Pre-Phanariot Satire in the Danubian Principalities: to akhouri and Its Author

Nikos Panou

Early in 1799, the Epirot merchant Alexandros Vasileiou settled in Paris. [1] Already within a few weeks, he found himself engaged not only in a variety of commercial activities but also in an effort to establish a network of connections among the Parisian intelligentsia. [2] Thus, it was shortly after his arrival to the French capital that he met and befriended the philologist and critic Claude Fauriel, who had also moved to Paris that year. [3] Vasileiou’s earliest surviving letter to Fauriel dates from 21 August 1800. That letter, as the author indicates, was written in response to an interest that his friend had previously expressed in contemporary Greek thought and literature. [4] Vasileiou begins by deploring the dismal state of affairs in Ottoman-controlled Greece that had caused a serious decrease in the quality and quantity of its scientific and cultural production. Having done that, he proceeds to give to his correspondent the requested bibliographical report. Aristotle and his ancient or recent commentators are mentioned as an outfashioned field of study. Instead, Fauriel’s attention is directed to a number of recent scholarly works, either original or in translation, on geography, physics, mathematics, grammar, rhetoric, logic, ethics, and politics. And when it comes to literature, Vasileiou records, among a few other works, “Gessner’s Death of Abel, some comedies by Goldoni, certain pieces by Metastasio, several translations from Italian printed in Venice and from German printed in Vienna or Leipzig, and Mr. Kodrikas’ verse translation of Pope’s Essay on Man, as yet unpublished.” [5] That is all he had to offer to his addressee. In fact, he felt obliged to justify himself for giving such a brief and incomplete account of Greek literary activity by admitting that he had been obliged to devote most of his time to commerce instead of literature. Interestingly, however, this embarrassed conclusion is preceded by a final addendum where he discusses in some detail two literary efforts of his compatriots. These works represent the only two specimens of original Greek literature that Vasileiou included in his list. In contrast to the brevity of all previous entries, his description extends now over a few lines:

The latter of the two “comedies” mentioned in the passage is easily recognizable: Vasileiou is referring to Ἀλεξανδροβόδας ὁ ἀσυνείδητος, a dialogical satire in three acts, composed in 1785 by Georgios N. Soutzos against Alexandros Mavrokordatos “Firarís.” [7] The identity of the first piece, however, is much more problematic, especially since neither the work’s title nor the name of the author are mentioned in the letter. Vasileiou’s vague dating of the work three or four decades before the time he was writing takes us back to the 1760s and 70s. His allusion to the work’s enthusiastic, if controversial, reception in Constantinople indicates that it must have had a wide circulation at least for some time after its composition. And if that had been the case indeed, it would not be unreasonable to expect that the satirical text in question could not have been a work that was only rarely copied. On the contrary, it must be well represented in the manuscript tradition.

Alexis Politis, who was the first to give proper attention to Vasileiou’s letter, has suggested that the anonymous “comédie” reported to Fauriel should probably be identified with a late seventeenth-century satirical dialogue that has survived under the title Τὸ ἀχούρι. [8] It can be argued, however, that the proposed identification bears very little probability. Written in Bucharest in 1692 and preserved in a single manuscript, probably an autograph, the little-known text is not the first thing that comes to mind as an ideal match to the work mentioned in the 1800 letter. It is much more likely, I think, that Vasileiou was referring to one of the intensely satirical texts in theatrical form produced in the context of the Anabaptist controversy that raged among Orthodox circles in Constantinople in the mid-eighteenth century. [9] Nevertheless, it is not without interest that the obscure seventeenth-century dialogue was brought up in relation to Vasileiou’s letter despite the fact that it could hardly fit that role. To put it simply, what we know about the composition, circulation, and reception of Τὸ ἀχούρι cannot support or justify Politis’ suggestion. How then did it end up being proposed as a possible solution to the riddle of the unidentified reference in Vasileiou’s letter to Fauriel? And what exactly can we claim to know about the text and its history?

It has now been 130 years since Émile Legrand produced a rather problematic – but still the only one available – edition of the text, which he included in the second volume of his Bibliothèque grecque vulgaire, preceding it with a short introduction. Nevertheless, the earliest reference to the work and its author dates back to the late 1860s. In his Σχεδίασμα περὶ τῆς ἐν τῷ ἑλληνικῷ ἔθνει καταστάσεως τῶν γραμμάτων, Matthaios Paranikas included a brief reference to a certain seventeenth-century monk from the Peloponnese called Neophytos. That monk, we learn, had been abbot of the Saint Savas monastery in Bucharest and had composed a satire “against Kyrillos of Constantinople.” [10] For further clarification it was added in a footnote that, “Ἡ περίφημος αὕτη Κωμῳδία ἐπιγραφομένη Ἀχοῦρι [sic], εὔρηται ἐν χειρ. ὑπ’ ἀρ. 321 τῆς τοῦ Ἁγιοταφ. Μετοχ. βιβλιοθ.” [11] It is not unlikely that Paranikas, who had access to the library of the Μετόχι Παναγίου Τάφου (henceforth MΠT) in Constantinople, had actually seen the manuscript of the work. In fact, that manuscript can still be found in the same collection, now preserved in the Greek National Library in Athens. It was from that unique copy that Legrand published the text in 1881. The manuscript was later catalogued and described by Athanasios Papadopoulos-Kerameus in the fifth volume of his Ἱεροσολυμιτικὴ βιβλιοθήκη, but without any information about the manuscript’s trajectory or the text’s problematic authorship. [12]

As already pointed out, the work was written in Bucharest in 1692 by someone called Neophytos who was a monk at the Saint Savas monastery, one of the most important monastic establishments in the Wallachian capital. Neophytos signed his name and date of composition at the end of the manuscript and there can be little doubt that what we have is the autograph of the text. Unfortunately, it is not known who included the manuscript in the large leather-bound codex that contains it, and it is equally difficult to establish how, why, and when exactly that codex – MΠT 672 – was removed from the library of Saint Savas in which it had been preserved for at least a few decades. It is certain, however, that at some point in the eighteenth or early nineteenth century most of the monastery’s manuscripts were transferred to the Μετόχι Παναγίου Τάφου, that is, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, in Constantinople. [13] Codex MΠT 672 remained there until the early twentieth century when it was secretly dispatched to Athens in diplomatic sacks, together with large amounts of materials from the library of the Holy Sepulcher. No other manuscripts of the text have survived and there is no indication whatsoever that the work had had an even basic circulation either in Bucharest or in any other part of the larger area of the Balkans. In fact, it is doubtful that it was ever meant for any sort of publication. Thus, Τὸ ἀχούρι remained virtually invisible ever since its composition at the end of the seventeenth century. There is no evidence that it was known, read, or in any way discussed either during the author’s lifetime or at any other point thereafter. Other than its edition by Legrand in 1881 and a few passing references to it that will be discussed here, there is practically nothing to indicate that it has ever been noticed.

