Even the most eloquently argued tract will invariably be upstaged by a lively fable making much the same points. The Greek writer Penelope S Delta (1874-1941) was well known as an opinionated, independent thinker and made known her views on children’s education as well as on warfare and politics in general. She couldn’t help it: the world around was in turmoil.
She was born in Alexandria into relative comfort: her father was a cotton merchant at the height of the Egyptian textile boom. In time the family moved to Athens, where her father would become mayor. She was one of six children; a younger brother died as a baby. In 1905 she married a businessman and returned to Alexandria, where she first met the writer and diplomat Ion Dragoumis. Delta wrote in many contrasting genres, and in addition to memoirs and history writing she loved telling stories and was drawn to historical fiction. She would become the first major Greek writer of children’s fiction. Her grandchildren would recall that although she refused to speak with them during the day when she was busy writing, she filled their evenings with wonderful stories. She was also a slave to her passions, and spent much of her married life in love with another man: Dragoumis, who was eventually assassinated.
Yet before that, as a young mother of three daughters, Delta, who wrote under her married name, was decades ahead of her time. Her third novel, A Tale Without a Name, was first published in 1911, three years before the outbreak of the first World War. It is a surprising work, in which Delta cleverly adapts the conventions of the European fairy tale with sharp satire worthy of Alexander Pope and Jonathan Swift. Writing from her position of ease, as a wife and mother, she was nonetheless aware of the old order changing; society was collapsing all round her, the most obvious example being that of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, as nationalism was everywhere challenging monarchy.
From the opening sentence Delta makes clear her intention: “When old King Prudentius realised that he had little time left to live, he summoned his son, young Witless, and said to him: ‘You’ve had your fill of frolics and amusements for long enough, my son. The time has come for you to marry . . . It is now your turn to rule well and to be a good king.’”
Young Prince Witless proves an appalling king, his wife, Queen Barmy, is a vain idiot; together, they produce four children. The kingdom, which has been rich and thriving under the wise king Prudentius, falls apart. By the time King Witless is old and two of his daughters have become squabbling shrews, the royal family are living in squalor while the subjects are poor, lazy and very angry.
It is very funny. Delta's humour can be obvious, particularly when naming her characters – there is a hint of John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress (1678) in the highlighting of a character's nature through their name. The chaos in the royal quarters is vividly drawn. The king attempts to keep peace between the two older princesses, while the queen sits before a cracked mirror, her maids braiding flowers "and old discoloured ribbons through her silver-white hair".
Meanwhile the two younger children, a handsome prince and the youngest daughter, are quietly despairing. The prince and his sister become alert to the corruption going on within the court and attempt to stop the rot.
The young prince is as righteous and two-dimensional as these heroes tend to be. He is earnest and disgusted in equal measure. Also, in an original touch, he cannot read, education no longer having any place within an ailing kingdom. The prince seeks out a teacher, and the man agrees to instruct him in exchange for food.
Delta tells the story with much panache, and it is the humour that sustains the seriousness of what she is saying about corrupt government and abuse of the people as well as the more abstract concepts of faith, betrayal and honour.
The more practical elements, such as the youngest princess being taught to sew and cook, may seem overly idealistic, yet it all works, and some of the minor characters are brilliantly done.
When the prince discovers that the entire royal army has been sold off, uniforms and all, leaving a lone, one-legged man as its sole representative, he sets about finding out what happened. He recruits various people to assist, all in the name of honour.
There are various heroic acts, and it is a story one can imagine not only being read aloud but also filmed. It is an adventure story with a moral, as well as sufficient twists to sustain a reader. A wonderful sense of the tattered kingdom, with its neglected fields, ruined buildings and cynical, starving citizens, emerges to offer a backdrop for the prince who has finally opened his eyes.
Delta has fun with an evil jester who, having switched his allegiance to a rival monarch, becomes so fat that his new master decides he is not even funny any more and beheads him.
The prince is an idealist and overly virtuous, yet he does inspire loyalty. Delta is too clever a storyteller to content herself with a conventional happy-ever-after ending, although there is that as well, and she displays an impressive sense of narrative cohesion and is attentive to detail.
For all its excess, it is believable. It is more a morality play than a fairy tale; humour replaces the more conventional use of magic or the supernatural. It is a book that members of the current Irish Government should read; as is often the case with such satires, King Witless bears an uncanny resemblance to former leaders.
There is no denying that the narrative abounds with grand gestures and more than one hero – the prince is not the only man ready to give his life. If the translation is slightly shaky here and there, shifting between period and modern usage, the dialogue is often unexpectedly sharp and fresh.
Delta had a powerful vision, but her dreams for a better world were always dashed. At 67, already weak and suffering from paralysis, she took poison on April 27th, 1941, as the Nazis marched into Athens. She died five days later and by her own request was buried in the garden of her home. Her grave is marked by a single word, “Silence”. Yet Delta, singular to the end, still has a great deal to say, and this book, after more than a century, continues to speak to all ages. It is didactic, yet Delta’s astute humour balances her very deliberate intention.
Eileen Battersby is Literary Correspondent.
