"Agony of Carnal Burning and Rejection of Salvation in Alexandros Papadiamantis's The Dewitcher",...

—————————————————— NICOLAS EVZONAS

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AGONY OF CARNAL BURNING AND REJECTION OF SALVATION

IN ALEXANDROS PAPADIAMANTIS’S THE DEWITCHER

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MODERN GREEK STUDIES YEARBOOK

A PUBLICATION OF MEDITERRANEAN, SLAVIC AND

EASTERN ORTHODOX STUDIES

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Volume 28/29, 2012/2013

109

AGONY OF CARNAL BURNING AND REJECTION OF SALVATION

IN ALEXANDROS PAPADIAMANTIS’S THE DEWITCHER

by

Nicolas Evzonas

Université de Paris-Sorbonne Introduction The Dewitcher (ÔH Farmakoluvtria, 1900) is one of the most puzzling narratives of the Skiathos-born novelist Alexandros Papadiamantis and un-doubtedly the one that invalidates most deeply his asserted realism; it also ranks among his most intriguing and most commented on writings.1 This text, which mixes up two apparently independent stories, is narrated in the first per-son and concluded in a spirit of concealment and denial with the phrase “dia; th;n ajtigrafhvn” (by the hand of the copyist), as if to say: the story is not about myself, but actually it is, although I’m afraid to tell you so! The story’s struc-ture is rather complicated and features an alternation between two temporal levels (the past and twenty years later),2 each corresponding with one of the two additional sub-plots. We shall examine both of the latter separately, start-ing with the remotest one (not in the “time of the tale” but in “historical” time), which does not directly concern the autodiegetic narrator (the main hero who tells the story in the first person). The Magic Conversion of an Impassioned Lover into an Asexual Christ The story of Manolakis takes up nearly half of The Dewitcher, and its impact extends into the second sub-plot, which it explicitly influences. When he was twenty years old, Manolakis, the eldest of Machoula’s five children (Machoula being the narrator’s cousin) and her only son, fell in love with a girl older than he was, “lost his head and wanted to marry her” (e[cane to;n nou`n tou k ejzhtous̀e na; numfeuqh`/; III, 307, 5-6).3 While this depiction does re-flect the social norms of the times, as it appears on the surface of the text—he

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should have let his four single sisters wed before him—it mostly shows, ac-cording to what one may read “between the lines” (and which is brilliantly corroborated by the intertext), that marriage is deemed equivalent to madness. Not only did Machoula refuse to allow her son to “be exposed to life’s worries at such an early age” (na; ejmbh`/ sta; bavsana, tovson nevoı; III, 307, 14)—as though getting married at twenty were unusual at the time!—she did not hesitate to overtly express her approval of sterility, thus becoming a typical “Papadiamantic” spokesperson (and standing by her homonym in Specter of Sin (ÔAmartivaı favntasma), who would rather take holy orders than start a family (III, 225, 5-6): “De;n sumfevrei na; paraplhqaivnh/ kai; poluv oJ kovsmoı” (there is no benefit for humans in breeding so enthusiastically; III, 312, 2), she comments. And, as though anxious to dismiss in advance a sociological inter-pretation of her words, based on the hackneyed theme of the “plague” that female offspring embody, she refers to her neighbor Constantis Rigas, “a clever man who has travelled a lot” (e[xupnoı kai; kosmogurismevnoı a[nqrwpoı; III, 312, 3)—whose name might endow his sayings with “royal” authority (Rhvgaı, “king”)—and who invariably welcomes the birth of a male child with this phrase: “Carh`te, bre; paidiav: gennhvqhke ki a[lloı camavlhı!” (Now, folks, cheer up! One more drudge has come into the world!; III, 312, 5-6). Emphasizing her “maternal affection” (ejk mhtrikh`ı storgh`ı; III, 307, 24), this woman who hates nuptials and fecundity decides to engage into a sin-gular and “passionate” (peripaqh;̀ III, 307, 24) ceremony, in order to free her “lovelorn son” (ejrwtoctuphmevnoı; III, 307, 27), “bewitched by evil incanta-tions” (potismevnoı ajpo; kaka;ı magganeivaı; III, 307, 27). One senses the veiled antagonism between the “zealous” motherly love and the “rebellious” son’s love. With her seven-year-old daughter, Machoula goes to Saint Anastasia’s chapel, where she lights seven candles, before enwrapping the church seven times with a wick coated in pure wax, fashioned with her own hands and wound around seven posts, in the hope that the encircled saint (more truly attached, compelled to submit to Machoula’s will)4 will provide the desired miracle and thus prove her “dewitching,” her spell-breaking ability. One notices the omnipresence of the number “seven,” which reveals here more clearly than in any other text by Papadiamantis the magic properties attributed to it. On the other hand, we should also point out the fire element that emerges and prevails all along the story. If we examine the role of fire in Manolakis’s story, we may detect the subtle contrast between the religious fire and the magic one struck by Machoula, who started her “ceremony” by lighting (h[nayen) seven candles in Saint Anastasia’s chapel, after the religious service is over and “the priest ha[s] drunk his raki5 in the front of the chapel, close to the log-fire (fwtia`ı) still burning outside in order to boil the water for the Ablu-tion (zevon) and to provide coal for the censer.”6 Machoula’s magic fire starts burning once the holy fire has completed its own mission. With the benefit of hindsight, this “ardent” mother understands that her son “monaco;ı tou kai; qevlontaı e[bale sebnta; mevsa tou” (has himself sown the seeds of passion in his heart; III, 311, 20-21) and that, therefore, Saint Anastasia, on whom the Almighty has bestowed the power to break spells, was unable to help him. We easily uncover here the projection of an amorous de-sire, of that self-feeding bewitchment in the outer reality, as one more example

