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The deposition in 1862 of the Russophile King Otto Wittelsbach, and his replacement by the Anglophile George Glücksberg, were managed under British influence. In the following decade Britain took de facto control of Cyprus, which it retained for nearly a century, formalised after the First World War, and maintains in attenuated form through its extant military bases on the island. The abdication of King Constantine in 1917 (when he leant towards Germany), and his reinstatement in 1920 (when he was willing to invade Soviet-inclined Turkey and the Soviet Union itself), were both managed under British influence. In the Second World War, the British first helped the Greeks to eject the Italians and Germans, then helped the monarchists to win the subsequent civil war. Accordingly, Britain, like the United States, supported the Colonels’ military dictatorship of 1967 to ’74.

This history of dominant relations with Greece is apparent, in one way or another, in the variety of Anglo-Greeks of whom I am aware. My husband’s grandfather, Theodore Stephanides, grew up as an English-speaker in India because his father had married into the Anglo-Greek Ralli family. He therefore had a Raj childhood, in common with the Durrell children whom he was to befriend in the 1930s. His wife, née Mary Alexander, was the daughter of the British consul in Corfu and a Corfiot aristocrat. Lawrence Durrell spent his career in those parts of the British Empire which mapped onto those of ancient Greece: Corfu, Alexandria, Cyprus. The Duke of Edinburgh is a scion of the Greek Glücksbergs, who married back into Queen Victoria’s family. London was the obvious place of refuge for the last King, Constantine II — as it was for my husband and his parents — when all of them variously fled the military dictatorship.


Yet — just as the Romans felt ambivalently towards the Greeks, so too have the British. This fitted with the Victorian self-identification with the Romans. The Greeks may, to the Romans and British, have been the dominated people — but they possessed something which the dominators knew that they lacked. For centuries the British education system was deferentially orientated towards ancient Greek culture. Just as the Romans were conscious of accepting Greek gods into their pantheon, so — later — both they and the British were conscious of the shaping influence of Greek philosophy in their state religion of Christianity.

Certain Victorians came to see the English education system’s veneration of the ancient Greeks as excessive. George Eliot exemplified such modernising, cosmopolitan impatience. But her male counterpart, Matthew Arnold, identified the “Hellenic” with precisely that cosmopolitan openness of inquiry, fineness of culture, and lightness of spirit which he diagnosed to be lacking among the anti-intellectual, xenophobic, “Philistine” English. The Greeks today continue to represent the spirit of internationalist culture — at least in their administration (currently under my father-in-law’s presidency) of the Cultural Capitals of Europe scheme.

British veneration of the Greeks overlooked entirely the millennium of Byzantine history, which was degraded into a mere negative adjective for complexity. Early 19th-century philhellenism, despite being anti-Turk, was less interested in promoting Christianity than it was in reviving Greece’s ancient past. The attitude of many patriotic Greeks of the present, such as my anti-clerical father-in-law, is similar.

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