Last summer, the International Visitor’s Council in
Philadelphia asked the Library Company to host a group from Uzbekistan visiting
the US for a State Department-sponsored program on library conservation. On July 23, I welcomed a delegation that
included Ms. Nargiza Zaitova, Head of the Department of Rare Collections and
Manuscripts of the National Library of Uzbekistan in Tashkent; Ms. Zulhumor Hadjaniyazova,
Head of the Department of Rare Collections for the Information and Library
Center in Khorezm Province; Ms. Gulnorahon Ismailova, Director of the
Information and Library Center in Andijan Province; and Ms. Venera Lentovskaya,
Deputy Director of the Information and Library Center in Namangan Province.
Two interpreters carrying portable simultaneous translation
equipment were able to render John Van Horne’s introductory remarks to the
group into Uzbek in real time. For the rest
of the tour, we muddled through with sequential translation by these talented
and resourceful linguists.
Our guests were full of admiration for the history and
operations of the Library Company (even if we couldn’t wow them with our great antiquity
as we do many American visitors), and especially inspired by a stop in the
bindery. Having seen the condition of archives in various developing countries,
I could only imagine some of the environmental hazards they were up against in
Tashkent and Khiva. After leaving the
bindery we headed into the stacks for the pièce de résistance of any Library
Company tour.
In my first year on the job, I had tagged along as John gave any number of tours of the
treasures of our Americana collection, so I headed confidently to the fifth
floor. My guests listened politely to my discussion of our colonial
imprints—then someone asked if we had any Korans. Hoping very much that we did, I led the group
uncertainly to the Northeast corner of the building where, I had only recently
learned, we kept early imported imprints.
I scoured the spines on the shelves anxiously and hoped that it wouldn’t
be apparent to all that I had no idea what I was doing. With some relief, I
spotted a run of fat glossy bibles in the second stack row I tried. I knew
enough to know that our non-Americana holdings were still organized by subject,
so I felt certain that if we had a Koran it would be nearby.
Turning to the facing shelf, my heart leapt at the sight of
“l’Alcoran de Mahomet” on a pair of duodecimo volumes. I lifted one of the little books off the
shelf, so much daintier than the quarto bibles covered in heavy calf across the
aisle. Bound in milky vellum, the little
volume was a French translation of the Koran by “le Sieur du Ryer” published in
Amsterdam in 1672. Unlike the volume’s mate on the shelf—a Koran in Latin and
Arabic from 1698—our French Koran read left to right, enabling me to find the vivid
red-and-black title page on the first try.
My Uzbek visitors were delighted. It was clearly meaningful for them to find
editions of the holy book of their faith on the shelves of a distinguished
American rare book library. I was moved to have helped make this connection between our
respective book cultures and, by proxy, between our nations and histories.
When my visitors took their leave after almost two hours
with us, they graciously pressed on me some representative gifts and a brochure
about Uzbekistan’s national libraries.
It wasn’t until casually flipping through the brochure back at my desk
that I understood the full charge of the connection we had made. Among the mind-blowing pictures of ancient illuminated
manuscripts, I found the title page of a small French-language Koran, printed in
matching red-and-black typeface. Though
closer inspection shows that the volumes are not from the same edition, the
family relationship between these precious little books—one in Tashkent
and one in Philadelphia—feels like a real bond.
My colleagues had longed to know how our little “Alcoran”
had come into the collection and I had no satisfying information to offer them. As it happens, despite a bookplate
designating the volume as part of the Loganian Library, the trail is probably
cold. Only three of the Library Company’s
12 Korans had belonged to James Logan in his lifetime. According to Chief of Reference
Connie King, after our acquisition of the Loganian Library in 1792 we continued
to assign newly acquired rare imprints to that collection. She surmises that we probably purchased M. du
Ryer’s effort sometime early in the nineteenth century.
Spanning the period from 1627 to 1806, our Korans include 1
in the proper Arabic (for the faithful, translating the Koran is a no-no), 2 in
Arabic and Latin, 1 in Latin, 4 in French, 1 in German, and 3 in English. Two of the English volumes are retranslations
based on Andre du Ryer’s efforts (we learn the translator's given name from the Uzbek
copy)—including the first American edition from Springfield, MA, in 1806—and
one (London, 1734) is an original translation.
The wealth and power of the Ottoman Empire induced any
number of Europeans to want to take a closer look at this text, and the fruit
of their scholarly curiosity is now a cherished part of the national and
international book heritage housed on our shelves. The IVC representative who had
arranged the visit noted in her initial correspondence that Uzbekistan has
historically been the repository for knowledge in Central Asia, and the
brochure left by our visitors makes clear the depth and breadth of history
preserved in their institutions. In this way, they are our Central Asian mirror
image. I hope that this visit is just the beginning of increasingly meaningful connections
between our institutions and others like them around the world.
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