Nevertheless, most of the available information on the work could have been accessed by anyone interested in acquiring a basic knowledge of the text and its history. In that sense, the fact that Vasileiou’s description made a discerning neohellenist like Politis think of the specific work can be somewhat surprising. To be sure, Τὸ ἀχούρι displays precisely those qualities that the erudite merchant seems to have valued most in the monastic satire he briefly commented on: a merciless candor, an aggressive tone, and a heavily moralistic agenda. But this is clearly not enough, especially since there are discrepancies that are both forbidding and hard to miss. Failure to take these discrepancies into account is, more than anything else, indicative of the limited attention that the text has received from modern scholars. Therefore, this paper aims to offer a first systematic analysis of Τὸ ἀχούρι that will hopefully remedy our current lack of concrete knowledge about the work itself as well as the identity of its author. What is primarily attempted here is a discussion of the work that aims to clarify its prosopographic and pragmatological content and to foreground those aspects of the text that can yield valuable information about everyday life and intellectual activity at the end of the seventeenth century. Treated that way, Τὸ ἀχούρι has the potential to emerge not only as a literary curiosity worthy of further study, but also as a neglected document that can contribute to a better understanding of an obscure but particularly interesting period in the history of the early modern Balkans.

The work begins with a prologue in two parts stretching over forty-eight coupled fifteen-syllable verses. [14] In the first part (lines 1-22) the narrator addresses directly the nobles and potentates of Wallachia who are implicitly designated as the intended audience of the “delicious” and “original” verses that follow. They are urged to serve and support the benevolent and generous ruler of the principality, cementing his reign on a firm basis and contributing to his unfailing efforts to secure peace and prosperity for them and the country in general. Unavoidably, this introductory section soon morphs into a brief but dense and linguistically complex encomium of the Romanian voivode:

Constantin Brâncoveanu (1654-1714) ascended the Wallachian throne in 1688, having succeeded his maternal uncle, Şerban Cantacuzino, and reigned uninterruptedly until 1714, enjoying what is generally considered to have been one of the longest and most successful reigns in the history of pre-modern Romania. [16] The author is eager to draw his audience’s attention to the majestic qualities and royal charisma of the praised ruler. He accomplishes that in a succinct, though not always elegant, manner. Not surprisingly, he takes advantage of Brâncoveanu’s first name, Constantin, to establish a conceptual connection between the prince and none other than Constantine the Great. [17] He also makes sure that Brâncoveanu is recognized as a legitimate ruler of distinguished ancestry by emphasizing his undisputed relation to the Basarab dynasty. [18] On the other hand, however, he is equally careful not to leave out the prince’s blood relationship with the Cantacuzino, one of the most powerful boyar families in Wallachia at the time. [19] The specific name bears the prestige and splendor of the late Byzantine aristocratic clan, but also serves as a reminder that behind the praised sovereign there is the omnipotent stolnic Constantin Cantacuzino (1640-1716). It was common knowledge that, although he had never laid claim to the throne, the stolnic had been to a large extent controlling the domestic and foreign policies of the principality for several years and throughout the consecutive reigns of two powerful rulers, Brâncoveanu and his predecessor. [20]

Slightly longer than the first, the second part of the prologue (lines 23-48) gives a schematic summary of the plot, as well as a couple of hints about the character of the satirized villain. Nothing too specific: someone was savagely beaten, deprived of his clothes, and left alone and helpless. We also learn that the person responsible for these atrocities was a monk called Kyrillos, a true monster in disguise. He is greedy and stingy beyond words, a “son of perdition” who does not have a single icon in his monastic cell. Having renounced every sense of kindness and decency, he has consciously committed himself to an obnoxious and wicked conduct.

The main body of the work (lines 49-392) takes the form of a dialogue. Indeed, the piece is thoroughly dialogic and not without a flair for expressive realism, manifested through the programmatic employment of an unembarrassed register of late seventeenth-century vernacular Greek, brimming with linguistic idioms and loans from Turkish and Romanian. Nevertheless, the plot is elemental and the poetic qualities of the text draw on a very imperfectly developed instinct for structure and dramatic elaboration. The amateur author does not seem to have been interested in observing any kind of spatial or temporal coherence. As a result, the narrative sequence is disrupted by several digressions and discontinuities that are worked into the text unskillfully and without any plan. It is clear that rigorous compositional standards had not been applied here and that the satirist did not really strive to attain high artistic results. It is equally unlikely that his primary aim had been to create a psychologically refined or dramatically integrated literary work. What seems to have dictated and determined his approach to the narrative material is a personal motivation to relate the “tragic,” as he puts it, sufferings of the harmed protagonist and stigmatize the moral deficiencies of his despised persecutor. The fact that a dialogic medium was chosen to carry out that project is not without interest with regard to the work’s performative qualities. What is even more striking is that contemporary literary activity, either in Greek or in Romanian, cannot be said to have provided the author with any textual antecedents that could have formed a background of similar tendencies and sensitivities. [21] For several decades before and after its composition, Τὸ ἀχούρι stood out as a fairly isolated manifestation of an incipient theatrical sensitivity in the larger area of the Balkans.

