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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Byzantine Achievement," Robert Byron presents a rich tapestry of medieval history, art, and culture, intricately exploring the complexity of Byzantine civilization. Combining meticulous research with a poetic narrative style, Byron delves into the artistic triumphs, architectural marvels, and religious fervor that defined Byzantium, all while situating these achievements within the broader context of European history. His eloquent prose captures the unique synthesis of Hellenistic, Roman, and Christian influences, challenging the perception of Byzantium as a mere footnote to the Western tradition. Robert Byron, a prominent British travel writer and art historian, was deeply influenced by his travels throughout Europe and the Near East, experiences that enriched his understanding of the intricate connections between cultures. His fascination with Byzantium's remnants and cultural legacy stemmed from a broader curiosity about the interplay of history, art, and architecture. This inquiry culminated in "The Byzantine Achievement," a seminal work that reflects his passionate engagement with the subject and offers vital insight into an often overlooked epoch. This book is an essential read for anyone interested in the history of art, architecture, and the complex patterns of cultural heritage. Byron's blend of scholarly rigor and vivid storytelling invites readers to appreciate the profound achievements of the Byzantine Empire, making it a compelling journey for both historians and casual readers alike. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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The Byzantine Achievement
Table of Contents
Introduction
Arguing that the civilization centered on Constantinople was not a moribund afterglow but a wellspring of artistic vision, spiritual discipline, and institutional durability, The Byzantine Achievement advances the claim that Byzantium preserved the idea of Rome, shaped a Christian aesthetic of space and light, mediated learning between worlds, and bequeathed forms—architectural, liturgical, and political—that continued to nourish Europe and its neighbors long after empire gave way, challenging inherited prejudices and inviting readers to reimagine a tradition too often caricatured as decadent, remote, or derivative, and to recognize in it a vigorous source of continuity amid the ruptures of history.
Robert Byron (1905–1941) writes here as a cultural historian and critic, offering a work of nonfiction that blends historical synthesis with aesthetic appraisal. First published in the interwar decades, the book surveys the Byzantine world from late antiquity to the mid-fifteenth century, taking the Eastern Roman Empire as its subject and laboratory. Rather than narrating battles or court intrigue, Byron situates art, ritual, and thought within the urban and sacred spaces that defined the empire’s life, positioning his study within a broader twentieth‑century reassessment of how Europe narrates its own inheritance.
At its core, the book is a sustained revaluation: a case that the Byzantine legacy should be approached on its own terms. Readers encounter a voice that is assured, lucid, and deliberately comparative, moving between historical episodes and works of art to test claims about value and influence. The prose is argumentative yet attentive, favoring close description and carefully framed generalization over encyclopedic catalog. The mood is brisk and corrective, but never merely iconoclastic; Byron’s purpose is constructive, inviting a fresh habit of seeing—an experience that feels by turns scholarly, meditative, and vividly sensuous in its attention to form.
Among the themes that emerge are the creative interdependence of faith and form, the persistence of Roman governance within a Christian commonwealth, and the routes by which ideas and techniques traveled between Greek, Latin, and other cultures. The book probes the tension between continuity and change, and the role of institutions—church, court, and city—in giving shape to a civilization across a millennium. It also considers why later Western narratives mistrusted Byzantium, tracing the genealogies of those judgments and testing them against the evidence of buildings, images, and texts that articulate a different standard of achievement.
Such inquiries feel timely because they speak to questions that still animate cultural debate: how a society carries the past forward, how aesthetic languages embody metaphysical claims, and how cross‑cultural transmission refines identity rather than dissolving it. By taking seriously a tradition long sidelined in Western curricula, the book asks readers to reconsider the geographies of Europe, the boundaries of the Renaissance, and the relationship between political endurance and spiritual imagination. It offers not nostalgia but perspective, showing how an older world can complicate modern shortcuts and deepen the frame in which we understand art, order, and belief.
As a reading experience, it rewards patience and curiosity. Byron writes with a critic’s exactitude and a traveler’s eye for detail, yet he resists the temptations of pedantry, preferring argument that unfolds from looking closely at objects, spaces, and rituals. The cadence is formal without being fussy, and the analysis is hospitable to non‑specialists while offering enough precision to engage readers already familiar with Byzantine studies. The result is a book that is both bracing and inviting, a guide that opens vistas rather than closing debates, and a reminder that clarity can accompany passion in historical writing.
