Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? by Agatha Christie (1934)

‘It’s probably a gang. I like gangs.’
‘That’s a low taste,’ said Frankie absently. ‘A single-handed murder is much higher class.’
(Chapter 8)

‘Well, I was thinking more of illicitly imported drugs.’
‘You can’t mix up too many different sorts of crime,’ said Bobby.
(Chapter 8)

Frankie toyed for a minute or two with the idea of a homicidal bishop who offered sacrifices of clergymen’s sons, but rejected it with a sigh.
(Chapter 9)

‘I think George has broken your bed.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Bobby hospitably. ‘It was never a particularly good bed.’
(Chapter 10)

‘ Oh! Bobby, the whole situation is there – I know it is. If we could just get at the reason.’
(The essence of pretty much every detective story, Chapter 32)

Christie’s freestanding novels

It’s only when you have read a certain number of Agatha Christie novels that you come to appreciate how humorous they are, and often very funny. They are, essentially, comedies. In the last few pages everything is rounded off, all the loose ends are tied up, often with a smile or a heart-warming gesture, as in the famously charitable conclusion of ‘Murder on the Orient Express’.

‘Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?’ is a detective story which doesn’t feature either Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple. In other words, it’s not part of a series but a standalone novel with one-off characters. Christie wrote about 20 of these.

My experience of them is that they’re immediately more fun than the series, certainly than the Poirot novels which I’ve started to find very limited. With Poirot Christie is constrained. There will be some sitcom-style humour based on the predictable behaviour of Captain Hastings (obtuse and slow on the uptake) and Poirot (pompous and overweening). Sooner or later Poirot will tell everyone that you need ‘order and method’, that you must employ ‘the little grey cells’, that he has ‘a little idea’, and his eyes will shine with that distinctive green glow as he stumbles across a plausible theory. But the very predictability of all this militates against delightful surprises.

Whereas in these ‘independent’ stories Christie was more free to let her imagination go and what it goes towards is frolicsome comedy, as per the hugely entertaining ‘The Secret of Chimneys’ and its sequel ‘The Seven Dials Mystery’, with their casts of preposterous toffs and fearless young ladies.

‘Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?’ is of this type and, like them, introduces us to another delightfully bold and resourceful young woman – in the ‘Chimney’s novels it was Lady Elaine ‘Bundle’ Brent, here it is Lady Frances ‘Frankie’ Derwent, daughter of the very grand Earl of Marchington. And there’s a keen young chap involved, Robert ‘Bobby’ Jones, son of the local vicar, a charmingly dim young man and ‘young golfing ass’.

Obviously there’s a convoluted murder mystery plot but the main joy of the book for me was these characters, their preposterous plans and their what ho! P.G. Wodehouse-style repartee.

‘Darling, you grow a moustache.’
‘Oh! I grow a moustache, do I?’
‘Yes. How long will it take?’
‘Two or three weeks, I expect.’
‘Heavens! I’d no idea it was such a slow process. Can’t you speed it up?’ (Chapter 10)

‘Now just listen quietly, Bobby, and try and take in what I’m going to say. I know your brains are practically negligible, but you ought to be able to understand if you really concentrate.’
(Chapter 10)

‘Look here, can’t I be there? I’ll put on a beard if you like.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Frankie. ‘A beard would probably ruin everything by falling off at the wrong moment.’

‘You came down by car. Lady Frances? No accident this time?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I think it’s a pity to go in too much for accidents – don’t you?’
(Chapter 27)

So to begin with, and certainly in the opening third when Bobby and Frankie are drawn together by the murder and come up with wizard wheezes and jolly pranks to investigate it, lots of the scenes, moments and dialogue have a silly P.G. Wodehouse air.

‘My dear child, do remember that Bassington-ffrench knows you. He doesn’t know me from Adam. And I’m in a frightfully strong position, because I’ve got a title. You see how useful that is. I’m not just a stray young woman gaining admission to the house for mysterious purposes. I am an earl’s daughter and therefore highly respectable.’ (Chapter 10)

Later on things get a bit more serious, and there are occasional moments of almost adult seriousness. But these don’t last long – in the last quarter of the story the whole thing collapses into the most ridiculous melodrama, high speed car drives, an emergency plane flight, with a wonderfully unexpected and pantomime conclusion, and, finally, a long letter of confession from the murderer explaining in minute detail every conceivable loose end of the plot. With the result that:

‘Everything seems to have ended very fortunately,’ said Bobby. (Chapter 35)

Plot summary

Golf

It is 3 October and we are in the Welsh seaside town of Marchbolt. Dim young Bobby Jones is playing a round of golf on the local course, part of which runs alongside the cliffs, with the local doctor. Moments after he’s sliced a ball towards the cliffs he thinks he hears a cry and, when he and the doctor go to investigate, they discover that a man has fallen partly down the cliff. Scrambling down (it’s not a vertical cliff) they discover the man is badly injured, with a broken back. The doctor volunteers to go and get help leaving Bobby with the unconscious man.

The photo and last words

Bobby searches the man and finds the photo of a pretty woman in his pocket. At which point the unconscious man suddenly opens his eyes wide and says: ‘Why didn’t they ask Evans?’ and dies. Soon afterwards another man appears on the clifftop, calls down, then scrambles down to join Bobby. He introduces himself as Roger Bassington-ffrench, claims to be walking round the area because he’s looking for a house down here.

Playing the organ

Now the thing is Bobby is on very bad terms with his father the vicar (there are some broad comic scenes between the two of them as they fail to communicate and each fulminate against the other’s generation). Anyway, Bobby had promised to play the organ at tonight’s service which starts in ten minutes, and so he asks Bassington-ffrench if it’s OK to leave him with the body while he rushes off to church. ‘I say, would you mind awfully…’ etc. Bassington-ffrench says ‘Certainly old chap.’

Newspaper account and different photo

After the service Bobby goes home with his Dad, and dinner, sleep and next morning goes off to London. Here he reads an account in the newspaper which says police used the photo of a woman found on the dead man to identify her and ascertain that she is the sister of the dead man. She is a Mrs Leo Cayman and the dead man her brother, Alex Pritchard, recently returned from Siam. He had been out of England for ten years and was just starting upon a walking tour. What staggers Bobby is that the photo reproduced in the paper bears no relation to the photo he found in the dead man’s pocket.

The inquest

Bobby returns to Marchbolt to attend the inquest and sees the Mrs Cayman who claims to be Pritchard’s sister in the flesh, and is appalled all over again, that the sweet and innocent girl of the photo has somehow morphed into the shiny, over-made-up brass he is introduced to. She and her husband (Mr Cayman) ask if Pritchard had any last words, and Bobby, discombobulated by the occasion and her appearance, forgets Pritchard’s famous last words, and say no and they go away disappointed (or relieved).

Enter Frankie

It is at the inquest that he meets up with his childhood friend Lady Frances ‘Frankie’ Derwent who, in her modern feminist way, complains that she’s bored to death staying up at Derwent Castle with her Dad and you wouldn’t have kept her away from something interesting like an inquest even if you’d paid her.

Frankie gets Bobby to tell her what happened – the cry, the photo etc – at which point he remembers the dead man’s famous last words, and vows to write to the Caymans in London to relay them.

Two odd events

Over the next few days two notable events take place. First of all, Bobby gets a letter out of the blue from a company he’s never heard of offering him a job in Buenos Aires at a grand a year. This is an apparent golden opportunity but Bobby turns it down because he has promised his old pal, ‘Badger’ Beadon – a dim young man with a stammer – to go into the second-hand car business with him.

The incident is that he goes for a picnic in the countryside and nearly dies. He drinks deep from a bottle of beer which has been injected with morphine, passes out and would have died if not discovered by a passerby who calls the police and a doctor who pumps his stomach. He still needs to be hospitalised.

The duo investigate

Frankie visits Bobby in hospital and tells him her interpretation which is that someone is trying to murder him, and they agree there’s a big fat mystery which needs investigating. First thing is to find this Roger Bassington-ffrench. Enquiries (Frankie asks her Dad who knows all about the posh families of England) reveal a family of Bassington-ffrenches living at a place called Merroway Court near the village of Staverley, in Hampshire.

The staged car crash

Rather driving over to Hampshire and introducing herself to the Bassington-ffrenches, Frankie cooks up the preposterous idea of pretending to crash her car against the wall of the Merroway Court estate, and to arrange for a friend of hers, a young doctor, George Arbuthnot, to just happen to be passing, to rescue her from the wreckage, to carry her into the Court whose owners can hardly refuse a concussed young posh woman.

And so they carry out this ridiculous plan and it works. Pretending to be in a swoon Freddie is carried into the house (by George and a passing butcher’s boy) where Mrs Bassington-ffrench gives her a spare room to rest in. A day’s rest turns into a week or more and Frankie becomes genuine friends with the wife, Sylvia Bassington-ffrench, the husband, Mr Henry Bassington-ffrench, and his handsome brother, Roger Bassington-ffrench who comes to visit.

Over dinner one evening she confirms that this is the Roger Bassington-ffrench who came across Bobby at the cliff and volunteered to stand in for him. But the thing is, there’s nothing sinister, they’re all very open and friendly, no sign of any evil conspiracy.

Introducing Alan Carstairs

In the same conversation over dinner when she raises the mystery of the body at Marchbolt, Frankie runs off to her room to get the photo from the local newspaper to show her hosts. When shown the photo of the dead man, Sylvia says that the mystery dead man looks very like Alan Carstairs, a man they know who’s often travelling abroad for long periods. She (Sylvia) hasn’t heard from him for a while, presumes he’s gone off on another of his travels. Frankie goes to bed wondering how to find out more about this Alan Carstairs.

Dope

I was a bit misleading when I said the Bassington-ffrenches appear kosher and above board. Slowly Frankie realises that there is something amiss, which is the strange behaviour of the husband, Henry. She realises that he alternates between apathetic gloom and accelerated enthusiasm, and comes to realise that the wife, Sylvia, is afflicted by this change to his previously happy personality.

Slowly Frankie is attracted to the handsome, charming, intelligent brother, Roger, and eventually he shares his theory that his brother, Henry, is a ‘dope fiend’. Roger is convinced of it and links it with the recent establishment in a nearby old house, the Grange, of a nursing home run by a Canadian, a Dr Nicholson. Is Nicolson, a medical professional with access to morphine, somehow feeding Henry’s habit? And Nicholson is Canadian but so, according to Sylvia, is Alan Carstairs. Are the two facts linked?

Dinner with Dr Nicholson

Dr Nicholson and his wife come for dinner. Nicholson is very domineering and asks inconvenient questions about Frankie’s crash. Frankie notes how his little wife, Moira, watches her husband with anxiety. Not only this but she learns that on the day Bobby was poisoned (the poisoned beer) Roger Bassington-ffrench has a solid alibi, he was at a children’s party at Staverley, but Nicholson was away, supposedly at a conference in London. And his car is a dark-blue Talbot, of a model seen near the scene of Bobby’s would-be poisoning. And, as said above, he has access to morphia. So lots of fingers point at the big, domineering Dr N.

Bobby the chauffeur

So Frankie has got as far as starting to suspect that the body on the cliff was not ‘Pritchard’ but the body of this Alan Carstairs who was snooping around the suspicious Dr Nicholson and his so-called nursing home and so was bumped off. So she writes to Bobby in London and tells him to come and collect her in a family car and dressed as a chauffeur with a fake moustache – which he does, arriving the next day impersonating Edward Hawkins, chauffeur to Lady Frances Derwent.

The Anglers’ Arms

Bobby puts up at the local inn The Anglers’ Arms, gets chatting to the landlord and barmaid who both tell him about mysterious goings-on up at ‘nursing home’ in the old Grange. They tell of a young woman who escaped, was tracked down and dragged back, screaming for help.

So Bobby goes up to the Grange for a midnight explore. He finds an unlocked door in the walls surrounding the grounds. Wandering along a path he comes across none other than the young woman depicted in the original photograph he found on Pritchard’s body! He recognises her, and identifies himself and she confirms all his worst fears by saying she fears for her life, and is terrified, but when he offers to rescue her, she shoos him away and runs back towards the house. At which point he hears other feet, men somewhere in the grounds, and does a runner.

The Grange

Next day Frankie phones him at the inn and tells him, in his guise as the chauffeur, that she wants to be driven to London. Roger half-asks to be given a lift into London and pays close attention to her response, and to Bobby when he turns up in the car – enough to make the reader suspect that he (Roger Bassington-ffrench) is onto her and her subterfuge.

Mrs Rivington

The Bassington-ffrenches had told Frankie that they met this chap Alan Carstairs when he was brought to dinner by the Rivingtons. So once arrived in London, and having pooled the results of their investigations so far, Bobby and Frankie look up Rivingtons in the phone directory and decide that Bobby should go to visit the poshest sounding ones. He will do this adopting another disguise, impersonating a solicitor from her father’s posh firm of solicitors, Messrs Spragge, Spragge, Jenkinson and Spragge.

(All these disguises, plus several more to come, and then the multiple disguises which turn out to be central to the whole plot, make the thing feel more and more like a pantomime or fairy story.)

With wild improbability the first household Bobby tries, where he is admitted by a parlour maid to see a Mrs Rivington, turns out to be exactly the right one. Yes, it was they who took Carstairs down for dinner with the Bassington-ffrenches where Carstairs asked a lot of questions about a chap in the neighbourhood, a Dr Nicholson… Aha! So things continue to focus in on Dr Nicholson and his so-called nursing home about which the locals have such a bad opinion and where Bobby met a terrified inmate!