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of how an internal phenomenon which is a source of worry can be expelled, and its emphasis shifted into the realm of superstition. Let us briefly recall Stathis’s sexual inhibitions, in Shores of Twilight (Ta; Rovdin avkrogiavlia), con-verted in his mind into evil incantations uttered by witches (IV, 273-76), as well as similar conflicts transferred (“regurgitated”) by numerous Papadiamantic “lovers” on their diabolical Rival. To come back to our narrative, in Machoula’s opinion, Saint Anastasia has achieved her miracle in a different way: after the weeping mother’s petition to the “Dewitcher,” Manolakis’s love married another young man and the re-jected lover lost his appetite, “kitrivnise sa;n to; keriv ki e[luwse sto;n ajpavn kovsmo” (he became as pallid as wax and his body, still in this world, already seemed a corpse; III, 311, 26-27). And then the narrator’s cousin, fearing that the son shall lose his mind or his health, dedicates him to Panagia Kounistra. This gesture holds a major symbolic meaning, since, apart from her tradition-ally acknowledged thaumaturgic virtues (especially in cases of mental distur-bance)7 Panagia Kounistra, also known as the “Virgin Mary on a Swing,” is a younger Virgin Mary, the girl before the Annunciation, before Christ’s com-ing.8 The mother who wishes to keep her son safe from marriage and procrea-tion prays to a wholly sterile Panagia,9 or, rather, to the most virgin of all Virgins!10 Indeed, Manolakis’s fate shows that his mother’s vow has been granted: his health is restored; he gives up his thoughts of settling down and starting a family and chooses celibacy. His only flaw is his fondness for alcohol:

Faivnetai pw;ı to; e[rrixe ligavki sto; piovma, oJ Manwlavkhı, ma; de;n to; parakavnei pisteuvw . . . “Asprise, kai; de;n qevlei na; pantreuth`/. (III, 311, 33-35) It seems that Manolakis took to drinking, but without exaggerating, I think . . . His hair has turned grey, but he still doesn’t want to get married.

This story ends with a dream told by Machoula to the narrator (III, 312, 9-26). One night she dreamed of a young girl, who looked like Saint Anastasia, and who gave her a little white flower with a sweet scent out of the Garden of Eden and asked her to let her son smell it.11 Then, all of a sudden, “to; pra`ma, to; paravxeno, to; mau`ro kai; katakovkkino” (a strange thing, black and all red; III, 312, 19-20) loomed out of the ruins of the old building adjoining Dewitcher’s chapel—which the narrator associates further on in the text with Aphrodite’s temple12—and pounced on her, trying to snatch the flower away; the saint then came to her rescue chopping away the attacker’s hand.13 In our view, this dream repeats, as by the rule dictating Papadiaman-tis’s “onirology,”14 the main elements of Manolakis’s story: With the collusion of Saint Anastasia, Machoula triumphs over her son’s carnal Eros and imposes on him a sacred virginity. Thanks to her work (or because of it), Manolakis (the diminutive of “Emmanuel”)15 becomes an asexual Christ.

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The Tragic Confrontation of Two Antagonistic Approaches to Love Let us come to the autodiegetic narrator. He starts by explaining that he has gone back (kai; pavlin; III, 305, 1) to the mountain, where Saint Anastasia’s chapel once stood, to see his cousin Machoula. The repetitive char-acter of his chosen route matches the passion that motivated him, a passion rooted in his past and connected to his need for contemplation:

Th;n ajlhvqeian na; ei[pw, de;n h[xeura meta; bebaiovthtoı o{ti e[mellon na; th;n sunanthvsw, ajll hjlaunovmhn ajpo; to; pavqoı, e[fera ta; bhvmatav mou eijı proskuvnhsin, kai; hj/sqanovmhn th;n ajnavgkhn n ajnazwpurwvsw ajrcaivaı ajnamnhvseiı. (III, 305, 2-5) To tell the truth, I wasn’t quite sure that I would meet her, but urged by my passion, I went on a pilgrimage: I felt the need to revive old memories.

The narrator goes on to evoke his meeting Machoula in the same place, twenty years earlier, focusing less on the little chapel consecrated to Saint Anastasia than on the “huge marble blocks, almighty remains of a sacred pre-cinct or sanctuary, in all probability a temple dedicated to some deity predating Prometheus” (plhsivon ajrcaivou pammegevqouı shkou` h] temevnouı ejk gi-gantiaivwn marmavrwn, to; oJpoi`on piqano;n na; hj~to nao;ı tw`n qew`n pro; tou` Promhqevwı ejpoch`ı; III, 305, 8-10). The narrator’s account is sprinkled with symbols: Prometheus metonymically represents fire,16 as does Saint Anastasia, who was martyred through burning—a “holocaust” (oJlokauvtwma; III, 309, 24), as we are told further in the narrative, a word borrowed from her Apolytikion.17 Besides, comparing the ancient building with the face of a Sphinx (provswpon Sfiggovı; III, 305, 10-11), not only introduces overtly the idea of a mystery: it allows us to guess, through the implicit reference to Sophocles’ Oedipus the King, the “uncanniness” of a place which the narrator will later deem a temple dedicated to the Olympian Goddess of Love. In short, Aphrodite-Sphinx would allude to the carnal Eros devouring the narrator and opposed to the asexual blaze of the Christian Saint.18 The fire theme appears again, when the narrator describes a tree “burned down” by the moonlight:

[E]ij~da th;n selhvnhn […] o{pou ejpiv tina lepta; ejfaivneto wJı na; eij~ce bavlei fwtia;n eijı devndron memonwmevnon, o[rqion ejpi; th`ı korufh`ı tou` uJyhlou` lovfou, tou` fravssontoı to;n limevna: to; devndron ejfaivneto wJı na; kaivetaiÚ eij~ta hJ ÔEkavth, ajfhvsasa to; devndron mau`ron kai skoteino;n ajpovkauma, ajnh`lqe bradei`a, ejn ajglai?a/ kai; ajpoqewvsei faeinh`/, u{perqen th`ı lofia`ı tou` o[rouı. (III, 308, 18-24; emphasis added) For a few moments, the moon […] seemed to have set fire to a lone tree rising on the hill; on the high ridge that blocked the view to the port, the tree seemed to be burning, but then Hecate, neglecting her tree, now a black and dark


ember, slowly rose above the crest of the hill, magnificent, in an apotheosis of light.