Approached today, the study functions as an entryway and a provocation: an entryway because it equips readers to see Byzantine art and institutions without the distortions of received prejudice, and a provocation because it presses for a more capacious account of what constitutes European achievement. Without presuming to settle every dispute, it offers a vocabulary for admiration and critique that resists caricature. For those willing to look again at mosaics, domes, hymns, and laws through Byron’s disciplined attention, the reward is a broadened sense of continuity—an invitation to rethink how old light still travels through present rooms.
Synopsis
The Byzantine Achievement presents Robert Byron’s sustained reappraisal of the Byzantine civilization, arguing that its artistic, intellectual, and spiritual legacy underpins much of European culture. Structured as an interpretive history supported by direct observation of monuments, the book surveys the empire’s endurance, ideas, and forms of expression. Byron sets out to correct what he sees as entrenched Western misconceptions, especially the caricature of Byzantium as decadent or derivative. He frames the civilization as a coherent synthesis of Hellenic inheritance, Roman statecraft, and Christian theology. The narrative proceeds thematically yet chronologically, linking doctrines to buildings, buildings to images, and images to broader currents of learning and diplomacy.
Byron begins by positioning Byzantium as the Eastern continuation of the Roman Empire, with Constantinople as a deliberate new center of empire and faith. He outlines the early consolidation of Greek language and Christian doctrine, and the legal and administrative reforms that created a durable state. The reign of Justinian demonstrates the scope of imperial ambition: codifying law, sponsoring monumental architecture, and asserting imperial authority. Against this background, the book introduces the persistent Western bias formed by medieval rivalry and Enlightenment historiography. Byron proposes that understanding Byzantium requires grasping its guiding unity between religious purpose and civic life, which shaped policy, art, and education across centuries.
Religious thought and the theology of images supply the key to the Byzantine aesthetic. Byron explains the Christological debates and the iconoclast controversies, emphasizing how doctrinal decisions determined what could be represented and how. He describes icons not as decoration but as a visual theology, ordered to contemplation and worship. The preference for abstraction, hieratic stance, and symbolic color arises from this spiritual purpose rather than technical limitation. The settlement of iconoclasm stabilizes the visual language of the empire, authorizing the image within a liturgical context. This theological foundation, he argues, provides the consistent thread connecting diverse media, from wall mosaics to portable panels.
Architecture anchors the narrative through Hagia Sophia, presented as the paradigm of Byzantine space. Byron analyzes its vast dome, pendentives, and orchestration of light to show how structure and theology converge, creating an interior conceived as a vision of the celestial. He extends this reading to other churches, noting the integration of plan, surface, and ritual movement. Elements such as galleries, marble revetment, and gold backgrounds operate in concert with the liturgy. The account moves from Constantinople to provincial and frontier sites, revealing variations on a stable program. Architecture thus appears as an instrument of doctrine, a practical art shaped by both engineering and metaphysical intent.
From architecture the book proceeds to painting and mosaic, tracing techniques, workshops, and the diffusion of styles. Byron describes the shimmer of tesserae, the calibrations of flesh tones, and the hierarchies of sacred space articulated by the iconostasis. He tracks the movement of artists and models across the Mediterranean, with Venice, Ravenna, and Norman Sicily reflecting Byzantine visual systems in local idioms. The analysis underscores continuity: despite political upheavals, the aesthetic principles endure, adapting to patronage and geography. Painting is presented as a disciplined craft grounded in canon and prayer, distinct from Western naturalism yet capable of profound psychological presence and narrative clarity.
The scope then widens to letters, law, and learning. Byron highlights the transmission of classical texts through imperial and monastic libraries, encyclopedic compilations, and scholia. Figures such as Photios and later scholars illustrate systematic reading and preservation that sustained Greek literature and philosophy. Justinian’s codification exemplifies legal rationality and administrative order, while ceremonial and diplomacy exhibit a refined statecraft. He treats the court as a stage managing relations with neighbors through ritual, gift exchange, and calculated prestige. Literary production, homiletics, and hymnography further attest to a culture in which intellectual life remained interwoven with theology and public institutions.
Missionary work and cultural exchange form another axis of the book. Byron follows initiatives toward the Slavs and the Rus, emphasizing the creation of the Slavonic liturgy and alphabet by Cyril and Methodius, and the long-term consequences for Eastern Europe. He tracks how Orthodoxy, liturgical practice, and artistic formulae took root in Kievan Rus and the Balkans, generating regional schools of architecture and icon painting. Monastic centers, notably Mount Athos, emerge as engines of continuity, script, and style. The narrative stresses that expansion did not dilute Byzantine forms; rather, local variants absorbed and extended a stable theological and aesthetic system.