Stop now

This summary takes us to about half way through the novel and, as with my other Christie summaries, I’m going to stop here while we’re still in the exploratory phase, while Frankie and Bobby are in the first half of their detective act and before there are any big revelations – so as not to spoil the plot for anyone planning to read it. But here’s a pretty strong clue:

‘All sorts of things happen at the Grange,’ she said. ‘Queer things. People come there to get better – and they don’t get better – they get worse.’ As she spoke, Bobby was aware of a glimpse into a strange, evil atmosphere. He felt something of the terror that had enveloped Moira Nicholson’s life for so long. (Chapter 18)

Or is it? Read the rest of this ludicrous but hugely entertaining novel to find out.

Cast

In order of appearance:

  • Robert ‘Bobby’ Jones – well-meaning upper-class twit of the Bertie Wooster type
  • Dr Thomas – who Bobby’s playing golf with when they discover the body: ‘a middle-aged man with grey hair and a red cheerful face’
  • The dying man – has a photo in his pocket
  • The stranger on the cliff – Roger Bassington-ffrench, claims he’s in the area looking for a house
  • The Reverend Thomas – Bobby’s disapproving father
  • Mrs Roberts – cook at the Vicarage
  • Lady Frances Derwent aka Frankie – daughter of Lord Marchington, lives up at Derwent Castle – frightfully posh and privileged: ‘Father gives me an allowance and I’ve got lots of houses to live in and clothes and maids and some hideous family jewels and a good deal of credits at shops’
  • Mr Leo Cayman – comes down to attend the coroner’s inquest with his wife…
  • Mrs Cayman – ‘her heavy make-up, her plucked eyebrows, those wide-apart eyes sunk in between folds of flesh till they looked like pig’s eyes, and her violent henna-tinted hair’
  • Mr Owen – estate agent from Wheeler & Owen, House and Estate Agents, with whom Bobby and Frankie check Roger Bassington-ffrench’s story that he was house hunting
  • Inspector Williams – local copper
  • Badger Beadon – dim young man with a stammer who persuades Bobby to go into the second-hand car business with him
  • Dr George Arbuthnot – gloomy young friend of Frankie’s who she persuades to help her with the fake crash ‘stunt’
  • butcher’s boy – cycling by and so helps give authenticity to the crash story
  • Mrs Sylvia Bassington-ffrench – mistress of Merroway Court far from Wales, near the village of Staverley in Hampshire – nervous and unhappy because of her husbands’ distraction / drug problem
  • Mr Henry Bassington-ffrench – ‘a big man, heavy jowled, with a kindly but rather abstracted air’; ‘now sit twitching nervously, his nerves obviously on edge, now sunk in an abstraction from which it was impossible to rouse him’; ‘With the thought of morphia suddenly the explanation of Henry Bassington-ffrench’s peculiar eyes came to her, with their pin-point pupils. Was Henry Bassington-ffrench a drug fiend?’
  • Tommy Bassington-ffrench – their boisterous 7-year-old son
  • their butler
  • Roger Bassington-ffrench – Henry’s handsome brother i.e. Sylvia’s brother-in-law, ‘a tall, slender young man of something over thirty with very pleasant eyes’
  • Dr Jasper Nicholson – head of a new nursing home set up in the old Grange, only 3 or 4 miles from the Bassington-ffrench place at Merroway Court – ‘a big man with a manner that suggested great reserves of power. His speech was slow, on the whole he said very little, but contrived somehow to make every word sound significant’
  • Moira Nicholson – small and attractive and absolutely terrified of her husband who she’s convinced is trying to murder her
  • Thomas Askew – landlord of the local pub, the Anglers’ Arms, where Bobby stays for a few nights while he’s pretending to be Frankie’s chauffeur
  • Mrs Edith Rivington – posh lady living in Tite Street, London who Frankie and Bobby track down and who tells them she knew Alan Carstairs the traveller, and took him down to the Bassington-ffrench place for dinner

After my summary stops

  • Inspector Hammond – copper in Chipping Somerton
  • John Savage – millionaire who (allegedly) made a will leaving his fortune to Mrs Rose Templeton then, depressed by a medical diagnosis of cancer, killed himself with an overdose
  • Mr Elford – lawyer who drew up John Savage’s will
  • Rose Chudleigh – cook at Tudor Cottage who witnessed John Savage’s will – ‘a bovine-looking woman of ample proportions, with fish-like eyes and every indication of adenoids’
  • Albert Mere – gardener, who also witnessed the will (now deceased)
  • Gladys – parlourmaid to Mrs Templeton, who discovered John Savage dead in bed

Books and films and plays

As usual in any Christie novel, there are knowing references to the genre of detective stories and to the clichés of the genre as found in books and novels.

‘I mean, it isn’t like – “Tell Gladys I always loved her”, or “The will is in the walnut bureau”, or any of the proper romantic Last Words there are in books.’ (Chapter 5)

‘Oh! but murderers are always frightfully rash. The more murders they do, the more murders they want to do.’
‘Like The Third Bloodstain,’ said Bobby, remembering one of his favourite works of fiction.
(And the premise of Christie’s entire novel, ‘Murder is Easy’ – Chapter 7)

Frightfully sweet of Frankie to bring him all these flowers, and of course they were lovely, but he wished it had occurred to her to bring him a few detective stories instead. He cast his eye over the table beside him. There was a novel of Ouida’s and a copy of ‘John Halifax, Gentleman’ and last week’s Marchbolt Weekly Times. He picked up ‘John Halifax, Gentleman’. After five minutes he put it down. To a mind nourished on ‘The Third Bloodstain’, ‘The Case of the Murdered Archduke’ and ‘The Strange Adventure of the Florentine Dagger’, ‘John Halifax, Gentleman’ lacked pep.
(Chapter 7)

Also, I wonder whether Christie wrote a novel which didn’t include at least one tip of the hat to the most famous detective of them all, Mr Holmes.

‘The thing is – what to do next,’ she said. ‘It seems to me we’ve got three angles of attack.’
‘Go on, Sherlock.’
(Chapter 8)

As I’ve mentioned, these references do several things. Far from guiltily acknowledging the novels’ indebtedness to various detective story tropes, they emphasise them, and so actively emphasise the story’s artificiality and bookishness.

‘Your hands are more loosely tied than mine. Let’s see if I can get them undone with my teeth.’ The next five minutes were spent in a struggle that did credit to Bobby’s dentist.
‘Extraordinary how easy these things sound in books,’ he panted. ‘I don’t believe I’m making the slightest impression.’
(Chapter 28)

This does at least two things: 1) It loosens the text’s relation to reality. I mean the heightening of the artificiality brings the stories closer to melodrama and panto and so makes you less likely to hold them to strict standards of verisimilitude.

2) And (I appreciate this may be another way of rephrasing point 1) they make you more prepared to believe utter tosh, preposterous coincidences, outrageous accidents and lucky breaks. They all transport you into the world of Faerie. Towards the end of the narrative, the increasingly mad, helter-skelter speed of events reminds the characters (and the reader) of some kind of mad fantasy.

‘Good,’ said Bobby. ‘Let’s take an air taxi.’
The whole proceedings were beginning to take on the fantastic character of a dream.
(Chapter 33)

Or, indeed, Hollywood.

‘It was rather fun seeing you all get worked up about Nicholson. He’s a harmless old ass, but he does look exactly like a scientific super-criminal on the films.’
(Chapter 30)

As it happens, this novel contains more references to plays and drama than any of the others I’ve read and at one point the characters reflect at length on the fact that they seem to be caught in someone else’s play.

‘Isn’t it odd?’ she said. ‘We seem, somehow, to have got in between the covers of a book. We’re in the middle of someone else’s story. It’s a frightfully queer feeling.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Bobby. ‘There is something rather uncanny about it. I should call it a play rather than a book. It’s as though we’d walked on to the stage in the middle of the second act and we haven’t really got parts in the play at all, but we have to pretend, and what makes it so frightfully hard is that we haven’t the faintest idea what the first act was about.’
Frankie nodded eagerly.
‘I’m not even so sure it’s the second act – I think it’s more like the third. Bobby, I’m sure we’ve got to go back a long way… And we’ve got to be quick because I fancy the play is frightfully near the final curtain.’
(Chapter 20)

Actually there were another 15 chapters to go, but you get the idea. It comes as no surprise that when the baddy is revealed, he writes a long letter explaining every detail of the plot, and merrily signs himself:

‘Your affectionate enemy, the bold, bad villain of the piece…’ (Chapter 34)

If it hadn’t already, with this final flourish the novel transforms itself into pure panto. But by this stage of the novel, all those references to corny detective novels, movie clichés and stage melodramas have softened us up so much that we don’t care. And that’s at least part of their function.


Credit

‘Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?’ by Agatha Christie was published in 1934 by the Collins Crime Club.

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The Sittaford Mystery by Agatha Christie (1931)

The Major blushed like a girl.
(Chapter 1)

There were all the usual laughs, whispers, stereotyped remarks.
(Chapter 2)

‘I think,’ said Inspector Narracott deliberately, ‘that there’s a lot more in this case than meets the eye.’ (Chapter 4)

‘It’s always what you don’t expect in this life that happens, isn’t it, Mr Narracott?’
(The wisdom of Mrs Belling, landlady of the Three Crowns, Chapter 6)

‘That’s a rum go,’ ejaculated the Superintendent.
(Middle class slang, Chapter 10)

‘A lot of chuckleheads the police are, and so I’ve said before now.’
(Working class slang, Mrs Belling, Chapter 12)

Mr Curtis thoughtfully removed an aged pipe from the right side of his mouth to the left side. ‘Women,’ he said, ‘talk a lot.’
(One of the oldest tropes in literature, the hen-pecked husband, Chapter 13)

‘I hate a slobbering female,’ said Miss Percehouse. ‘I like one who gets up and does things.’
(No-nonsense old spinster Miss P, Chapter 17)

She paused, lost in thought. Two very different theories stretched out in opposite directions.
(Emily Trefusis, who emerges as the intellectual heroine of the story, Chapter 17)

‘Brian,’ said Emily thoughtfully, ‘is – well, a person to be reckoned with. He is rather unscrupulous, I should think, and if he wanted anything, I don’t think he would let ordinary conventional standards stand in his way. He’s not plain tame English.’
(Christie’s comic view of her compatriots, Chapter 25)

‘Never part with information unnecessarily. That’s my rule,’ said Inspector Narracott.
(Wise words, Chapter 26)

‘It just shows,’ said Charles, ‘that you never know.’
(Chapter 25)

Freelance detectives

Indeed, you never do know about people’s private lives and secret motivations… except that, in Agatha Christie novels and others of her ilk, in fact you do know. You very much do find out whodunnit, who was jealous of who, who fancied who, as well as a hundred and one other loose ends which by the story’s conclusion are all tied up neatly with a bow.

After a pleasurable day or two of being teased about the mystery, and trying to work it out from the plethora of clues packed into the narrative whodunnit – in the last chapter all is revealed, all is explained, there is closure for everyone, including the reader.

From one point of view, the main thing which distinguishes Christie’s books is who does the revealing and explaining. She is, of course, famous for the series of novels featuring Hercule Poirot as investigator, and the separate series featuring Miss Jane Marple in the same role. But alongside these she published 20 or so novels throughout her career without one of her two star sleuths – detective and crime novels which instead featured freelancers, amateurs, people caught up in a murder situation who find they have a gift for investigation, for interviewing people, for putting evidence together, and developing their own theories.

The Sittaford Mystery is one such ‘freelance’ detective story and the spirited amateur who emerges as its heroine is the wife of the initial suspect, a clever and very determined young woman named Emily Trefusis.

The background

The village of Sittaford is situated on the edge of Dartmoor. It is mid-winter and the moor and village are both deep in snow. The village is dominated by Sittaford House which was built ten years ago by Captain Joseph Trevelyan after he retired from the Royal Navy. He is wealthy and built his big house right on the shoulder of the moor under the shadow of Sittaford Beacon. He had purchased a large tract of land on which he first built the big house with all modern conveniences, then he had built six small bungalows, each in a quarter acre of ground, along the lane leading from the house down to the small village. The cottages are inhabited thus:

  • Number 1 – Major Burnaby, Trevelyan’s oldest friend and sporting partner
  • Number 2 – Captain Wyatt ‘a tall thin man with a very brown complexion, bloodshot eyes and grey hair. He was propped up with a crutch on one side’
    • Wyatt’s miserable-looking native servant, Abdul, ‘a tall Indian in a turban’
  • Number 3 – Mr Rycroft, a dapper little gentleman whose cottage is stuffed with books about ornithology and criminology
  • Number 4 – stern, strict Miss Caroline Percehouse, ‘a spinster of uncertain years and temper who had come down here to die… six years ago’ but has revived in the clear moorland air
    • currently being visited by her empty-headed young nephew, Ronnie Garfield
  • Number 5 – Curtis, retired gardener at Sittaford House, with his garrulous wife Mrs Curtis, who lets rooms to outsiders
  • Number 6 – Mr Duke, a shy retiring man with a military manner that nobody knows anything about

The village itself consists of three picturesque but dilapidated cottages, a forge, and a combined post office and sweet shop. The nearest town is Exhampton, six miles away. The nearest city is Exeter, a train ride away.

The setup

A few months before the story commences Captain Trevelyan was contacted by an estate agent acting on behalf of a colonial widow, one Mrs Willett from South Africa, who was looking for an isolated country house and had always had an interest in mysterious Dartmoor. Through the estate agent she made a very generous offer to Captain Trevelyan, a rather greedy man, and so the deal was done whereby Mrs Willett and her grown-up daughter Violet, leased Sittaford Hall for the winter while the Captain moved into a bungalow into Exhampton, six miles away.

The village is a small place and pretty much everyone gossiped and speculated about Mrs Willett’s real reasons for moving to such an isolated spot.