This passage should be read in parallel with the text below:19

ÔO ceivmarroı ejrrovcqei, e[bruce, kai; katefevreto meta; krovtou, k ejku-liveto schmativzwn duvo katarravktaı, kurivarcoı eijı th;n sigh;n th`ı nuktovı. ÔO krovtoı ejkei`noı ejnevspeire fovbon eijı th;n yuchvn mou, h{tiı ajnegnwvrize par eJauth`/ oJmoiovthta me; to; reu`ma ejkei`no. Edespovzeto o{lh ajpo; e{n u{poulon pavqoı, kaqw;ı to; baqu; reu`ma kai; hJ sigh; th`ı nuk-to;ı ejdespovzonto ajpo; e{na dou`pon uJpovkwfon. (III, 308, 6-11; emphasis added) The torrent was roaring, bellowing, as it rolled down crashing to form two wa-terfalls; this noise, that dominated the nightly silence, scared my frightened soul which discovered in itself a likeness to the rushing water, for it was domi-nated by a deceitful passion, exactly as the bottom of the gully and the silence of the night were dominated by a muffled rumble.

Given the fact that the narrator’s soul bears some similarity with the elements of nature,20 we may easily conclude that the charred tree mirrors his all-consuming passion. And since Hecate, tutelary deity of witches, is behind this both exquisite and terrifying flare-up, it may also be inferred that the narrator is the victim of a love enchantment, just like Manolakis. This would explain why he takes such pleasure in recollecting the latter’s trials and tribulations: because he sees himself in them. The validation comes soon:

Kai; twvra, meta; ei[kosin e[th, o{tan h[rcisa h[dh na; fqivnw, ajfou` kata; kovron ejgeuvqhn th`ı zwh`ı o{lhn th;n truvga kai; th;n pikrivan, eja;n ejgw; ejzhvtoun na; zwvsw me; khrivon to;n nao;n th`ı Mavrturoı, ou[te khrivon plevon aJgno;n qa; hjdunavmhn na; eu{rw, diovti ajpo; pollou` o{loi oiJ khroplavstai ejpwvloun noqeumevna khriva, kai; oiJ melissotrovfoi aujtoi; eij~con mavqei na; noqeuvwsi to; khrivon pri;n to; pwlhvsoun. (III, 309, 5-10; emphasis added) And now, twenty years later, as I start waning, having drained the cup of life’s bitterness to the dregs, if I had to encircle the Martyr’s chapel with wax, I wouldn’t be able to find pure wax anymore, as for quite a long time the chan-dlers have been selling adulterated wax and the beekeepers have learnt how to degrade it before selling it.

Still using a metaphorical style, the narrator refers to the impure wax, when he actually wishes to talk about the falsification and the corruption of his own self.21 Since he has irretrievably been robbed of his youth, especially his psy-chological youth, and of his purity, he comes to feel the self-abjection (kata; kovron) which has been shown to be linked to loss, emptiness, and perturbed identity rooted in the pre-oedipal phase (the archaic inability to distinguish be-tween the “self” and the “non-self,” between the inner and the outer, between

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the intro-jected mother and the ab-jected mother).22 On the other hand, if we “read” “kata; kovron ejgeuvqhn [...] th;n truvga” (I have drained the cup of life to the dregs) in a literal sense, we can detect another common feature with Manolakis: alcoholism, i.e., the need to swallow the “good mother” in order to excrete the bad one (the ab-jected mother) and also to withstand the extraneity for which she is responsible.23 As for the twenty-year gap that separates his first visit (as a high school student bored with his lessons who had rather get an “education” outdoors through watching Machoula’s ceremony III, 306, 31-307, 1) and the walk de-scribing his devouring passion and the acknowledgement of his existential downfall, it calls to mind the two decades elapsed between the narrator of Specter of Sin’s first roving in the gully and his second wandering, during which a dreadful vision shines a dazzling light over his past (Ôamartivaı favntasma; 225–30). These twenty years undoubtedly symbolize the way to realization. Still keeping the object of his love’s identity under wraps, the narrator admits more or less openly that he shares Manolakis’s ardent and destructive desire, despite—so he says—being much more deeply bewitched than Machoula’s young son ever was. However, at his mature age, such an Eros is too shameful to mention.

“W! eJptavkiı movnon… . . . ÔEbdomhkontavkiı eJpta; qa; eij~con twvra ajnavgkhn na; perizwvsw to;n nao;n th`ı ÔAgivaı Anastasivaı! . . . Tosavkiı eij~ce periezwsmevnhn th;n kardivan mou hJ a[kanqa th`ı pikra`ı ajgavphı, tosavkiı th;n eij~ce perisfivxei to; eJrpeto;n pavqoı, to; dolerovn . . . eujlabouvmhn na; ei[pw eijı th;n ÔAgivan, hj/scunovmhn na; oJmologhvsw pro;ı ejmautovn, o{ti h[mhn, ojye; h[dh th`ı hJlikivaı, leiva tou` pavqouı kai; e{rmaion. (III, 309, 28-310, 2; emphasis added) Oh! Only seven times? I would have needed to encompass Saint Anastasia’s chapel seventy-seven times! So the spine of bitter love had encircled my heart, so the slithering, deceitful passion clasped my heart . . . I dreaded telling the Saint, I felt ashamed to confess to my own self that, even at such a ripe old age, I was the prey of passion, I was its prisoner.

Let us now consider more closely the words a[kanqa and eJrpetovn. Through the first one, we can surmise the Passion of Christ, more so if we link it with its appearance in Specter of Sin (the virginal crown turns into a crown of thorns that hurts the young maid of the vision; III, 229, 33–230, 2). The narrator’s very desire is an ordeal. One could also, based on the same intertextual refer-ence, suspect the degeneration of a chaste love into a guilty carnal Eros. This interpretation gains further support if we also take into consideration the fact that the narrator of Specter of Sin speaks of the verdant field of God where a[kanqai (thorns) and e[cidnai (vipers) thrive—i.e., unequivocal incarnations of sin (Povqen to; kravtoı th`ı aJmartivaı) that defile the resplendence of Crea-tion (III, 230, 7-11). This brings us back to the eJrpeto;n pavqoı, the “slithering passion,” the “crawling passion” of the narrator of The Dewitcher, which is un-doubtedly a cross-reference to the Satan-snake of the Genesis, who tempts Adam and Eve into committing the original sin, a first trespassing perceived in