Turning to the Latin West, Byron examines channels of contact through trade, diplomacy, and crusade. He notes the trauma of the Fourth Crusade and the sack of Constantinople, yet also the persistent flow of artifacts, craftsmen, and ideas. Italo-Byzantine painting, the decoration of San Marco, and the mosaics of Norman Palermo demonstrate selective Western adoption of Byzantine methods. He argues that both before and after 1453, Byzantine scholars and artists influenced Italian humanism and workshop practice. While Western art took divergent paths, he maintains that key techniques, iconographic models, and a concept of sacred space in certain regions bear discernible Byzantine imprint.
The book concludes by restating the central claim: Byzantium achieved a unified civilization in which faith, governance, learning, and the arts cohered around a spiritual vision. Byron urges that judgments of decadence obscure concrete accomplishments in architecture, painting, law, and scholarship that shaped Europe and the Near East. The legacy is not a marginal survival but an active source, transmitted through monuments, liturgy, and texts. He invites evaluation on the evidence of buildings, images, and institutions rather than inherited prejudice. The closing perspective presents Byzantium as a disciplined imagination at work over a millennium, whose achievements still demand attentive, informed seeing.
Historical Context
Robert Byron’s The Byzantine Achievement surveys the Eastern Roman Empire from the refounding of Byzantium as Constantinople in 330 to its fall in 1453. The narrative is anchored in the city on the Bosporus, capital of a Greek-speaking Christian empire spanning the Balkans, Anatolia, the Aegean, and the eastern Mediterranean. Published in 1929, the book also reflects an interwar British milieu in which classical Rome and the Italian Renaissance dominated cultural prestige. Byron writes as a traveler-scholar who had visited Greece and monastic centers, bringing topographical precision to places like Hagia Sophia, Mistra, and Mount Athos, and arguing for Byzantium’s centrality in European history.
Constantine I inaugurated Constantinople on 11 May 330, institutionalizing a Christian imperial center oriented toward the Hellespont and Black Sea trade. Theodosius I’s Edict of Thessalonica in 380 made Nicene Christianity the state religion, while councils from Nicaea (325) to Chalcedon (451) formalized doctrine. Administrative continuity with Rome coexisted with a cultural pivot to Greek language and Hellenic urban life. Byron treats these foundations as the matrix of a distinct civilization: a Christianized Roman state that preserved classical learning in a new civic and liturgical setting, with the ceremonial heart at Constantinople shaping art, law, and diplomacy for a millennium.
The age of Justinian I (527–565) reshaped late antiquity. Codification produced the Corpus Juris Civilis (529–534), the bedrock of later European legal culture. Military reconquests under Belisarius and Narses restored North Africa (533–534) and much of Italy (535–554). After the Nika riot of 532, Justinian built Hagia Sophia (consecrated 537), designed by Anthemios of Tralles and Isidoros of Miletus, crowning an ambitious urban program; the plague of 541–542 followed. Byron emphasizes Justinian as the epoch when Roman law, Christian theology, and domed architecture fused. He reads Hagia Sophia and Ravenna’s sixth-century mosaics as material proof of Byzantium’s creative synthesis, not mere custodianship.
The iconoclastic controversies, which convulsed the empire between 726 and 843, are pivotal to understanding Byzantine society and its artistic legacy. Emperor Leo III initiated iconoclasm around 726, culminating in the Council of Hieria in 754, which condemned images; resistance was led by theologians such as John of Damascus and, later, Theodore the Studite. Empress Irene convoked the Second Council of Nicaea in 787 to restore the veneration of icons, distinguishing it from worship. A second phase began under Leo V in 815, with persecution intensifying under Theophilos (829–842), until Empress Theodora’s restoration in 843, commemorated as the Triumph of Orthodoxy. The debates were not merely aesthetic; they involved imperial authority, monastic autonomy, and the theology of incarnation, arguing that matter could mediate divine grace. The resolution fostered a disciplined image theology that shaped church interiors, from mosaic programs emphasizing the Pantokrator to portable panel icons used in private devotion. Byron makes this conflict central to his thesis that Byzantine art is a theologically reasoned, socially embedded practice, not decorative archaism. By reading the image cycles in places like the Chora church and the Athonite monasteries as conscious post-843 statements, he situates Byzantine visual culture within a defended intellectual tradition. He further contends that Western medieval misunderstandings of icons—especially in Protestant lands—arose from ignorance of this doctrinal history, and he uses the chronology of iconoclasm and its settlement to rebut the claim that Byzantium was hostile to innovation, showing instead a strenuous, state-wide negotiation that produced durable artistic norms.
