The Middle Ages have their great love stories. We owe one of them to Peter I Lusignan, King of Cyprus. Married to Eleanor of Aragon, who bore him a son and a successor, he had a mistress pregnant with his child. The queen decided to eliminate this rival by inducing a premature delivery. The incident was recorded by Leontios Makhairas, a Cypriot chronicler, who described the cruelty of Eleanor and mourned the fate of the baby. But it is not his (...) account which keeps this tragedy alive in Cyprus even today. There is a folk song about beautiful Arodaphnousa, who suffered because of the bad queen. The song is deprived of historical context, but it is a historical source nevertheless. Its remote counterpart is the Catalan story of Eleanor, who was expelled from Cyprus and lived in Aragon for a long time. This story creates an image of a benign, calm lady who was venerated after death by her subjects. The clash between these images makes one think about the black and white PR created in every epoch. But this is not the point of this story. The point is the fate of an innocent child, both the flower and the victim of love. This is a rare motif in medieval literature; children are seldom present on the pages of its manuscripts. The emotion connected with this story deserves the reader’s attention. (shrink)

A Byzantinist specializing in the history of the Empire of Trebizond, the author presents four books of different genres written in English and devoted to the medieval state on the south coast of the Black Sea. The most spectacular of them is a novel by Rose Macaulay, Towers of Trebizond. Dąbrowska wonders whether it is adequate to the Trebizondian past or whether it is a projection of the writer. She compares Macaulay’s novel with William Butler Yeats’s poems on Byzantium which (...) excited the imagination of readers but were not meant to draw their attention to the Byzantine past. This is, obviously, the privilege of literature. As a historian, Dąbrowska juxtaposes Macaulay’s narration with the historical novel by Nicolas J. Holmes, the travelogue written by Michael Pereira and the reports of the last British Consul in Trabzon, Vorley Harris. The author of the article draws the reader’s attention to the history of a rather unknown and exotic region. The Empire of Trebizond ceased to exist in 1461, conquered by Mehmed II. At the same time the Sultan’s army attacked Wallachia and got a bitter lesson from its ruler Vlad Dracula. But this Romanian hero is remembered not because of his prowess on the battlefield but due to his cruelty which dominated literary fiction and separated historical facts from narrative reality. The contemporary reader is impressed by the image of a dreadful vampire, Dracula. The same goes for Byzantium perceived through the magic stanzas by Yeats, who never visited Istanbul. Rose Macaulay went to Trabzon but her vision of Trebizond is very close to Yeats’s images of Byzantium. In her story imagination is stronger than historical reality and it is imagination that seduces the reader. (shrink)

Qui est étranger pour un Byzantin du XIe siècle? Pour répondre à cette question, Jacek BONAREK (B.) a analysé la chronique de Jean Skylitzes dans le désir de définir ceux qui sont pour le chroniqueur Romaioi, c'est-à-dire «les nôtres» et ceux qu'il considère comme les étrangers, bien que la notion xenos n'apparaisse pas dans le texte. B. fait souvent référence aux divergences sémantiques des mots. Xenos en est l'un des exemples. Ce mot signifie un visiteur, voire un allié, mais aussi (...) un nouveau venu, un mercenaire. Cette différence se réflète dans la typologie de B. qui distingue les étrangers dans les limites de l'Empire et en dehors de celui-ci. Cette problématique est traîtée dans le dernier chapître de l'ouvrage, le plus intéressant, paraît-il (111–171). Avant d'expliquer qui est étranger pour Skylitzes, ce qui est une tâche difficile, il essaie de définir à qui pense le chroniqueur en utilisant le mot «Romaioi» et il le fait dans le troisième chapître de son livre (50–110). (shrink)