The séance

Meanwhile Mrs W and her daughter set about trying to make herself popular with the locals, hosting dinners and teas. On the Friday night in question they invite four local middle class characters to tea, being Captain Trevelyan’s long-standing friend, Major Burnaby, Mr Rycroft, Mr Ronnie Garfield and Mr Duke. Afterwards they go to play bridge but six is too many so someone playfully suggests they hold a séance.

So they select a small round table, turn the lights off, sit round it holding hands, amid much joking and irony and scoffing until – as always happens in fictions like this – the table really does begin to move and really indicates that a spirit from the other side wishes to speak to them.

The murder

Long story short, the message that comes through is that Captain Trevelyan is dead, murdered! Someone looks at their watch and sees that the time is precisely 5.25pm.

This breaks up the séance but also upsets his old friend Major Burnaby who, after some fretting, announces that he is setting off the six miles to Exhampton. He insists he will walk there because a) he is fit as a fiddle and despises cars etc b) it’s coming on to snow again and the road is already impassable to vehicles.

A few hours later, about 8pm, in the middle of the blizzard which has arrived as forecast, Major Burnaby arrives at Captain Trevelyan’s rented house, Hazelmoor. When nobody answers the door, he fetches the local police and the local doctor, Dr Warren a doctor and they enter the house through the open study window at the back. Here they find Captain Trevelyan’s dead body on the floor. Dr Warren estimates the time of death at between 5 and 6 pm. the cause of death is a fracture of the base of the skull and the implement is one of the long sand-filled draught excluders used around the house, which is full of sand.

Who murdered Captain Trevelyan, and why, and what on earth has a séance got to do with it? It takes 200 pages for the reader to find out but along the way two notable things happen: 1) the reader is introduced to an extraordinary number of characters who each have complicated backstories, often with secrets and lies of their own; 2) as already stated, although a detective inspector, Inspector Narracott is put on the case, and proceeds with admirable efficiency, his work is paralleled by the rise of the novel’s heroine, tough, committed and clever young Emily Trefusis.

Who she? Well the police quickly find out that on the day of his murder Captain Trevelyan had been visited by the eldest son of his hard-up sister Jennifer, one James Pearson. Soon after the estimated time of the murder this young man packed his bags at the local hotel and hurriedly caught a train out of town. It doesn’t take long to realise that he had a motive (he had come to see his uncle to beg him to help support his mother; plus he [James] was a beneficiary of Trevelyan’s will; plus a few enquiries reveal that he had been embezzling his employer’s money to fund speculations and had recently lost money) and the opportunity (he had gone to see Trevelyan at or very close to the time of the murder).

So the police arrest, charge and imprison James. But they hadn’t counted on James’s fiancée, Emily, who immediately devotes herself to proving her beloved’s innocence. When she arrives in Sittaford she quickly discovers a journalist from a national newspaper is in the town to hand over the prize for winning a national quiz competition to Major Burnaby. This young man, Charles Enderby, is overjoyed to be on the spot of a true-life murder mystery and sets about boosting his profile by cabling his editor back in London that he will get all kinds of exclusives.

This enthusiasm, plus the fact that she is very attractive, allows Emily to quickly size him up and realise that the can manipulate and use Charles for her own ends, something he half-consciously collaborates in as he starts to fall in love with her – or so he thinks. Here she is buttering him up something rotten.

‘One can’t do anything without a man. Men know so much, and are able to get information in so many ways that are simply impossible to women.’
‘Well – I – yes, I suppose that is true,’ said Mr Enderby complacently. (Chapter 11)

Cast

Here’s the vast cast list. Following the twists and turns of the backstories of a dozen or more of them become a full-time and quite demanding activity.

  • Captain Joseph Trevelyan – confirmed old bachelor, owner of Sittaford House which he has rented to Mrs Willett and her daughter, while he moves into a cottage (named Hazelmoor) in the nearest town, Exhampton, ‘known as a woman hater’, doesn’t like his habits upset
  • Hazelmoor’s owner Miss Larpent. Middle-aged woman, she’s gone to a boarding house at Cheltenham for the winter
  • Evans – long-term cook and handyman for Captain Trevelyan, ‘retired naval chap. Ugly customer in a scrap’, ‘a short thick-set man. He had very long arms and a habit of standing with his hands half clenched. He was clean shaven with small, rather pig-like eyes, yet he had a look of cheerfulness and efficiency that redeemed his bulldog appearance’. Evans has recently married…
  • Rebecca Belling, now Mrs Evans, daughter of the local pub landlady
  • Major Burnaby – Captain Trevelyan’s old friend and sports partner, nowadays more into crosswords and acrostics, lives at Number 1 the cottages, gruff, bluff, ‘naturally a silent man’, sceptical about the séance which he thinks is stuff and nonsense
  • Mrs Willett – ‘a tall woman with a rather silly manner – but her physiognomy was shrewd rather than foolish. She was inclined to overdress, had a distinct Colonial accent…’ ‘a fashionable sort of woman. Dressed up to the nines’
  • Miss Violet – her daughter, very nervous. In Burnaby’s view ‘Pretty girl – scraggy, of course – they all were nowadays. What was the good of a woman if she didn’t look like a woman? Papers said curves were coming back. About time too’
  • Mr Ryecroft – ‘a little, elderly, dried-up man’, ‘an enthusiast on birds’. Member of the Psychical Research Society, lives in Number 3 the Cottages – ‘You must forgive me, Miss Trefusis, I am deeply interested in the study of crime. A fascinating study. Ornithology and criminology are my two subjects’
  • Mr Ronald Garfield – ‘a fresh-coloured, boyish young man’, according to his bed-ridden Aunt, Mrs Percehouse, ‘a good lad in his way, but pitifully weak’
  • Mr Duke – a recent arrival, just bought the last of the six bungalows, Number 6, in September. He is ‘a big man, very quiet and devoted to gardening’
  • Elmer – ‘the proprietor of the sole car in the place, an aged Ford, hired at a handsome price by those who wished to go into Exhampton’
  • Constable Graves – local policeman
  • Dr Warren – lives almost next door to the police station, first to examine the body and declare time of death
  • Inspector Narracott – ‘a very efficient officer. He had a quiet persistence, a logical mind and a keen attention to detail which brought him success where many another man might have failed’
  • Sergeant Pollock of the Exhampton police
  • Superintendent Maxwell – Narracott’s superior
  • Mrs Belling – proprietor of the Three Crowns. ‘Mrs Belling was fat and excitable, and so voluble that there was nothing to be done but to listen patiently until such time as the stream of conversation should dry up’ (note Christie’s mockery of several gabby old women in this novel, as in its predecessor, The Murder at the Vicarage)
  • James Pearson – down from London on a flying visit, soon to be questioned and arrested
  • Young male estate agent at Messrs. Williamson, ‘You learn never to be surprised at anything in the house business’
  • Mr Kirkwood – partner in Messrs. Walters & Kirkwood, Trevelyan’s solicitors, co-executor of his will, ‘an elderly man with a benign expression’
  • Charles Enderby – reporter for the Daily Wire come down to Exhampton to award Major Burnaby a cheque for £5,000
  • Mrs Jennifer Gardner – Captain Trevelyan’s sister, lives in Exeter at The Laurels – ‘A tall, rather commanding woman came into the room. She had an unusual looking face, broad about the brows, and black hair with a touch of grey at the temples, which she wore combed straight back from her forehead.’.. ‘Character – that was what it was. Aunt Jennifer had about enough character for two and three quarter people instead of one’
  • Captain Robert Gardner – Aunt Jennifer’s husband, was invalided out of the army after the war with shell shock which has paralysed all his limbs (allegedly)
    • Beatrice – her ‘slipshod’ maid
    • Nurse Davis – nurse for bed-ridden Captain Gardner
  • Mary Pearson, Trevelyan’s other sister, mother of three adult children i.e. Trevelyan’s nephews and niece
  • James, 28 – ‘good-looking, indeed handsome, if you took no account of the rather weak mouth and the irresolute slant of the eyes. He had a haggard, worried look and an air of not having had much sleep of late.’ In the opinion of Emily his fiancée: ‘Dear Jim, dear, sweet, boyish, helpless, impractical Jim. So utterly to be depended on to do the wrong thing at the wrong moment.’
  • Emily Trefusis – ‘a very exceptional kind of young woman. She was not strikingly beautiful, but she had a face which was arresting and unusual, a face that having once seen you could not forget. There was about her an atmosphere of common sense, savoir-faire, invincible determination and a most tantalizing fascination’… ‘This business-like and attractive girl.’
  • Sylvia, 25 – ‘small and fair and anaemic looking, with a worried and harassed expression. Her voice had that faintly complaining note in it which is about the most annoying sound a human voice can contain.’ Sylvia is married to:
  • Martin Dering – ‘You may have read his books. He’s a moderately successful author’
  • Brian – out in Australia, in Inspector Narracott’s view ‘a hot-tempered, high-handed young man’
  • Mrs Curtis – occupies Number 5 the Cottages; rents out rooms. ‘A small, thin, grey haired woman, energetic and shrewish in disposition.’
  • Curtis – former gardener at Sittaford House, ‘a rather gruff looking grey-haired old man’
  • Miss Caroline Percehouse – lives at Number 4 The Cottages, ‘a spinster of uncertain years and temper who had come down here to die, according to Mrs Curtis, six years ago’. ‘An elderly lady with a thin wrinkled face and with one of the sharpest and most interrogative noses that Emily had ever seen.’ Despite or because of this, Emily comes to respect her insight and judgement.
    • Ronald Garfield is her useless nincompoop nephew; she is his Aunt Caroline
  • Captain Wyatt – occupant of Number 2 the Cottages with an Indian servant – ‘The Captain’s habit of letting off a revolver at real or imaginary cats was a sore trial to his neighbours.’ ‘The young men of the present day make me sick,’ said Captain Wyatt. ‘What’s the good of them?’ [sounding remarkably like D.H. Lawrence]
  • Amos Parker – greengrocer at Exhampton, supplies Sittaford
  • Mrs Hibbert at the post office
  • Mr Pound, the blacksmith
  • Mr Dacres – Emily’s solicitor, who is undertaking Jim’s defence

Long list isn’t it, and there’s barely a person in it who doesn’t turn out to have their own secrets and backstories which, when either Inspector Narracott or Charles Enderby or Emily Trefusis stumble upon, deduce or discover them doesn’t, for a portion of the narrative, make them seem like a possible suspect.

It’s like a child’s kaleidoscope where the steady arrival of new facts and discoveries continually changes the investigators’ hypotheses, and overturn or modify any the reader might have been devising. In this sense the stories are very dynamic, presenting a constantly shifting landscape of theories and interpretations.

Emily Trefusis

In the Chief Constable’s opinion, ‘a managing young woman’, and ‘a young woman who prided herself on being sharper than other people’, Emily quite quickly emerges as the heroine of the book. She is absolutely determined to clear her fiancé’s name and so throws her impressive intellect and redoubtable willpower into solving the mystery of the murder.

‘We shall find something,’ said Emily. ‘I always find something.’
Mr Enderby could well believe that. Emily had the kind of personality that soars triumphantly over all obstacles. (Chapter 11)

‘We’ll assume that it is true,’ said Emily firmly. ‘I am sure that in detection of crime you mustn’t be afraid to assume things.’ (Chapter 15)

Bonding with Miss Percehouse.

‘Here is someone,’ thought Emily, ‘who goes straight to the point and means to have her own way and bosses everybody she can. Just like me only I happen to be rather good-looking and she has to do it all by force of character.’ (Chapter 17)

Mrs Curtis’s view:

‘A deep one – and one that can twist all the men round her little finger.’ (Chapter 21)

And, as I’ve mentioned, Emily does twist poor Charles Enderby entirely round her little finger in order to get him onto her team and working to free her fiancé.

Emily’s theory of ‘angle of attack’

I didn’t entirely understand this but the phrase is repeated and Emily herself uses it to describe her approach.

She wished with all her heart that she had met the dead man even if only once. It was so hard to get an idea of people you had never seen. You had to rely on other people’s judgment, and Emily had never yet acknowledged that any other person’s judgment was superior to her own. Other people’s impressions were no good to you. They might be just as true as yours but you couldn’t act on them. You couldn’t, as it were, use another person’s angle of attack. (Chapter 16)

She had no intention of allowing any angle of attack to remain unexplored. (Chapter 16)

As she investigates more i.e. sets out to meet and interview everyone in the village, everyone who knew the captain, and his extended family, Emily develops a ‘system’ not a million miles from Hercule Poirot’s similar systematicness (except Poirot keeps everything in his head):

At the moment she felt disinclined for anything but solitude. She wanted to sort out and arrange her own ideas. She went up to her own room, and taking pencil and notepaper she set to work on a system of her own. (Chapter 17)

And:

And then deliberately she set herself to think out things from the beginning, going over every detail that she knew herself or had learned by hearsay from other people. She considered every actor in the drama and outside the drama. (Chapter 26)

Elsewhere she justifies her freelance approach to Charles.

‘All public things are much better done by the police. It’s private and personal things like listening to Mrs Curtis and picking up a hint from Miss Percehouse and watching the Willetts – that’s where we score.’ (Chapter 25)

The ‘relying on’ stunt

‘Stunt’ occurs a lot in the 1920s, indicating a scam or schtick or technique or method. A little way into the novel Emily stumbles on a clever way to manipulate the men around her. This is to tell them that she is only a helpless lickle ickle girly and she is so grateful that she’s found a big strong man like them to rely on – at which point no self-respecting man can fail to ruffle up his chest feathers, feeling flattered that he is coming to the rescue of this damsel in distress. Works every time. And gets funnier with every repetition.

