LIETUVIŲ KALBOTYROS KLAUSIMAI XXXVII (1997)

LEKSIKOGRAFIJOS IR LEKSIKOLOGIJOS PROBLEMOS

Jonas KLIMAVIČIUS

WHAT IS THE LEXICON OF THE STANDARD LANGUAGE?

Conceptions, opinions, and prejudices. Dictionary practice and theory. Needs and problems of usage

This is merely an encouragement and a modest attempt to answer this question, especially its converse—what definitely is not, could not be, and most likely will not become part of the standard-language lexicon. The answer is sought by examining the principles and manifestos behind the creation and development of the standard language in this century, particularly in an effort to dispel widespread superficial opinions and prejudices, to bring face to face the theory and practice of the “Dictionary of Contemporary Lithuanian,” reviews (including those by the same reviewer), and the needs and problems of standard-language usage.

The question of what the l e x i c o n of the standard language is or could be had already arisen for Jonas Jablonskis in the first normative g r a m m a r of 1901. The answers—theoretical and practical—changed, developed, and diversified over nearly a century; they were never entirely clear, and there were even highly erroneous and unjustifiably optimistic views. There are different conceptions today as well, but perhaps we are now at the end of the tunnel. This depended and still depends on:

1) The late and difficult formation of the standard-language lexicon under unfavorable historical conditions: the consolidation of the nation, the restoration of the state, cultural life, and education; the uneven, sometimes contradictory development of the standard-language lexicon, certain stages of which were marked both by periods in the nation’s history and by stages, even phases, in the language itself, designated by different and truly non-equivalent terms—written, standard, literary, and standard again; designated by different constitutional statuses—state language, suppressed and corrupted by the occupiers’ Russian language, and now once again the state language; the very nature of the lexicon—it is in several respects more mobile, more changeable, and more open to dialects and borrowings than grammar, especially during the period of very rapid growth in the earliest formation and initial stages of the standard language; and the fact that our small but dialectally diverse nation (with numerous local varieties and enormous differences), affected by various forms of bilingualism (through dialects and directly through the standard language), has faced inter-dialectal and inter-language collisions—collisions between dialects and the standard language—that were so clear to Ferdinand de Saussure (Saussure 1977: 60, 231) but have been overlooked or stubbornly disregarded by some of our linguists. Supposedly, dialects only enrich, enrich as much and whenever they please, almost automatically—the claim is formulated with reckless confidence: the dictionary system is free; vocabulary is easily incorporated into the standard language from dialects.

2) The development of the standard-language lexicon and the lexicographic results achieved at its various stages—how these were reflected and established as a foundation for the next stage, or whether there was

20

a failure or delay (perhaps even a fateful one) in doing so. For after reaching the stage of a standard (no longer merely written) state language, we had no dictionary of it (indeed, no dictionary at all suited to the public, and scarcely even any bilingual dictionaries) to establish its norms and meet its needs. Was the nation unable to produce dictionaries and lexicographers? Unfortunately, yes, because the requirements were new and qualitatively different—the requirements of a standard-language dictionary. The need for one was understood; there were plans and preparations (a subject in its own right). There were also unfavorable subjective circumstances: the early loss of K. Būga, the burden placed on J. Jablonskis beyond his age and health, the scarcity of new talent, and the weakness and youth of lexicographic institutions. Objectively, standard-language theory began with grammar; synchronic linguistics was narrower in scope and less highly regarded than historical linguistics. It was only in the unfavorable year of 1954 that the “Dictionary of Contemporary Lithuanian” appeared—of contemporary, not standard, Lithuanian: the difference here is not merely formal, but factual as well. Is it also characteristic, and even fateful, for the standard language that the “Dictionary of International Words” came out first, in 1951—translated and non-normative, without the label ntk. (not recommended), which, though still inconsistently and insufficiently, was used only in the 1985 “Dictionary of International Words”? A huge, non-normative “Dictionary of International Words” had already been published in 1936; smaller ones had appeared even earlier. Is this not one of the considerable reasons why the standard language is so overrun with international words, which for several decades have been forcefully displacing Lithuanian words across a broad front in many fields?

Now let us consider everything in greater detail, in turn.

1. “If a word found only in other dialects is lacking in the dialect being written in, the writer must use that word, wherever he may find it; <...>; if the writer k n o w s that the word he uses will be understood d i f f e r e n t l y almost everywhere, he must, as far as he can, a d a p t to the readers and always t a k e c a r e that the majority understand him” (Jablonskis 1901:60; here and elsewhere, emphases in quotations are mine—J.K.). A perceptive program! Though we cannot quite see everything it entails: m u s t the writer know that his word might be understood differently? Probably. Jablonskis does not even discuss what happens if the word is entirely unknown: for him, the fact that it may be understood differently, incorrectly, is much more important. Practice has shown how perceptive Jablonskis was.

Who has devoted themselves to examining how this program fared and how writers adhered to it, including Jablonskis as an author and translator (and, separately, as a lexicographer)? It has been studied, but there are gaps; there is certainly no synthesis—the prevailing tendency is to congratulate ourselves on what worked, while the antithesis—what failed and w h y—is sorely lacking. Endless lamentation that something failed or is failing becomes tiresome when no thought is given to why. How much regret and lamentation there has been over the words tūlas, támsta; vėlinas; abūojas, -a! But this is exactly like the transformation of in songs brought by newcomers from the northern land of north winds into a narrow wind (Vitkauskas 1975: 64), as well as siūras, siūrus, šiūrus, sraujas (although LKŽ XIII explains it as: 2. “strong”), a šveras wind—except that here the word (along with the songs) passed from one dialect to another, whereas there it entered the standard language. Yet the same old objection was raised: “incomprehensible—understood differently,” and so the word was distorted: it was a dialect word, but in the standard language it became a meaning. The words north, a northerly land were not borrowed, because it has its own, foreign

21

does not even understand. Only now are eyes beginning to open to the fact that for the standard language, tūlas, tamsta, vedinas, abuoja were not considered essential. Yet when correcting usage, people are still taught what those words really mean. There is also another, perhaps more genuine, lesson: if you do not have a word in your own dialect and do not know it well, do not use it—do not make dialect speakers look foolish!