External pressures reshaped the empire between the seventh and tenth centuries. Heraclius (610–641) defeated Sasanian Persia but, after 634, Arab conquests took Syria, Egypt, and much of North Africa. Constantinople survived sieges in 626, 674–678, and 717–718, the latter repelled by Leo III with strategic use of Greek fire. The theme system reorganized provincial defense, while diplomacy and evangelization expanded influence: Cyril and Methodius brought Christianity to Moravia in 863, and Vladimir of Kiev accepted baptism in 988, binding Rus to Constantinople. Byron links these processes to Byzantium’s civilizational reach, noting how liturgy, law, and building types spread across the Balkans and the Black Sea.
Relations with the Latin West deteriorated in the eleventh century. The mutual excommunications of 1054 between Cardinal Humbert and Patriarch Michael Keroularios symbolized estrangement, while Norman advances in southern Italy and Sicily eroded imperial holdings. The defeat at Manzikert in 1071 opened Anatolia to Seljuk control, prompting Alexios I Komnenos (1081–1118) to seek Western aid, catalyzing crusading while deepening dependency on Venetian naval power. Byron treats these strains as structural: divergent ecclesiologies and economic interests drove wedges that politics could not heal. His narrative stresses how Byzantine statecraft adapted through alliance and reform, even as it sowed vulnerabilities that outsiders later exploited.
The Fourth Crusade’s sack of Constantinople in 1204 created the Latin Empire and fractured Byzantine sovereignty until Michael VIII Palaiologos retook the city in 1261. Successor states at Nicaea, Epirus, and Trebizond preserved traditions, but the capital’s wealth and population never recovered, and dependence on Genoa and Venice increased. The late Palaiologan era (1261–1453) combined political fragility with cultural brilliance: Mistra in the Peloponnese fostered philosophical revival under Gemistos Plethon, and churches like Chora displayed refined mosaics and frescoes. Ottoman expansion—Kosovo 1389, Nicopolis 1396, Varna 1444—culminated in Mehmed II’s conquest on 29 May 1453 and the death of Constantine XI. Byron frames 1204 as the fatal wound and celebrates Palaiologan art as Byzantium’s resilient final statement.
Byron’s book is a critique of Western historical prejudice and of the political violences that obscured Byzantine contributions. He indicts the Latin sack of 1204 and subsequent mercantile domination as injustices that hastened decline, while exposing how post Enlightenment narratives equated progress with the Latin West, marginalizing Orthodox, monastic, and ceremonial forms. Writing after the First World War and amid nationalist recastings of the eastern Mediterranean, he laments the neglect or misuse of monuments and the severing of living traditions from their communities. The work argues for the social legitimacy of an integrated sacred and civic culture and contests classically trained disdain for Byzantine art as a political and cultural error.
The Byzantine Achievement
Part I. The Historical Image
Chapter 1. The Historian
Pride of the masses in birth and circumstance, termed when racially manifest, patriotism, is habitually evoked in the defense either of institutions or ideas. Since his divergence from the lesser forms of creation, man has striven to maintain not only his social organizations, tribal, municipal or imperial, but also, on occasion, the less concrete principles of religion, honor, and mental freedom. Today, as a force in the second quarter of the twentieth century, patriotism is variously regarded. While it remains the opinion of many that immolation in the furthest desert to which their country's sovereignty extends constitutes the highest form of human expression, there are others who, with parallel intemperance, dismiss every token of national existence as a kind of original sin dating from Louis XIV and George III[1]. Mental patriotism, such as that which fought the Reformation and led England to declare war on Germany in 1914, is viewed by nationalists with less enthusiasm, by "little Englanders" with greater tolerance. But removed from these definitions is another form of pride in which the individual can permit the rest to share; a form seldom felt, more seldom given words, which transcends the consciousness of this or that tradition, the sunsets of an empire or the concept of a god; which surmounts the barriers not only of political, but of ethical, intellectual, and spiritual disagreement. World consciousness is a commonplace; European already a reality. But the supreme pride is measured not in terms of the existing earth, of temperament and social device, but in divisions of time, in terms of human development—that development, which, whether it prove ultimately progressive or retrograde, is continuous. The instinct is a pride, a patriotism in our age. Sons of fathers, fathers of children, we stand companion to a moment. Let the flag fly, not of lands and waters, morals and gods, but of an era, a generation.
