome letter in his hand in the excess of his
joy. He could have screamed aloud with unholy rapture.
IV
It was a dark and stormy evening after a brilliant day; and some time
after the cathedral bell had struck the hour of ten, Messire de Landas,
commanding the town garrison, was making the round of the city gates.
He had his man, Pierre, with him—a fellow well known to the guard. At
the gate of Cantimpré, Messire desired that the bridge be lowered, for he
wished to assure himself that everything was as it should be, over on the
right bank of the river. Far away to the right and left, the lights of the Duke
of Parma's encampment could be distinctly seen. The archers at the gate
begged Messire not to venture too far out into the darkness, for the Spanish
patrols were very wide-awake, and they were like cats for sighting a man in
the dark. But Messire thought it his duty to cross the bridge, and to see if all
was well on the other side. He refused to take a bodyguard with him in case
the Spanish patrols were on the alert. Messire de Landas was known to be
very brave; he preferred to take such risks alone.
The archers kept a sharp look-out. But the night was very dark, a
veritable gale was blowing from the south-west, and the driven rain was
blinding. Messire crossed the bridge with Pierre, after which the darkness
swallowed them both up.
Ten minutes later, the guard at the gate, the archers and gunners, heard
the sharp report of two musket shots, following closely upon one another,
and coming from over the right bank of the river. Trembling with anxiety,
they marvelled if Messire were safe. The sheriff, who had no special orders
from the commandant to meet the present eventuality, did not know what to
do. He was ready to tear out his hair in an agony of apprehension. Had it
not been quite so dark he would have sent out a search-party, for Messire
still tarried. But, as it was, his men might fall straight into a guet-apens and
be massacred in the gloom, without doing any good to any one. Skilled and
able-bodied men were becoming precious assets in Cambray: their lives
could not be carelessly jeopardized.
No one really cared about Pierre. Messire de Landas and his gang were
not popular in Cambray. But the incident had been rendered weird and
awesome by the darkness and the bad weather, and Messire's obstinacy in
venturing out so far.
'I had my suspicions aroused to-day,' he said, 'by something which our
spies reported to me, that the Spaniards contemplated one of their famous
surprise attacks under cover of this murky darkness. So I was determined to
venture on the Bapaume Road and see if I could discover anything. Pierre
insisted on coming with me. We kept our eyes and ears open and crawled
along in the ditch on hands and knees. Suddenly we were fired on without
any warning. I lay low under cover of the ditch, not moving, hardly
breathing, and thought that Pierre was doing likewise. I heard the Spanish
patrols move noiselessly away. Then I crept out of my hiding-place, almost
surprised at finding myself alive. I called softly to Pierre, but received no
answer; then I groped about for him. Presently I found him. He had been
shot twice—through the back—and must have died on the instant.'
The story was plausible enough, nor did any one doubt it. The men cared
so little about Pierre, who was overbearing and surly. But what had actually
happened was vastly different.
'You will conduct my servant at once before His Highness the Duke of
Parma,' Messire de Landas said to the man in command of the patrol.
And to Pierre he added in a whisper: 'All that you have to do when you
see His Highness is to give him this letter from me and tell him that we are
quite prepared for to-morrow.'
He gave Pierre a letter, then ordered the patrol to fire a couple of musket-
shots. After which, he waited for a few minutes, and finally returned alone
to the city gate.
CHAPTER XXI
I
Jacqueline was sitting in the self-same deep window-embrasure from
whence she had listened—oh, so long ago!—to that song, which would for
ever remain for her the sweetest song on earth:
Only a few hours had gone by since she had reached the sublimal height
of ecstatic happiness—only a few hours since she had tasted the bitter fruit
of renunciation. Since then she had had a good cry, and felt better for it; but
since then also she had encountered a venomous reptile on her way, and had
been polluted by its touch.
Even to suggest that Jacqueline's pure faith in the man she loved had
been troubled by de Landas' insidious suggestions, would be to wrong her
fine and steadfast character. She did not mistrust her knight; for her he still
stood far above the base calumnies hurled at him by a spiteful rival; but,
somehow, de Landas' venom had succeeded in making her sorrow more
acute, less endurable. Oh! if only she could have shared with her beloved all
his secrets and his difficulties, if only he had thought her worthy of his
entire trust!
Words which he had spoken ere he finally went away rang portentously
in her ear—ominous words, which she had not heeded at the moment, for
her heart was then over-full with the misery of that farewell, but which now
took on, despite herself, a menacing and awesome significance.
With frowning brows and hands tightly clasped together, Jacqueline sat
there, motionless, the while memory called back those words which in very
truth did fill her heart with dread.
'If within the future,' Messire had said, 'aught should occur to render me
odious in your sight, will you at least remember that, whatever else I may
have done that was unworthy and base, my love for you has been as pure
and sacred as is the love of the lark for the sun.'
He had gone after that—gone before she could ask him for an
explanation of these ununderstandable words, before she could affirm her
perfect faith and trust in him. Then the memory of them had faded from her
ken, merged as it was in her great, all-embracing sorrow, until the wand of a
devilish magician had brought them forth from out the ashes of
forgetfulness, and she was left more forlorn than she had been before.
II
Monseigneur the governor found her in the late afternoon, still sitting in
the window embrasure, the large, lofty room in darkness, save for the fitful
glow of the fire which was burning low in the monumental hearth. The
patter of the rain against the window panes made a weird, melancholy
sound, which alone broke the silence that hung upon the place with an eerie
sense of desolation. Monseigneur shuddered as he entered.