“Lithuania, it seems, is just a little bag (small), but whatever the house, that is how people talk” (Krūonis, LKŽ XI 793). Dialects and local speech varieties are a treasure; people are rich in words, and the lexicon is abundant. But if there is a shortage of brains (among the dim-witted), then there is also a shortage of lexical wealth. Sometimes inter-dialectal (or broader, even universal) clashes of meaning are noticed and wittily explained, for example: —Jonas, father fell off the roof. —Did he survive unharmed? —Unharmed, yes, but dead Klp (LKŽ VII 498). And the meaning of the word aplamas, “superficial; careless, foolish,” in DŽ₃ simply made a laughingstock of meaning 1, “general, whole,” in DŽ₁ and DŽ₂. It is time to speak seriously about excessive lexical wealth, which often becomes an unwieldy excess in the standard language.

Sometimes the dialectal meanings of a single word clash in the standard language like cats in a sack. Consider dōras in DŽ₃: 1. “moral” and 2. “suitable, good”: <...> There is no shortage of good food here. I am not in good health. It is not against the good that he rages. I do not know properly (well); and dora, 2. “suitable, goodness”: There won’t be good weather tomorrow (the weather will not improve). I wonder if things will go well with that patient (whether they will recover). To go into good condition (to get better). In the dialects, doras (and the noun dora) is used very widely in this way by Samogitians and some (northeastern) Aukštaitians, even as in: There’ll be no good anywhere Pn. My pigs won’t go into good condition, and that’s that Ut. I can’t bring the wood back in good condition Pc. However, the meaning “moral” of dora has died out in the dialects (Sb, Sim, Dkš; JR28, S. Dauk, M. Valanč; dora – SD, Grk, Užv), displaced by barbarisms (š)čyras, čystas, cnatlyvas, zgadnas, cekavas, while nedoras (“immoral”) is also displaced by šelmis, laidokas (ledokas), kurva; moreover, part of the semantics of doras is taken over by innocent, chaste, pure, clean, and part of the semantics of nedoras by ištvirkęs, pasileidęs (“depraved, dissolute”). That is why the meanings do not clash in the dialects. Is this really something we should fail to see, or is it difficult to discern?

Words should be assessed similarly: blōgas DŽ₃ 3. dialectal “lean, meagre,” 4. dialectal “weak (of a sick person)” (DŽ₂, DŽ₁ – not marked as dialectal); pýkinti 2. “to make someone vomit”; bérgždžias 3. figurative “empty, producing no results”; gáuti 2. “to have to, be obliged to”: You’ll have to go to the forest. He had to call a doctor; pagauti “to begin, set off”: Everyone started running [but they caught them too]. Does it tell us nothing that Žemaitė herself once wrote: Because of you I had to carry it all that way myself?

This is a broad subject, but it is already possible to conclude that Jablonskis’s injunction was not followed with sufficient consistency. If these words are no longer understood differently today, then at least they are not understood entirely, easily, or by everyone; they confuse and unsettle people. Or people do not understand why they are used: why nieko doro, rather than nieko gero; why blogas, rather than liesas; why pykina, rather than šleikštu; why bergždžias darbas, rather than tuščias darbas; why gavo bėgti, rather than turėjo bėgti; why pagavo bėgti, rather than ėmė or šoko bėgti. These dialectal meanings have become more frequent in written texts, and people ask: why? Is this really how the words should be used? Look, someone will take it upon themselves to correct nieko gero to nieko doro... Of course, those dialectal meanings have got one foot into the standard language,

22

but they are mostly bookish in it. This has not yet been discussed, or even touched upon, so it will certainly seem paradoxical to many that a dialectal feature becomes a fact of bookish style in the standard language. Yet in reality its usage status changes fundamentally. In a standard-language dictionary, the label bookish would certainly be more appropriate for such “dialectal” meanings and would guide users (especially those with no dialect) more accurately than dialectal. Nor should such meanings be multiplied hastily and indiscriminately: if in some dialect there is a p a d ė v ė t a s tractor, that is merely a dialectal form, whereas in the standard language it is (pa) used.