In communion with this apotheosis of the age, this pride in the present's relation to the past and future, there emerges from the furthest antiquity of every country and every race, the science of historical analogy. This process, commonly a mere embellishment of popular writers, makes it possible, by sorting the centennially and millennially repeated incidents and trends of history, to surmise the actual moment of our progress. Civilizations are uncommon phenomena. They are to be distinguished from transitory cultural epochs such as those enjoyed by Periclean Greece and the Italy of the Renaissance. Ours is barely come. But not only are we poised on the footboard of the encyclopedic civilization now being launched; in addition, we are gathered to the brow of infinity by the initial achievement of the scientific revolution. Thus, like Moses on Nebo[2], we occupy a vantage point: we look both ways: back to Darwinism, daguerreotypes and railway trains; ahead to mathematical pantheism, television and the colonization of the stars. And it is this increasing systematization of intuitive analysis, standardization of old form to produce new, and interconnection of place, which distinguishes the oncoming civilization from its precursors. Its vitality will endure, as theirs did not, from the scope and unity of its embrace.
Thus the historian, substituting for the methods of the pedagogue those of the scientist and the philosopher, is the high priest of the instant. To assimilate peacefully the, forces of the advancing epoch, as yet but faintly discernible on its distant horizon, the world must revise its conception of the past, distilling from a recoordination of essential fact, the elements that have contributed to the immensity upon which it is about to lay hold. It is the day of historical stocktaking, when all peoples must bring their achievement into line with the one universal development of the future. (Until, when that is interrupted, some classic Melanesian golden age shall raise a tiny cultured head and start again.) In place of the presentation of an unpalatable sequence of incident, sugared with romance and molded to the bias of particularist writers—in the English language usually Protestant or Liberal—the function of history in this moment of rapid evolution resolves into a dual purpose: the general, to sift from the past a philosophic and scientific understanding of the present in preparation for the future; and in particular, to enumerate and render intelligible any series of events, the consequences of which are liable to affect ensuing generations in an immediate and perceptible manner. In the whole of European history, no moment offers more relevant comparison to our own than that in which Christianity became the state religion of the Roman Empire. A new civilization was thus born, the nature and achievement of which have remained unintelligible in the centuries of Triumphant Reason that have followed its extinction. Hence, in a single, if yet uncompleted, enquiry, the alliance of Constantine's foundation with such incidents in its legacy as the sack of Smyrna in 1922.
Chapter 2. The Greeks
As the sapphire and the aquamarine from the turquoise, so differ the waters of the Aegean from the flat blue of the Mediterranean whole. Sail from Italy or Egypt. And as the rose-tinted shores of islands and promontories rise incarnate from the sea, a door shuts the world behind. Earth's emotion diffuses a new essence. Who are we to cut the water and cleave the air with prow and funnel?
Those who sit at home with their anthologies, their Homers and Byrons, have long grown impatient of the hackneyed eulogy. Travelers, on the other hand, know that the poet has not lived who can hackney the Greek sea itself. How lies it apart? What magnet of our stifled love hold this blue, these tawny cliffs and always the mountains framing the distance? Why does the breeze blow with a scent of hiking herbs which the misty shores echo in their colors? What is this element, hybrid of air and water, physical as a kiss, with which the night enfolds us? The islands float past, forming and reforming in goodbye, gleaming golden white against the sharp blues, or veiled in the odorous haze of evening. A silver sheen overspreads the sea as the ship moves north; the sky grows mild, hung with stationary clouds. Through the straits, all day across the Marmora brings the shadowy cones of the Princes' Islands, and the mirage of Constantinople[3]. Then down again beside the rich soil and undulating ranges of Anatolia, to the bay of Smyrna, Rhodes, and below, in the corner, Cyprus. At the foot lies Crete; on the west, Corfu. This is the radius of the elusive essence; Byzantium, the keystone of its arc. From the southern boundary of Albania to the Asia Minor littoral, the entity is definite as Great Britain or the islands of Japan. Within it, the divinity of earth moves to the brink of tangibility. And if, in the first migrations, its custody was vouchsafed a people in whom the quest of the divine, which distinguishes man from beast, was already conscious, small wonder that this people has played a significant part in the general evolution of civilization. Who was this people, favored above others? What has become of it?
* * * * *
It were futile to deny that, in Anglo-Saxon parlance, the term "Modern Greek" is flavored with a suspicion of contempt as inevitable as that aroma of human perfection which attaches to Ancient. When it was discovered, in the opening years of the nineteenth century, that the wild tribes of the Peloponnese, among whom four centuries' alien misrule had rendered outlawry the only honorable profession, were not imbued with the heroic virtues so conspicuously absent in the contemporary states of Western Europe, the world of the Greek revival received the intelligence with pain.