To Charles Enderby:

‘That’s just what I mean to do,’ said Emily with a complete lack of truth, ‘It’s so wonderful to have someone you can really rely on.’ (Chapter 11)

To Mr Ryecroft:

‘It’s so wonderful,’ she said, using the phrase that in the course of her short life she had found so effectual, ‘to feel that there’s someone on whom one can really rely.’ (Chapter 16)

To Inspector Narracott:

‘How men do stick together,’ went on Emily looking over the telegrams. ‘Poor Sylvia. In some ways I really think that men are beasts. That’s why,’ she added, ‘it’s so nice when one finds a man on whom one can really rely.’ (Chapter 27)

And not just on men. here she is buttering up bed-ridden Captain Gardner’s nurse:

‘How splendid,’ said Emily. ‘It must be wonderful for Aunt Jennifer to feel she has somebody upon whom she can rely.’
‘Oh, really,’ said the Nurse simpering, ‘you are too kind.’
(Chapter 20)

Ronnie Garfield’s theory

Ronnie is an impecunious Bertie Wooster type of upper-class twit. At one point he is given his own dim-witted ‘theory’, regarding the third cousin, Brian Pearson, who everyone thinks disappeared off to Australia years earlier.

‘Fellows that go off to the Colonies are usually bad hats. Their relations don’t like them and push them out there for that reason. Very well then – there you are. The bad hat comes back, short of money, visits wealthy uncle in the neighbourhood of Christmas time, wealthy relative won’t cough up to impecunious nephew – and impecunious nephew bats him one. That’s what I call a theory. (Chapter 23)

Bookish

Here, as in all her novels, I’m getting used to Christie regularly having her characters describe how they feel as if they’re living in a detective novel, or how things resemble (or don’t) similar scenes you read about in books.

‘What a scoop it would be,’ said Mr Enderby, ‘if you and I discovered the real murderer. The crime expert of the Daily Wire – that’s the way I should be described. But it’s too good to be true,’ he added despondently. ‘That sort of thing only happens in books.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Emily, ‘it happens with me.’
(Chapter 11)

‘Just like a sixpenny [crime novel] I got at Woolworth’s the other day, ‘The Syringa Murders’ it was called. And do you know what led them to find the real murderer, Miss? Just a bit of common sealing wax.’
(The chambermaid at the Three Crowns, Chapter 12)

‘I know what you’re thinking. Like in books there ought to be some little incident that I should remember that would be a clue. Well, I’m sorry, but there isn’t any such thing.’
(Chapter 15)

They went up the small path and entered the cottage. The interior was charming. Bookcases lined the walls. Emily went from one to the other glancing curiously at the titles of the books. One section dealt with occult phenomena, another with modern detective fiction, but by far the greater part of the bookcases was given up to criminology and to the world’s famous trials.
(Chapter 16)

‘Yes, Miss Trefusis, I see exactly what you mean. You’ll understand that contrary to the popular belief in novels it is extremely difficult to fix the time of death accurately.’
(Dr Warren, Chapter 18)

‘But then you know what the police are – always butting in on the wrong tack. At least that’s what it says in detective novels.’
(Ronnie again, Chapter 21)

‘Of course,’ said Emily, ‘the person it ought to be is Abdul. It would be in a book. He’d be a Lascar really, and Captain Trevelyan would have thrown his favourite brother overboard in a mutiny – something like that.’
(Chapter 25)

‘It’s generally understood in books, he said, ‘that the police are intent on having a victim and don’t in the least care if that victim is innocent or not as long as they have enough evidence to convict him. That’s not the truth, Miss Trefusis, it’s only the guilty man we want.’
(Inspector Narracott, Chapter 26)

She took each drawer out and felt behind it. In detective stories there was always an obliging scrap of paper. But evidently in real life one could not expect such fortunate accidents…
(Chapter 28)

Plus what I’ve come to realise is the obligatory reference to Sherlock Holmes which crops up in pretty much every Agatha Christie novel.

‘I say, are you doing any sleuthing? If so, can I help? Be the Watson to your Sherlock, or anything of that kind?’
(Upper-class twit Ronnie Garfield, Chapter 21)

Stereotypes

As discussed in earlier reviews, there’s not a lot of point picking out stereotypical and (nowadays insulting) generalisations about gender and ethnicity because detective stories like these are made out of stereotypes. Every character is a type as broad and recognisable as the types in Pilgrim’s Progress or Restoration comedy or Sheridan – the crusty old Royal Navy bachelor, the keen-as-mustard newspaper reporter, the worried mother and nervous daughter, the solid dependable doctor, and so on and so on.

It’s the familiarity of these types which is such a large part of the enjoyment. It’s like the types you meet in pantomime or sitcoms, utterly predictable and therefore reassuring and amusing. It’s so relaxing not having to cope with the complexities and unreadability of real life, and instead slip into a smooth and totally understandable world of reassuringly familiar caricatures. Obviously lots of them harbour secrets and one of them is a murderer but it really doesn’t matter, because everything will be revealed and explained and competently put to rest.

Gabby old women

The book before this, ‘The Murder at the Vicarage’ and in this one, Christie makes a big deal out of several older female characters who can’t stop talking, namely Mrs Curtis:

Left to his own devices Charles Enderby did not relax his efforts. To familiarize himself with life as lived in Sittaford village he had only to turn on Mrs Curtis much as you would turn on the tap of a hydrant. Listening slightly dazed to a stream of anecdote, reminiscence, rumours, surmise and meticulous detail he endeavoured valiantly to sift the grain from the chaff. He then mentioned another name and immediately the force of the water was directed in that direction. (Chapter 21)

‘It’s almost a disease the way that woman talks,’ said [Mrs Willett]. (Chapter 21)

‘That chattering magpie of a woman, Mrs Curtis. She’s clean and she’s honest, but her tongue never stops, and she pays no attention to whether you listen or whether you don’t.’ (Chapter 28)

All complemented by Mrs Curtis’s pantomime lack of self awareness:

‘Curtis will be wanting his tea and that’s a fact,’ said Mrs Curtis without moving. ‘I was never one to stand about gossiping.’ (Chapter 21)

Pushing back

But sometimes Christie enjoys pushing back against expectations. Thus in ‘The Murder at the Vicarage’ Miss Marple is a rebuttal of all the tired clichés the pompous male policemen spout against a) women and b) old women, in particular.

And so Emily Trefusis feels similarly unexpected. To me she feels like she’s kicking back against clichés about ‘young women today’ etc. In this she is linked to and Lady Eileen ‘Bundle’ Brent in the wonderfully entertaining The Secret of Chimneys and its sequel, The Seven Dials Mystery. This is why Mrs Percehouse’s opinion seems more than usually important:

‘I hate a slobbering female,’ said Miss Percehouse. ‘I like one who gets up and does things.’ (Chapter 17)

In their different ways, Bundle, Marple and Emily are just such women.

He-man

Crops up in various texts from the period. Was obviously a newish slogan or catchphrase in the 1920s.

‘I think path digging will be your only sport.’
‘I’ve been at it all the morning.’
‘Oh! you he-man!’
‘Don’t laugh at me. I’ve got blisters all over my hands.’
(Miss Violet teasing Ronnie Garfield, Chapter 1)

Woman hater

Trevelyan is described by several characters as a ‘woman hater’. Mrs Willett has no time for this description.

‘I’ve known dozens of men like it. They are called women haters and all sorts of silly things, and really all the time it’s only shyness. If I could have got at him,’ said Mrs Willett with determination, ‘I’d soon have got over all that nonsense. That sort of man only wants bringing out.’ (Chapter 14)

I’d like to see her have a go at Andrew Tate.

The press

In a deceptively comic way Christie shows how mendacious and distorting the English press are. All the complexity of human life has to be cramped and chopped up to fit newspaper stereotypes. Thus young Charles Enderby is comically open with Emily about how he’s rewritten their conversations to suit the medium’s requirements.

‘Er – I hope you don’t mind, I have just posted off an interview with you?’
‘Oh! that’s all right,’ said Emily mechanically. ‘What have you made me say?’
‘Oh, the usual sort of things people like to hear,’ said Mr Enderby. ‘Our special representative records his interview with Miss Emily Trefusis, the fiancée of Mr James Pearson who has been arrested by the police and charged with the murder of Captain Trevelyan – Then my impression of you as a high-spirited, beautiful girl.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emily.
‘Shingled,’ went on Charles.
‘What do you mean by shingled?’
‘You are,’ said Charles.
‘Well, of course I am,’ said Emily. ‘But why mention it?’
‘Women readers always like to know,’ said Charles Enderby. ‘It was a splendid interview. You’ve no idea what fine womanly touching things you said about standing by your man, no matter if the whole world was against him… I put in a very good bit about Captain Trevelyan’s sea career and just a hint at foreign idols looted and a possibility of a strange priest’s revenge – only a hint you know.’
(Chapter 17)

Christie had had personal experience of the Press’s commitment to lying and distorting people’s actions and words in order to produce copy that sells newspapers during the famous incident of her disappearance in 1928. All things considered, it’s striking how mild her satire on the Press is. Later she has her cops give a more considered view:

‘What was he doing there? Enderby, I mean?’
‘You know what journalists are,’ said Narracott, ‘always nosing round. They’re uncanny.’
‘They are a darned nuisance very often,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Though they have their uses too.’ (Chapter 24)

Height

Christie doesn’t like gabbing women but she has a penchant for tall characters. Tall is good.

Mrs Willett covertly, that she did not look a fool. She was a tall woman with a rather silly manner – but her physiognomy was shrewd rather than foolish… (Chapter 1)

Inspector Narracott was a very efficient officer. He had a quiet persistence, a logical mind and a keen attention to detail which brought him success where many another man might have failed.
He was a tall man with a quiet manner, rather far away grey eyes, and a slow soft Devonshire voice. (Chapter 4)

‘Violet.’ He had hardly noticed the girl who had followed her in, and yet, she was a very pretty girl, tall and fair with big blue eyes. (Chapter 14)

This was a young man not more than twenty-four or five years of age. Tall, good-looking and determined, with none of the hunted criminal about him. (Chapter 22)

Premise

I’ll sign off with another version of that cliché quoted at the top.

‘But one never knows. He’s no fool, that fellow, whatever else he is.’
‘No, he’s an intelligent sort of chap.’
‘His story seems straightforward enough,’ went on the Inspector.
‘Perfectly clear and above board. Still, as I say, one never knows…’ (Chapter 5)

You never know, you never know… until the final chapters of the novel where all is revealed and then… we all know, light is shed in all the dark corners, the culprit is arrested, all the other anomalies and mysteries are cleared up, and we all achieve complete closure, all in time for bed.


Credit

‘The Sittaford Mystery’ by Agatha Christie was published by the Collins Crime Club in 1931.

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‘Always dropping in – dropping in – too much dropping in. If I don’t choose to see anyone for a week, or a month, or a year, that’s my business.’ (Captain Wyatt)

Fasti by Ovid

I’ll speak of divisions of time throughout the Roman year,
Their origins, and the stars that set beneath the earth and rise.
(Book 1, opening lines in the A.S. Kline verse translation)

Times and their reasons, arranged in order through the Latin year, and constellations sunk beneath the earth and risen, I shall sing.
(Anne and Peter Wiseman’s prose translation)

The word ‘fasti’

The Roman poet, Pūblius Ovidius Nāsō, generally known simply as Ovid was half-way through writing the Fasti when, in 8 AD, he was abruptly sent into exile. The Fasti was intended to be a longish poem about the Roman calendar. This is more colourful than it sounds because the Roman calendar was packed with feast days and festivals and anniversaries of great battles or constitutional landmarks, plus the dies comitiales or dates assigned for the numerous elections to the various magistracies. All of these elements had customs and traditions and legends associated with them and it was these that Ovid set out to investigate and set down in chronological order.

Astrology

Not forgetting the signs of the Zodiac. Speaking of venerable experts on astrology, Ovid says:

Following these masters I too will measure out the skies,
And attribute the wheeling signs to their proper dates.

The Romans took study of the stars very seriously. The stars themselves were arranged in constellations thought to depict various gods and heroes and monsters who had been immortalised in the sky, so you have a whole set of stories to tell right there. And the stars were also meant to exert a concealed influence on human affairs, and understanding how this worked was a special science known only to soothsayers and priests. More stories and explanations.

Unfortunately, the most striking thing about the astrological references is that they made no sense to me whatsoever. They were the most notable among many aspects of the poem which were obscure or downright incomprehensible. Thus, the entry for 23 January reads:

When the seventh rising sun from here has plunged himself into the waves, there will now be no Lyre shining anywhere in the sky. On the night coming after this star, the fire that gleams in the middle of Lion‘s chest will have been submerged. (p.17)

What’s odd is that, although the Oxford University Press (OUP) edition I set out to read (translation by Ann and Peter Wiseman) is festooned with notes, there are no notes to explain this little passage. The OUP edition has an impressively long Index of Names, from which I learn that the Lyre and the Lion are constellations, which I think I could have worked out for myself – but nothing explaining what this passage refers to, in astrological or mythological terms. It’s an odd omission and the same goes for all the other astrological passages – meaning they all remained obscure and enigmatic to me from start to finish.

The words ‘fasti’ and ‘calendar’

Originally the word ‘fasti’ meant something like legitimate or legal. Rome’s college of priests declared some days legitimate to do business (dies fasti) and other days not legitimate (dies nefasti). Slowly, by association, the word fasti came to mean list of significant or important dates.

So the poem was intended to be in 12 books, one for each month, with each month containing an introduction (and explanation of the etymology of the month’s name) before moving on to zero in on the 10 or 12 key dates in each month.