In a standard-language dictionary, it is useful to include such meanings only for ethnographic terms, for example: márška ethnographic: 1. “a coarse cloth for carrying fodder, wood chips, or other loose items; the quantity carried in it,” 2. eastern dialect, Dzūkian “sheet,” 3. eastern dialect, Dzūkian “bedspread,” 4. Dzūkian, eastern dialect “woven mat,” 5. eastern dialect, Dzūkian “tablecloth,” 6. Samogitian “towel,” 7. western dialect “a small net, pulled by two people, without a pocket, with two wings”; skara 1. “a shawl worn by women to cover the head or shoulders,” 2. Samogitian “rag (usually poor-quality), tatter,” 3. Samogitian “swaddling cloth,” 4. collective, Samogitian “bundle”: This year the flax has produced a good skara, a kerchief; skepeta 1. “a shawl worn” [notice how even the definition needs a qualifier—worn!], 2. eastern dialect “a piece of cloth, rag (usually poor-quality), dishcloth, wiping cloth” (skarelė “a smaller shawl for tying around the head or neck,” skepetaitė “kerchief,” while skepetėlė 1. “kerchief,” 2. dialectal “a piece of cloth; handkerchief”); būtas 1. “a part of a house consisting of one or several rooms and a kitchen,” 2. dialectal “residential house, cottage, hut,” 3. Samogitian “any building, structure”; sprágilas 1. ethnographic “a threshing tool—a flail attached to a handle,” 2. eastern dialect “the flail’s striking part,” 3. <…>; spragilinė 1. Dzūkian “flail handle,” 2. eastern dialect “flail’s striking part”; siaustuvė 1. eastern dialect “flail handle,” 2. Samogitian, see swaddling cloth. This is how it appears in DŽ₃. However, “Dictionary of the Lithuanian Standard Language” could still include at least some dialectal markers, at least until the standard language has become consolidated and its lexicon has stabilized. Besides ethnographic terms, perhaps the most striking textbook examples should not be avoided: skujà 1. “a pine or spruce needle,” 2. dialectal “a pine twig,” 3. dialectal “pine cone” [DŽ₂, see pine cone], 4. eastern dialect “fish scale” [DŽ₃, see scale, sriegas (of a fish)] DŽ₃ [whereas DŽ₂ has no dialectal labels]; gróbas 1. Aukštaitian “rib,” 2. Samogitian “intestine” DŽ₃ [DŽ₂ and DŽ₁: 1. “rib,” 2. Samogitian “intestine”; but would grobas be a standard-language word?]; sėti 3. dialectal “to plant (potatoes)” DŽ₃ [essentially the same in DŽ₁ and DŽ₂]; širdingas 3. dialectal “angry, hasty” DŽ₃ [eastern dialect in DŽ₁ and DŽ₂]; smagùs 5. Samogitian “heavy” [also DŽ₁; DŽ₂ – 6.]. And for the standard-language user without a dialect, this would, beyond its practical benefit, be a reminder that the standard language did not spring from stone...

2. “It is generally said that only the great writers create the written language, cultivate it, and refine it. There is much truth in this. But the pace of life today does not wait for the slow influence of even a good writer. We need language cultivation from outside, deliberate cultivation,” says the manifesto “Beginning the Work,” published in the first issue of “Gimtoji kalba” (GK 1933 1). The term language cultivation is by no means accidental here, although it is not explicitly defined. The fact is noted and mentioned, but not discussed or evaluated in depth. Seeing clearly the roots of this term among neighboring peoples, we should—

23

It would be possible to associate the gates with the already-mentioned collision between Saussure’s conception of the standard language as a product of culture and dialects as belonging to the sphere of nature (Saussure 1977: 60). “Gimtoji kalba” therefore stresses that it is not content with correcting errors: “We need not a handful of language correctors, but to teach language to society itself” (GK 1933 1). Accordingly, the manifesto speaks more about cultivating a cultural language: “We look at language sociologically. Language, like other phenomena of communal life, is subject to the same social laws. Therefore, for us, the language of the people is not an absolute measure of language culture [i.e., standard]; in our view, cultural language can only be cultivated from it. Thus, ‘Gimtoji kalba’ will be concerned not only with the humaneness [i.e., popular character?] of the standard language, but also with its cultural progressiveness. At times we do not value at all the surplus [i.e., superfluous] formal variety [i.e., abundance of forms; not sexuality...] and lexical richness (the names for storks!) of the language” (GK 1933 2). Gandro’s story in the standard language is not without ambition, and is accompanied by a difficult problem of purity. An example without any shadows is the unproblematic resolution by the language itself of the codification of the loanword grybas, by pruning inherited words kremblys and budis as excess baggage (for the ingenious attempt to save the word budis for the standard language with the specialized meaning ‘some kind of fly agaric mushroom,’ the dialectal basis in DŽ₃ is not enough—somewhat broader usage in the standard language is also needed).

Perhaps it would be appropriate to give at least one example of the cultivation of cultural language. One of the more striking examples, where a word from the language of the people is not simply transferred into the system of the standard language, but is cultivated into a necessary expressive unit, is this: “But, perhaps, someone will say: kamšà does not correspond precisely to the concept of bū́na. One can answer such a person: did pirmininkas and viršininkas correspond either? For before the Great War our people generally spoke of the head of the reapers or estate farmhands, and the chief of the shepherds. They say that the people of Panevėžys even smiled from ear to ear when the first county governor was appointed for them. There is no need to fear supposed imprecision. Once a word is used, it will come to fit of its own accord” (A.S. – GK 1938 26–27). One can add here only the following: first, the dialects have many more meanings for pirmininkas—2. “<...>, steward,” 3. “<...>, leader,” 4. <...>; foreman,” 5. “shepherd at the head of the flock” || “shepherd,” 6. “what is best, of the first quality” || “first-brew, better beer” LKŽ X; second, pirmininkas and viršininkas were used in a smaller part of Lithuania, so not everyone had the occasion to smile; third, there is no collision of meanings in the standard language, since here they are unambiguous (DŽ₃, pirmininkas 2. and 3. are dialectal). The period of standard-language cultivation that had begun so successfully was cut short by occupation and genocide.

3. DŽ₁ was commissioned on 1953 03 18—Stalin was no longer in the Kremlin, but perhaps not yet in the Mausoleum. It was signed for publication on 1954 05 13. St.Keinys dated his “Preface” to DŽ₃ 1990 01 30 (I finished my roughly three years’ work in 1988, before the vacation). Although later, on 1992 05 19, 06 17 and 22, final meetings were still held on some semasiological words (whose semantics depend on pragmatics). Let us make use of the late Professor Edvardas Gudavičius’s permission to ask the question “what

24

would happen if it were possible.” Let us suppose that this chronicle of DŽ could begin at least in 1933 (earlier dates might confuse things too much). Perhaps such a 1933 DŽ would have met the fate of LKŽ I₁ and II₁, but there would already have been both fact and myth of a standard-language dictionary—a pretext for speaking about it both kindly and harshly (depending on whom one asks). That is all for the pragmatics of this DŽ chronicle.

