History, Identity, and the Hero in Terzakis’s Princess Ysabeau

In 1945 Athens, Angelos Terzakis, well-known author of theatrical plays, short stories, and novels, published the historical novel Princess Ysabeau (Ἡ Πριγκηπέσσα Ἰζαμπώ), a long and fascinating work that had already appeared in series in the newspaper Kathimerini from November 1937 to January 1938. [1] As literary critics have noted, the 1945 version of Princess Ysabeau “is a work of the Axis occupation of Greece” (Dimadis 1987 passim). [2] I submit that this integration of two phases of Greek history, the Frankish occupation of the Peloponnese and the Axis occupation of Greece, within the literary architecture of a historical novel, constitutes a compelling case of historical poetics. [3] To my mind, the transfer of the theme of resistance against foreign occupation from the thirteenth to the twentieth century is connected with the notions of class and ethnicity and the role they play in the character formation of the young hero and his coming of age. Further, I believe that the novel’s protagonist acquires a paradigmatic function, as he evolves into the unifying figure of a resistance leader who bridges the gap between nationalism and socialism. In 1945, this was no longer an option for the (former) Greek Resistance movement, as a bitter civil war divided the country between Loyalists and Communists, deeply scarring the Greek psyche (Mazower 1993:32–52; Clogg 1992:124–125). I suggest that Terzakis projects into Sgourós the image of the perfect revolutionary, a nobleman who joins the populace by conviction; enriched by his journey of self-discovery, and ready to lead his people against the oppressive yoke of northern invaders, this archetypal hero-warrior continues his pursuit of personal fulfillment without compromising his literary authenticity. He even evolves into a hero-savior, having redefined what it means to be Greek and noble; but most importantly for the purposes of my analysis, he fully assumes the heroic profile that the author had assigned to him at the preface. Ultimately, this constitutes the purpose of my discussion: to bring forth the power and beauty of Terzakis’s characters and to point out the stages in the hero’s growth. [4]

In Princess Ysabeau the notions of history and identity are, I believe, the necessary (and worthy) companions of a good story—a story with formidable characters and original plot. In his 1933 essay on the modern Greek novel, Terzakis considers modern-day novel as “a newer form and continuation of the ancient epic” (Terzakis 1933a:244). Identifying the historical novel as the kind of novel that “preserves more faithfully the origin of the genre from ancient epic,” he goes on to complain that authors of historical novels in modern Greece, including Rangavis, limit their engagement with the genre to describing and reviving, to the best of their ability, a past era (Terzakis 1933a:251). “Nevertheless,” he continues, “it is not historical precision that gives a historical novel the ethereal hue of excellence, serving at the same time as the criterion between a mediocre work and a masterpiece. Even characterization has limited power in that respect, as it has to conform to common sense and the accounts regarding the historical personae involved in the narrative. The quintessence of a masterful historical novel is a breath of epic over all large scenes, either historical ones or invented by the author. It is also a sense of categorical necessity that appears in the background, steering events and characters with destiny’s steady hand.” In my opinion this is exactly what Terzakis achieved with his magnum opus twelve years later: an epic narrative inspired by the middle ages but relevant to his own time. I also believe that Terzakis’s own characterization of his novel as “heroic” (ἡρωικό μυθιστόρημα) holds the key to its interpretation. Terzakis successfully contextualizes his 1945 novel while adapting the characteristics of its genre to his narrative needs; the combination of these three elements, contextualization, adaptation, [5] and originality, makes Princess Ysabeau nothing short of a masterpiece that requires, in turn, an equally three-dimensional approach (Proussis 1966:1032, 1034). [6] Therefore, it would be a mistake to look at the novel exclusively through the lens of historical symbolism. Whether an escape from oppressive censorship or a deliberate attempt to articulate memory through historical analogy (Soethaert 2009a passim; 2004:121–129; Vitti 2000:288–290; Hatzivassiliou 1999:821, Kastrinaki 1999 passim; Beaton 1994:170), Princess Ysabeau abounds with merits of enargeia and pathos in both characterization and narrative, and should be viewed as a distinguished work of literature in its own right.

It has been suggested that Princess Ysabeau reflects the Greek literary tendency of the middle and late 1930s to explore distant historical frames in an effort to transfer current national issues into another moment in time (Beaton 1994:169–170, 248; 2008:87–94; Hatzis 2005:223–229; Dimadis 1991:86–107; Proussis 1966:1033–1034; Karantonis 1962:199–204). From this point of view Terzakis uses the historical novel as a medium of national discourse by attaching several layers of significance to a multitude of elements in Princess Ysabeau (Miké 2007:207–208; Soethaert 2004:127–128). Thus, an aura of symbolism envelops the protagonists and their relationships, thoughts, and feelings. Ysabeau, for example, can be viewed as embodying western power and European refinement: while her delicate beauty and distant melancholy foreshadow the inevitable demise of her once influential world, the foreign rule exercised in her name morphs into an iron fist that threatens (and awakens) the Hellenic spirit among her indigenous subjects; nevertheless, she does exercise a powerful attraction on Nikiphóros, who, as it happens, from the moment he first lays eyes on her, is in a constant struggle to find himself.