Thirteen characters participate in the action, sharing between them the 344 verses of the dialogue. They are listed, in order of appearance, right after the end of the prologue: “Κύριλλος” (66 verses), “Τὸ ἀχούριον” (2 verses), [22] “Διάβολος” (24 verses), “Νεόφυτος” (134 verses), “ὁ γέροντάς του, πρώην Ἀνδριανουπόλεως” (40½ verses), “Γερμανὸς Νύσσης” (27½ verses), “Εὐστάθιος, κόμισος” (12½ verses), [23] “εὐταξίας τοῦ πατριάρχου” (2 verses), “ἄγα Γειωργούσης” (2 verses), [24] “παπᾶς Ἀθανάσιος, ψάλτης” (9 verses), “Ἀσάνης, κλοτζιάρης” (5½ verses), [25] “Ἀσάνης, καμαράσης” (7 verses), [26] and “ὁ πατριάρχης κύριος Διονύσιος πολλὰ τὰ ἔτη” (12 verses). The first thing we are presented with as the text begins is a desperate Kyrillos crying over his misfortunes, which are, as he admits, the result of his malevolence and the price he has to pay for it. The prison cell where he is kept is given voice and asks him about the reasons of his imprisonment and agitation. Once again, no concrete information is given: the tragic incident involves a beaten person (now we learn that he was not only “πτωχός” but an “ἱερωμένος” as well [27] ), a heavy wooden club – the instrument of the beating – and a physician who was never recompensed for his services.

Kyrillos hopelessly reflects on the life-path he has chosen. He regrets the abominable things he had been engaged in both in Constantinople and, more recently, in Wallachia, and puts the blame on his rapacious inclinations that have turned him into a compulsive money-grabber and a ruthless exploiter. Deservedly, therefore, he has been left completely on his own: not even his cherished protector, the Devil, remembers him any more. But before he could even finish his sentence, Satan appears to him in full glory. He fails to see what Kyrillos is whining about and informs him that the whole affair, both the action itself and its consequences, was his own doing. In fact, he is more than happy to see him in jail precisely because the desolate state he is now in can be safely regarded as the best proof of his cunningness and sinful disposition. And since he can now rest assured that in Kyrillos he has found a worthy and reliable follower, he is off to corrupt other souls.

Enters Neophytos, “ὁ δυστυχὴς, ὁ δεδαρμένος,” lamenting the devastating unpredictability of human fate and the irreducible vanity of all things material. He turns for help and consolation to another Neophytos, the former metropolitan of Adrianople, who, while alive, had been his confessor and spiritual father. The summoned cleric responds to Neophytos’ call from the grave. Indeed, we learn that the late bishop dwells in the underworld where he regularly engages in long conversations about human frailty and the certainty of death with the philosopher Aristarchus, the late Wallachian ruler Şerban Cantacuzino, and even Alexander the Great who descended to Hades like everyone else: completely naked and having left behind all the insignia of his earthly glory and power. What follows is a lively discussion between the harassed monk Neophytos, Neophytos of Adrianople, and Germanos Lokros, metropolitan of Nyssa, who also joins the company from the beyond. The Devil intervenes briefly but spitefully for one last time. Among other things, it is revealed that Kyrillos, the wicked monk, is closely related to the venerable Germanos who makes it clear that he has had enough with his unruly sibling.

This conversation with the conjured spirits is interrupted when a courtier shows up, instantly followed by a messenger who informs Neophytos that someone very important demands to see him: the patriarch Dionysios has heard about the incident and would like to learn more about it; he has also been informed that there was a trial which resulted in Kyrillos’ imprisonment, and that has made him furious, as he abhors the mere thought that church matters had been handled by the laity. Despite his intense reservations, Neophytos appears before the irritated prelate, disclosing in full detail what had actually taken place between him and Germanos Lokros’ brother. It is finally explained – to the patriarch and the readers alike – that Kyrillos had broken into Neophytos’ cell and, having found him casually lying on his bed, gave him such a merciless beating that practically left him on the verge of destruction. [28]

Kyrillos was terrified as he realized that in the likely event of Neophytos’ death he would have to pay with his own life for the consequences of his impudence. Thus, he persuaded his victim to refrain from suing him and to attest in writing that he is facing a natural death. He even brought his own doctor to take care of the badly injured monk, promising Neophytos that in exchange for his discretion he would arrange a splendid funeral for him. He did not have to do so, however, as the invalid eventually got better. In the meantime, the physician who treated Neophytos demanded from Kyrillos the money he had been promised only to find out that now that the danger was over his client was by no means willing to pay. Instead, he had the doctor bullying and pressing Neophytos to submit the due fee. The latter was not in a position to do so and, thus, Kyrillos and the doctor conspired to accuse him of evading his bills, actually managing to confiscate even the clothes he was wearing. Neophytos assures the patriarch that it was not he who brought charges against Kyrillos. It was Kyrillos who took him to court hoping that he could make him pay a fine on top of everything else. But the truth was revealed during the trial and justice was dispensed: Kyrillos was thrown into jail and was sentenced to return the appropriated clothing and pay the doctor. The dialogue ends with another brief praise for Brâncoveanu. The author expresses his confidence in the legal system of Wallachia that has been secured by the noble vision and firm leadership of the country’s prince. How could such an accomplished ruler not fill everyone in his realm with feelings of happiness and gratitude?

It would be interesting to know for sure whether the events described in the text – Kyrillos’ violent outburst, the trial, his eventual imprisonment, and Neophytos’ interview with the patriarch – are based on real events or not. Unfortunately, there is no evidence that can support a definitive answer to that question. It does seem, however, that the satirical venom of the author had been filtered through the traumatic remnants of personally experienced abuse. If the work had no connection to reality, it would have to be an atypically crude literary prank, especially since several distinguished personalities, both dead and alive, are involved in the plot and openly named by the satirist. Indeed, all the main characters in the dialogue represent well-known historical figures that had been active in the Ottoman East in the second half of the seventeenth century. It is almost certain that the author of Τὸ ἀχούρι had known, honored, feared, or hated them at some point in his life. Arguably, that is one of the work’s most interesting aspects and, in a sense, one of its most engaging qualities too.

I have not been able to locate any information about the six characters that are only given small roles in the dialogue, although Legrand was probably right in assuming that they must have been courtiers or high-ranking officials based in Bucharest. [29] However, we are in a position to know more about the work’s five major characters: three of them correspond to influential clerics who played an instrumental role in the religious, cultural, and political life of the period; the other two were less prominent, but, as we shall see, they maintained close ties, in one way or another, with these important figures.