The lexicographic situation in 1954 was as follows: only 2 volumes of the large LKŽ had been published, and they had been removed from the public’s philological horizon; in specialized lexicography, the only postwar publication was A.Novodvorskis’s “Technical Dictionary,” published in 1949, while prewar terminology dictionaries were available only in the LKŽ editorial office’s reference library. DŽ₁ had no c a r d f i l e o f i t s o w n; it was prepared from the card file of the large dictionary—a Herculean feat by the editors, but also a fundamental shortcoming of the compilation, one that has not been remedied to this day.

The Introduction to DŽ₁, §1 (section “Purpose and scope of the dictionary”), states: “<...> besides the language of written texts, also makes extensive use of the lexicon and phraseology of s p o k e n language. The dictionary <...> is intended to help people master the literary language, <...>.” §3: “In keeping with the Dictionary’s practical, normative character, it includes: 1) words from political, literary and scholarly works, provided that they are not too specialized and are not rare words used by individuals; 2) words from the language of the people and from various d i a l e c t s, w i d e l y a t t e s t e d in literature or needed to express certain concepts, e.g. buklus, skubrus, namiegas [in the Dictionary’s text: skubruš see skubus, while DŽ₂ and DŽ₃ show that the meanings differ!]. §4: “The Dictionary does not include: 1) technical words used narrowly and of little use to the literary language, e.g. šutrus ‘hot’ [although šutrą is included, and šutnųš is included], klūkti ‘to implore fervently’ [although the Dictionary’s text... does contain: klūkti in the lowlands 1. ‘to fish under the ice, to stun fish,’ 2. ‘to implore fervently, to beg’ (in fact, these are not two meanings but homonyms!)]. Thus, DŽ₁’s principle for including entries was: better to include more, let them claim a place in the standard language, compete with one another, and stand the test of time—which are ‘needed’ and which are ‘of little use.’ And ‘rare words used by individuals’ are apparently not such in dialects, but only in written texts. The influence of the large dictionary’s card file is obvious. DŽ₁ does not record the usage of the standard language; it creates it, supplying it with words from dialects, even in reserve and in excess.

The first reviewers of DŽ₁ also followed the path taken by DŽ₁. They tried to go even further: “It seems to us that a descriptive dictionary should also make room for rarer dialect words if they occur in the works of literary classics. Yet in the Dictionary the reader will find neither the words luinas, pylė, repukas... (Donelaitis), nor (iš)drėžėti, snopis... (Žemaitė), nor atvalka, kraiguoti, (nu)piepti, šušėti... (P.Cvirka), nor ydas, pakinys, panuovalis, tun kčiai... (A.Vienuolis), nor plaitytis, priebėga, slambyti, žiubis... (I.Simonaitytė), nor many other words from the language of the people found in the works of distinguished Lithuanian writers” (Grinaveckis 1955: 3). In fact, readers have to encounter those words somewhere in a classic or distinguished writer. But should they be in a standard-language dictionary if they are not words of the standard language? Do words from Donelaitis and Žemaitė belong in a dictionary of the c o n t e m p o r a r y language? The rapidly flourishing academic, school, and mass-market publishing of classical works found a good solution—

25

supplementary glossaries, for which dialect words, archaic words, neologisms, and foreign words are all equally suitable.

However, even a dozen years later, the editor responsible for the answers in DŽ₁ (and later DŽ₂) reflects: “One can include only those [dialect words] that are more widely used in belles lettres and spoken language, or for which literary language has no other equivalents” (Kruopas 1968: 3). What does “more widely used in belles lettres” mean? Words used by at least two writers—luinas ‘without horns, hornless’, pylė ‘duck’, tunčiai ‘cloths for wrapping around the legs’, slambyti ‘to wander about idly, to roam’—“have grounds for inclusion,” whereas words used by a single writer—snopis ‘bumpkin, gaper’ (Žemaitė), paknys ‘a person who lingers in the meadows’ (A. Vienuolis), žiubis ‘catch’ (I. Simonaitytė)—“would overburden it [i.e., the Dictionary].” And this position is summed up as follows: “dialectisms should be included in the LL [i.e., the literary language dictionary] to a limited extent”! This depends on the general conception of word selection, which is determined not only by the usage of the standard language but also by an ideal: “For literary language, taken in real terms, is the ideal of a common language intended for the needs of society, culture, science, and others. <...>. In spoken-dialectal, belles-lettres, scientific, journalistic, and other language, we encounter words that may not belong to standard usage or literary language, but which make up a significant and important part of the language’s lexical composition, and which should be reflected to a greater or lesser extent in the LL (not only in the large Dictionary of the Lithuanian Language)” (Kruopas 1968: 3). Mention is also made here of “some words that have passed into the passive reserve” and of dialect words frequently found in written texts. The focus is on the Dictionary user’s pragmatic needs: “The lexical system of a language is very broad, complex, and not strictly defined, and a literary-language dictionary must therefore take this into account. Only by doing so will it be possible, to the extent allowed by the scope of DŽ, to reflect the lexical system of contemporary Lithuanian, which includes the lexicon of literary language as its foundation” (Kruopas 1968: 3). Thus, the lexicon of the standard language is understood here as an embryo within the womb of the lexicon of the whole language system—dependent, growing, not yet separate.