In fact the word we use, ‘calendar’, is also Latin, from kalendae, the plural of kalends. This word referred to the first day of the Roman month when debts fell due and accounts were reckoned. Kalends itself derived from the Latin verb calare meaning ‘to announce solemnly, to call out’, as the Roman priests did when they proclaimed the new moon that marked the kalends.

In Rome new moons were not calculated mathematically but observed by the priests from the Capitol. When they saw it, they would ‘declare’ the number of days till the nones (five or seven, depending on the month; the Romans didn’t number the days of the month like we do, but defined days as a certain number of days before or after key days in each month, namely the nones – 5 or 7 days into the new months – and the ides – 15 days in i.e. the middle of the month). To be more precise:

Ides – the 13th day of the month except in March, May, July and October, when the ides fell on the 15th.

Nones – nine days before the ides and so the fifth day of the month, except in March, May, July and October when it was the 7th.

Like so much Roman culture, the word calendae was directly incorporated into the early Church which replaced the pagan gods’ name days and feast days with their Christian equivalents. ‘Calendar’ kept its meaning of a list of significant days throughout the Middle Ages and only came to be regarded as an entirely neutral list of all the dates in a month and year, relatively recently.

Stories

Ovid set out to work through the year in chronological order, a book per month, stopping at significant days to explain anything interesting about them: a religious festival, name date of a god, association with this or that mythical story, and so on.

Looked at one way, this format was a peg or pretext or theme on which to hang a lot of popular stores, rather as physical transformation was the theme by which he organised the vast compendium of myths and legends in the Metamorphoses. Thus each of the books contains summaries of well-known legends or historical stories, often to explain place names within Rome itself, the names of altars or temples, or, more widely, famous stories about Rome’s founding era.

There is, inevitably, a lot about the legendary founder Romulus, and Ovid loses no opportunity to associate the emperor Augustus with him, generally pointing out how the current princeps outdoes and excels the founder.

Romulus you will give way. This man makes your walls great by defending them. You had given them to Remus to leap across. Tatius and little Cures and Caenina were aware of you; under this man’s leadership both sides of the sun are Roman. You had some small area of conquered ground; whatever there is beneath high Jupiter, Caesar has. You snatched wives; this man bids them be chaste under his leadership. You receive guilt in your grove; he has repelled it. To you violence was welcome; under Caesar the laws flourish. You had the name of master; he has the name of princeps. Remus accuses you; he has given pardon to enemies. Your father made you a god; he made his father one. (2. 1333 to 144)

I love you Augustus.

Ovid’s research

Ovid frequently and candidly shares with us the difficulty he had establishing this or that fact, rummaging through scrolls in libraries or questioning the priests. Sometimes drawing a blank:

Three or four times I went through the calendars that mark the dates and found no Sowing Day… (1.656)

I’ve set forth the custom: I must still tell of its origin:
But many explanations cause me doubt, and hold me back.
(4.783 to 784)

The reason for this month’s name’s also doubtful:
Choose the one you please from those I offer.
(6.1 to 2)

Elegiac couplets and poetic incapacity

The poem is in elegiac couplets i.e. the first line a hexameter, the second line a pentameter, the same metre Ovid had used for his Amores. This is because he still felt himself unable to write a Grand Epic (which would have to have been written in the epic metre i.e. continuous hexameters.) But book 2 opens with a recognition that he is infusing elegiacs, previously used for his frivolous love poems, with new seriousness:

Now for the first time, elegiacs, you are going under more ample sails. Recently, I remember, you were a minor work [i.e. the love poems of himself and his predecessors, Tibullus, Propertius et al].

I myself used you as ready assistants in love, when my early youth played with its appropriate metre. I am the same, but now I sing of sacred things and the times marked out in the calendar…

Characteristically, this passage goes on to emphasise Ovid’s personal brand of patriotism and then onto one of the many passages which appeal directly to Augustus:

This is my military service; we bear what arms we can, and our right hand is not exempt from every duty. If I don’t hurl javelins with powerful arm, or put my weight on the back of a warrior horse, or cover my head with a helmet, or belt on a sharp sword… – yet, Caesar, with zealous heart I follow up your names and advance through your titles. Be with me, then, and with gentle face look on my services just a little, if you have any respite from pacifying the enemy. (2.2 to 18)

The theme of his inadequacy as a poet to sing mighty matters recurs in every book:

My talent is inadequate. What presses me is greater than my strength. This is a day I must sing with exceptional strength. (2.125)

At the start of book 6 there’s an interesting moment when the queen of the gods, Juno addresses Ovid directly, describing him as:

‘O poet, singer of the Roman year,
Who dares to tell great things in slender measures…’

An interesting description of the anxiety he felt about the way elegiacs are a slender measure, and the notion that describing gods and heroes in them is a daring thing to do.

Mind you, if anyone questions his bona fides, Ovid is ready claim the special privilege of being a poet:

I’ve a special right to see the faces of the gods,
Being a bard, or by singing of sacred things.
(6.8)

Poets were thought of as sacred – the word for poet, vates, was also the word for prophet and seer – a belief echoed in Tibullus and Horace.

Ovid and Augustus

In 8 AD Augustus exiled his own daughter, Julia, when he discovered what a dissolute, adulterous life she was leading. Ovid had been part of her circle, a star of the bright young things, famed for his witty love poems and then for the scandalously successful Art of Love (published around 1 AD), which is an extended guide to picking up women and engaging in cynical affairs, preferably with married women i.e. diametrical opposite of the new stricter morality Augustus was trying to impose on the Roman aristocracy. As the translators of the Oxford University Press edition write, Ovid was tempting fate and living on borrowed time.

That said, his next work was the much more respectable Metamorphoses (published around 8 AD), a huge compendium of Greek myths and legends. And this long book leads up to an extended passage at the end, at its chronological climax, which sings the praises of Julius Caesar and Augustus. These final pages describe the wicked conspiracy to murder Julius, and then his apotheosis, his transformation into a god – a fate, the poet says in the most fulsome terms possible, which we can all confidently expect of the Great Leader Augustus as well. But first he wishes him long, long life and wise rule.

Now, in terms of Augustus’s policy of moral revival, you could argue that much of the content of the Metamorphoses is corrupting – lashings of sex and violence (and incest and torture). But a) Ovid was inheriting well-established traditional subject matter and b) the long paean to Caesar at the end was an unmistakable attempt to curry favour with the regime.

Same here, with knobs on. The Fasti opens by acknowledging Augustus’s power and that Ovid is aware that Augustus wanted epic poems celebrating his victories. Ovid goes out of his way to excuse himself and explain why he thinks himself not capable of such a high task (see the quote, above), but has nonetheless written something to praise Augustus and the regime.

Let others sing Caesar’s wars: I’ll sing his altars,
And those days that he added to the sacred rites. (1.13 to 14)

And the very third line of the poem addresses Germanicus, the handsome, brilliant and popular son of the elder Drusus, grandson of Antony, adopted son of Tiberius, and therefore grandson of Augustus. Scholars think Ovid reworked the first book in exile in order to curry favour with popular Germanicus (who had himself turned his hand to poetry when he wasn’t on military campaign in Germany) – maybe, but the rest of the poem is laced with adulation of Augustus, the great leader who has brought peace and prosperity. The entry for 13 January starts:

On the Ides in the temple of great Jupiter the chaste priest offers to the flames the entrails of a half-male ram. Every province was restored to our people [a reference to Octavius handing back authority to the people at the end of the civil wars in 27 BC, at which point the Senate awarded him the honorific ‘Augustus’] and your [i.e. Germanicus’s] grandfather was called by the name Augustus. Read through the wax images displayed throughout the noble halls: no man has achieved so great a name

Our fathers call sacred things ‘august’, ‘august’ is what temples are called when they have been duly consecrated by the hand of the priests. Augury too is derived from this word’s origin, and whatever Jupiter augments with his power. May he [Jupiter] augment our leader’s rule, may he augment his year, and may the crown of oak leaves protect your doors. [The civic crown of oak leave, granted for saving the lives of Roman citizens, was bestowed on Augustus in 27 BC and hung over the door of his house on the Palatine.]

And under the gods’ auspices, may the inheritor of so great a name, with the same omen as his father [Julius Caesar] undertake the burden of the world.

This sycophantic attitude colours every book:

The far-sighted care of our hallowed leader has seen to it that the rest of the temples should not suffer the same collapse and ruin; under him the shrines do not feel their advancing years. It isn’t enough to bind men with his favours; he binds gods as well. (2.59 to 63)

And now, when damp night induces peaceful slumbers, as you are about to pray, take a generous wine-cup in your hand and say: ‘Blessings on your gods, and blessings on you, best Caesar, father of the homeland.’ The wine once poured, let the words be well-omened. (2.635)

Long live the laurels of the Palatine: long live that house
Decked with branches of oak [i.e. Augustus’s house]
(4.953)

I’ve just realised I can give you a link to Kline’s not about Augustus, which lists every reference in the poem:

Alongside worship of Augustus and his family are recurring boomerish references to Rome’s destiny to rule the world, is a continual thread of passages promoting basic Roman patriotism in the manner pioneered by Horace and Virgil of the ‘Rome justly rules the world’ style:

Both nearest and furthest, let the world dread Aeneas’ descendants. (1. 717)

The city of Rome’s extent is the same as the world’s. (2.684)

Here Ovid has Romulus, founder, elaborately laying out the foundations for the walls of his new city and calling on the gods:

‘Let my work be done beneath your auspices.
May it last long, and rule a conquered world,
All subject, from the rising to the setting day.’ (4.830)

And of Rome more generally:

A City arose, destined (who’d have believed it then?)
To plant its victorious foot upon all the lands.
Rule all, and be ever subject to mighty Caesar,
And may you often own to many of that name:
And as long as you stand, sublime, in a conquered world,
May all others fail to reach your shoulders. (4.857 to 862)

In introductions and Wikipedia pages I’ve read that Ovid provoked the regime with his outrageous love poetry: maybe so, but reading the Metamorphoses and the Fasti makes it obvious that by 1 AD he had realised which way the wind was blowing and so packs both poems with North Korean levels of subservience to Augustus, the Great Leader, Father of his Country, the Wise Helmsman, even more so than the slavish Augustus-worship found in the Aeneid of Virgil or the Odes of Horace.

If Caesar was to take his titles from the defeated
He would need as many names as tribes on earth.

Much good it was to do him.

Who’s talking

One of the appeals of reading old or ancient literature is its oddity. If at moments the interest in sex or violence strikes us as utterly contemporary, other aspects of old literature often reveal a yawning gap between us and them; in social attitudes, in definitions of what is important or relevant or funny or tragic; and sometimes in the bare bones of storytelling.

Re. the latter, Fasti is pleasingly odd in containing a host of voices. First of all the poet addresses Germanicus in his opening dedication before going onto frequently address the reader as ‘you’, buttonholing us, telling us not only stories about gods and feasts but all about his research, how he found information in old libraries or by interviewing the priests.

But, a little more unexpectedly, the text also contains what purport to be the voices of gods themselves. Thus as early as book 1 line 100 the god Janus appears in Ovid’s study and talks to him directly. Subsequently, numerous other gods appear and speak to Ovid directly, and even submit to questioning from him about odd customs and traditions.

But there are passages where, despite the limpid OUP translation by Anne and Peter Wiseman, I had no idea who was talking.

The months

Originally the Romans had 10 months. In book 3 Ovid speculates this night be because we have ten fingers, count to ten and then start again (i.e. the decimal system) or because women give birth in the tenth month. Originally March and April started the year, followed by May and June and the remaining months were numbers – quintilis, sextilis, September, October etc – where quint means five, sext means six, sept means seven, oct means eight etc. At some point January and February were added at the start of the year to bring it up to 12 months.

January

Ianua is the Latin for door. Janus was the primeval Roman god of doorways, entrances, ends and beginnings. So it makes perfect sense that they named the first month of the year after him. Janus makes an appearance in the poem, answering a series of the poet’s questions about his origins, the nature of the calendar and more. Stories:

  • after the Romans have stolen their women, the revenge assault by the Sabines led by Titus Tatius on the Palatine hill, which they seize through the treachery of the young woman, Tarpeia, who they then crush to death with their shields
  • Priapus’s attempts to rape the nymph Lotis
  • the story of Evander sailing to Latium and his mother’s prophecy of the rise of Rome – Evander was the son of Carmentis (one of the Camenae or prophetic nymphs) and Mercury. They lived in Arcadia, in Greece, before sailing to Italy and founding the city of Pallantium, before the Trojan war, before Rome was dreamed of. He brought his Arcadian gods to Italy.
  • Hercules, en route back from Spain, having his cattle stolen by Cacus, finding them and killing Cacus – explaining the origin of the ara maxima altar dedicated to Hercules, in the middle of Rome

February

The Romans came to writing history (and other literary genres) late, copying their first efforts directly from the Greeks who were centuries ahead of them. One result of this was great uncertainty about the origins of Roman traditions, customs, festivals, landmarks, even names. So on one level the poem is an antiquarian investigation.