The action of the novel is situated in late thirteenth century Peloponnese, where the Frankish occupation still holds after the fall of Constantinople to the Crusaders in 1204 (Lock 1995:57–59, 95–96, 303–304). The two main characters, a Greek young man and a Frankish young woman, experience a powerful romantic love, but are prevented from consummating their passion because of their national, social, and family allegiances. This basic structure of reciprocated yet unfulfilled love, placed against a background of foreign occupation, class divide, and romantic triangle, also assimilates the theme of wartime love story, [7] offering exceptionally fertile ground for a historical novel. [8] I would even venture to suggest that, above all, Princess Ysabeau is a romance, and would like to emphasize that, in Terzakis’s own words, Princess Ysabeau is a “heroic novel” (ἡρωικό μυθιστόρημα). Although this characterization by its author does not affect Princess Ysabeau’s classification as a historical novel, we must not overlook Terzakis’s focus on the personal epic of his protagonist. According to the novel’s programmatic statement, Terzakis’s narrative agenda is genuinely epic:

Interestingly, the tripartite announcement of Sgourós’s “amazing adventures” does not include romance; on the contrary, it is war against a woman that defines our hero. Notwithstanding any authorial conformity to the conventions of heroic poetry (Proussis 1966:1032), there is a great deal of accuracy in the novel’s troubadour preface: Nikiphóros declared war against a woman that he loved, and both internal and external audiences are invited to savor the pathos of his experience. The chronological distance between the narrator’s performance and the actual events he recounts, equal to the gap between life and death, makes his task particularly challenging:

Yet, despite all the adversity he is faced with, the narrator embarks on a journey of literary revival with his audience’s pleasure as sole destination and compass:

The preface closes with a (fairly conventional) captatio benevolentiae, in which the narrator apologizes in advance to his audience of noblemen (ἄρχοντες) for any infelicities. The performative context of this statement not only calls to mind medieval imagery of knightly tales presented as after-dinner entertainment to patrician listeners, but also constitutes a literary self-reference, as such a scene proves crucial for the development of the plot in Princess Ysabeau (251). Although Terzakis’s indebtedness to the Chronicle of Morea (Τὸ Χρονικὸν τοῦ Μορέως) and especially its Greek version is beyond the scope of this discussion, I would like to draw attention to his adoption of performative norms from oral poetry in the opening of his (prose) work (Nagy 1996:8–9). Moreover, Terzakis’s recollection of material handed over to him under the technical term of “chronicle” (χρονικό) connects Princess Ysabeau to an epic tradition characterized by marked multiformity-in-composition (Nagy 1996:7–38). Further, the (omniscient) narrator’s role acquires a significance that both confirms the trustworthiness of his account and revives the communicative circumstances of orality (Shawcross 2010:99–111 and passim, 2009:157–158). [10] In my opinion, Terzakis invokes in the prelude the narrative model of oral epic tradition with the intention of projecting the protagonist’s image through the prism of three basic heroic characteristics (Nagy 2006:171): excellence (in some areas, such as bravery and integrity), antagonism (with forces or persons that surpass him), and untimely death (the death of a hero who is immortalized in his youthful perfection). In Sgourós’s case it is a symbolic death, taking place through his final separation from Ysabeau and the onset of his “true” heroic career. From this point of view, the separation from Ysabeau is a narrative necessity, preparing the hero for a more substantial and fitting mission.

Terzakis “effortlessly moves back and forth from the middle ages to his time,” [11] enriching the life of his main character with themes and motifs that point to his quality as a hero in the most basic sense of the word. Sgourós typifies the young hero who embarks on a journey of self-discovery only to encounter a series of trials designed to prove his merit. The author is “novelizing” the diachronic theme of the young man who, like Theseus, travels to meet his father or male guardian in order that he may be recognized as their legitimate and worthy heir. Nikiphóros is brought up with the hope that one day, when he comes of age, he will fulfill his mother’s dying wish: to find her cousin Leon Sgouromallis, the commander in chief of the neighboring Greek state of Mitzithras, and show him her ring (53, 95). He has no doubt that his uncle will immediately recognize him, assigning him some office suitable for his noble background and personal valor. Yet things turn out differently for our hero: his uncle, a traitor of Greek Mitzithras and collaborator with the Franks, proves to be a cruel man who despises Nikiphóros and refuses him an audition (87–89). Shortly afterwards, when Nikiphóros is brought before him accused for a murder he didn’t commit, the evil uncle presents him with a choice: either die in prison or become his messenger (97–100). The latter entails bringing his secret message to seneschal Saint-Omer in Andravida and staying forever out of Mitzithras. Needless to mention, the message with which Nikiphóros is entrusted confirms his uncle’s treason and, most importantly, includes explicit instructions to kill the messenger. Thus, the protagonist’s expectations are thwarted: the recognition never takes place, the token of recognition is useless (98), the male guardian and role model for the young hero turns out to be neither (155–156), and the high hopes for this encounter end up being a dangerous illusion (99). Everything is turned upside down. Nevertheless, the author uses Sgourós’s disappointment over Sgouromallis’s villainy to expedite his detachment from the boyish idealism that kept him from true action until then (96, 99, 199).

However, even after this detachment takes place, and especially following his unfair expatriation from Anapli, Sgourós continues to envision himself as the lead character in a fairytale; with his propensity to dream, he assumes the persona of a long-suffering young adventurer and idolizes Ysabeau in secret engagement (137) and in anticipation of his arrival at her door (139). Terzakis employs the folk-motifs of identification by ring (Thompson 1955:H194) and encounter with cruel uncle (Thompson 1955:S71) at the onset of what seems to be his hero’s quest for a faraway or hidden princess (Thompson 1995:H1301.1.2, H1381.3.7). She is sad-faced (Thompson 1955:F591.2), silent (Thompson 1955:F569.3.1), and was abducted by pirates at some point in the past (Thompson 1955:R10.1, R12.1). [12] Along the journey, the hero locates the (enchanted) princess in her distant castle (Thompson 1955:F771.4.7) and receives help from an animal to gain access to her (Thompson 1955:B582.2, B151.1.1.0.3). His letter of execution altered, the hero wins the princess’s heart and token of loyalty (Thompson 1955:K1355), passing the “suitor’s test” to make her fall in love with him (Thompson 1955:H315.1) despite their difference in social rank (Thompson 1955:L161, T55.1). Finally, the captive princess is rescued by the hero (Thompson 1955:R111.1.–1.4, 1.9–1.10), giving him the validation he had set out to obtain.