Papadiamantis’s imaginary world as being of a libidinal essence. The narrator feels shame and guilt because of the demon of lust that wholly possesses his body in spite of his age (and all the years of supposed struggle to overcome it). He remains the hopeless prisoner of an evil power that dominates him, exactly like the smoldering Augusta in OiJ “Emporoi tw`n Eqnw`n (The Merchants of Nations), who ends up ablaze—a stately death if ever there were one—on board her fiendish lover’s ship. Wholly in keeping with the latter heroine’s psyche, erroneously deemed an exception in the Papadiamantic corpus (like Francoyannou and numerous other heroes and heroines regarded by some critic or other as “ex-ceptions” in the works of the “Saint of Greek Literature”!),24 the narrator “sur-prises” us with the frankness of his blasphemous confession:

Alla; pro;ı tiv na; prosfevrw lampavdaı kai; moscolivbanon, pro;ı tiv na; perizwvsw me; khriva to;n nao;n… ÔH ÔAgiva hjduvnato i[swı na; me; qerapeuvsh/, ajll ejgw; de;n ejpequvmoun na; qerapeuqw`. Qa; ejprotivmwn na; kai;wmai eijı th;n flovgan th;n bradei`an. So, what would be the use of offering candles and frankincense or of girding the chapel with waxed string? The Saint might be able to cure me, but I did not wish to recover. I preferred letting myself waste away by the slow-burning flame.

As for the “burning wound” that leads the autodiegetic narrator of Ta; Rovdin Akrogiavlia (Twilight Shores) to attempt suicide, is it not also a source of bliss? (“ajll eij~nai livan prosfilh;ı hJ kaivousa plhghv”). Similarly, in “Oneiro sto; ku`ma (Dream on the Waves), seeing Machoula’s naked body prompts the young shepherd’s fall, but this does not make this memory less enjoyable. Unhappi-ness and happiness, pain and pleasure, pleasure in pain, the pangs and delights of masochism are borderline situations providing amazing sensations. This ex-plains why one may swing now in one direction, now in another. On the one hand, there is the will to recover:

“W! Kai; o{mwı ejthkovmhn . . . w{raı-w{raı ejpequvmoun, eij dunatovn, na; ijatreuqw`. Bohvqei, ÔAgiva Anastasiva! Oh! I was in such despair . . . At times, I felt the need to be cured, were it still possible. O Saint Anastasia, please help me!

On the other hand, the will to remain sick:

Apemakruvnqhn tou` parekklhsivou aijsqanovmenoı ajkousivan ajnakouvfisin o{ti, e[rhmon kaqw;ı hj~to to; iJerovn thı, hJ ÔAgiva de;n qa; hjqele plevon na; me; qerapeuvsh/. (III, 310, 15-17) As I was leaving the chapel, I felt such involuntary relief in thinking that, since her sanctuary was in such a bad condition, the Saint would be unwilling to cure me.

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This is a projection on the “other” of the refusal of salvation (It is not I who does not wish to be saved; it is the Saint who doesn’t want to save me!), and a fixation in the voluptuous hell of sin, the involuntary relief of remaining sick, the conflict between one’s will and duty, between the rule and the wish. The causes of that wrench seem rooted in the fundamental opposition between two worlds, or rather two different ways of approaching love: the an-cient Greek world with Aphrodite, with the all-consuming carnal Eros, and the Christian world with its agapic saints and asexual love.

ÔUpavrcoun eijı to;n Paravdeison ”Agioi decovmenoi ta;ı eujca;ı tw`n ejrwvntwn… . . . Tavca ejkei`, divpla eijı to; parekklhvsion th`ı Farma-kolutrivaı, eijı to; palaio;n ejkei`no megalomavrmaron ktivrion to; aijnig-matw`deı, na; uJph`rce to; pavlai iJero;n th`ı Afrodivthı, na; uJph`rce bwmo;ı tou` “Erwtoı… Are there in Paradise any Saints that collect the lovers’ wishes? And in olden days had another temple stood near the Dewitcher’s chapel, among these old baffling marble boulders, some temple of Aphrodite, some altar dedicated to [Eros]?

Saint Anastasia promises the ajnavstasiı, the resurrection of the souls. As for Aphrodite, like all pagan deities, she requires the immolation, (bwmovı, the al-tar), the sacrifice of bodies. One casts a spell on you, makes you taste the de-lightful but damned sexual desire, the other unravels the spell, leads you away from sex, diverts you from the earth and makes you gaze at heaven. The narra-tor wavers between these two sacred characters, these two approaches of the divine, these two religions, these two outwardly irreconcilable views on life. Due to his cultural and psychological heritage, he faces an impossible dilemma. The Emergence of an Enigmatic and Bewitching Narration at the Cost of Grief After having spent the whole night wandering around the area that rep-resents, through its “archeological” remains, the confrontation of the two con-flicting powers tearing him apart, the narrator “quite unexpectedly” bumps into his cousin Machoula, whom he had not seen for twenty years. Surprisingly, the sixty-year-old has not changed at all; her face has not suffered the ravages of time! Nonetheless, a certain amount of sublimatory will and phantasmal hold filter through his description of her:25

Ekei`, par ejlpivda, sunantw` th;n ejxadevlfh mou Macouvlan . . . j~Hto toiauvth oJpoiva kai; pro; ei[kosi crovnwn scedo;n de;n eij~ce metablhqh` to; provswpovn thı ou[te leukh; trivca eij~cen eijı th;n kovmhn, ou[te rutivda eijı to; mevtwpon. j~Hton ejk tw`n gunaikw`n ejkeivnwn tw`n ejcousw`n deutevran neovthta, ajnqhrotevran th`ı prwvthı. Wcra; kai; ajfelh;ı kai; a[plastoı, ejfaivneto a[schmh ejk prwvthı o[yewı, ajlla; meta; deuvteron blevmma


ajnekavluptev tiı eijı to; provswpovn thı a[faton glukuvthta. j~Hto nuvmfh kai; iJevreia kai; gunhv. (III, 310, 18-24) There, out of the blue, I bumped into my cousin Machoula . . . She looked ex-actly the same as twenty years ago, her face hadn’t changed: no glimpse of white in her hair, no wrinkle on her forehead. She was one of those women who experience a second youth, even fresher than the first one. With her pale complexion, simple and barely delineated features, she seemed ill-favored at first sight, but if one looked at her another time, one could make out the inef-fable sweetness of her face. She was a nymph, a priestess and a woman.