Ovid knows his Roman forefathers called the means of purification februa and pieces of wool used in rituals are called februa and the branch which covers a priest’s brow in a ritual. Stories:

  • the story of Arion, a legendary Greek poet, who’s captured by pirates, jumps overboard and is rescued by dolphins
  • 11 February: the story of Callisto, turned into a bear by Diana for getting pregnant by Jupiter who, years later, encounters her son out hunting who is about to kill her with bow and arrow (she is a bear) when Jupiter turns them both into constellations (Ovid told this story in Metamorphoses 2)
  • the battle between the Fabii (followers of Remus) and the Veii (followers of Romulus
  • why the constellations of the Raven, the Snake and the Bowl are together in the sky
  • why the runners in the festival of the Lupercal run naked round Rome
  • the comic tale of Faunus’s attempt to rape Omphale, Queen of Lydia and (here) mistress of Hercules
  • why the cave on the hill is called ‘Lupercal’ i.e. the story of the Vestal virgin Silvia, who was made pregnant by Mars and ordered by her scandalised uncle to abandon her newborn twins in a boat on the flooded Tiber; this comes to rest in a tree and the twins are miraculously suckled by a she-wolf
  • February 14: the myth of Corvus, Crater and Hydra
  • the origin of the worship of Lucina, goddess of childbirth
  • February 17: the apotheosis of Romulus (Ovid told this story in Metamorphoses 14); once deified, Romulus was renamed Quirinus, which caused me a lot of confusion till a note in Kline explained it (similarly confused that Quirites was the name of an ancient Italian tribe, the origin of the Romans, so frequently used as an alternative name for them)
  • origin of the so-called ‘fools’ festival’
  • story of the naiad Lara who went blabbing about one of Jupiter’s lady loves, so Jupiter had her tongue torn out and her exiled to the underworld, but Mercury raped her on the way and she gave birth to the twin Lares who guard crossroads
  • 21 February: End of the Parentalia, the Festival of the Dead
  • 27 February: The Equirria or Horse Races
  • rites and traditions surround the god of limits and borders, Terminus
  • February 24: An extended version (lines 685 to 853) of the events leading up to the expulsion of the last king of Rome, Tarquin the Proud: Tarquin’s son, Sextus, raped Lucretia, the wife of a friend of his, who, next day, confessed that she’d been raped to her husband and father before killing herself – hence rage against the Tarquin family, expulsion, Rome becomes a republic. (Sexual transgression is profoundly woven into the origin stories of Rome – the rape of the Sabine women, the rape of Lucretia).

March

The month of Mars derives from the Latin ‘Martius mensis’, ‘month of Mars’, the genitive of Mars being Martis. March was originally the first month of the Roman year, a number of customs mark a new beginning in March, plus the months are numbered as if starting from March (March, April, May, June, Quintilis, Sextilis, September, October, November, December).

It wasn’t until Julius Caesar undertook serious research into the calendar that he enforced a fundamental revision, giving it 12 lunar months and making a year last 365 days, with an additional day every 4 years i.e. pretty much the system we use today.

  • an extended description of Romulus, starting with the scene by the riverside when the vestal virgin Sylvia falls asleep and is raped by Mars, becomes pregnant, her angry uncle Amulius king of Alba insists she leaves the twin boys exposed to die, the she wolf, the building of Rome etc etc – once triumphant, Romulus promises to make March the first month of the Roman year
  • the story of the shield that fell from heaven
  • the story of Ariadne, abandoned by Theseus on Naxos, she is rescued by Bacchus, called by his Roman name Liber (son of Semele); but when Liber goes to India, he returns with a new lover; so the story is about Ariadne’s recriminations (‘Let no woman trust a man!’) which guilt Liber into setting her among the stars (this soliloquy of a wrong woman reminds me of the Heroides and the same kinds of soliloquies in the Metamorphoses)
  • origin of the festival of Anna Perrenna – Ovid derives it from Dido’s sister, who has a series of colourful adventurers after Aeneas leaves and Dido kills herself, before fetching up on the shore of Latium, where she’s greeted and welcomed by Aeneas but his wife, Lavinia, suspects he’s having an affair, so a vision appears telling Anna to flee before Lavinia can take revenge and Anna flees and is swept away by the river Numicius
  • OR Anna Perenna is derived from the time the plebs seceded from Rome, set up on a hill but were running out of food, but an lady named Anna kept them supplied with bread. Mars asks her to help him seduce Minerva and Anna keeps promising to help him but herself turns up in his bedroom. This, apparently, is why bawdy stories are told at the festival of Anna Perenna – see what I mean by confusing? Obscure?
  • brief mention that it was on the Ides of March (i.e. the 15th) that Julius Caesar was murdered: his adopted son was revenged on the assassins at Philippi and other battles
  • the reason why cakes are sold on the festival of Bacchus, namely the comic story of Silenus searching for honey and getting stung
  • origin of the Quinquatrus, the five-day festival of Minerva celebrated from 19 to 23 March
  • 23 March: the Tubilustria, the festival of the purification (lustrum) of trumpets
  • 30 March: Romana Salus, the personification of the Health and Safety of Rome

Mars himself speaks to Ovid (as Janus had in book 1) giving a brief review of Rape of the Sabine Women i.e. local tribes wouldn’t intermarry with the nascent Roman (male) community so Romulus invited them to the Consualia games then abducted their marriageable women. Like all the stories it is told in a tangential way, key bits are omitted or treated as if they’ve happened without being narrated. I think the Wiseman translation is very literal, gives much of the text in Ovid’s original present tense, and this also contributes to the sense of dislocation and broken narrative.

Indeed, the focus of the Sabine Women narrative is not the rape, or the marriages or impregnations, it is the moment a year or so later when the tribes come in arms to reclaim their women and the moment when the women stand between new husbands and outraged fathers and brothers, holding up their babies and asking for peace.

April

The later Roman months are formed by adding the suffix -ilis (as in Quintilis, Sextilis), so Ovid derives the Latin word for this month, Aprilis, from the first syllable of the Greek name of Venus i.e. Aphrodite = Apr + ilis. But it could also derive from the Latin verb to open, aperire, this being the time when buds and blossoms first open.

Just as other gods appear to Ovid, here Venus appears for some light banter while Ovid explains (yet again) that in his young youth he wrote lightly of love, but now has turned his attention to more serious subjects.

Ovid explains how Venus made all beings love their mates. No Venus, no reproduction, no life on earth.

She gave the crops and trees their first roots:
She brought the crude minds of men together,
And taught them each to associate with a partner.
What but sweet pleasure creates all the race of birds?
Cattle wouldn’t mate, if gentle love were absent.
The wild ram butts the males with his horn,
But won’t hurt the brow of his beloved ewe.
The bull, that the woods and pastures fear,
Puts off his fierceness and follows the heifer.
The same force preserves whatever lives in the deep,
And fills the waters with innumerable fish.
That force first stripped man of his wild apparel:
From it he learned refinement and elegance.

Wherefore:

Goddess most fair, look always with a kindly face on the descendants of Aeneas, and protect your young wives, so numerous.

Of course Julius Caesar claimed his family, the Julii, derived from Venus: Venus bore Aeneas, whose son, Ascanius, was also known as Iuli; Iuli fathered the line that led to the Vestal Virgin Ilia, who was impregnated by Mars to give birth to Romulus and Remus. So Romulus managed to have Venus and Mars as progenitors – and Ovid gives a thorough description of both lineages.

April 4: The Megalesian Festival of Cybele, the ‘Idaean Mother’ from her original holy place, Mount Ida. Ovid asks questions about her rites and customs which are answered by one of her grand-daughters, Erato, the Muse of (erotic) poetry, thus:

  • why is the feast of Cybele accompanied by rattling music, beating shields with sticks etc? Because it commemorates the distracting din kept up by the Curetes who protected baby Jupiter from his vengeful father, Saturn

The story of Attis, a handsome youth who pledged his love to Cybele but then fell in love with someone else; Cybele turned her rival into a tree and Attis, in self-disgust, cut off his penis as do his followers.

The story of how a statue of the Great Mother (Cybele) probably a meteorite, was brought from Greece to Rome and enshrined in the centre of the city.

The story of Claudia Quinta, reputed a loose woman who disproves it by single-handedly pulling the rope and freeing the ship carrying the statue of Cybele from being run aground in the Tiber.

Erato explains that the Megalesia are the first games because Cybele gave birth to the gods and she was given the honour of precedence.

April 12: The Games of Ceres, celebrating the invention of agriculture

Ceres delights in peace: pray, you farmers,
Pray for endless peace and a peace-loving leader.

Ovid tells the story of Persephone being abducted by Dis and taken off to the underworld – which he had told in Metamorphoses book 5 – but gives it a twist by describing at great length the experience of the grieving mother (Ceres) searching everywhere for her daughter until taken in by a poor old mortal couple, then being told she has been abducted and married to Dis

April 15: The Fordicidia – the origin of the festival during which pregnant heifers are killed and sacrificed: it all stems back to an agricultural crisis during the time of Numa Pompilius and a prophecy that sacrificing pregnant heifers would end it

April 19: The Cerialia – the festival and games of Ceres; foxes are loosed carrying burning torches on their backs in memory of a legendary farmer who tried to burn a fox but it escape and carried the flames into his fields.

April 21: The Parilia – the Festival of Pales. Pales was the pre-Roman goddess of shepherds. Rome was founded on the day of her festival, the Parilia, so Ovid wonders what the customs associated with the feast (washing hands in dew and leaping over lines of wheat set on fire) can have with the founding.

April 23: The Vinalia – a wine-festival, dedicated to Jupiter and to Venus. Ovid derives it from the time of Aeneas, when Turnus, in order to win mighty Mezentius to his side, pledged half his wine harvest; Aeneas, to win the support of Jupiter, pledged to the god the wine from his vines: so it is a festival of wine dedicated to Jupiter.

April 25: The Robigalia – the festival of the goddess Mildew (robigo) personified. Ovid learns from a priest why they sacrifice the entrails of a sheep and of a dog.

April 28: The Floralia – the feast and rites of Flora, celebrated on into May.

May

Ovid confesses to being unclear about the derivation of ‘May’. He asks the Muses to help. (In case it’s slipped your mind, the nine Muses are the virgin daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne (Memory). They are the patronesses of the arts, being: Clio (History), Melpomene (Tragedy), Thalia (Comedy), Euterpe (Lyric Poetry), Terpsichore (Dance), Calliope (Epic Poetry), Erato (Love Poetry), Urania (Astronomy), and Polyhymnia (Sacred Song)). He gets three possible explanations:

1. Polyhymnia, the Muse of Sacred Song, gives a brief recap of the creation of the universe from the four elements (water, earth, wind, fire) and goes on to derive May (Maius) from Majesty (Maiestas), who is the daughter of Honour and Reverence. How Jupiter repelled the rebellion of the Giants against heaven, and so preserved Majesty who, ever since, attends him, and attends great men on earth, such as Numa and Romulus.

2. Then Urania the Muse of Astronomy takes over. She explains the possible origin of the month May (maius) from the City elders or ancestors (maiores). On this theory, the following month, June, would be named for young men (iuvenes).

3. Then Calliope, muse of Epic Poetry, gives a grander explanation, linking the month to Maia, one of the Pleiads. (The Pleiads, also known as the Seven Sisters, were the daughters of Atlas the Titan and Pleione the naiad.) Maia slept with Jupiter and bore him Mercury. May is named in honour of Maia.

Flora, the goddess of Spring and of flowering and blossoming plants, explains the origin of her festival of the Floralia which starts on 28 April and continues to 3 May: how she was raped by Zephyrus – a long description of her powers, and her role helping Juno become pregnant with Mars. She plays the same role as Janus in book 1 and Venus in book 4 i.e. appears to the poet and answers his questions about ancient festivals and place names in Rome. Her festival is associated with prostitutes and lights in the evening, joy, colour, fecundity.

May 3: story of Hercules visiting Chiron on Mount Pelion, and the accident whereby one of his poisoned darts killed the centaur, much to the distress of Achilles, his ward – because on this night the constellation of Chiron appears.

May 9: The Lemuria – the festival of the wandering spirits of the dead, called lemures, who visited their old homes, and were placated by offerings of black beans signifying the living. Ovid summons Mercury to explain, who (a typical story within a story) then relates how the ghost of Remus appeared to haunt the old couple who cared for Romulus and Remus (Faustulus and Acca). When the couple told Romulus about this ghostly appearance he named the day after his brother, the Remuria – Ovid suggesting this was also a basis for the Lemuria.

May 11: Jupiter, Neptune and Mercury are wandering the earth disguised as mortals. An old man, Hyrieus, takes them in and offers them his meagre hospitality. They offer him a wish. His wife is dead but he wants to be a father. Ovid (frustratingly) skips over the key moment but I think the story goes the three gods peed on an ox-hide in the old man’s hut which became pregnant and 9 months later gave birth to Orion. (The significance of the pee is that Ovid says Orion’s original name was Urion, connected to ‘urine’; in other words, it is a folk etymology). Orion grew into a mighty hunter and protector of Latona (mother of Apollo and Diana by Jupiter). After various adventures, Orion tries to protect Latona against a giant scorpion: both are killed and set among the constellations.

May 12: Mars descends to heaven to admire the temple built to him by Augustus – this segues into praise of Augustus for recovering the legionary standards lost by Crassus to the Parthians.

May 14: The day before the ides is marked by the rise of the star sign Taurus which Ovid associates with the myth of Jupiter changing himself into a bull in order to abduct Europa from the seashore where she was dancing with her attendants. Some say the star sign is the shape of that bull; others says it is the sign of Io, who Jupiter raped then turned into a heifer to conceal from angry Juno.

May 14: On this day Romans throw effigies of humans into the Tiber. Why? Ovid gives one explanation, that Jupiter ordered the Romans’ ancestors to throw two people into the river each year as tribute to Saturn; until Hercules his son arrived and instructed the Romans to throw effigies, not real people, into the river. Ovid gives another interpretation, that young men used to throw old men into the river to steal their votes. So he asks the river Tiber itself to explain, and the river himself appears (as does Janus, Venus, the Muses et al) and gives a variation on the story: that after Hercules was returning through Italy and killed Cacus (for stealing his cattle) many of his companions refused to continue on the long journey back to Greece. When one of them died he asked for his body to be thrown into the Tiber to carry his spirit back to his homeland. But his son disliked the idea, buried his body properly, and threw an effigy made of dried rushes into the river instead. Which founded the modern ritual. Such is the river Tiber’s version at any rate.