It must be noted that this is also the story in the 1937–1938 version of Princess Ysabeau, where the action culminates in the promise of the couple’s future union, secured through a ring given by Ysabeau to Nikiphóros before he leaves to fight de Lluria. Unlike its counterpart(s) of the 1945 version (98, 480, 483), this ring functions as a token of fulfilled love (Princess Ysabeau, series 83, Kathimerini, 1/30/1938), and successful recognition (series 84, 1/31/1938). In the 1945 version, Terzakis creatively combines elements from all of the above motifs to produce an unexpected ending: although the hero helps the princess discover true love, they don’t live happily ever after. It is evident that the difference between the two versions has serious consequences for the protagonist’s characterization and the concept of the heroic in the novel. It has been suggested that the happy ending of the 1937–1938 version is an allegory for Terzakis’s (and his contemporaries’) vision of a hellenicity with European orientation (Miké 2007:202, Soethaert 2004:143), just as the impossibility of Sgourós’s union with Ysabeau in the 1945 version bespeaks the disenchantment of post WWII Greece with Europe and the West. Still, the novel’s narrative structure and the depth of its characters account for the success of the 1945 version, which, despite its powerful symbolism (or covert didacticism), commands a synthesis of history and literature that transcends ideological boundaries.

As I mentioned above, the plot rests upon the parallel lives of a Greek young man and a Frankish young woman and the love that they secretly nurture for each other. They are not just any Greek young man and Frankish young woman, however: he is (or he thinks he is) the orphaned and impoverished descendant of the aristocratic Greek family Sgourós (Soethaert 2004:122–124), [13] and she is no other than the Princess Isabelle de Villehardouin, the “Mistress of Moreas” (“Ἡ Κυρά τοῦ Μορέως,” Χρονικὸν τοῦ Μορέως 8480), daughter of Guillaume II de Villehardouin and Anna Angelina Komnene. Born in 1261, she inherited part of the Peloponnese from her father and grandfather, who had conquered it after the fall of Constantinople to the Crusaders in 1204. [14] At the narrative time of the novel, Isabelle rules the Peloponnese with her second husband, Florent of Hainoult, who, according to historical accounts, embraced the cause of restoring feudalism in the Moreas and worked tirelessly towards it. [15] Nikiphóros Sgourós, a fictitious character with elements of truth, possesses the characteristics of the young and handsome hero-warrior: valor, (presumed) noble descent, and defiance against tyranny of any sort. However, all these powerful attributes are counterbalanced by two sets of inhibitors: personal and social. In the first category belong his short temper, youthful inexperience, and illusions of aristocratic descent, as well as a deep-seated anger for his community’s unwillingness to recognize him as a noble. In the second, poverty, loneliness, and the discouraging lack of opportunities for upward social mobility. Terzakis fashions Sgourós as an exceptional young person who wanders restlessly in search of self-discovery and social recognition. His quest remains undefined until the circumstances force him to choose a path fraught with peril yet full of promise; still, for a considerable part of the novel Nikiphóros is chasing the chimera of his rightful restoration to the Greek aristocracy of Moreas, a pursuit which, in some way, may substitute for the hero-warrior and hero-savior agenda that he adopts later on. Ysabeau functions throughout the plot as a transformational catalyst, first by giving the young protagonist something to dream about, and later, a cause to fight for. [16]

In Terzakis’s prose Isabelle becomes the ideal beloved, a divine beauty, sensitive soul, and long-suffering woman (107–112). [17] Uprooted from her motherland on account of a diplomatically motivated marriage when still a child, Ysabeau embraces exile stoically, opening her heart to grief and loneliness (113–116). [18] Terzakis turns Ysabeau’s nostalgia for the serene beauty of her native Greek landscape into a permanent character trait, a profound separation anxiety that envelops the princess in pronounced sadness (110, 115). Her longing for the emotional comfort of her childhood home, analogous to Nikiphóros’s aspiration for social recognition, dissolves into her eventual resignation to life-long entrapment by her title and lineage (506–507). Similarly, Sgourós’s quest for the restoration of his nobility turns out to be a misguided and puerile endeavor. Yet Nikiphóros and Ysabeau conclude their respective journeys as well-rounded characters, self-reliant and mature to the point of self-knowledge. This knowledge is partly the result of their brief relationship, with all its extraordinary power to bring forth their strengths, weaknesses, and potential for growth (Proussis 1966:1033).