However, the issue of the lexicon of the standard language separating and being distinguished from the dialectal lexicon is becoming increasingly clear: “Journalists, editors, and translators can hardly wait for a large, comprehensive dictionary of synonyms of standard Lithuanian. I want to emphasize the word s t a n d a r d, because the short glossary by A. Lyberis, published ten years ago, though small, includes quite a few dialect words alongside literary-language words. It would be difficult today to introduce into the standard language spagą, žagą, stičią, geinyti, kliūkti and similar synonyms” (Kirvaitis 1971: 67). Of course, it would be more accurate not to speak of the difficulty of introducing them, but to consider whether they are needed in the standard language, whether they might have any niche there.

4. DŽ₂—1972. Another year in the life of language and the nation, another set of lexicographic pages: eight volumes of LKŽ (Volume VIII—1970), alphabetically through the letter O inclusive; at the time, this seemed to be half the dictionary (now LKŽ XVII ends with the word valgy s).

The introductory pages of DŽ₂ are structurally similar to those of DŽ₁, but the examples are different and more numerous. In the Dictionary text, however, half the examples look quite different: instead of east. there is west., instead of dz. there is

26

east.! Instead of the DŽ₁ section “Purpose and Scope of the Dictionary,” DŽ₂ has only “Scope of the Dictionary” [as does DŽ₃], but its second sentence already states the purpose as well: “<...> aim is to present the words of contemporary Lithuanian literary language.” Dialect words are discussed at length in §2: “Since the Dictionary is practical and normative, it includes words in the following categories: <...>; 2) words used more frequently [DŽ₁—encountered more widely] in belles lettres, journalism, the press, and elsewhere, from popular spoken language [DŽ₁ only—popular] and dialects [DŽ₃—an effort is made to include <...> more common dialect words], e.g., from the Samogitian dialect—atvàrsla ‘reins’ [in the Dictionary text—atvarslai; this example also remains in the DŽ₃ Introduction], buklùs ‘clever’ [in the text, defined without any dialect label as “talented, clever; cunning”; DŽ₃—“talented, clever”; DŽ₁—1. “talented, clever, understanding; cunning,” 2. dialectal “tiring quickly, falling ill; weak, frail”; in LKŽ I₁ these are homonyms—1 buklùs (SD, DP, MP, Mž, Vln, KN, B, RB; M. Valanč; Skr, Btg; also bùklas BsP; buklingas PK, K, P, buklystė R, Sch) and 2 buklùs 1. “one who fears winter, cold, or eye ailments; weak, delicate, frail” Prl, Vrn, Žln, Dsm—in LKŽ I₂ this meaning is divided into two, while from 2. “one who stammers while speaking” a homonym 3 buklùs is created, šiltìs ‘to make an effort’ [in the text—2 šiltìs, -iasi, šýlėsi ‘to strive, take care’ without a dialect label; DŽ₃—Samogitian], žãmbas ‘corner, hem’ [in the text—1. “corner, nook,” 2. “hem,” without a dialect label; likewise in DŽ₃]; from the eastern Aukštaitian dialects—kūtė ‘barn’ [in the text—kūtė žr. tvartas; likewise in DŽ₃; the word is used in northern Samogitian and eastern dialects], tausóti ‘to respect; to save’ [in the text—1. “to tend, protect,” 2. “to save,” without dialect labels; DŽ₃—1. “to use sparingly, save,” 2. “to tend, protect”], verdėnė ‘spring’ [in the text—eastern “a gushing spring, a source”; this example also remains in the DŽ₃ Introduction—verdenė ‘spring’, while in the text—eastern, see versmė], vil̃gšnas ‘damp’ [in the text—vil̃gšnas, vil̃gšnas Samogitian “slightly wet, damp”; DŽ₃—vil̃gšnas Samogitian “slightly wet, damp”]; from the western Aukštaitian dialects—blį̃sti ‘to grow dark’ [in the text—1. “to grow dark, become overcast,” 2. Samogitian “to wear away, become decrepit, grow weak”; the meaning “to grow dark, become overcast” is western; according to LKŽ I₂, the word is used in KzR and more widely in the east—in Ktk, Klt, Lkm, Švnč, Dglš, Dkšt, and also in SD], dagóti ‘to harvest’ [in the text—“to gather, harvest” without a dialect label; likewise in DŽ₃, without a dialect label: used by the Lietuvininkai], šãras ‘fodder’ [used in the western border area, more widely in western Dzūkian; DŽ₃—no label]; from the Dzūkian dialect—dyrėti ‘to look’ [in the text—eastern 1. “to watch for or lie in wait for something; to peer,” 2. “to lurk, lie low, be idle”; likewise in DŽ₃, but marked colloquial; in fact eastern], drėngti ‘to be rainy and dreary’ [in the text—“to rain or snow with sleet, to be rainy and dreary” without a dialect label; likewise in DŽ₃; in fact used in Dzūkian and somewhat in western dialects, but it has entered the standard language], dudénti ‘to speak’ [in the text—4. Dzūkian “to speak, talk”; this example also remains in the DŽ₃ Introduction], kùšlas ‘blind’ [in the text—Dzūkian “blind, unable to see, cross-eyed”; DŽ₃—dialectal “blind, with poor eyesight”; it extends little beyond the Dzūkian area, reaching Klvr], and so on.”

The first reviewers of DŽ₂ enthusiastically welcomed the expanded richness of the standard language: “[By legitimizing dialect forms, the lexicon of the literary language is enriched. <...>. <...>. By including dialectal and folk spoken-language words, the dictionary has carried out a massive selection of words, listening carefully to everyday literary-language usage-

27

In this sense, the dictionary “r i g h t l y s o l v e s perhaps the most complex practical language problem of our time—the i n t e r a c t i o n of the l i t e r a r y l a n g u a g e and d i a l e c t s” (Grinaveckienė 1973: 5). In fact, it is not at all clear how a normative dictionary can resolve that interaction—it can only consolidate the results of that process. Speaking specifically, the reviewer also makes some correct observations on this topic: “<...> some dialect words or colloquial words may have found their way in without good reason,” but she views this matter more from the perspective of style and lexical purity.