Given that the narrator told us at the beginning of his narrative that, urged by his passion and by the need to revive old memories, he came back to the moun-tain in order to meet Machoula, his “unexpected” encounter with his cousin only suggests that she is the very object of this passion. Machoula, who is depicted in the thrilling and “crystallizing” accents (in the sense developed by Stendhal) with which a lover transfigures in his imagination the one he is enamored with, most probably embodies the unmentionable secret of the feverish Eros which the narrator has never been able to overcome.26 Isn’t Manolakis, the alter ego of this mature man in the grip of his libidinal drives, also enthralled by an older woman? The narrator then lets the “real” Machoula appear for a moment. Just like Socrates, he feigns ignorance (Pevı mou, sa;n na; mhv xevrw, “tell me, as if I knew nothing”; III, 311, 10),27 in order to make her recount what once hap-pened with Manolakis. Her narrating “mission” completed, Machoula dis-appears, just like her homonym in Specter of Sin, and leaves the narrator alone with ghosts and visions swarming in his mind. At night, the time most con-ducive to introspection and reverie, he returns to the site inextricably linked to his secret passion, the now disused chapel of Saint Anastasia. In a kind of daze, he gazes upon Saint Anastasia’s icon which “seems [to him] as beautiful as when she had appeared in his cousin’s Machoula dream” ([P]rosevblepon th;n eijkovna th`ı ÔAgivaı, kai; mou` ejfaivneto tovson wJraiva, o{son ejfavnh ejn ojneivrw/ eijı th;n ejxadevlfhn Macouvlan; III, 313, 14-15). And then, right after reminiscing about his cousin, “another figure seems to stand in front of the icon, concealing it from his eyes” (Eij~ta miva a[llh morfh; mou` ejfavnh o{ti ejstavqh e[mprosqen th`ı eijkovnoı kaiv th;n ajpevkruye; III, 313, 16-17). The in-ner connection between two contiguous elements of a narrative, which has been raised by Freud as a golden rule of his psychoanalytic technique, confirms what the critics had vaguely suspected: that the imaginary figure talking with the Saint, “that figure whose lowered eyes showed her purity and delicate and soft lips her sweetness” (ÔH morfh; h{tiı mou` ejfaivneto parestw`sa ejkei`, hJ fevrousa th;n aJgnovthta eijı ta; o[mmata ta; kavtw neuvonta, kai; to;n glu-kasmo;n peri; ta; ceivlh ta; aJbra; kai; melicrav; III, 313, 29-31) is none other than Machoula,28 a Machoula straight out of the narrator’s fantasy world. Likewise, the unidentified “thing” that leaps out of the purported Aphrodite’s sanctuary and which the dreamer feels is “a wild cat or weasel hunting in the dark” (“Iswı hj~ton ajgriovgatoı h] nufivtsa qhreuvousa eijı to; skovtoı; III, 313, 26-27), while it does remind us of the “strange black and red

118 Nicolas Evzonas

thing” that tried to snatch the flower of the Garden of Eden-symbol of virginity and chastity in Machoula’s dream, is in truth a symbolic projection of the nar-rator’s animal drives.29 We must underline that The Dewitcher shatters every argument in support of realistic writing and renders null and void the assertion that, in order to understand this short story (and also Papadiamantis’s works in general), it is sufficient to identify the elements of the intrigue with the reality of his home island.30 The text ends with the narrator dozing off in a pew of the old chapel. “I had a dreamless sleep, all the dreams having vanished along with the drowsy vigil” (ÔO u{pnoı hj~ton a[neu ojneijrwn, o{la ta; o{neira tou` ta; eij~ce ajfai-revsei hJ ejgrhvgorsiı; III, 313, 34-35). Indeed, his diurnal experience has worn out his phantasmal energy, so his falling asleep switches off all dream-related fantasy production; it nonetheless allows a voice to emerge from the depths of his conscience and whisper like an oracle: “”Upage, ajnivateÚ oJ povnoı qa; eij~nai hJ zwhv sou” (Go, incurable man, you shall live in sorrow). The narrator then wakes up with a feeling of perverse satisfaction (which, relying on the phraseology of the text, has been associated with the one Francoyannou felt when she perpetrated her ultimate provocation toward God by strangling Lyringos’s new-born and unbaptized girl):31 “ H/sqanovmhn ajgrivan caravn, diovti hJ ÔAgiva de;n eij~cen eijsakouvsei th;n devhsivn mou” (I felt a delirious satisfaction: the Saint had not heard my prayer). The hero is now lost for good to the unfathomable voluptuous pleasure of sin, the sensual abyss of his erotic pathology. Saint Anastasia abandoned him, and not only does he feel no re-morse, he even enjoys this dereliction. Thus he outclasses the “evil” Augusta of The Merchants of the Nations, who maintains in front of a stunned confessor that there is no such thing as repentance, and all the other “damned” Papadiamantic characters. The Dewitcher’s impenitent sinner revels in burn-ing in the Hell of his eroticism. Eros becomes the martyr, and martyrdom is eroticized; drives prevail and Salvation is defeated; desire-disaster32 triumphs. We should underline that, even though an overflowing sensuality mag-nificently spatters every description, every digression and every narrative wan-dering in The Dewitcher, this happens precisely because of the restrictive norm which hampers the libido’s free expression. Truth be told, the effervescence and the richness of the text are rooted in the creative fight between polytheistic exuberance and monotheistic austerity, between the lustful pagan and the as-cetic Christian (between Theocritus and the synaxarist, according to Kostis Palamas).33 And because of the taboos raised by sexuality and the censorship on its expression, the text plays with the full range of allusion, dissimulation, disguise, and symbols. The short story’s polysemy and bewitching riddle come together in the harrowing “game” between desire and the rule. An avowed lib-ertine does not have to resort to guile when he wishes to recount his indiscre-tions, whereas an asserted puritan with licentious tendencies, a libidinous priest, or a sensual prude will have to think up roundabout means in order to approach the “matter”; he will be compelled to transpose, to bypass, to sidestep the issue, to distort and to forge; he will have to become a master of deceit and falsehood. And, in case he is talented, he shall become a bona fide artist. It seems indisputable that the greatest moments of Papadiamantis’s literary pro-