The venerable prelate who in the first part of the dialogue is responding to Neophytos “ὡς ἀπὸ τὸν τάφον” has been identified as Neophytos Philaretos, metropolitan of Adrianople. [30] He was born in Epirus and began his ecclesiastical career as a deacon to Parthenios Oxys, when the latter was still metropolitan of Ioannina. He moved to Adrianople in 1639, when Parthenios became metropolitan of the city. As soon as his superior was promoted to the patriarchal rank in 1644, [31] Neophytos replaced him at the head of the diocese. [32] He remained in charge of that post for more than forty-five years almost without interruption, despite the fact that he had regularly suffered the opposition of consecutive patriarchs, including that of his former protector Parthenios who actually had him deposed in 1650. [33] In August 1688 he was deposed again by decision of Patriarch Kallinikos II, but in November of that year Kallinikos’ adversaries subverted him and enthroned the deposed bishop who arrived in Constantinople a month later to assume his duties as Patriarch Neophytos IV. By March or April of the following year, however, he was removed from the throne and replaced by the same Kallinikos whom he had succeeded a few months ago. He was once again granted the metropolitan see of Adrianople and died there in 1689 or 1690. [34]

Although Neophytos did not leave a substantial body of work, he sustained throughout his long life an extensive correspondence with several of the most interesting personalities in the second half of the seventeenth century. He was highly esteemed by his friends and colleagues as a profoundly cultivated and morally impeccable member of the clergy. [35] Contemporary sources abound in passages such as this:

The ruler mentioned at the end of the quote is Şerban Cantacuzino, who had been one of Neophytos Philaretos’ most fervent admirers and supporters. The metropolitan of Adrianople was deeply revered at the princely court in Bucharest and we know that during the last decades of his life he visited the Wallachian capital at least three times, in 1664, 1682, and 1683. [37] It is not accidental that the ruler’s admiration for him is stressed in the quoted text. Interestingly, that passage is taken from a letter written to Neophytos in 1686 by Germanos Lokros, who had spent the last years of his life in Wallachia in constant pursuit of Şerban’s favor and patronage. As it happens, the author of the letter was not only one of Neophytos Philaretos’ closest friends and most regular correspondents, [38] but also one of the main characters of Τὸ ἀχούρι, in which he appears and is specifically named as the satirized Kyrillos’ deceased brother. Indeed, Germanos is the very person to whom the metropolitan of Adrianople expresses his posthumous indignation at Kyrillos’ maltreatment of his former protégé, the monk Neophytos, in what forms the ghostly scene that concludes the first part of the work.

Germanos Lokros, metropolitan of Nyssa, [39] was born in Aitolia (Lokris) at some point between 1610 or 1615. In the 1640s he lived in Athens where he studied with Theophilos Korydaleas, the most prominent Greek-speaking neo-Aristotelian thinker in the first half of the seventeenth century. Later he moved to Constantinople and was appointed professor at the Patriarchal Academy. The events that led to his expulsion from the Academy late in 1663 [40] are relatively well known, but what followed after that, as well as the precise date and specific circumstances of his eventual departure from the Ottoman capital, have remained to a large extent unclarified. [41] We do know, however, that sooner or later after the abrupt and traumatic conclusion of his teaching career in Constantinople he managed to find his way to Wallachia. The earliest evidence of his presence in the country goes back to 1676, but it can be argued that he had already been there for at least some time before that date. [42]

Upon his arrival to Wallachia, Germanos settled in Bucharest. He probably made his living as a tutor, offering public or private courses at the princely court and in boyar households. [43] Germanos stayed in Bucharest until 14 March 1680, at which point he was forced to leave the country by order of Şerban Cantacuzino, having been brutally slandered by Dositheos Skarpetis, the omnipotent patriarch of Jerusalem. [44] He moved to Braşov in Transylvania and during his absence from Wallachia he traveled extensively in Central Europe and as far as England. Nevertheless, he was eventually able to have his good relationship with the Romanian ruler restored, and returned to Bucharest less than two years after his banishment. In fact, at the beginning of 1682 we find him employed in the service of Şerban and his brother, the stolnic Constantin. [45] In the course of the following years, he participated in a project that had a profound impact on religious and cultural developments in the Danubian Principalities, namely, the collective translation of the Bible into Romanian. [46] Germanos, however, did not live to see the outcome of his joint efforts. He died suddenly in 1687, a few months before the publication of the Romanian Biblia. [47] In a letter he sent to Ioannis Kariophyllis in February 1687, the Cephallonian physician Iakovos Pylarinos (1659-1718) reports and briefly comments on the tragic event. We learn that the reason of Germanos’ unexpected death had been some sort of infectious disease that killed the aged bishop within six days despite Pylarinos’ concentrated efforts to save him. [48]

The enraged patriarch who urgently calls Neophytos for an interview is undoubtedly the most prestigious character in the satire and one of the most influential and respected figures in the Orthodox world for a large part of the seventeenth century. He was born in Constantinople, probably in the early years of the century, and died in Tîrgovişte, the old Wallachian capital, in September 1696. [49] In the meantime, he had been able to pursue a brilliantly orchestrated ecclesiastical career in the course of which he managed to return to the patriarchal throne five times. [50] It is characteristic that by August 1662, probably in his fifties, he was still a well-connected layman employed in the Ecumenical Patriarchate. Supported by powerful circles in both the Ottoman court and the ecclesiastic establishment, he was at that point promoted straight to the rank of metropolitan and given the important diocese of Larissa. [51] Less than a decade later, he had come to claim successfully the highest office in the Great Church.