Balm, however, was forthcoming in the writings of Fallmerayer, whose history of the Morea, published in the thirties, convinced a Europe anxious to believe it that the "Modern Greek" was of Slavonic origin. With sensation of relief, it was decided that the descendants of Pericles and Pheidias were extinct. The word degenerate, brandished with such potent futility by Gibbon, was borrowed from the ashes of the empire to decry the foundations of the kingdom. From then onwards the world at large, eyes riveted on the dead pillars of the Parthenon, has discounted the inhabitants beneath them as the unmoral refuse of medieval Slav migrations, sullying the land of their birth with the fury of their politics and the malformation of their small brown bodies.
But, within the last few decades there has arisen, in face of the prejudice of scholarship, the science of anthropology. It has therefore become possible to determine, without further question, the racial origins of Ancient, Byzantine, and Modern Greeks.
In the early Neolithic age the whole area of land between Great Britain and Somaliland was inhabited by a genus of delicately built brunettes, which have been termed by modern scientists the Brown or Mediterranean race. Gradually the sphere of its predominance was encroached upon by Teutons in the north, Nubians in the south; till at length it survived only in a majority on the Mediterranean littoral. Subject to that limitation, it may be classified, speaking of physical characteristics, in four main families, of which the Pelasgians—to borrow a name from Herodotusinhabited Greece, the Archipelago, and the west coast of Asia Minor. That this people, or more accurately this branch, was possessed, before the advent of the Indo-European Hellenes, of a civilization capable of high development and assimilation, is demonstrated in the artistic and domestic achievement of the Minoan era in Crete, for which it must have been mainly responsible. Additional, though less sophisticated, remains of its culture are to be found in the monuments of the Etruscans[5], a branch of the Pelasgians migrated to Italy.
At length, from that uncharted fount, the home of the Aryans, the magic Hellenes brought their powers of reasoning, their perception of form and their language. These they imposed on the Pelasgians. In the representational arts, the period of fusion, prior to the wholesale preponderance of the Hellenic culture, produced those colored portrait busts, superior to anything that formerly came out of Egypt, or later of Greece, which are now in the Acropolis Museum at Athens. Even Herodotus admits that the Hellenes always remained a minority in the country of their invasion; racially they were almost immediately assimilated. Nonetheless, this combination, of which, in our everyday speech, the adjective is "Greek," was a successful one. It laid one of the three foundations of that European civilization which has now engulfed the globe. Its cultural influence was felt from Gibraltar to Peking, from the wall of Hadrian to the roots of the Nile, even in the centuries of its inauguration. Where its people were predominant, there also was prosperity. With the submersion of the Greeks, poverty and misgovernment fastened on their home, the shores of the eastern Mediterranean.
Meanwhile, during the intervening years, the whole Brown Race, particularly in Italy and Spain, had become diluted with foreign stock. This process was the work of the barbarian invasions that followed the fall of the West Roman Empire, from which the Byzantine sphere, but for occasional and impermanent incursions, was immune. Thus, of the four families into which the Brown Race was originally divided, that in which the physical characteristics correspond most markedly with those exhibited by the anatomical remains of the original stock, is the Greek. The theory of Slavic origin, derived from a superficial observation of village names in the neighborhood of Athens, is as plausible as a deduction from the place terminations of -wick and -by, that all Englishmen are descended from Danes. The popularity of Fallmerayer's opinions has been heightened by the illusion of blond giants which the familiar white marble statues of Greece present. It is simultaneously forgotten that chiseled noses, proud lips, and rounded chins are still Greek features, though seldom found in coincidence, and not always easy to distinguish beneath straw hats and toothbrush moustaches.
Thus, in so far as anthropology is better qualified to offer decision than any branch of scholarship, the definition of the Greek remains in the twentieth century what it always was: a unit of the old Mediterranean stock possessing an Aryan culture, akin to that of the Scythians and Sarmatians, engrafted on its own. But beyond the identity of bones and skulls, there exists, for the man in the street, more convincing proof. Since the moment of history's earliest acquaintance with the Greeks, the essential qualities of their character have descended through the greatness of the Byzantine, and the degradation of the Ottoman Empires, unchanged. The travelling pedagogue, who admits the existence of the native population only to lament the absence of that vacuous perfection which he conceives to have been the Hellenic physiognomy, will maintain an opposite opinion. But it is doubtful whether, amid his texts and annotations, he has ever acquired sufficient acquaintance with human character to divest his heroes of their heroics and discover the men beneath. Those, however, who have drunk the humanities as a medicine rather than an intoxicant, will recognize in the modern Greek mentality and temperament, the counterpart of the ancient. The history of a people is not possible until the degree of constancy in its character is determined.