When the two protagonists are brought together for the first time outside the walls of Nafplion, they neither meet nor speak there. Sgourós, hidden under a rampart, sees the princess accompanied by her guard of knights as they are going by in uncomfortable silence. He doesn’t know the circumstances of her journey or the reason for her clandestine passage from Nafplion. As he will come to discover, Isabelle has just been released by the Aragonese admiral Roger de Lluria, who captured her on her way to her native Kalamata and held her hostage for three days (22–26, 126, 231–233, 481–482). [19] Terzakis represents de Lluria as a dreaded pirate terrorizing the Mediterranean, and employs him as a transitional character with whom both Ysabeau and Nikiphóros associate at some point. De Lluria falls in love with Ysabeau, whose release he soon regrets; for the next two years he desperately tries to stay near her by sailing around the waters of the Peloponnese and by placing one of his agents in her castle in Kalamata (179–185, 200, 203–204, 249–252). Equally smitten is the young Nikiphóros, who experiences an unclear, dream-like attraction to the princess during the first few seconds of their tacit and one-sided encounter (22–26, 199–200, 232, 481–482). Ysabeau ignores his existence until they meet again, two years later, outside the castle of Kalamata (172–173). It is in this castle that Nikiphóros Sgourós is taken into custody, for his own protection and not against his will, in the presence (and at the orders) of Princess Isabelle (175).

Nikiphóros and Ysabeau may seem to have a lot in common or nothing at all, depending on the reader’s point of view. Apart from age and marital status, they are incompatible in terms of mindset, class, and ethnicity. However, according to the opposing view, they complement each other and are united by a powerful emotional bond that renders secondary all other characteristics, both innate and acquired. Their interpersonal attraction is further enhanced by their shared love for the land, as the narrator underlines their attachment to the Greek soil and their affection for their native Peloponnese. This affection also functions as a prerogative for both of them and especially Ysabeau, who can be considered Romiá (Ρωμιά, “of Eastern Roman ancestry, Greek”) only through her mother (107–108, 127, 129, 481). [20] As a matter of fact, Ysabeau’s dual heritage seems to be the origin of her unique beauty and peculiar psychology; combining her mother’s Mediterranean physiognomy and her father’s blue eyes, she also nurtures a sensitive soul and cold disposition (109–110, Miké 2007: 220–221). Her departure from Kalamata, decided by her father and lamented by her mother, turns out to be the cause of her life-long introversion and depression. [21] As a result, following her frigid marriage and early widowhood (112–118), Ysabeau suffers quietly for the death of her mother (120), while reacting coldly to the news of her father’s passing (119); she considers herself “different from other people, without friends, fatherland, parents, a creature uprooted and suspended mid-air in this society that silently conspired against her” (120).

While both protagonists learn to live with their fathers’ literal or metaphorical absence, they display significant affection for the mother figures in their lives. In addition to her fond recollection of Anna Angelina Komnene, Ysabeau exhibits surprising closeness to her nurse, who accompanies her as a well-crafted support character through most of her romance with Sgourós. She is also the only character, besides the innkeeper Zervocheris (327), to emphatically acknowledge Sgourós’s nobility (236).

Nikiphóros is represented as equally uprooted: he fails to find a substitute father in his uncle, but relies entirely on his elderly nurse and the distant memory of his deceased mother for family love: Sgourós “never knew a father” (16). Raised by a poor childless woman, he lives in a hut at the outskirts of the city, on the weather-beaten rock of Akronafplia, facing the sea (16), enveloped in a spatial marginality that applies both to his temperament and social status (Miké 2007:211). His townsmen call him Sgoúro (Σγοῦρο, 16–17), instead of Sgouró (Σγουρό, 17), refusing to associate him with the Sgourós family. I see in this practice of double naming an implicit discussion over the ethnonyms “Greek” and “Hellene” and their use in reference to the Greek state (Mackridge 1998:50, Politis 1998:9–10); it is also interesting that the Genovese banker Matteo Gaffore uses the ethnonym Graikós (Γραικός) in reference to Sgourós (14).

The narrator informs his audience of his protagonists’ childhood trauma and emotional deprivation, emphasizing at the same time their ties with their mothers and the land. Nevertheless, it also becomes clear that they both define themselves through their fathers, Ysabeau by her right to rule the Peloponnese, and Nikiphóros by his aspiration to be recognized by his uncle as a legitimate member of the Sgourós family. Thus matrilineage and love of the land enter a dialogue with patriotism and class identity (Miké 2007:218, 222); through the symbolism attached to them, the two lovers share the task of negotiating the polarities between Hellenism and the West. [22] Still, despite their unwieldy burden, they step out of their emblematic costumes to become unlikely partners in a plainly human drama.

It has been suggested that Terzakis uses the two protagonists as vehicles of representation of their respective peoples and civilizations: the one, too refined and delicate, almost ready to set, and the other rough and inexperienced but full of vitality and on the rise (Politis 1980:315). [23] If the comparison were between the Byzantines and the Franks, this juxtaposition could be misleading or even unclear as to which people is which; Terzakis, however, hurries to emphasize that Nikiphóros Sgourós is Romiós, “Ρωμιός” (Beaton 2008:76–82), inspired with reverent loyalty to the Emperor of Constantinople (155), but cold and inimical to the class of foreign masters ruling his homeland (13). At his first close encounter with the Franks, Sgourós is torn between admiration and hatred (105–106):