duction prove in a most brilliant way the implosion of a drive desperately seek-ing to elude moral dictates. It is fitting that we conclude with the painful price of this compromise between the turgescence of Eros and the imperative of “castration” dictated by religion. “”Upage, ajnivateÚ oJ povnoı qa; eij~nai hJ zwhv sou” (Go, incurable man, you shall live in sorrow). Although this prophecy may give the impression that it was uttered by Saint Anastasia herself, it looms from the innermost depths of the narrator’s soul;34 and it expresses in plain language the fate that this man rebelling against ascetic tyranny foresees might be his. As opposed to Manolakis who accepted the “emasculation” carried out by his mother (jointly with the Dewitcher, which we might now also call “De-libidinatrix”), the narra-tor hiding behind the mask of a simple “copyist,” refuses to muzzle his carnal drives, rejects what his religious education views as Salvation, and accepts that the retribution for his transgressive choice is eternal torment. Just as in Dream on the Waves, the story of the autodiegetic narrator does not exactly repeat the subplot or, in this case, the second story, but merges with it before standing out in the end, due to the hopeless persistence of lust, which contravenes theosis and stains the offender with indelible guilt and everlasting suffering. Without spoiling its diffuse mystery, The Dewitcher shows in a masterly manner that which actually underlies the whole Papadiamantic literary produc-tion: the tragedy and the richness of a pagan-Christian confrontation. Even though it might not be a prominent item on the modern agenda, this confron-tation is as timeless as the contentious powers underpinning it. It thus remains an eternal source of enjoyment and a perpetual resource of liberating identifi-cation for the reader, irrespective of his time and—dare we use these words worthy of a “Greek oracle”?—of his location.

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NOTES Many thanks go to Hélène Paraskéva, who translated the Greek passages of Papadiamantis into English, and to Anne Lavédrine, who reviewed our manuscript. 1. See the detailed analyses of Stefanos Rozanis, “ÔO ‘ejn suneidhvsei ajqw`/oı’Ú Spoudh; sth;n ‘Farmakoluvtria’ tou` Alevxandrou Papadiamavnth” (The consciously innocent: A study on Alexandros Papadiamantis’s The Dewitcher), in Fw`ta-ÔOlovfwtaÚ ”Ena ajfievrwma sto;n Papadiamavnth kai; to;n kovsmo tou (Spotlights: A tribute to Alexandros Papadiamantis and his world), ed. N. D. Triantafyllopoulos (Athens: ELIA, 1981), 329-46; G[eorgia] Farinou-Malamatari, Afhghmatikevı tecnikevı ston Papa-diamavnthÚ 1887–1910 (Narrative techniques in Papadiamantis: 1887–1910) (Athens: Kedros, 1987), 275-82; Rena Zamarou, Fuvsh kai; e[rwtaı sto;n PapadiamavnthÚ ÔO suggrafevaı khpourovı (Nature and love in Papadiamantis’s work: The writer-gardener) (Athens: Nefeli, 2000), 67-83; Guy Saunier, ÔEwsfovroı kai; a[bussoıÚ ÔO proswpiko;ı mu`qoı tou` Papadiamavnth (Lucifer and the abyss: The personal myth of Alexandros Papadiamantis) (Athens: Agra, 2001), 33-57; Kostas Stergiopoulos, “H Farmakoluvtria” (The Dewitcher), in Peridiabavzontaı (Wandering), vol. 4, Stouı ivdiouı kai avllouı kairouvı (In contemporary and former times) (Athens: Kedros, 2003), 107-22; and Vassilis Pantazis, “Sth;n ÔAgi- Anastasav, th; Farmakoluvtria!Ú Scovlia se; duvo ajnagnwvseiı” (At Saint Anastasia’s, The Dewitcher: Comments on two readings), Papadiamantikav Tetravdia 3 (1995): 53-61, lecture answering G. Saunier and K. Stergiopoulos’s interpretations. See also Nikolaos Tomadakis’s brief analysis (“ÔO aJmartwlo;ı PapadiamavnthıÚ ÔH ajgwniva, hJ metavnoia, hJ luvtrwsiı” [Papadia-mantis, the sinner: Agony, repentance, salvation], in Morfai; th`ı Magnhsivaı [Personages of Magnesia] [Volos: Ekdossis Nomarchias Magnissias, 1973], 208-9), as well as the comments by Georges Valetas (PapadiamavnthıÚ ÔH zwhv, to; e[rgo, hJ ejpochv tou [Papadiamantis: His life, his work, his times] [Athens: Biblos/Dimitrakos, 1955], 137-38, 236-37, 245) and by N. D. Triantafyllopoulos (Daimovnio meshmbrinovÚ ”Enteka keivmena gia; to;n Papadiamavnth [Noonday demon: Eleven texts on Papa-diamantis] [Athens: Grigori, 1978], 136); by Eleni Politou-Marmarinou, “H poihtikov-thta tou papadiamantikouv evrgou” (The poetic character of papadiamantian prose fiction), Diabavzw 165 (1987): 57; by Alexandros Kotzias, Ta; Aqhnai>ka; dihghvmata kai; duvo dokivmia gia; to; crovno (Athenian short stories and two essays on time) (Athens: Nefeli, 1992), 73; by Kostis Papagiorgis, Alevxandroı Adamantivou Emmanouhvl (Alexandros Adamantiou Emmanuel) (Athens: Kastaniotis, 1998), 96-97;

by Giorgos Aristinos, “OiJ ejpivlogoi sta; dihghvmata tou` Papadiamavnth” (The epi-logues in the short stories of Papadiamantis), in Praktika; BV Dieqnou`ı Sunedrivou gia; to;n Alevxandro Papadiamavnth (Proceedings of the International Congress on Alexandros Papadiamantis) (Athens: Domos, 2002), 84; and by René Bouchet, Le Nostalgique: L’Imaginaire de l’espace dans l’œuvre d’Alexandre Papadiamantis (The nostalgic: The imaginary conception of space in the work of Alexandros Papadiamantis) (Paris: Presses de l’Université Paris-Sorbonne, 2001), 230, 348, and 350-51.