May 15: the Ides – the day the temple of Mercury (messenger of the gods, patron of shopkeepers and thieves) facing the Circus was founded, in 495 BC. His were among the rites brought from Greek Arcadia to Latium by the legendary king Evander. Ovid gives a satirical ‘prayer of the shopkeeper’, taking water from Mercury’s fountain, sprinkling his goods with it and hoping to cheat all his customers!

May 20: Ovid asks Mercury to explain to him the origin of the constellation of the twins, Castor and Pollux, also known as the Gemini – because on this day the sun enters that constellation.

May 23: The Tubilustrium, the festival of the purification (lustrum) of trumpets (tubae). On this day the trumpets Vulcan is ultimately said to have made are ritually cleansed.

June

As with May, Ovid puts forward several theories for the name of this month:

1. Queen of the gods Juno, appears to him to propose the theory it is named after her, goes on to explain Mars consigned ‘his’ city to her care. This explains why there are a hundred shrines to her throughout Rome.

2. Hebe, wife of Hercules, claims the month derives from when Romulus divided the population of Rome into elders (maiores) to whom the previous month (May) is devoted, and young men (iuvenes) for whom June is named.

3. The goddess Concord explains that when Romulus made peace with Tatius, king of the Sabines (after stealing his young women) the two peoples were united (iunctus) and that’s where the name comes from.

June 1: Kalends – the legend of Proca, future king of Latium, attacked by screech owls as an infant five days old, saved by the magic of the nymph Cranaë

June 8: A sanctuary to the goddess Mind or Courage was vowed by the Senate after the defeat by the Carthaginians at Lake Trasimene in 217 BC.

June 9: The Vestalia – festival of Vesta, daughter of Saturn, the goddess of fire, the ‘shining one’ also identified with the earth. Every hearth had its Vesta, and she presided over the preparation of meals and was offered first food and drink. She was served by the Vestal Virgins, six priestesses devoted to her service. The Virgins took a strict vow of chastity and served for thirty years. They enjoyed enormous prestige, and were preceded by a lictor when in public. Breaking of their vow resulted in whipping and death. There were twenty recorded instances in eleven centuries.

The comic story of how Priapus tries to rape the sleeping Vesta but at the crucial moment she is woken by a braying donkey.

The legend of how an image of Pallas Athena (Minerva in Roman mythology), the palladium, fell to earth near Troy and was preserved in their central temple and Troy could never fall while it remained there; so that in a famous escapade, it was stolen by the two Greek heroes Ulysses and Diomedes. However, a parallel and contradictory legend had it that the palladium was brought from Troy to Rome by Aeneas and is now stored in the temple of Vesta.

For reasons I didn’t understand Ovid tacks on the fact of Crassus losing the famous standards in Parthia, a story only worth telling to, once again, praise Super Augustus:

Crassus, near the Euphrates, lost the eagles, his army,
And his son, and at the end himself as well.
The goddess said: ‘Parthians, why exult? You’ll send
The standards back, a Caesar will avenge Crassus’ death.’

June 11: The Matralia, the Festival of Mater Matuta, also known as the festival of good mothers. Ovid identifies Matuta with Ino and tells a string of legends around Ino, and then a sequence of semi-historical events which explain various landmarks in Rome, none of which I understood.

June 13: Ides – and festival of the Lesser Quinquatrus. Minerva, in the form of Tritonia (from her origins near Lake Triton in Libya) explains aspects of this festival to her, in particular and long and convoluted story about why the festival is accompanied by flute playing

June 15: The sweepings of the shrine of Vesta are thrown into the Tiber and washed to the sea

June 19: Pallas begins to be worshipped on the Aventine

June 21: The myth of Hippolytus, dragged to his death by his enraged chariot horses. Ovid tells it because dead Hippolytus was revived by the founder of medicine, Aesculapius, who Jupiter zapped for resurrecting the dead; Apollo insisted his dead son be made a deity, and so he was set among the stars, with the name Ophiucus; and this is the day that constellation rises

June 22: Bad luck: on this day Flaminius defied the oracles in 217 BC and was defeated by the Carthaginians at Lake Trasimene

June 23: Good luck: on this day Hasdrubal, Hannibal’s brother, fell at the battle of Metaurus in 207 BC

June 24: The festival of Fors Fortuna, ancient pre-Roman goddess of Fate. A comprehensible passage:

Quirites [i.e. Romans], come celebrate the goddess Fors, with joy:
She has her royal show on Tiber’s banks.
Hurry on foot, and others in swift boats:
It’s no shame to return home tipsy.
Garlanded barges, carry your bands of youths,
Let them drink deep of the wine, mid-stream.
The people worship her, because they say the founder
Of her shrine was one of them, and rose from humble rank,
To the throne, and her worship suits slaves, because Servius
Was slave-born, who built the nearby shrines of the fatal goddess.

Servius Tullius being the legendary sixth king of Rome, son of Vulcan and Ocresia of Corniculum. The Roman historian Livy depicts Servius’ mother as a captured Latin princess enslaved by the Romans; her child is chosen as Rome’s future king after a ring of fire is seen around his head (Livy 1.39). Killed by his son-in-law Tarquin the Proud.

June 30: The final entry in the text we have has Ovid have the muse of history, Clio, address us and praise Lucius Marcius Philippus for restoring the temple of Hercules Musaeum (of the Muses) in the reign of Augustus. This Philippus had a daughter, Marcia, who became the wife of Paullus Fabius Maximus, from whose household Ovid’s own third wife came and who was a friend and patron of Ovid. Ovid has Clio say that Marcia’s:

beauty equals her nobility.
In her, form matches spirit: in her
Lineage, beauty and intellect meet.

And then point out that Augustus’s aunt (his mother’s sister) was married to that Philip:

‘O ornament, O lady worthy of that sacred house!’

And with this final act of sycophancy, the Fasti, as we have it, in its unfinished form, ends.

Comparison of editions

About half way through I got very fed up with the OUP prose translation by Anne and Peter Wiseman: the lack of explanations and good notes made much of the poem incomprehensible. One of the problems with the poem is that each month is divided into sections. The section breaks for each separate day are clearly marked in the Wiseman, but not the breaks, within the days, into different subjects or stories.

Therefore I strongly recommend the verse translation by A.S. Kline. Kline does divide each book into sections with big headings telling you what the hell is going on. I found this invaluable. Even more usefully, Kline has an interactive Index of Names, so you can simply click on them as they occur in the text to go to a clear explanation of an individual or the many festivals and customs mentioned. A useful aspect of this is Kline lists in this Index all the places where a character (or festival) occurs, with a few phrases indicating how it’s referred to or what its relevance is at each of these mentions. This helps the reader develop an understanding of the matrix of references which tie the poem together.

Breaking point came as I struggled to understand what was going on in the 15 March entry for book 3 of the Wiseman version. Even reading all their notes I couldn’t figure it out. Whereas one click of the Kline version took me to a note explaining that:

Anna Perenna is a personification of the eternal year and a manifestation of the Great Goddess. Her feast was celebrated at the first milestone on the Flaminian Way, where there was a sacred grove. Her worship began in March. Ovid derives her from Anna the sister of Dido, Queen of Carthage, and tells the background story.

There. See how useful that is. Now I totally understood what I was reading about. The Wiseman edition has notes but each one is isolated, small and specific. Ultimately, I found them useless. The Kline ones are marvellously clear and full, and they interlink with each other to build up a network of references and explanations so very quickly you can find out everything you need to know to understand and enjoy the poem. No comparison.

Conclusion

I found this the least interesting or rewarding of Ovid’s books: the astrological stuff is largely incomprehensible and goes completely unexplained by either Wiseman or Kline. Even one diagram of the night sky and Zodiac would have gone a long way to explaining the location of the various star signs.

Some of the shorter entries about Roman customs are likewise so obscure as to be incomprehensible. The mythological stories in each month are, on the whole, told less effectively than in the Metamorphoses and they are often told in a tangential way which makes them oddly unsatisfying, Ovid deliberately skipping central aspects of the story. (Two exceptions are the sorrowful wanderings and lamentations of three women, Anna, Ariadne and Ceres: as we saw in the Heroides and Metamorphoses, Ovid had a sympathetic understanding of the sadness of women.)

But I found Ovid’s entire manner and approach confusing. I like clarity of layout and presentation and so was continually put off by Ovid’s rambling approach, the lack of logic in the linking of disparate elements, and then the obscurity in presentation of the facts. You have to work really hard, and check the Wiseman notes and the Kline notes, and reread entire passages, to really get a handle on what’s going on.

Ovid’s grammar is often obscure. Time and again I found myself reading pages where ‘he’ or ‘she’ was doing or saying something and realised I had no idea who ‘he’ or ‘she’ was and had to track carefully back through the text to try and identify this new protagonist.

This obscurity isn’t helped by Ovid’s habit of referring to key figures as the son or daughter of so-and-so: when he writes ‘and the daughter of Semele spoke’ you have to find the nearest note to remind yourself just who the daughter of Semele is and why she’s relevant to the month we’re supposedly learning about and what she’s doing in the particular story you think you’re reading about. This happens multiple times on every page and eventually becomes very wearing. It’s hard work.

For me the most vivid theme in the poem was Ovid’s shameless brown-nosing to the Great Leader Augustus, which comes over as so craven and arse-licking as to be unintentionally funny. A handful of stories aside, this slavish obsequiousness is my enduring memory of the Fasti.


Credit

Ovid’s Fasti, translated by Anne and Peter Wiseman, was published by Oxford University Press in 2011 (originally under the title Ovid: Times and Reasons). Prose quotes are from the 2013 OUP paperback edition. Verse quotes are from the 2004 verse translation by A.S. Kline.

Related links

Roman reviews

The Old Bachelor by William Congreve (1693)

BELLMORE: Come, come, leave business to idlers and wisdom to fools; they have need of ’em.  Wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation; and let Father Time shake his glass.

In his lengthy reply to the stinging criticisms of the contemporary stage contained in the polemical pamphlet, A Short View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage written by the bishop and theologian Jeremy Collier, William Congreve tells us that he wrote his first play, The Old Bachelor, while recovering from ‘a fit of sickness’ aged just 19! It’s an astonishing achievement for one so young.

A few years later, in 1692, young William arrived in London and showed The Old Bachelor to the leading literary figure of the day, John Dryden who, with typical generosity, declared he had never seen such a good first play in his life, but that it needed a bit of work cutting down to length and re-ordering some of the scenes.

Once revised, The Old Bachelor was promptly accepted by the only theatre company then performing in London, the United Company, and opened in March 1693. It was a smash-hit and had an extraordinary run of fourteen nights, which was getting on for a record for a Restoration comedy; some new plays ran for the bare minimum of three nights!

If you think about it, these incredibly short runs tell you everything about the size of the audience for these plays. It was minuscule. Was it even in the thousands? And this puts in context the many prologues and epilogues to the plays. Often the playwright and the actors knew key members of the audience personally, and so were directly addressing known individuals in the prologues and epilogues.

The Old Bachelor‘s success was in part attributed to the skilful performances of veteran performers Thomas Betterton and Anne Bracegirdle in the roles of Heartwell and Araminta, respectively.

I was startled to learn in a footnote that the music for the play was composed by Henry Purcell.

Cast list

I find the cast lists of these plays not only useful, but sometimes amusing – the comic names and descriptions – in their own right:

MEN

Heartwell, a surly old bachelor, pretending to slight women, secretly in love with Silvia
Bellmour, in love with Belinda
Vainlove, capricious in his love; in love with Araminta
Sharper
Sir Joseph Wittol
Captain Bluffe
Fondlewife, a banker
Setter, a pimp
Tribulation Spintext, a Puritan preacher (who never actually appears in the play)
Mr Gavot, musician to Araminta
Servant to Fondlewife.

WOMEN

Araminta, in love with Vainlove
Belinda, her cousin, an affected lady, in love with Bellmour
Lætitia, wife to Fondlewife
Sylvia, Vainlove’s forsaken mistress
Lucy, maid to Sylvia
Betty, maid to Belinda

It’s all set in London. As I’ve read more of the plays, I’ve realised that Aphra Behn’s setting her most successful play, The Rover, in Italy, is by far the exception not the rule of Restoration comedy. Almost all the comedies are set in the same city and the same time as the audience. They are completely contemporary.

Act 1

Bellmour and Vainlove are two weary rakes. Vainlove likes seducing women but is easily bored and actively dislikes it if they come on to him. He goes to show Bellmour but gives him the wrong one by mistake, it is a letter from Vainlove’s recently spurned lover, Sylvia, reproving him for abandoning her. It then comes out that Bellmour slept with her, apparently in disguise so she didn’t realise who he was! But she sincerely loves Vainlove and he has dumped her.

Next Vainlove gives Bellmour the letter he’d intended to show him, a love letter from Laetitia, the wife of the comic character Fondlewife – he paid her a few polite compliments and now she’s sent him a damn love letter telling him her husband will be out of town on business and to come and see her in disguise. He asks Bellmour to do him a favour and do it for him – but Laetitia’s lovely says Bellmour – yes, but I hate being forced into an affair, complains Vainlove. They discuss getting Vainlove’s tailor, Settler, to provide a disguise for Bellmour. They briefly discuss the feeble character of the husband, Fondlewife, then Vainlove leaves ‘on business’.