Clearly our hero looks at the Franks as a complete outsider, before his prolonged exposure to their culture within the confines of the castle of Kalamata (Soethaert 2009a:4–5, 2004:141–142, Miké 2007:216–217, Kastrinaki 1999:813–815). [24] It is also evident that the implied comparison between himself and the knights disheartens him on account of their physical strength and technological superiority; the latter, in combination with his poverty, torments Sgourós, who early in the novel complains that the Franks have spurs made out of gold, while he can’t even afford iron ones (18). He can, however, afford a horse, [25] and dares to carry a dagger, [26] both privileges of the Franks (17, 14). His antagonism with the foreign occupants is indirectly connected to the property rights over the land he has inherited from his mother (17), not the estate of the long-gone Sgourós family, whose descendant is trying to prove himself to be (16). However, Anapli’s unclear administrative situation prevents him from legally pursuing his claim to land ownership (17), let alone his right to defend his property. [27] Thus, any struggle against the Franks, by definition unfair and unequal, hinges on our hero’s youthfulness and lack of material resources. Yet, the subtext promises to the “poor noble boy” (φτωχὸ ἀρχοντόπουλο, 22) a triumph of David-Goliath proportions to come. Similarly, concluding his Ἑλληνικὴ Ἐποποι·ί·α 1940–1941, the author points out: “The 1940–41 confrontation [between Greece and the Axis forces] is between frugality and pomp, love of country and imperialism. Technocracy, thanks to its iron mass, will manage, for a moment, to weaken the fighting spirit. The reversal, however, will come quickly, and the lesson will remain” (Terzakis 1964:223). Further, it is the knights’ association with (and easy access to) the princess that dazzles “the boy” (τὸ παιδάριο, 106). Thus love and power appear to him at first inextricably intertwined, tempting him to grasp and decipher them simultaneously, a task that he finds impossible. This happens perhaps because Sgourós’s heroic profile is far from crystallized: leaning towards western chivalry and nobility, he is more preoccupied with his own social status than with the common predicament of his religious and ethnic group. Although he thinks of himself as part of that group, he insists on constructing his identity based on property and lineage, of which he has none. Therefore, he decides to make himself worthy of the princess, the search for whom validates his potential for social promotion and constitutes a requirement  for any kind of distinction in the first place, at least in his fairytale version of a heroic world.

Terzakis uses decisive brushstrokes to paint his protagonist’s portrait; he emphasizes the personal struggles of the young man, his attraction to the princess, his loneliness, and his repeated shock at the true face of the world. From the beginning of the novel Sgourós displays remarkable courage and taste for adventure. However, he is often impeded by a juvenile effervescence that quickly gets him into trouble. For example, during his escape from the guard of Nafplion after a confusing sequence of events involving the Genovese pirate Andrea Gaffore (51, 64), Sgourós foolishly gives away his identity in a fit of anger (69). The excuse is that an inferior room was given to him at the inn where he was supposed to spend the night under cover of anonymity, and the reason that a better room was given to the Frankish knight Ioannis de Tournay (Ἰωάννης ντὲ Τουρναί). A secondary character combining chivalry, piety, and nobility of soul along with a deep, secret, and all-consuming adoration for Ysabeau, Ioannis de Tournay not only intervenes in Nikiphóros’s favor, but also acknowledges his worth as a fighter (71). [28] Before that, however, indignation defeats reason and Sgourós lets the innkeeper know who he is (69):

In a ring composition, Terzakis revisits this scene, when Sgourós denies his high birth to another innkeeper, his trusted friend Pantelis Zervocheris (327): [29]

The narrative time between the two scenes also brings forth the protagonist’s conclusive self-definition. Nikiphóros publicly forsakes his western identity by throwing away his expensive Venetian outfit (327), keeping only his old shirt with the embroidered image of Saint Theodore (328); still, even this piece of evidence in favor of his nobility leaves him now indifferent (328), unlike two years before, at the encounter with Isabelle (173).

As I mentioned above, Sgourós’s main preoccupation at the beginning of his journey is to prove and establish his birthright to the aristocratic Sgourós family. Despite his unwavering loyalty to the ideals of Orthodoxy and Ρωμιοσύνη, [30] class overrides ethnicity in his self-definition. Before his stay at the castle of Kalamata, Nikiphóros gives little thought to the fact that Greekness can be synonymous to servitude. It is true that with his behavior he challenges this assumption, but his conduct is a means of self-assertion rather than a political statement (14–17, Miké 2007:209). [31] To his mind, social rank is a matter of bloodline, birthright, and ancestry, each of which is an attribute the lower classes lack (16). Yet he is identified as one of them by Isabelle’s younger sister, the ruthless political pragmatist baroness Margarita, Lady of Acova, during their secret meeting at the castle of Kalamata (206): [32]

The discourse on class and ethnicity that emerges from this scene reverberates throughout the novel. It is characteristic of the hero’s pre-Zoglo mindset that he refuses to admit to a lowly birth, even as a prisoner awaiting execution in Kalamata. To Nikiphóros, who has managed so far to be Ρωμιός and noble at the same time, villeiny is as abominable as his uncle’s collaboration with the Franks. Margarita’s deductive reasoning, however, deals a painful blow to his pride: the qualities of ἄρχοντας (nobleman) and Ρωμιός (Greek), she purports, are mutually exclusive. While Margarita’s ill-considered decision to interfere into her sister’s affairs is generated by her curiosity about the handsome captive (196–197), whom she wouldn’t mind seducing (207), Sgourós sees in the interview a distant connection to Ysabeau (208). Her sudden appearance, however, causes the audition to end abruptly, leaving Nikiphóros with “the pain of a wound that reopened” (209). It must be noted that this is not the first time that Sgourós is humiliated as a result of his association with Ysabeau; upon his arrival in Kalamata as Sgouromallis’s messenger, Sgourós naively asks the guards at the castle’s gate for an audition with the princess. They send him away as a beggar (150). The insult hurts the youth enormously, causing him to plunge into the darkest depression for days (152). His conflicting emotions of deep outrage for such a public humiliation and ardent desire to see Isabelle in Kalamata throw him into excruciating agony, until good fortune and his horse Astritis bring the Mistress of Moreas to him (173). Needless to mention, he hurries to identify himself to her as a nobleman (173), a claim subsequently corroborated by her trusted nurse (236). The author masterfully builds suspense around the encounter in which they speak to each other for the first time. Nikiphóros barely remembers to deliver Sgouromallis’s message to the princess, who, though not its intended recipient and well aware of the instructions it contains, keeps the letter and does not execute the messenger. Instead, impressed by his articulate and unpretentious dignity, she lies to her guard to protect him, and even takes him into her castle (175–178). As he capitulates the symptoms of love during his stay at Ysabeau’s castle, Nikiphóros Sgourós slowly undergoes a metamorphosis from boy to man. [33] While we see him waste away in love for the princess, waiting to be put to death or released, we also see him find the courage to confess his feelings to her, and ask her to kill him or let him go (227–230). Finally, one night, he leaves the castle to join a group of Frankish knights headed for Zoglo at the princess’s service (256, 320). Outside Zoglo, [34] as the Franks prepare to ambush de Lluria, [35] Nikiphóros becomes even more aware of the gap between himself and his fellow warriors. His disenchantment is primarily due to the fact that the Frankish soldiers under the command of Ioannis de Tournay can only interpret his presence among them as a technical necessity (260):