Like the bishop of Nyssa, Dionysios had been a student of Theophilos Korydaleas, though not in Athens. He studied at the Patriarchal Academy in Constantinople, probably in 1634-1639, that is, during the second period of the philosopher’s tenure there. [52] His ties with Wallachia were even stronger than those of Germanos, and his connections in the princely court by far more impressive. Indeed, he spent extensive periods of time in Bucharest, exerting a profound influence on the religious and political life of the country. [53] In the last twenty years of the seventeenth century, we find him there on three different occasions: 1679-1682, 1687-1693, and 1694-1696. When Τὸ ἀχούρι was being written in 1692, [54] he was exactly where the author wants him to be: in Bucharest. Nevertheless, that was one of the periods when he was not patriarch: Kallinikos II, who had been reappointed after Neophytos Philaretos’ dethronement in 1689, occupied the ecumenical throne until 1693. By October 1692 Dionysios had not held that post in exactly five years. [55]

It should be kept in mind that the work relates events that, if they were actually based on real-life experiences, could not have taken place before 1689-1690, which is still a long time after Dionysios’ fourth dethronement. [56] This can make Dionysios’ explicit presentation as a patriarch look like a chronological inconsistency, but I think that it should not be regarded as such. Naturally, we can exclude the possibility that the author had not realized that Dionysios was not a patriarch at that point. This is highly unlikely, especially since the latter had stepped down from the patriarchal throne several years ago. [57] I believe it makes more sense to assume that this is a kind of mild flattery, a mannerism, or a token of respect. At any rate, what cannot be doubted is that in the context of the dialogue Dionysios is invested with undisputed patriarchal authority, regardless his official status in the ecclesiastical hierarchy at the time, which would have normally required a “πρώην” in front of his title. The Constantinopolitan prelate – whose close friendship with another important ecclesiarch, the archbishop of Wallachia Teodosie, is not left unmentioned in the text [58] – is esteemed, feared, and obeyed as if he were an enthroned patriarch. In this sense, Τὸ ἀχούρι is a testimony to the nature and extent of Mouselimis’ power and influence in the Danubian Principalities at the end of the seventeenth century.

It is made clear more than once in the course of the dialogue that “Κακοκύριλλος,” the evil monk who had caused so much trouble and discomfort to Neophytos, was brother to the metropolitan of Nyssa, Germanos Lokros, whose ghost participates in the concerted accusations against him in the early part of the text. [59] Germanos’ massive correspondence makes clear that one of his four brothers [60] was a monk [61] who had assumed the name Kyrillos. [62] Nevertheless, there are not many things that we can claim to know about him. The scant evidence that has survived can only provide fragmentary and insufficient information about his life and character, so relentlessly condemned under Neophytos’ satirical pen. [63]

Although there is no evidence that could confirm the text’s exaggerated assertions about Kyrillos’ violent personality and aggressive demeanor, there can be little doubt that the latter was a rather eccentric individual. [64] Besides being burdened by a serious eye disease, [65] he seems to have suffered, at least at some point in his life, from acute agoraphobia manifested in a series of neuroses and related symptoms. A fascinating letter, sent in October 1663 [66] by Eugenios Giannoulis to Dionysios Mouselimis, contains an eloquent, if sinister, description of Kyrillos’ state of mind and general conduct at that particular moment:

But despite Eugenios’ anguished disapproval of Germanos’ pedagogic approach, the latter did take good care of his brother, even though he often complained to his correspondents about the material and emotional cost that having assumed full responsibility for his needy relative entailed. When referring to Kyrillos in his letters he rarely fails to imply that the latter had been completely dependent on him, at least financially. Nevertheless, it is also clear that Germanos always supported his brother, lavishing on him both money and familial care in good and bad times. [68] The two surviving letters by the metropolitan of Nyssa to Kyrillos exhibit concrete signs of affection and respect. [69] More than than, it seems that the two brothers spent long periods of time living together. The half-blind monk had attached himself to his loving sibling.

The previously quoted passage from Giannoulis’ letter indicates that at some point between 1660 and 1663 Kyrillos had been living with his brother in Constantinople. [70] Furthermore, at the end of October 1663, Germanos wrote to Kyrillos a hasty and distressed letter informing him about the recent scandal that had forced him to resign from the direction of the Patriarchal Academy. Although he included no information that could give us a clue about the final destination of the letter and the precise location of the recipient, the phrasing suggests that Kyrillos was probably not in Constantinople at that point, but also makes clear that it had not been very long since he was living there. In fact, Germanos proposes that, if he decides to stay in the capital, it would be a favorable opportunity for Kyrillos to return and join him. He also invites his brother to reflect carefully on whether he would like to follow him in his forthcoming wanderings in case he decides to leave the City for good. [71] Regrettably, there is no way to tell what Kyrillos made of the dilemma he was presented with. And since we cannot be certain about Germanos’ moves in the ensuing period, it is not at all clear what his brother’s options eventually turned out to be. In fact, Kyrillos’ whereabouts in the years after 1663 are even harder to establish than those of Germanos. His traces are completely lost until 1679, at which point he is reported by Eugenios Giannoulis to have sent him a letter from Ioannina. [72]

It must have been around that time, or a little later, that he moved to Wallachia to join Germanos who had settled in Bucharest in the early 1670s. In April 1682, Lokros wrote a letter to Ioannis Kariophyllis in which he confirms that Kyrillos was in the Wallachian capital with him, [73] and he might have been living there for at least a couple of years already. [74] A few brief mentions in Τὸ ἀχούρι indicate that Kyrillos had also spent some time – always with his brother – in Plătăreşti, a small town in Muntenia, around a hundred kilometers to the south of Bucharest. This is an interesting piece of information that advances our knowledge of a hitherto unclarified detail pertaining to a particularly traumatic event in Germanos Lokros’ life. It is worth giving a brief summary here. We know that in 1685 Şerban Cantacuzino granted an abandoned monastery to Germanos, which the latter spared no expense to renovate and turn into some sort of unspecified business that very soon yielded considerable profit. No more than a year later, Dositheos of Jerusalem managed to persuade the Wallachian ruler to take back the old monastery and its revenues from Germanos and give it instead to him, which Şerban did. Not surprisingly, Dositheos’ latest attack infuriated Germanos who reacted by openly accusing and spreading vicious rumors against the patriarch. Naturally, messing around with Dositheos proved to be a reckless strategy and Germanos was soon placed under house arrest by princely order. [75] End of story. But although he talks about all this in his correspondence, Germanos does not give the name and precise location of the controversial monastery. Tsourkas thought that it must have been located in Bucharest, also assuming that it was probably the monastery of Saint Savas that had been granted to Dositheos as a dependency of the Holy Sepulcher. [76] Nevertheless, it is certain, I believe, that lines 75, 188, 193-194 and 197-198 of Τὸ ἀχούρι refer precisely to the events and the monastery in question, and they in fact shed light on that aspect of Germanos’ activity in Wallachia. The information given in the dialogue makes clear that the monastery was located not in Bucharest but in Plătăreşti. I also argue that the establishment in question should be identified as the still extant monastery that Matei Basarab and his wife Elena had founded in that town in 1646, presently known as Manastirea Sfantul Mercurie. It is by no means accidental that the specific monastery had at some point passed under the jurisdiction of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem, an event that can now be fully inscribed within the context of the Dositheos-Germanos controversy. [77] Finally, it seems that Germanos did not really turn the monastery into a school, as Tsourkas thought he did. [78] Once again, a brief reference in the beginning of Τὸ ἀχούρι indicates that under the management of Germanos and Kyrillos the former monastery had been operating as an (expensive) inn – a caravansary or khan. [79]