“The most important source of enrichment for the Dictionary is undoubtedly the living language of the people, its dialects. Everything that is best in the language of the people flows into the literary language and enriches it with new words, expressions, and new means of expression” (Lyberis 1973: 4). After listing examples, some of which are truly only “sources,” not facts of the standard language—aitas “a rowdy, a restless person,” aipti “to become soft, silly, mischievous,” apymauda “an unnecessary object, an obstacle,” aptvarus “fenced in on all sides”—the hope is expressed once again: “Perhaps not all these and other words from folk colloquial speech or dialects included in the Dictionary have yet entered the literary language, but they may be useful to it as a source of enrichment” (Lyberis 1973: 4).

A more cautious note is heard: “It seems that a dictionary of the c u r r e n t language could include fewer obsolete and rare dialect words, such as: blenkti, brotis, dulsus, gabūžas, gybti, grasme, grikas, gūdnas, gvoja, iesmė, kauras, kerslas, kivinklis, kliesnas (= klienas?), kupurna and so on” (Labutis 1973: 2).

Jonas Paulauskas counted about 2,000 dialect words in DŽ₂—“a little over 3% of all the words” (Paulauskas 1974: 42). He lists dialect words in DŽ₂ that have no “dialect labels” in DŽ₂ (Paulauskas 1974: 42) and, conversely, those that are entirely absent from DŽ₂. “There are more dialect words that were not all included in the first edition, for example, just those beginning with the letter d: deinauti, dygmuo, dykoi, dylatė, dilikas, dosai, dremžti, drepinti, drėžėti, driunyti, dūbla, dūkinuoti, duogas, dvakinti, dvėluoti” (Paulauskas 1974: 43). J. Paulauskas seeks grounds for treating dialect words as words of the standard language: “Many words with dialect labels could, owing to their specific meanings, be considered words of the literary language: they denote concepts for which there are no o t h e r s u i t a b l e words in the literary language, e.g.: amalas ‘lightning without thunder’ [eastern], čižas ‘chaff adhering to flax fibre’ [eastern], guogis ‘an uninvited guest at a wedding’ [eastern], goža ‘a line of breaking sea waves’ [1. lowland, 2. geographic], rytagonė ‘herding livestock from sunrise until breakfast’ [eastern, Dzūkian], samplėšinis ‘a two-ply linen fabric’ [lowland], paražos ‘the moon’s waning, the beginning of the last quarter’ [lowland], rūgpienis ‘sour milk’ [western], vientulys ‘someone who lives alone, apart from others; a lonely person’ [eastern]” (Paulauskas 1974: 43). Only goža has a happy ending here: this dialect word has, moreover, already been established in DŽ₁ as a scientific term as well: 2. geographic, “the booming (surging) of sea waves over a shoal or onto the shore”; and rūgpienis—a transparent formal dialect word, which in DŽ₃ has already acquired the status of a standard-language word, a status that usage only n o w truly confirms. DŽ₃ also already includes 2amalas, but perhaps not because there are no

28

“other suitable” words—at least there are “other” ones: besides amalo, amala krečia (meta), there is also rūda (rūdi, rūdis) krečia (meta). The same may be said of čižą (alongside čižti there is also žvigti). But even vientulys in DŽ₃ is marked eastern, whereas in the standard language, alongside the ambiguous atsiskyrėlio, 1. ‘a monk, one withdrawn from people, an ascetic’; 2. figurative, ‘a person who avoids society and social life, one who keeps to oneself,’ there is the clearer, more transparent word vientulį (also ‘a bachelor’!), namely vienšius colloquial, ‘someone who is alone, a recluse’ (DŽ₃). And guogis is also marked eastern in DŽ₃, whereas in the west there is kriukininkas [lowland ¹ stỹrininkas LKŽ XIII]. It is entirely reasonable to regard dialect words with certain meanings as ethnographic terms as well: sámplėšinis lowland, ethnographic, ‘a two-ply linen fabric woven with combed flax’ (DŽ₃); rytãgonė eastern, Dzūkian, ethnographic (DŽ₃), although this word’s transparency and systematic character (cf. naktigonė ethnographic, DŽ₃) would make it easier for it to enter the standard language. The same cannot be said of the lowland pãraiz̃os, pãraiz̃os, pãraiza, paraižai, paraižis, which is motivated: When the moon w a n e s, there will be paraižos J (LKŽ IX); ¹ ryžti, -ta, -o ‘to fade before waning (of celestial bodies, especially the moon)’: A moon that has beryžtas, when it does not meet the sun, that is, it is going into emptiness, waning, already bilstėja J (LKŽ XI); paryžti ‘to begin to fade, wane (of celestial bodies)’: The moon has paryžo, the last quarter has come Kos 133 (LKŽ XI). This is by no means the whole story, and this is enough. DŽ₃ is indeed inconsistent—paraižos is no longer marked lowland, while ² ryžti ‘to turn into the last quarter, to diminish, to wane’ is marked lowland and has been included in place of the lowland DŽ₂ paryžti.

J. Paulauskas remained a devoted knight of lexical enrichment, though deeply concerned about the selection of dialect variants: “Meanwhile, dialect words were (and still are) regarded as a t r e a s u r e of the Lithuanian language, e n r i c h i n g the literary language’s w o r d s t o c k. In most cases this is the right approach. But treating dialect vocabulary this way has introduced many variants into the literary language that merely expand its stock of words, while adding nothing to its stock of lexical meanings” (Paulauskas 1979: 77). This is a truly significant conclusion, but the surplus (and deficiency) in the standard language’s stock of meanings should be examined from every angle, not only in terms of variants.