There is no doubt that Nikiphóros’s attitude towards the Franks has changed (Miké 2007:216–217, Soethaert 2004:141, Kastrinaki 1999:813–815). However, the Franks have changed too: no longer a model to emulate, they represent the foreign, the one that does not belong to the land. They reject him automatically on grounds of ethnicity, assuming that he is simply their guide to the area. This assumption, despite its connotations of subservience, validates Nikiphóros’s claim to the land: he is a local, and an equal to the Franks at that, even though Ioannis de Tournay’s soldiers think otherwise. His presence among them is the combined result of Nikiphóros’s desire for action (254), Ioannis’s sense of fairness (256), and their joint antagonism against de Lluria (254, 256); [36] evoking their first encounter at the inn in Messarea, Sgourós promises Ioannis a military performance of the same caliber (71, 256). The two men seal their brotherhood with a tacit acknowledgement of their shared “wish to die,” which, as we learn in the end, is the result of their passion for Ysabeau (482). The rest of the Franks, however, exhibit the suspicion and enmity expected from a group of foreign invaders; the author dwells on their exclusion of Nikiphóros, highlighting their isolation, both literal and metaphorical. Impenetrable in their suits of armor, they are the epitome of “the other”; Nikiphóros’s attitude towards them changes when he gets to know them, just as the author saw a different side of Europe during the war and the German occupation. This divorce from the Franks, [37] so to speak, foreshadows the dramatic change of direction in Sgourós’s life following the battle of Zoglo. One of the few lucky survivors, he chooses to stay with de Lluria, joining his minstrel friend Kokinotrichis (and agent of de Lluria) from his time at the castle in Kalamata (321–322). [38] Quite understandably, Terzakis does not dwell on the details of Sgourós’s time abroad, except to mention that his Venetian sojourn proved enriching and profitable (329). Nikiphóros returns to the Peloponnese a man of the world, with visible proof of his adulthood (beard, 296) and social success (member of a group of Venetian merchants, 294–295). To my mind, the purpose of Sgourós’s return from Venice is to reclaim the princess’s love; Nikiphóros is still hoping, perhaps more than ever, to win Ysabeau; it takes a serious shock to send him away from her, finally ending the fairytale and transforming Princess Ysabeau from romance to heroic novel.

In his (unpredictably bold) nocturnal visit to Isabelle’s bedroom, Sgourós is shocked to discover that Isabelle now has a new baby daughter (299). [39] Oddly enough, this new life turns him away from the palace, to visit the landscape of death, a domain he finds exceedingly hard to navigate. The emotional landscape of this flight is even harder to navigate, filling him with indignation and a strong resolution to act (306). The author’s personal experience from the dark years of the Axis occupation of Greece is clearly depicted in his description of the situation in Achaia following Sgourós’s escape from Zoglo. Death and famine harvest the Greek farmers, whose corpses lie unburied in the midst of utter chaos (Karantonis 1962:203–204). [40] Their villages, ruled by crime and lawlessness, present the sad picture of a society in a state of decomposition (290–306). This is what Sgourós sees, [41] when he returns to the Peloponnese after almost two years. His discovery of Moreas’s grim state of affairs follows his painful realization that there is no hope for him and Isabelle.

It is noteworthy that Sgourós’s emergence as a popular Greek leader follows his exposure to the western way of life and the fortune-hunting pursuits of his associates in de Lluria’s pirate armada. It has been pointed out that the representation of Sgourós as hero-savior has clear socialist connotations (Kastrinaki 1999:817), as his statement “Σας φέρνω την Ανάσταση” (“I am bringing you the Resurrection,” 327) contains an enthusiastic rhetoric of social and national liberation. Having internalized the amalgamation of the qualities of Ρωμιός and βιλάνος, Sgourós is ready to assume (and cherish) the identity of villein as part of his personal awakening; the first step towards this goal is to shed any upper class allegiances, actual or imaginary. Thus disconnect from nobility becomes a necessity for Sgourós (328), as he incites his fellow villeins to commit an act of rebellion, the occupation of the castle of Kalamata.