2. There is also a third level: that of the very moment of the narrative which is different from the actual present of the hero-narrator. On this matter, see Farinou-Malamatari, Afhghmatikevı tecnikevı ston Papadiamavnth, 275. 3. All references to Papadiamantis’s texts are to Alexandros Papadiamantis, ”Apanta (Complete works), ed. N. D. Triantafyllopoulos (Athens: Domos, 1981–92), by volume number, page number, and line(s) quoted. 4. Regarding this, see Saunier, ÔEwsfovroı kai; a[bussoı, 40. 5. A strong alcoholic drink. 6. “Eij~ta ajjfou` ajpevlusen hJ leitourgiva, oJ papa;ı e[pie to;n kafe;n kai; th;n rakhvn tou, e[xwqen ajkribw`ı th`ı quvraı tou` nai?skou, eijı to; u{paiqron, plhsivon th`ı fwtia`ı th`ı ajnammevnhı dia; th;n uJphresivan tou` qumiathrivou, kai; dia; to; zevon, ajpecairevthse th;n gunai`ka kai; ajph`lqe” (III, 305, 16-19; emphasis added). 7. See the poem by Papadiamantis: “Sth;n Panagiav th;n Kounivstra” (V, 32-33); also Tomadakis (“ÔO aJmartwlo;ı Papadiamavnthı,” 215). 8. The legend of Panagia Kounistra is based on an icon famed for its thauma-turgic powers that depicts the Virgin Mary as a young girl and without Christ. As this icon was found within the branches of a tall cypress, the worshippers concluded that the child-Panaya had wanted to play in the tree as on a swing. For further details on Panagia Kounistra (her chapel, her icon, and the tradition built around her), see Nicolas Evzonas, “Le Désir érotique dans l’œuvre d’Alexandre Papadiamantis” (Erotic desire in the work of Alexandros Papadiamantis) (Ph.D. diss., Université de Paris-Sorbonne, 2012, available at http://www.e-sorbonne.fr/theses/desir-erotique-loeuvre-dalexandre-papadiamantis), 515. 9. Regarding sterility in the works of Papadiamantis—emblematic in his narra-tive Love over the Precipice ( Agavph sto;n kremnov, IV, 381-92), see Evzonas, “Le Dé-sir érotique dans l’œuvre d’Alexandre Papadiamantis,” 514-21. 10. Saunier (ÔEwsfovroı kai; a[bussoı, 37-38) interprets this choice quite differ-ently, since he sees “the Mother par excellence” in Panagia Kounistra and obviously considers the “Kounivstra” as the one who rocks (a baby) and not the one who is swung or rocked. 11. For Zamarou (Fuvsh kai; e[rwtaı sto;n Papadiamavnth, 73), the flower from the Garden of Eden is a symbol of chastity, whereas for Saunier (ÔEwsfovroı kai; a[bussoı, 41), who identifies it with the lily, it means both carnal love (at a human level) and spiritual love (at a sacred level). 12. This is why Zamarou (Fuvsh kai; e[rwtaı sto;n Papadiamavnth, 74) sees a sensual goblin and Saunier (ÔEwsfovroı kai; a[bussoı, 41) a sexual symbol (and, more specifically, a symbol of the male organ). 13. Regarding the association of this gesture with castration in Machoula’s dream, see Saunier, ÔEwsfovroı kai; a[bussoı, 41. 14. Regarding the dreams as a way of miniaturizing the action in the narratives, see the conclusion of Nicolas Evzonas, “Les Rêves et les Visions dans l’œuvre d’Alexandre Papadiamantis” (Dreams and visions in the work of Alexandros Papadia-mantis) (Master’s thesis, Université de Paris-Sorbonne, 1999), 112. 15. The surname “Emmanuel” derives from the Hebrew “Immanuel,” which means “God is with us.” It has been used by the Prophet Isaiah in the Old Testament

122 Nicolas Evzonas

to designate the Messiah to come, announcing that he would be born to a virgin. So, for the Christians, it is a name that refers to the Nativity. 16. Saunier (ÔEwsfovroı kai; a[bussoı, 36) detects in the phrase “pro; tou` Promhqevwı ejpochvı” the meaning “before the age of fire, of the Eros which burns and sets ablaze.” He also mentions another possible meaning: “before the mythical time of Titans, or maybe before the Son’s revolt.” 17. The Apolytikion is a hymn recited or sung during the Orthodox religious serv-ices that summarizes the feast being celebrated that day. Its name derives from the fact that it is first sung just before the releasing of the faithful (ajpovlusiı) at the end of Vespers, the first service of the Orthodox liturgical day which begins at sunset. 18. According to her biography and to the Apolytikion dedicated to her, Saint Anastasia agreed to be burnt to death for the love of Christ (“ajll wJı qusivan a[mwmon prosdevcou th;n meta; povqou tuqei`savn soi”). Regarding the chaste “burning” desire of the martyr, see Farinou-Malamatari, Afhghmatikevı tecnikevı ston Papadia-mavnth, 290 n. 6; Zamarou, Fuvsh kai; e[rwtaı sto;n Papadiamavnth, 76 and n. 65 on the same page; and Pantazis, “Sth;n ÔAgi- Anastasav, th; Farmakoluvtria!” 54-55. For Saunier (ÔEwsfovroı kai; a[bussoı, 42, 54), on the other hand, Saint Anastasia’s burn-ing love holds a carnal dimension in the text. 19. Farinou-Malamatari (Afhghmatikevı tecnikevı ston Papadiamavnth, 280) indirectly proposes the same approach. 20. On the catoptric function of nature in the text, see the comments by Bouchet, Le Nostalgique, 349-51. 21. Regarding the symbolic angle of the adulterated wax despite the rationalizing explanation given by the narrator, see Stergiopoulos, “H Farmakoluvtria,” 114. 22. See Julia Kristeva, Pouvoirs de l’horreur: Essais sur l’abjection (Powers of hor-ror: An essay on abjection) (Paris: Éd. du Seuil, 1980). 23. Regarding the assimilation of alcohol to the archaic “good mother” (the mother who provides the infant with—among other things—nutrients), see Gérard Mendel, La Révolte contre le père: Une introduction à la sociopsychanalyse (The rebel-lion against the father: An introduction to sociopsychoanalysis) (Paris: Payot, 1988), 209-10. 24. Except Kostas Stergiopoulos (“ÔO Papadiamavnthı shvmeraÚ Diaivresh kai; carakthristika; th`ı pezografivaı tou” [Papadiamantis today: Division and charac-teristics of his prose], in Alevxandroı PapadiamavnthıÚ Ei[kosi keivmena gia; th; zwh; kai; to; e[rgo tou [Alexandros Papadiamantis: Twenty texts about his life and work], ed. N. D. Triantafyllopoulos [Athens: Ekdosseis ton Philon, 1979], 268), who points out that the most important characters of the novelist “represent the exception and not the rule; either they lead a sinful life or a saintly one.” 25. The dreamlike appearance of Machoula is underlined by Rozanis (“ÔO ‘ejn suneidhvsei ajqw`/oı’,” 337), who compares her with Machoula in Dream on the Waves (“Oneiro sto; ku`ma). 26. Regarding the identification of Machoula with the narrator’s secret love, see Rozanis, “ÔO ‘ejn suneidhvsei ajqw`/oı’,” 337 sq., and Saunier, ÔEwsfovroı kai; a[bussoı, 45 sq., who imparts an oedipal basis to that love. 27. Regarding the narrator’s Socratic irony, see Farinou-Malamatari, Afhgh-matikevı tecnikevı ston Papadiamavnth, 277.