'You and your good news are right welcome, Monseigneur,' responded
Jacqueline with a pathetic effort at gaiety. 'I was out in the garden most of
the day,' she continued composedly, 'and was resting for awhile in the
gathering dusk, as this awful weather hath made it impossible to go out
again.'
He was obviously nervy and excited, paced up and down the room in a
state of nerve-tension, very unlike his usual dignified self. Jacqueline, a
little puzzled, obeyed him promptly. She rang the bell and ordered Nicolle
to send in the candles, and while the women busied themselves about the
room, disposing candelabra upon the tables and consols, she watched her
guardian keenly. He certainly appeared strangely excited, and now and then
he darted quick, inquiring glances upon her, and when she met those
glances, he smiled as if in triumph.
'Let us sit by the fire, my dear,' he said genially, after he had dismissed
Nicolle and the women with an impatient gesture. 'I came to see you alone
and without ceremony, because I wished for the selfish pleasure of
imparting my good news to you myself.'
She sat down in the tall chair beside the fire, and Monseigneur sat
opposite to her. She had on a dress of dark-coloured satin, upon the shiny
surface of which the flickering firelight drew quaint and glowing
arabesques. She rested her elbow on the arm of her chair and leaned her
head against her hand, thus keeping her delicate face in shadow, lest
Monseigneur should note the pallor of her cheeks and the tear-stains around
her eyes. But otherwise she was quite composed, was able to smile too at
his eagerness and obvious embarrassment.
It was his turn to study her keenly now, and he did so with evident
pleasure. Not so very many years ago he, too, had been a young gallant,
favoured by fortune and not flint-hearted either where women were
concerned. He had buried two wives, and felt none the worse for that, and
still ready to turn a compliment to a pretty woman, and to give her the full
measure of his admiration. He would have been less than a man now, if he
had withstood the charm of the pretty picture which his ward presented, in
the harmonious setting of her high-backed chair, and with the crimson glow
of the fire-light turning her fair hair to living gold.
'Put down your hand, Jacqueline,' he said, 'so that I may see your pretty
face.'
'My head aches sadly, Monseigneur,' she rejoined with a pathetic little
sigh, 'and mine eyes are heavy. 'Tis but vanity that causes me to hold my
hand before my face.'
'Neither headaches nor heavy eyes could mar the beauty of the fairest
lily of Flanders,' he went on with elaborate gallantry. 'So I pray you humour
me, and let me see you eye to eye.'
'And why should Monseigneur desire to see a face, every line of which
he knows by heart?'
He leaned forward in his chair and said slowly, keeping his eyes fixed
upon her:
She made no reply, but sat quite still, her face turned toward the fire,
presenting the outline of her dainty profile to the admiring gaze of her
guardian. Monseigneur was silent for a moment or two, was leaning back in
his chair once more, and regarding her with an air of complacency, which
he took no pains to disguise.
'It means the salvation of the Netherlands!' he said with a deep sigh of
satisfaction. 'We can now count on the whole might of France to rid us of
our enemies, and after that to a long era of prosperity and of religious
liberty, when Madame Jacqueline de Broyart shares with her lord the
Sovereignty of the Netherlands.'
Jacqueline remained silent, her aching eyes fixed in the hot embers of
the fire. So the blow had fallen sooner than she thought. When, in the
arbour, she had made her profession of faith before her knight, and told him
that she belonged not to herself but to her country, she did not think that her
country would claim her quite so soon. Vaguely she knew that some day her
guardian would dispose of her hand and fortune, and that she would have to
ratify a bargain made for her person, for the sake of that fair land of
Flanders which was so dear to her. But awhile ago, all that had seemed so
remote; limitless time seemed to stretch out before her, wherein she could
pursue her dreams of the might-have-been.
Monseigneur's announcement—for it was that—came as a hammer-blow
upon her hopes of peace. She had only just wakened from her dream, and
already the bitter-sweet boon of memory would be denied to her. Stunned
under the blow, she made no attempt at defiance. With her heart dead within
her, what cared she in the future what became of her body? Since love was
denied her, there was always the altruistic sentiment of patriotism to
comfort her in her loneliness; and the thought of self-sacrifice on the altar
of her stricken country would, perhaps, compensate her for that life-long
sorrow which was destined to mar her life.
'No wonder you are silent, Jacqueline,' Monseigneur was saying, and she
heard him speaking as if through a thick veil which smothered the sound of
his voice; 'for to you this happy news comes as a surprise. Confess that you
never thought your old guardian was capable of negotiating so brilliant an
alliance for you!'
'Oh!' she said, with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders, 'my happiness
is not in question, is it? Else you would not propose that I should wed a
Prince of the House of Valois.'
'I am not so sure,' he replied, with a humorous twinkle in his old eyes.
'Monsieur Duc d'Anjou, is not—or I am much mistaken—quite the rogue
that mischievous rumour hath painted.'
'Let us hope, for my sake,' she retorted dryly, 'that rumour hath wronged
him in all particulars.'
'In one, at any rate, I'll vouch for that. Monsieur is more than commonly
well-favoured—a handsome figure of a man, with the air and the voice of a
soldier.'
'These past four weeks?' she exclaimed. 'But you have not been out of
Cambray.'
'Monsieur Duc d'Anjou hath been in Cambray?' she asked, 'these past
four weeks?'
He nodded.
'Without my knowledge?'