There is no evidence whatsoever as to what happened to Kyrillos after his brother’s death. Our only source of information is the satire itself, which leaves us with rather dismal thoughts on the matter. It can only be assumed that at some point after the Plătăreşti fiasco in 1686 – and probably after Germanos’ death in 1687 – the “orphaned” monk was admitted to the Saint Savas monastery in Bucharest, where the author of Τὸ ἀχούρι, Neophytos, had been a monk too, and where the events related in the dialogue could have taken place. Indeed, it would not be unreasonable to claim that this important monastic center in the Wallachian capital had been the theater of Kyrillos’ fictional (and, perhaps, actual) disgrace.

The only major character in the dialogue about whom almost nothing is known is its abused protagonist. My research has yielded little that could give a concrete sense of Neophytos’ actual identity. [80] On the basis of the few things that can be inferred from the text itself, we are in a position to know that the molested monk was closely related to another Neophytos, the bishop of Adrianople, who has been already discussed here. As he himself asserts early in the dialogue, he had been the latter’s “πρωτοσύγκελλος” at some point in his life – probably in the 1680s and surely before the bishop’s death in 1690. [81] We can also assume that he had been living in Bucharest for some time before the events described in the text had occured. Moreover, he must have been a cleric with influential connections in Wallachia, since his misfortunes seem to have attracted the interest of powerful courtiers who are invariably presented as close friends or patrons of his. [82] Finally, it is strongly implied in the dialogue that he had a long-term drinking problem that became a subject of gossip and social critisism. One cannot help noticing that the narrative is programmatically manipulated at certain points so that the fictional Neophytos can be made to confront that issue, seeking to justify himself or expose the hypocritical malevolence of those who accuse him. [83]

Besides the obvious coincidence between the name of the protagonist and that of the person who signed the work as its author, it must have been the targeted intensity and emotional resonance of the piece that led Legrand to conclude his introduction to the edition of the text by stating that it would not be surprising if the author of the text and the fictional Neophytos proved to be one and the same person. [84] It is difficult to disagree with Legrand on this point, especially since both the factual descriptions and the satirical attacks in the dialogue vibrate with a directness and embittered tension that must be of autobiographical origin. Nevertheless, concrete evidence would have to be produced before such an assumption could be unreservedly accepted, and no such thing is currently available. The same is true for another challenging problem, namely, the identity of the dialogue’s author. Much like the fictional Neophytos, the person who penned his name at the bottom of the text is particularly hard to get at. Once again, the lack of pertinent evidence makes it difficult to address this basic problem effectively. Thus, the following section can only put forth a set of preliminary observations on the issue of the work’s authorship. It offers no definitive answer.

Codex MΠT 672, which contains Τὸ ἀχούρι, comprises sixteen different manuscripts, dating from 1692 to 1701. There are also several blank leaves and a final page, written at a much later point, with a few brief notes in the form of a personal diary of memorable events. The majority of the copied texts included in the codex are works by the Pontic scholar Sevastos Kyminitis (1632-1702). We find three of his paraphrases of Byzantine mirrors for princes, preceded by their dedications and prologues; two encomia [85] and an epigram for Constantin Brâncoveanu; an Easter homily; and his admonitory discourse to the nuns of the Panagia Theoskepastos monastery in Trebizond. Other than that, there are two homilies by Gerasimos II Palladas, patriarch of Alexandria (1688-1710), and two texts by Gregory of Nazianzus and Gregory the Theologian.

With the exception of four cases, where the hand is discernibly different, [86] it is certain that all the manuscripts in the codex were copied by the same person. Most of them are left unsigned and undated. There are four instances, however, where a certain monk Neophytos reveals himself as the copier, also giving the exact completion date of each manuscript. These brief notes are reproduced here in chronological order: [87]

Compared to the four dated and signed manuscripts, the manuscript in which Τὸ ἀχούρι is preserved is unique in that it does not quite follow the same pattern that these four signatures more or less establish. The month and year of composition are inserted at the end of the text in a different way. More importantly, this is the only case where the scribe – always the same Neophytos – included a calligraphed signature of his name, completely detached from the rest of the text and at the lower right side of the last page. The exceptional format employed here makes it clear that Neophytos is the author of the dialogue and not just a copier, as in all the other cases. As both Paranikas and Legrand have already argued, this particular manuscript is an autograph.