The protagonist finds his mission on both the collective and the personal level, two aspects of his heroic profile harder to separate than it seems (427):

In this Freudian trade-off of the princess for her castle, the reader cannot help noticing the omniscient narrator’s intention to share his protagonist’s anxiety over his unconsummated passion for Ysabeau. Terzakis presents Sgourós’s attack on the castle as deflected sexual violence against “this unknown to him woman” (427), a fact the hero shares with Fedor, his Slav fellow leader of the attack, as well (380; Miké 2007:213). As the impossibility of their union sinks in, Nikiphóros realizes that “he was the stranger” (427, my emphasis); this fear of alienation and worthlessness had also seized him before, both in his imaginary antagonism against de Lluria and during his awkward participation in Isabelle’s retinue at the dinner-party before the battle in Zoglo (254, 243). Thus, on the personal level, his love for Ysabeau turns into resentment and rivalry, on the collective, it becomes enthusiasm for action. His emotional engagement with the tragedy of the villeins replaces his longing for Isabelle, [42] whom he was still hoping to win until the chance meeting with her new baby daughter Mahaut. His effort to become worthy of the princess transforms him into her equal, and, even more, it reveals to him his true identity, forever ending his youthful and foolish attempts to become an aristocrat.

Along with his identity Sgourós realizes his potential for leadership and strives to fulfill it. In this mindset of personal and collective assertiveness Sgourós proceeds to conquer Ysabeau’s castle, turning against his beloved in the company of her sworn enemies, Fedor and his family (143, 348, 402). They take the castle along with a crowd of about six hundred Romií and Slavs (403), who quickly turn into an uncontrollable mob, drunk with destruction (425). [43] They treat the castle as veritable loot, shocking their Greek leader with their fury and harshness (428). Despite the fact that his relationship with the princess has taken a direction dramatically different from his expectations, Sgourós feels her uninterrupted presence in his life (427); as he helplessly watches her property being destroyed and her name disgraced, Nikiphóros finds himself once again in her bedchamber, the very place from which he fled in pain before the rebellion started (299). In my opinion, Terzakis reaches his highest point as omniscient narrator in his account of Sgourós’s need to revisit the locus in quo. By likening the love-story to a message in a bottle thrown at sea and considered lost, he describes with compassion the young man’s struggle with his memories and his eventual inability to stop looking desperately for the bottle (426):

Instead of rejoicing in her ruin, Sgourós recalls his stay at the castle and relives their brief, unconsummated romance. Thus, he is greatly disturbed to see Fedor and his men emptying Ysabeau’s undergarment drawers and scattering their contents around the castle (427–429). It seems to me that this vulgar defilement of her private space sets the tone for Nikiphóros’s eventual alienation from Fedor, whose perception of their mission, it turns out, differs radically from Sgourós’s, also confirming their diverging views of the world (380, 402–403, 423, 428, 433–434). It can be said, however, that his strong protest against the insult to the princess’s femininity clashes with his devotion to the occupation of the castle. Further, the exquisiteness of Ysabeau’s undergarments has strong class connotations, as it bespeaks the amounts of labor and wealth she commands. Nikiphóros, however, can only see their beauty and fantasize about their proximity to their owner (427), as opposed to Fedor, according to whom “nothing should be left” (429). Therefore, it is no coincidence that the rebels emptying Ysabeau’s drawers are led by Fedor, a man of enormous capacity for hatred (403), sworn to punish the Franks for his brother’s death; the Franks executed him for the murder of the Frank aristocrat who raped and impregnated Varia, his eldest daughter (145).

Varia, a useful and sympathetic, albeit disposable, character, has been considered by critics as Isabelle’s competitor for Sgourós’s affections. [44] Her love for Sgourós can be traced to their initial encounter, when his overnight stay as a guest at the family farmstead is credited with her miraculous recovery from disturbed sleep in post-traumatic stress disorder (162). Not only does Sgourós act as the catalyst for Varia’s reintegration in society, he also foreshadows the retribution that will set right the wrongs done to her and her family. Yet, despite her true and tender passion for Nikiphóros (Miké 2007:225–226), she remains, I contend, an insignificant rival of (and a poor substitute for) Isabelle. First, her very presence in the plot is part of Terzakis’s plan to include the Slavs in the novel’s cast, a narrative choice resulting, in turn, from the author’s response to the role of the Soviet Union in the events contemporary to the novel’s rewriting. [45] Second, Varia is removed from the plot when she dies during the villeins’ tragic exodus from the besieged castle, revealing her deep and, until then, well-concealed love for the Greek leader of the uprising (438, 458–459). Her death also reveals the author’s increasing disenchantment with the socialist cause and the Greek left of his time (Soethaert 2004:139). Regardless of her functionality in the plot, [46] Varia is a complete and credible dramatis persona, cast in the unglamorous role of distracting Nikiphóros from Isabelle. A privilege that even Bianca, his flamboyant Genovese lover (Bista 1998:306–307, 456–458), has failed to secure (47, 399, 489–497), Nikophóros’s romantic reciprocity continues to elude Varia; after her passing, our hero misses her warmth and kindness, but never acknowledges any attraction to her (463). On the contrary, while she is still alive, he dismisses the sad suspicion that she may be in love with him by turning his thoughts to the pomegranate tree underneath his window (447), where he once confessed his love to Ysabeau (227–229). His heart blooms at the thought that, now that the end is near, he can see the tree one last time (447).