28. The similarity of the mysterious figure (hiding the icon of Saint Anastasia) and the description of Machoula is pointed out by Zamarou (Fuvsh kai; e[rwtaı sto;n Papadiamavnth, 78), who does not proceed further, however. 29. See Zamarou’s similar opinion (ibid., 79). 30. Pantazis, “Sth;n ÔAgi- Anastasav, th; Farmakoluvtria!” 59-61. 31. Stergiopoulos, “H Farmakoluvtria,” 122. See also Saunier (ÔEwsfovroı kai; a[bussoı, 55), who fully supports Stergiopoulos’s opinion. 32. The word “desire” derives from the Latin desiderium: to turn away from the Gods, to fall from the skies and from the stars (sidera), disaster. Regarding this ety-mology, see Camille Dumoulié, Le Désir (Desire) (Paris: Armand Colin, 1999), 59. 33. Kostis Palamas, “ Alevxandroı Papadiamavnthı” (Alexandros Papadiamantis), in Alevxandroı PapadiamavnthıÚ Ei[kosi keivmena gia; th; zwh; kai; to; e[rgo tou (Papadiamantis: Twenty texts about his life and work), ed. N. D. Triantafyllopoulos (Athens: Ekdosseis ton Philon, 1979), 36. See also Pan[ayotis] Moullas ( A. Papadia-mavnthı aujtobiografouvmenoı [Papadiamantis in an autobiographical mood] [Athens: Ermis, 1974], ’), who elaborates on Palamas’s brief remarks: “It seems that behind the caress-deprived [Papadiamantic] flesh, the lust of a monk merges with the ecstasy of an adolescent, as inseparable as Christians and pagans, ‘Theocritus and the synaxarist’ (Palamas).” Similar comments have been formulated by Octave Merlier, Skiathos, île grecque (Skiathos, a Greek island) (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1934), 25; Odysseas Elytis, ÔH Mageiva tou` Papadiamavnth (The magic of Papadiamantis) (Athens: Ypsilon/Biblia, 1996), 45; and Giorgos Stefanakis, “ Alevxandroı Papa-diamavnthı, oJ mustiko;ı tou` Aijgaivou” (Alexandros Papadiamantis, the mystic of the Aegean Sea), ÔH Levxh 162 (2001): 283. 34. As Kostas Stergiopoulos underlines (“H Farmakoluvtria,” 121).

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Stefanakis, Giorgos. “ Alevxandroı Papadiamavnthı, oJ mustiko;ı tou` Aijgaivou” (Alexandros Papadiamantis, the mystic of the Aegean Sea). ÔH Levxh 162 (2001): 283-85.

Stergiopoulos, Kostas. “ÔO Papadiamavnthı shvmeraÚ Diaivresh kai; carakthristika; th`ı pezografivaı tou” (Papadiamantis today: Division and characteristics of his prose). In Alevxandroı PapadiamavnthıÚ Ei[kosi keivmena gia; th; zwh; kai; to; e[rgo tou (Alexandros Papadiamantis: Twenty texts about his life and work), edited by N. D. Triantafyllopoulos, 255-74. Athens: Ekdosseis ton Philon, 1979.


———. “H Farmakoluvtria” (The Dewitcher). In Peridiabavzontaı (Wandering), vol. 4, Stouı ivdiouı kai avllouı kairouvı (In contemporary and former times), 107-22. Athens: Kedros, 2003.

Tomadakis, Nikolaos. “ÔO aJmartwlo;ı PapadiamavnthıÚ ÔH ajgwniva, hJ metavnoia, hJ luvtrwsiı” (Papadiamantis, the sinner: Agony, repentance, salvation). In Morfai; th`ı Magnhsivaı (Personages of Magnesia), 198-217. Volos: Ek-dossis Nomarchias Magnissias, 1973.

Triantafyllopoulos, N. D. Daimovnio meshmbrinovÚ ”Enteka keivmena gia; to;n Pa-padiamavnth (Noonday demon: Eleven texts on Papadiamantis). Athens: Grigori, 1978.

Valetas, Georges. PapadiamavnthıÚ ÔH zwhv, to; e[rgo, hJ ejpochv tou (Papadiamantis: His life, his work, his times). Athens: Biblos/Dimitrakos, 1955.

Zamarou, Rena. Fuvsh kai; e[rwtaı sto;n PapadiamavnthÚ ÔO suggrafevaı khpourovı (Nature and love in Papadiamantis’s work: The writer-gardener). Athens: Nefeli, 2000.

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