But who is this Neophytos? From what he himself reveals in the four quoted notes we can only infer that he was from the Peloponnese and that in the last decade of the seventeenth century he was living in Bucharest as a monk, and later abbot, at the Saint Savas monastery, the prosperous dependency of the Holy Sepulcher. [88] This is precisely what Paranikas wrote about him in his 1867 Σχεδίασμα, silently drawing from the information given in the codex. Besides that, there seems to have survived nothing specific about this person, other than the few things that the dialogue reveals about him, provided that there is a biographical connection between author and protagonist: he was related to Neophytos of Adrianople, he had connections among the Wallachian administrative elite, and he was an alcoholic. Not accidentally, Legrand had nothing new to offer with regard to the question of Neophytos’ identity and merely repeated what Paranikas had written about him a few years earlier. Similarly, A. Papadopoulos-Kerameus, who included a description of the codex in his Ἱεροσολυµιτικὴ βιβλιοθήκη, did not make any suggestion as to who exactly Neophytos was or might have been. He did not recognize the handwriting and thus refrained from attributing it to any of the hands he had come across in the course of his long career as a palaeographer and archivist of the patriarchal collections in Jerusalem and elsewhere. [89]

To my knowledge, Athanasios Karathanasis was the first to address, if briefly, the issue of the work’s authorship, suggesting that the unknown satirist should be identified as Neophytos Notaras, a rather obscure figure of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, whose uncle, Dositheos of Jerusalem, and brother, Chrysanthos Notaras, had been two of the busiest and most prestigious members of the Orthodox Church at the time. [90] Karathanasis did not expand on this idea, but one can imagine what made him think of Neophytos Notaras. He appears to be a strong candidate as he fits into what we know for sure about the author of Τὸ ἀχούρι in three important ways: he was a monk; his monastic name was exactly what it should be; and he was a Peloponnesian. It would also have to be proven, however, that he was in Bucharest at the time of the dialogue’s composition, but since absolutely nothing is known about Notaras’ whereabouts around 1692, one could claim that he might have been living in the Wallachian capital. It was precisely in those years that his brother, Chrysanthos, had been dividing his time between Constantinople and Bucharest, where he regularly traveled mainly in the context of affairs related to the Holy Sepulcher. Neophytos could have easily made it to Wallachia too, like so many of his contemporaries.

At any rate, Karathanasis’ suggestion was not completely arbitrary, but it was exclusively based on a few coincidences and not supported by any competent evidence that could indisputably verify the dialogue’s attribution to Neophytos Notaras. Nevertheless, the latter’s name came up again in relation to the satire in 2001. In his monograph on Sevastos Kyminitis, Chariton Karanasios argued that it was none other than Neophytos Notaras who had copied the texts in Cod. MΠT 672. [91] The programmatic concentration of works by Kyminitis in the codex makes it a viable suggestion, since Notaras knew and probably corresponded with the Pontic scholar, having been a student of his at the Patriarchal Academy in Constantinople in the late 1670s. Karanasios’ theory is of critical importance for us here. As it has already been explained, it is certain that Τὸ ἀχούρι was composed and written down by the same person who copied most of the manuscripts in the codex. If Neophytos Notaras is proven to have been the unknown copier of that material, there can be little doubt that in his person we also have the author of the satire.

In this case too, however, Notaras’ nomination was essentially exploring an attractive possibility rather than establishing an indisputable fact. It is true, of course, that solid proof is something that one can only minimally hope for: Notaras had led a private and inconspicuous life in the periphery of the Orthodox world and always in the shadow of his two distinguished relatives. As a result, we are left today with practically no information about even the most important aspects of his life and career. Nevertheless, a brief survey of the few things that we do know about him would be necessary before his potential involvement in the composition of Τὸ ἀχούρι can be discussed in a more comprehensive way.

Neophytos Notaras was born in Trikala, a small town in the Peloponnese. The date of his birth is not attested, but Pinelopi Stathi has suggested that he must have been older than his brother Chrysanthos, who was probably born between 1655 and 1660. [92] Almost nothing is known about his parents and early childhood, but we can be certain that both he and his brother were soon taken under the care and guidance of their maternal uncle Dositheos of Jerusalem, whom they always served loyally and remembered with gratitude and respect. [93] It was Dositheos who had arranged for his nephews to become monks and members of the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulcher at a young age, and in due time they were both ordained deacons in the service of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem. [94] Both brothers spent several years in Constantinople, where in the late 1670s and early 80s they studied at the Patriarchal Academy with Sevastos Kyminitis, whose surviving letters to Chrysanthos reveal his admiration and affection for both of them. [95] Chrysanthos’ erudition and intelligence were considered to be phenomenal among his contemporaries – and not without good reason. Neophytos, on the other hand, kept a much lower profile than his brother, but he too was widely regarded as a good cleric and gifted individual. Writing in 1719, for instance, Dimitrios Prokopiou stressed precisely these qualities of his:

Although we have a fairly accurate knowledge of Chrysanthos’ activities in the 1680s and 90s, [97] nothing is known about what happened to his brother in the same period. One thing that is clear, however, is that while the former was rapidly building a spectacular ecclesiastical career for himself, decidedly promoted by Dositheos of Jerusalem, Neophytos was following – or was made to follow – a far less impressive path. Not accidentally, there is no surviving evidence that could give us some sense of his whereabouts from around 1680 and for at least fifteen years thereafter. [98] The earliest trace of him in that period that I have been able to locate dates from as late as 1696. We can now be certain that by that date he had moved to Palestine, since he is specifically mentioned in a contemporary codex as the patriarchal supervisor of the lavra of Saint Savas, a monastery outside Jerusalem. [99] There is no indication that he ever left Palestine after that date, not even in the context of a fund-raising tour like those that the members of the Brotherhood were expected to undertake. [100] As a matter of fact, we know that in 1698 he was appointed “επίτροπος” of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem. [101] As an executive director or general secretary charged with the task of running the Patriarchate, he was confronted with responsibilities that required his constant presence, absolute devotion, and unfailing attention to the affairs of the Holy Sepulcher, [102] especially since his tenure coincided with particularly difficult times for the interests of the Orthodox Church in the area. [103] It was probably his perpetual seclusion in remote Jerusalem, as well as the difficulties and complications he dealt with on a daily basis, that made him submit regular petitions to be relieved from his administrative duties. [104] Nevertheless, none of these requests was ever granted. On the contrary, Neophytos was left to supervise the Patriarchate single-handedly [105] for almost twenty-five years. [106] He stayed there throughout his uncle’s tenure and for the most part of that of his brother’s. [107] Indeed, we know that he was still holding that same post when he died, at a fairly advanced age, in mid December 1722. [108]

The question that interests us here, of course, is whether Neophytos Notaras was or could have been the author of Τὸ ἀχούρι. Such a possibility cannot be definitively excluded at this point. It must be observed, however, that there are several discrepancies between concrete textual evidence on the one hand and Notaras’ life and career on the other, which can seriously compromise the suggested attribution of both the dialogue and the manuscripts in Cod. MΠT 672 to him. Since they have never been pointed out before, I will briefly summarize them here.