5. Finally, Antanas Lyberis’s 1983 article, aptly titled “The Problem of Word Selection in the Dictionary of the Contemporary Lithuanian Language,” states briefly and clearly what had long needed to be said: “The most important criterion for selecting words for DŽ is the e s t a b l i s h e d p r e s e n c e o f w o r d s and t h e b r e a d t h o f t h e i r u s a g e in the literary language” (Lyberis 1983: 147–148). Listing many dialect words in DŽ that have not become widely established in the standard language, A. Lyberis gives two reasons for this: “The dictionary compilers’ efforts to spread these words in the literary language were unsuccessful. The main reason was their rarity and the presence in the language of more customary substitutes” (Lyberis 1983: 149). It is a sound point that in fiction dialect words merely create the color of rural life, while some of them serve the function of ethnographic terms in standard usage.

Unfortunately, these sober, precise thoughts went unheard by the colleagues who compiled DŽ₃. There was only one similar, unacademically worded and exaggerated statement: “First of all, a considerable number of dialect words and other rarely used, obsolete words should be removed from DŽ. Words such as audrotie, blįsti, dagoti, keleivystė, laiškus, slasnos,

29

slaptė, šaras, tviega, vystas “would not be understood by a single person asked on the street” (Kirvaitis 1984: 55).

6. DŽ₃ – 1993. The lexicographic landscape includes 15 volumes of LKŽ, as well as dictionaries of terminology, phraseology, synonyms, and antonyms. The restored state and state language received a dictionary prepared in the bleakest years of stagnation and bilingualism, and edited during the years of national revival. The selection of dialect words has, unfortunately, not changed; it has even been reinforced by usage among literary classics and the wealth of the Samogitian dialect: of 2,152 dialect words, 698 are from the western dialects, 687 from Samogitian, 487 from the eastern dialects, and the remaining 280 from elsewhere (thanks to Dr. Vida Žilinskienė for the computer-generated figures). The examples in the Introduction, however, have been substantially revised.

The editor-in-chief of DŽ₃, St. Keinys, in his lexicographic credo, formulated in step with the completion of the Dictionary, justifies the increase in dialect words and even conceals it behind persuasive caveats: “Every person who has naturally learned their native language uses such regional words, especially those who grew up in an environment of living language (above all, dialect speech). <...>. The greater part of a language’s lexicon is not familiar to all its users – <...>. <...>. DŽ has excluded narrowly used words. Thus the labels in DŽ—dz. (Dzūkian), ryt. (eastern Aukštaitian), tarm. (dialectal), vak. (western Aukštaitian), žem. (Samogitian), as well as the label aukšt. (Aukštaitian) added in the third edition—should not be interpreted literally. It seems much more accurate to regard such words as words of literary language with a narrower range of use (they are characteristic of the speech of a particular area in which the literary language is used, and of emigrants from that area)” (Keinys 1991: 95). The very idea of areas of the standard language is contradictio in se. I shall express my view here in my own way, by offering a greeting composed of dialect words from DŽ₃: “put on your coat and gather together, tatraip prūnyti—without grumbling, sulking, disorder, or fuss, so that you may properly protect the dictionary that has been assembled. Keep your strength up properly—you will get žūti” (see žūti 3)!

7. What next? Literature long ago took “Three Steps toward Folklore” (the title of Vytautas Kubilius’s article—"Pergalė", 1976, No. 10, pp. 110–132). It may be said that literature has also taken all three steps toward folk speech. What will be the fourth step in normative lexicography? Shall we draw from the ever-widening, deepening currents and streams of standard-language vocabulary, or still from tributaries and sources—that is, dialects? Should the standard-language dictionary really “continue to be compiled as a dictionary of the Lithuanian language” (Keinys 1991: 34), a storehouse of the riches of folk speech, or as a dictionary of standard Lithuanian, the language of the educated, of culture (and of the nation’s cultural heritage)? Will 50 thousand word entries be enough, or shall we aim for “at least 80–90 thousand words” (Kirvaitis 1984: 54)? Having risen from 5% terminology in DŽ₂ (Kirvaitis 1984: 55) to 8.35% in DŽ₃ (the figure published by V. Žilinskienė), should we not aim for the world standard of 20% terminology (Kirvaitis 1984: 55)? Where would we get those thousands and percentages? They await their establishment in the normative dictionary, like candidates for the sacrament of confirmation. Here, we can only agree with Keinys’s view: “It is especially important to present more systematically the vocabulary related to the history of Lithuania (...). The third edition of DŽ also strives to present more systematically the names of Lithuanian plants and animals, and words reflecting the Lithuanian landscape”

30

(Keinys 1991: 95). A standard-language dictionary will truly be general (universalis) only when it contains the essential minimum of vocabulary from every field—not so much for specialists in those fields as for users who need a fair amount from every area: editors, journalists, and teachers.

LITERATŪRA

B – Lexicon Germanico-Lithvanicvm et Lithvanico-Germanicvm, darinnen... von Iacobo Brodowskij, Praecentore Trempensi. [XVIII amž. pradžios (1713–1744 m.) rankraštis.]

BsP – Lietuviškos pasakos įvairios. Surinko Dr. J. Basanavičius, I–IV dalis, Chicago, 1903–1905.

S.Dauk– Simonas Daukantas (1793–1864), jo raštai.

DP – Postilla Catholicka... Per Kūnigą Mikalojiv Davkszą... iš lėkiško perguldita... Vilniui Drukárnioi Akadémios... 1599.