* * * * *
Fundamentally, the salient and most permanent impulse of the race is an avid curiosity. The zeal for knowledge, which inspired the first philosophers and the first scientists, differed in no way from that to which St. Paul, in an age of new necessity, cast the bait of the Unknown God. Today the "men of Athens" still greet one another with the words "[Greek characters]—what news?" and await an answer. In the country a regular formula of personal interrogation is the preliminary to all hospitality. There results from this insatiable attitude of enquiry, a universal, and to the Briton, extraordinary, respect for learning, for books as books, and for any aspect of cultural ability. From the highest to the lowest, even to the illiterate, this national trait has endured through the ages. And, as might be expected from an acquaintance with either the Ancients or the Byzantines, history is regarded as a recreation rather than a study, the leading newspapers exhibiting daily columns from the pens of its foremost professors.
The perpetual dissatisfaction with the outward semblance of things also engenders, as it always did, a depreciatory clarity of vision. The Greeks, in contrast with the English, are lacking in that quality of self-deception which so assists a moral people in its dubious enterprises. Though capable of untruth in pursuance of an aim, with themselves they are honest. They employ fact in both speech and literature, to the detriment of those decencies which Anglo-Saxons prize above truth. And it is to this exercise of semicynical, semisatirical insight into the weakness of human motive, that they owe the genuine, passionate spirit of democracy which they translated into political science, which was the foundation of the Byzantine monarchy, and with which they are still imbued. Through 3,000 years Greek history exhibits no vestige of a caste system. The pedestals of popular esteem are, and always have been, reserved for men of learning, servants and private benefactors of the state, and occasional families who have enjoyed a record of public service through two or three generations.
It is not, however, to be supposed that the Greek is inquisitive only in the manner of the savage. He is gifted, in addition, with a uniform standard of intelligent ability, such as characterizes, for instance, the Jew. In this "quick-wittedness" the contrast is especially marked between himself and the other Balkan races, Rumanian, Bulgar, Serb, and Albanian. In addition he is spurred, as a rule, by ambition. As trader and financier, it is said that "though second to the Armenian, he can surpass the Jew." In this respect one fact is certain: throughout history, the prosperity of the Levant, an area where important trade routes and natural riches coincide in astonishing profusion, has varied and will continue to vary with his political fortune.
Save when an opportunity for actual participation in the affairs of the state presents itself, their discussion constitutes, without rival, his national recreation. Those who have moved among the English working classes testify unanimously that their interest in politics is aroused only during the transitory excitement of elections. In Greece, so alive among the obscurest grades of society is the tradition of every man's partnership in the conduct of the country, that parliamentary government is rendered almost impossible, unless supported by the steadying loyalty that attaches to a throne. This latter the Byzantines possessed; while the popular vice, argument, was diverted to the less destructive province of theology. Today the political recrudescence of this vice is focused in countless newspapers, whose acrid party columns vividly recall the petty slates and infantile wars of the classical era. But, beneath the surface currents of recrimination, there flows a deep religious patriotism, a mystical faith in the Hellenic destiny, which is fundamentally different from the chauvinist imperialism of the West. Corollary of this is an insane party loyalty, which can agitate the domestic life of the country to an inconceivable degree. In both national and party causes, the Greeks are indefatigable propagandists. Hence, in these spheres, truth is often elusive. Similar tactics in business dealings lead them to excesses, which those whom they outwit term dishonesty and double dealing. In this connection, however, it is impossible to discount the effect of four centuries' misrule and insecurity, from which a large proportion of the population has been not twenty years delivered. And it may be noticed, in passing, that the corruption of public servants and members of the Government is not practiced with the open complacency that prevails among the other Balkan countries and in the United States of America.
The people are devoutly religious and devoutly superstitious; though their aspirations of soul have never been systematically diverted to the purposes of an institution by the exploitation of superstition, as in Latin countries. Towards nature, flowers, trees and birds, they feel a romantic, almost spiritual love. This, owing to its having attained widest expression in the writings of antiquity, is often termed pagan, as though it were in contradiction to Christianity.