It can be said that Varia’s (and her family’s) regard for Sgourós represents the cultural and religious affinities between Byzantines and Slavs. Although their collaboration appears fruitful at first, they end up parting ways in defeat and uncertainty: Sgourós leaves for the mountains to lead the resistance against the Franks, while Fedor and his family die when the Franks retake the castle. Before that, their disagreement about the castle’s future casts a heavy shadow over their brotherhood, revealing the inner workings of an inadvertent otherness (423). According to the novel’s rhapsodic programmatic statement, the occupation of the castle by the rebels constitutes the unquestionable crux of the plot; it also functions as a rightful, yet short-lived punishment for the lawless abuse of the starving farmers by the Franks. The essence of the occupation, however, consists in the recognition of the cultural divide between Franks and rebels,  as declared by the latters’ rejection of Florent’s offer of ransom, in a manifesto read to the prince’s representatives by Sgourós himself (431):

Nikiphóros constructs his political discourse based on the notions of hierarchy and belonging. His passive-aggressive reference to class categorizes the rebels as an inferior social species, releasing them at the same time from any obligation to observe nobility’s senseless code of conduct. Nevertheless, the fact that the villeins are not bound by the rules of knighthood and therefore do not expect ransom from the prince appears to be of secondary significance: the castle was theirs to begin with, part of their land, whose (only) legitimate children they declare to be. In striking contrast with their autochthony comes their assessment of the prince’s affiliation with the Peloponnese: he [the prince] is the stranger in this land, exactly as, in Sgourós’s own words, “he [Sgourós] was the stranger” in Ysabeau’s bedroom the night he returned from Venice (427, my emphasis). The rhetoric of strangeness branches out to include the rebels’ alleged association with the Byzantine Emperor (“king of the Romií”), as well as an open declaration of war against Isabelle’s husband. Both statements will be materialized in the narrative (499–502), albeit after the rebels’ defeat and their loss of the castle of Kalamata.

Deeply embittered, Nikiphóros holds Isabelle personally responsible for the cruelty of her regime, accusing her of apathy before the pitiful plight of her subjects. [47] He attributes her indifference to the irremediable class divide between her and her people, one of whom he considers himself (480):

Nikiphóros’s insistence on class divisions is part of an effort to fortify the barriers between himself and Ysabeau. This is their last encounter, we must remember, taking place only on account of the hero’s obligation to grant Ioannis de Tournay’s deathbed wishes. The knight requested that his ring be delivered to the princess, who, in turn, should wear it for a moment and then give it to the man she loved the most in her life (468). As he admits after the fact, Sgourós undertakes this awkward task with bitter hatred towards the princess (484); also after the fact, the omniscient narrator reveals to us a renewal of his protagonist’s resentment against his beloved (485), regardless of his decision to protect her from the wrath of the Franks by killing the spy who overheard their conversation (486). As for his own wrath, it is primarily directed against her refusal to abandon the Franks and run away with him (484); [48] in his eyes, this is an act of cowardice, leaving him, once more, with the bitter aftertaste of rejection. He also thinks of all the pain she caused him, the heartache, the embarrassment, and the lives of his friends, especially Varia’s, “for whose loss he should never accept any consolation” (484). [49] Further, in a (rather forced) revisionist account, the hero thanks God for letting him put her to the test by inviting her to elope with him (484), thus proving her to be “a weak and destitute soul, unworthy of anything great” (485). I would classify the above thinking process under “narrative necessity” to finalize the separation between the two almost lovers; of course a closure is needed, and there is nothing implausible about a hurt lover who opts for a negative reconstruction of the farewell scene.

This scene, however, pregnant with poetry and pathos, proves rather hard to deconstruct; as we saw in the previous passage (480), the (only surviving) leader of the failed revolution, approaches the princess with outright hostility; yet it only takes Isabelle’s single sob of pain to turn Nikiphóros’s lecture on social history into an intimate embrace and invitation to elope (481):

Remarkably, the voice antiphonally responds to the main points of Sgourós’s rhetoric from the previous passage: Isabelle is no longer a heartless monarch untouched by sorrow; she is a child of the land, born to a Greek mother. She and Nikiphóros have a future together, ruling a happy country, bathed in sunlight, unlike her current dominion that is overcast with misery and riddled with turrets (Miké 2007:222). [50] Everything seems possible to Sgourós in the company of his beloved, even breaking the spell cast by (her presumably deadly to her lovers) birthmark (482). An indispensable part of his heroic profile, the hero’s relationship with death is an antagonistic one, and for the moment Sgourós seems to be winning—even death is afraid of his determination and sense of purpose (482). Is Sgourós’s outpouring of affection for Ysabeau a sign of the deep emotional connection between them? Should we interpret this change of heart as Hellenism’s unbreakable ties with Europe? Leaving with de Tournay’s ring in his finger (483), the hero continues his struggle against rejection (484–486), until the author mitigates the letdown of the farewell scene with a compensatory abundance of closures: the rebels’ departure from Kalamata, (486–487), the funeral procession of Ioannis de Tournay (487–488), and Bianca’s heartbroken repatriation (489–497). A sudden encounter with the traitor uncle, now a beggar (502), proves liberating (503), while Florent d’ Hainoult’ s death inevitably brings all military action to a halt (504–505); we are also told of princess Mahaut’s untimely wedding (506) and de Lluria’s disappearance from the waters of the Peloponnese (507). And where does Isabelle fit in all this? Wearing the token of her love in his finger, Nikiphóros admits that “she, first, gave him unwittingly the yearning for everything great and lofty” (502). He even recalls her with calm and gratitude, relieved that her image doesn’t anymore conjure in him the pain of longing (506). And she leaves exactly as she came (124, 126): a vision in the morning light, caressing with her glance the land of the Peloponnese (507).