DŽ₁ – Dabartinės lietuvių kalbos žodynas, Vilnius: Valstybinė politinės ir mokslinės literatūros leidykla, 1954.

DŽ₂ – Dabartinės lietuvių kalbos žodynas, Vilnius: Mintis, 1972.

DŽ₃ – Dabartinės lietuvių kalbos žodynas, Vilnius: Mokslo ir enciklopedijų leidykla, 1993.

GK – Gimtoji kalba, Kaunas, 1933–1941.

Grinaveckienė E. 1973: Literatūrinės kalbos aruodas. – Literatūra ir menas 6, 5.

Grinaveckis V., Palionis J., Urbutis V. 1955: Dabartinės lietuvių kalbos žodynas. – Tiesa 54, 3–4.

J – Litovskij slovar’ A. Juškeviča... 1(1), Sankt Peterburg, 1897; (2), Sankt Peterburg, 1904; (3) [2(1)], Petrograd, 1922.

Jablonskis J. 1901: Lietuviškos kalbos gramatika. Rašytojams ir skaitytojams vadovėlis. Parašė Petras Kriaušaitis, Tilžėje 1901. – Jablonskis J. Rinktiniai raštai1, Vilnius: Valstybinė politinės ir mokslinės literatūros leidykla, 1957.

JR – Svotbinė réda... par Antáną Juškevičę 1870 mėtuse, Kazan', 1880.

K – Littauisch-deutsches Wörterbuch von Friedrich Kurschat, Halle a. S., 1883.

Keinys S. 1991: “Dabartinės lietuvių kalbos žodynas” ir kalbos normalizacija. – Lietuvių kalbotyros klausimai 29, 92–98.

Kirvaitis G. 1971: Laukiame žodynų. – Kultūros barai 4, 67–68.

Kirvaitis G. 1984: Kokį norėtume turėti “Dabartinės lietuvių kalbos žodyną”. – Kultūros barai 8, 54–57.

KN – Kniga Nobaznistes Krikščioniszkos... antra karta perdrukavota Kiedaynise... 1653.

Kos – Litvanica... przez... Ambrożego Kossarzewskiego. (Rankraštis. Autorius gyveno 1821–1880 m.)

Kruopas J. 1968: Koks turėtų būti literatūrinės kalbos žodynas. – Literatūra ir menas 42, 3.

Labutis V. 1973: Naujas “Dabartinės lietuvių kalbos žodynas”. – Tiesa 99, 2.

Lyberis A. 1973: Antrasis žodyno leidimas. – Tarybinis mokytojas 19, 4.

Lyberis A. 1983: Žodžių atrankos problema “Dabartinės lietuvių kalbos žodyne”. – Lietuvių kalbotyros klausimai 22, 147–154.

LKŽ I₁ – Lietuvių kalbos žodynas 1, Vilnius, 1941.

LKŽ I₂ – Lietuvių kalbos žodynas 1, Vilnius: Mintis, 1968.

LKŽ IX–XVI – Lietuvių kalbos žodynas 9, Vilnius: Mintis, 1973; 10–15: Mokslas, 1976, 1978, 1981, 1984, 1986, 1991; 16: Mokslo ir enciklopedijų leidykla, 1995.

MP – Postilla Lietvwiszka... Wilniwy per Jokubą Morkuną... Metuose... 1600.

MŽ – Mažvydas, Kaunas, 1922.

P – Jurgis Pabrėža (1771–1849), jo raštai.

Paulauskas J. 1974: Aktualios leksikos norminimo problemos ir žodynas. – Kalbos kultūra

31

27, 40–49.

Paulauskas J. 1979: Leksikos variantų norminimas. – Kalbos kultūra 37, 77–80.

PK – Polski z Litewskim Katechism... Malchérá Pietkiewicziá... W Wilnie... Roku 1598.

R – Littauisch-Deutsches und Deutsch-Littauisches Lexicon... von P h i l i p p R u h i g... Königsberg... 1747.

RB – L. J. Rhesa. Biblia,... Tilžėje 1824.

Saussure F. 1977: Trudy po jazykoznaniju, Moskva: Progress.

Sch – Litauisches Lesebuch und Glossar von A u g u s t S c h l e i c h e r, Prag, 1857.

SD – Dictionarium trium lingvarum,... Avctore... C o n s t a n t i n o S z y r w i d... Vilnae, apie 1620, 1642, 1713.

Sim – S i m u č i o patarlių rinkinys (iš visur).

M.Valanč – M o t i e j u s V a l a n č i u s (1801–1875), jo raštai.

V i t k a u s k a s V. 1975: Iš kur siauras vėjas? – Mūsų kalba 3, 64.

Vln – B a r t h o l o m ä u s W i l l e n t's litauische Uebersetzung des Luther'schen Erchiridions und der Episteln und Evangelien... Göttingen... 1882.

WAS IST UNTER DEM WORTSCHATZ DER GEMEINSPRACHE ZU VERSTEHEN

Zusammenfassung

Die Frage, was unter dem Wortschatz der Gemeinsprache zu verstehen sei, wurde 1901 von dem Grundlegler der litauischen Schriftsprache Jonas Jablonskis aufgeworfen. Eine Antwort suchten auch 1933 die Redaktoren der Zeitschrift “Gimtoji kalba” (“Muttersprache”), da sie sich mit den Problemen der Gemeinsprache befaßten. Doch erst 1954 erschien “Dabartinės lietuvių kalbos žodynas” (“Wörterbuch der litauischen Gegenwartssprache”), dessen Neuausgaben 1972 und 1993 nachfolgten. Die Herausgeber, die Rezensenten, die Forscher schlugen sehr unterschiedliche bzw. widersprüchliche theoretische und praktische Lösungen vor.

32