Finally, and most essential clue to their character through the ages, the Greeks are imbued with the same conceit as they ever were—a conceit so cosmic, deified, part of the order of existence, that outward expression of it is superfluous and its ultimate discovery leaves the stranger with a sense of shock. European neither in fact nor feeling, they talk of "Europe" as somewhere else, and regard foreigners, though with tolerance and sometimes affection, as lacking in those essential qualities which have always constituted the Hellenic superiority over "the barbarians." This conceit renders them impulsive and, therefore, physically brave; it also deprives them of sound judgment in moments of crisis. Since the War of Independence they appear to have been inspired with a singular devotion towards Great Britain, which originated in gratitude, and has been maintained by the Greek appreciation of the element of justice in British character. If proof of their constancy in friendship be desired, it is forthcoming in the fact that, despite the events between 1914 and 1923, this feeling has remained.
Such in retrospect and present fact, is the Greek character. A clever, conceited and enquiring race, intensely political and intensely democratic, reserved in its friendships, conservative in its beliefs, commercially gifted, responsive to the emotions of nature and religion, the Greek people had endured, poised between East and West, child of neither, yet receptive to both. Originally an alloy, it stood like a new metal bridge from Africa and later Asia, to carry northwest the foundations of a world civilization. This work accomplished, it has preserved the identity of which that world then strove to rob it. But how is it that the world, the barbarians, contemptuous as they are contemptible, are still concerned with the existence of the Greeks at all? Whence has the flood of their misrepresentation been unloosed? The source is found in that curious mixture of sincere and artificial enthusiasm, Philhellenism[4].
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The most frequent manifestations of this peculiar mental state, both in print and life, are the outcome of that jejune philosophy of living, which is the last heritage of the classical scholar. Student, ultimately interpreter, of Greek texts; endowed with a kindred love of exact reasoning and exact representation, together with a kindred absence of historical perspective and emotional outlet; he has fabricated from literature and stones an ideal of humanity, which he and his following have pronounced applicable to eternity. It is the singular odium of this eternal comparison, for centuries the bane of European culture, which necessitates, once and for all, the relegation of classicism to its just place in the tale of human development.
In history alone, the paper Philhellenes may be held responsible for as great a volume of calculated misrepresentation as the priestly editors of the Old Testament. Fanatically jealous for their idols' prestige, they visit the virtues of the fathers upon the twentieth-century children with a malignity so familiar that further mention of it is unnecessary. Flouting the rudiments of anthropology, dating a quarter of a century back, they continue to propagate the thesis that the ancient Greek was a Nordic giant, and that the modern is a Slav dwarf. In face of common-sense euphony, they persist in maintaining a pronunciation invented by the ignorant English scholars of the sixteenth century, which utters "bazilews" for [Greek characters] instead of "vassilefs," "kilioy" for [Greek characters] instead of "hilii"—thus rendering moribund a language which, after two millenniums, differs from Euripides considerably less than modern English from Chaucer. Though aware, if pretending to culture (which they possibly do not) that a cursive Greek hand has existed for more than a thousand years, they still compel submissive pupils to perform their conjugations in a disjointed and hideous script, thus dissipating the short hours of youth, and the straitened incomes of its progenitors, in useless effort. Finally, they range themselves in support of a cynical world's opinion that the twentieth-century Hellene is no more than a negligible assemblage of human vices. Only the Byzantine era, being past, and in any case beyond their understanding, is spared the aggregate of their vituperation. But even those familiar with the eternal dotage of our Universities, will scarcely believe that at Oxford, until as late as 1924, Gibbon's Decline and Fall was still presented as a set book to candidates about to embark on two years' study, not of literature, but history.
Apart, however, from the perversion of truth, an art which is necessarily unbecoming in the paid instructors of youth, there is about the textual Philhellene a negative vacuity which betrays him. Artistically, his appreciations are those of an unsuccessful photographer. That "art translates inward into visible form" is a principle as alien to his under standing as the paintings of El Greco which illustrate it. Amid the mysterious glory of St. Sophia, or the pungent energy of modern industrial creation, he aches for the neat refinements of the Parthenon. In short, he is complacent. He seeks, as life progresses, not the exquisite acutening of his aspirations and their infinite expansion, but plain, unrippled attainment. Whether a participant in the age-old conspiracy of pedagogues to sacrifice the intellect of the universe to the retention of their incomes, or simply dilettante offspring of their misguidance, he is liable to succeed in his ambition. Let us leave him content, a dog with his bone. Let us regulate, also, the proportion of his importance.
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