1. As already discussed here, it is almost certain that the satire had a strongly autobiographical background. Therefore, despite the fact that no objective value can be attached to the discernible incongruities between what the text reveals about its protagonist/author and what is actually known about Neophytos Notaras, it is worth taking them into account. The fictional Neophytos complains that he has been totally alone in this world since the death of his protector, the metropolitan of Adrianople. He is badly beaten, manipulated, and dragged to court by an insignificant old monk probably over some money that he had borrowed from him and could not pay back. He is auditioned and embarassingly reproached by an ex patriarch, the mere sight of whom he utterly dreads. Finally, his addiction to alcohol is being frequently and viciously criticized to the point that he must come up with some sort of self-defense. None of these can be really applied to Notaras. At the point of the dialogue’s composition, he was a middle aged respectable archdeacon of the Holy Sepulcher, [109] who was soon to be given total control over the Patriarchate of Jerusalem as its general supervisor. There is no indication that he had ever been to Adrianople, and it is highly unlikely that he had served Neophytos Philaretos as his deacon. But even if he had been related to the metropolitan of Adrianople at some point in his life, would he really claim in writing that he was helpless and miserable when his “γέρων” was not around any more? Did Notaras not have other people in his life with whom he could seek comfort and protection? What about his brother and uncle? Not only were they fairly close to each other throughout their lives, but it is also hard to believe that with them by his side Neophytos would publically confess, even in the context of a satirical text, his helplessness and despair over some trivial and quite embarrassing events. It can hardly be overlooked that both Chrysanthos and Dositheos ranked very high among the most powerful clerics in the Orthodox East at the time.
2. It is difficult to imagine that someone like Notaras could have written a satirical work as acerbic and agressive as Τὸ ἀχούρι. And this is not just an issue of arbitrary psychological interpretation. It should also be kept in mind that all the virtuous and highly praised characters in the dialogue had been branded adversaries of his uncle Dositheos, or, at any rate, were known to have had very problematic relations with the authoritative patriarch of Jerusalem. That was certainly the case with Neophytos of Adrianople, Germanos Lokros, and Dionysios IV Mouselimis, all of whom play an important role in the text as agents of justice and revenge and as people of high moral standards and undisputed authority. [110] It does not seem likely that in a world of ferocious antagonism and deep ideological tension, one of Dositheos’ closest and most trusted colleagues would or could have produced a work whose sympathies lie with precisely those people whose lives and careers had been in one way or another compromised by the patriach’s venomous attacks.
3. Although the date of Neophytos Notaras’ death is carefully recorded on the last page of the codex, and both his official position at the Patriarchate and his relationship to Patriarch Chrysanthos are explicitly stated, [111] he is not identified as the author of the dialogue. Nor is he anywhere mentioned and specifically named as the owner of the codex or the copier of any of the texts that are included therein. These omissions are not without significance, especially since they go against a standard scribal practice that would normally require the inclusion of information pertaining to the authorship of a text or the ownership of a manuscript. [112]
4. Finally, a few chronological remarks. The author/copier Neophytos was a monk in Bucharest while he was writing Τὸ ἀχούρι and must have been living there for some time before 1692. As it can be inferred from the previously quoted signatures that conclude four different manuscripts in the codex, he was still there between 1700 and 1701. By that time he had become abbot of Saint Savas, his home monastery. On the other hand, what we know about Notaras is that in 1696 he had settled in Palestine and that no more than two years later he was appointed to a crucial post in the Patriarchate of Jerusalem that had been seriously weakened by the ineffective management of previous administrators. Thus, attributing the dialogue to him would involve accepting that he had been a simple monk in Bucharest at the beginning of the 1690s, which is not impossible but not very likely either. More that than, however, one would also have to accept that soon after moving to Palestine and assuming his duties at the Patriarchate, Notaras returned to the Wallachian capital as abbot of Saint Savas. In fact, he must have stayed in Bucharest at least until the beginning of the eighteenth century, since, as it has been shown here, the abbot of the monastery had copied, signed, and dated at least two manuscripts there, in 1700 and 1701 respectively. This sounds like a rather far-fetched scenario. Notaras’ duties at the Patriarchate demanded his constant presence in Jerusalem and we are in a position to know that he rarely, if ever, left the city after 1698. How possible can it be that he spent extensive periods of time in Bucharest and had actually served as abbot of an imporant monastic center in the city that would have certainly required his constant presence there?

The palaeographic collation of the dialogue’s manuscript in Codex MΠT 672 with a certified autograph of Neophytos Notaras’ will eventually give a definitive answer as to whether the latter was the author of Τὸ ἀχούρι or not. [113] In the case of a positive result, our current knowledge about his life and career would have to be amended to a significant extent and in surprising ways. For the time being, however, we can be almost certain that the author of the dialogue was someone else: a Peloponnesian monk who had found his way to Wallachia from Adrianople after Neophytos Philaretos’ death around 1690, and spent several years as a monk and abbot at Saint Savas in Bucharest. [114] There he must have met, befriended, and perhaps collaborated with Sevastos Kyminitis who had been teaching at the recently founded Principal Academy that was housed at the same monastery [115] and was sponsored by none other than the Wallachian ruler Constantin Brâncoveanu who is being lavishly praised at the beginning of Τὸ ἀχούρι. That probably explains the high concentration of works by Kyminitis in the codex that also contains Neophytos’ dialogue. In fact, I argue that the 1692 satirist was the same person as the hitherto unidentified monk Neophytos who is reported to have delivered in 1695 one of Kyminitis’ panegyrics for Brâncoveanu “upon his Highness’ return from his campaign.” [116] Living in one of the most important urban centers in the Ottoman Balkans, he must have contributed, in his way, to the unprecedented climate of prosperity and renewal that had been reshaping all aspects of social and cultural life in the region under the Wallachian ruler’s direct or indirect support and patronage.

Footnotes