Bellmour complains that he is already in love with one woman, has a dozen or so mistresses, and now Vainlove is suggesting he take on his beloved, God it’s an exhausting business, being a libertine! He says this in the form of a soliloquy, alone onstage, at which point enter Sharper, whose role is to provide comic asides, and start with a good line:

SHARPER:  I’m sorry to see this, Ned.  Once a man comes to his soliloquies, I give him for gone.

Enter Heartwell who they both mock for being a grumpy old misanthropist who doesn’t believe in love. Heartwell in turn mocks Bellmour and Vainlove for expending so much energy in the pursuit of women, and has a particularly cynical speech about how, when you’ve finally gone through all this faradiddle in order to get married, your baby will end up looking like half the aristocracy of England because your wife will have been unfaithful with them all. Visitors coo and tickle the baby and say:

‘Ay, the boy takes after his mother’s relations,’ when the devil and she knows ’tis a little compound of the whole body of nobility.

Heartwell leaves ‘on business’ and Bellmour spots two stock comic characters, Sir Joseph Wittol, a foolish knight, and his companion, the cowardly bully, Captain Bluffe, who he points out to Sharper. Bellmour explains that the night before he came across Wittol being set upon by footpads and freed him, though Wittol ran off without identifying his rescuer.

Act 2

Scene 1

Sharper follows Sir Joseph to the location where he was mugged the night before, then pretends to be his mysterious rescuer but says that, alas, he lost a hundred pounds in the affray, and starts trying to dun Sir Joseph for it. This blustering old fool is trying to find a way out, when his sidekick and defender turns up, the swaggering blustering bully Captain Bluffe, and there is a richly comic scene of Sharper egging both men on to silly heights of boasting and braggartry, Bluffe in particular being scandalised that his heroic escapades in the recent wars don’t seem to have been reported in the news gazettes!

Scene 2

Araminta, in love with Vainlove, squabbles with her cousin Belinda, who affects to despise men –

BELINDA: Oh, you have raved, talked idly, and all in commendation of that filthy, awkward, two-legged creature man.

But is secretly in love with Bellmour. Araminta says Belinda dreamed of Bellmour last night, called out his name and embraced her (Araminta) as if she was him. Stuff and nonsense, cries Belinda, and calls her servant to prepare her things to go out, but at that moment a servant announces that Bellmour and Vainlove are visiting. After some indecision, Belinda decides to stay after all, in order to protect her cousin’s reputation, of course – though her cousin teases her it’s solely to see Bellmour.

Prolonged repartee during which all sides wittily cap each other’s allusions and barbs, with generalised sententiae about love and devotion. Araminta emerges as the quickest-witted of them – all of these plays feature one strong, determined and clever woman. There is a passage of particularly barbed banter between Bellmour who extravagantly paints his devotion and Belinda who scorns him. In fact when he asks her what she can do for her, she says shut up, which leads to a comic sequence where Bellmour continues his conversation in sign language until Belinda is so exasperated she lets him speak again.

Their musician, Mr Gavot, performs a song Araminta has written. This happens in most of the plays. Did Restoration aristocrats write songs this glibly and easily for their lady loves or is it purely a theatrical convention?

Act 3

Scene 1

Sylvia is the woman Vainlove has jilted, and Lucy is her maid who, as so often, impertinently tells her boss the true state of affairs, namely that Vainlove will never love her again. Sylvia is consumed with envy for her love rival, Araminta, but Lucy says she has a Plan to fix that – send Vainlove a cloying letter as if from Araminta – a woman’s enthusiasm always puts Vainlove off.

LUCY: Contrive a kind letter as from her, ’twould disgust his nicety, and take away his stomach.

Meanwhile, here comes Heartwell – Lucy encourages Sylvia to make the best of a bad job and hook him. Soon she’ll be old. She needs to get a husband before she can.

Vainlove and Bellmour have tailed Heartwell to Sylvia’s house. They watch as the ageing foo hesitates whether to in or not and commit himself to the snare of womanhood. He does, as Bellmour and Vainlove stifle their mirth. Then Vainlove’s tailor, Setter, arrives: he has prepared a full set of clothes which allow Bellmour to masquerade as the earnest Puritan preacher Spintext.

Bellmour tells Setter to meet him with the costume later and exits. Setter launches into a comically high-minded speech about the relative merits of a manservant and a pimp. Lucy comes upon him and, as so often, a lead male character’s manservant is in love with a lead woman’s maidservant, their working class love affair echoing their betters’ affair but more crudely.

Congreve gives this kind of set scene an extra spin by having Lucy put on a face mask before talking to Setter and, given that his soliloquy was already laughably pretentious, the couple then launch into a parody of highfalutin’ tragedy, complete with what were obviously obscure and archaic words to convey their eminence and lofty sentiments. Lucy extracts from Setter that his master will be in Covent Garden later, then manages to get away without being covered in slobbery kisses.

Wittoll and Bluffe enter. Bluffe is cross that Sir Joseph has given Sharper £100, and works himself up into a fury of vengeance, declaring that if only Sharper were here, he would take his revenge and… at that precise moment Sharper and Bellmour appear onstage and Bluffe performs a comic blustering retreat. Sharper quickly detects how angry they are with him but also what cowards they are – and so takes to kicking Wittoll and beating Bluffe who swears he will have vengeance, but not now, not here, it’s too public and various other excuses.

Sharper and Bellmour exeunt laughing.

Scene 2. Silvia’s lodgings

Enter Heartwell, the ageing anti-love exponent, the old bachelor of the title, and Sylvia, Vainlove’s jilted lover. Heartwell has laid on a dance, music and the performance of a song to impress Silvia. He then jangles his purse full of gold coins at her. His wooing of her is done in the higher, more poetic style the play occasionally drops into. Heartwell combines high-flown rhetoric with emotional clumsiness, for example offering to buy Sylvia outright. But when she beings to talk about marriage, he is suddenly very reluctant to marry her – because he thinks marriage is a fool’s estate – suggesting instead that she become his licensed mistress. Which makes Sylvia cry that she doesn’t want to live as a whore and burst into tears.

But when he finally leaves, after grabbing a few kisses, Sylvia turns to the audience and says:

SILVIA:  Ha, ha, ha, an old fox trapped –

Suggesting that everything she said in their scene together, all the sighs and tears, were a ploy, a trap to get him to marry her, to get her hands on his money. (Money is never far from the surface of these plays; they reveal what a major role it plays in human relationships.)

Sylvia’s servant Lucy enters and says she’s contrived a letter to Vainlove as if from Amarinta which will wreck their love.

Act 4

Scene 1

Bellmour dressed up as the Puritan Spintext:

BELLMOUR: I wonder why all our young fellows should glory in an opinion of atheism, when they may be so much more conveniently lewd under the coverlet of religion.

Exits. Enter Fondlewife who, in a soliloquy, reveals he is jealous of his beautiful young wife, Laetitia. Then a scene in which he suspects her of adultery and she, in comic asides, reveals she is frightened he knows her true intent i.e. to be unfaithful with Vainlove, whilst to Fondlewife’s face playing the aggrieved wife. They both use baby talk which makes the scene more funny. Finally, she manages, with umpteen kisses, to pack him off on the overnight journey he’s taking on ‘business’.

It is an important fact that Fondlewife has arranged for a chaplain or preacher to be with her and instruct her while he is away. This is the content of the letter she had sent to Vainlove and which he showed Bellmour right at the start of the play i.e. ‘my husband is going away for the night, come in the disguise of a preacher.’

Vainlove and Sharper. They read the letter they’ve been sent, as from Amarinta, but in fact by Lucy. She has done her work well, correctly predicting that by making Amarinta come on strong, puts Vainlove off her:

VAINLOVE: I hate to be crammed. By heaven, there’s not a woman will give a man the pleasure of a chase: my sport is always balked or cut short. I stumble over the game I would pursue. ’Tis dull and unnatural to have a hare run full in the hounds’ mouth, and would distaste the keenest hunter. I would have overtaken, not have met, my game.

So they plan to meet Amarinta at Covent Garden that evening, but Vainlove will now spurn her. (Sharper thinks he’s a fool.)

Act 4

Scene 2

Bellmour, in disguise as Spintext the preacher, is shown into Mrs Fondlewife i.e. Laetitia’s rooms. No sooner has the servant left before he throws off his disguise and reveals himself to Laetitia who feigns shock and surprise, mainly because she was expecting Vainlove. But the scene is devoted to showing Bellmour’s formidable seduction technique as he slowly wins her round and by the end, by pretending to have a fainting fit, he gets her to agree he can lie on her bed to recover, and they exeunt into her bedroom.

Scene 3. St James’s Park

Setting for the afternoon rambles of the layabout aristocracy. Enter Belinda and Amarinta. It is much more obvious that Belinda is meant to be pretentious and affected and tells Amarinta how she took it upon herself to correct the manners of a country family up in town for the first time.

They put on masks as Sir Joseph Wittoll and the boasting soldier Captain Bluffe approach and there is some comic banter before the ladies spy Vainlove approaching, and tell the two buffoons to bugger off, although Sir Joseph realises Amarinta is heiress to a vast fortune and tells us in an aside he’d like to marry her.

The point of the scene is for Amarinta and Vainlove to be left alone, so he can act cold and in a roundabout way berate her for the letter she sent him. But since she didn’t send him the letter, she has no idea what is going on and quickly becomes angry, storming off.

Scene 4. Fondlewife’s house

Bellmour and Laetitia have had sex and emerge from the bedroom to hear Fondlewife’s voice coming up the stairs. Bellmour gathers up the preacher costume and Laetitia bundles him into the bedroom before opening the door to Fondlewife and Sir Joseph.

In this farcical scene, Fondlewife announces that he needs to go into the bedroom to collect the papers he forgot to take for his ‘business’ and Laetitia desperately tries to think up pretexts to stop him, at one point bundling into Sir John when Fondlewife’s back is turned and claiming the old bodger tried to molest her; which Fondlewife believes and pushes Sir John out the door with vivid Biblical imprecations.

But Fondlewife is still determined to enter the bedroom (where Bellmour is hiding) and so Laetitia suddenly has a brainwave and tells her husband the preacher came round and was giving her lessons in piety but had an attack of stomach ache and is lying on the bed. Fondlewife buys this, tiptoes into the bedroom, sees the form of Bellmour on the bed, gets his papers and tiptoes out, telling Laetitia they must get the maid to look after the poor preacher when… he sees the book. A book on the floor. The book Bellmour brought with him. And is it a book of devotion and piety? No. Fondlewife picks it up and realises that it is a French novel, The Innocent Adultery! No priest would carry this. Bellmour is busted!

Angrily, Fondlewife calls for the unknown man to come out of the bedroom, while Laetitia pleads she has no idea who he is or what he was doing there, wretched please which Fondlewife now brusquely dismisses.

But this scene turns into a further demonstration of Bellmour’s mastery as he manages to outface the situation. He comes out of the bedroom and confronts Fondlewife, declaring he is a whoremaster who pinched Spintext’s costume, then pretended to have colic in order to lie on her bed and was about to call her in when Fondlewife appeared – so he never got as far as seducing Laetitia.

Bellmour exudes confidence. Laetitia talks babytalk to Fondlewife. The latter softens. She faints. He believes her. Thus gullible husbands.

Act 5

Scene 1. The street

Bellmour meets up with Setter and tells him the disguise worked a treat. Then they both see Heartwell arriving at Silvia’s house. Setter exits and Bellmour chats up Lucy, Silvia’s maid, with a kiss (seems like she’s one his many conquests) and some money, and asks her to keep up the pretence that he is a preacher, so he can marry the silly couple.

Enter Vainlove, Sharper and Setter. Setter tells them that the letter which upset Vainlove, the letter pretending to come from Amarinta, was in fact concocted by vengeful Silvia. This clears the way for Vainlove to be back in love with Amarinta!

The final scenes get confusing. Bellmour in the guise of the preacher falsely marries Heartwell and Silvia, then takes her aside, reveals his true identity and promises he will find her a better husband. He pops back into the street and tells Setter and Sharper to keep their eyes peeled for a replacement husband then exits. At this point Sir John and Captain Bluffe come along.

Setter and Sharper then have a whole series of machinations, some of which happen in whispers, or offstage, in some of which they pretend information to dupe Sir John and the Captain, and also Heartwell who Sharper appears to torment by dragging him towards his own house, promising him a fine young wench who’s up for a shag… until Heartwell realises it’s the wife he’s just married that Sharper is talking about. I got lost in the maze. I read this passage a couple of times and still didn’t understand the ins and outs. Partly because they don’t clearly state what they’re planning to do, they disappear into corners to mutter with the people they’re gulling…the schemes they’re cooking up only become clear as they emerge in the final scene.

In the penultimate passage, Bellmour and Belinda, Vainlove and Amarinta, are invited to Heartwell’s house. Somehow Sharper has got Silvia out of the house and conspired to convince Heartwell that his wife of half an hour is already off whoring. The four leads tease Heartwell about his stupidity in marrying and his cuckolded state: Belinda in particular emerges as sharp tongued and witty.

As Eric Rump points out in his introduction to the Penguin edition, this tormenting of Heartwell amounts to bullying and triggers him to give a speech which echoes Shylock’s in The Merchant of Venice:

HEARTWELL: How have I deserved this of you? any of ye?  Sir, have I impaired the honour of your house, promised your sister marriage, and whored her?  Wherein have I injured you?  Did I bring a physician to your father when he lay expiring, and endeavour to prolong his life, and you one and twenty?  Madam, have I had an opportunity with you and baulked it?  Did you ever offer me the favour that I refused it?

At moments like this does the comedy topple into something much more serious, into something momentarily closer to tragedy? Is it that much more serious precisely because it emerges from comedy, rather than one of the era’s over-wrought tragedies?

Eric Rump points out that the role of Heartwell – the Old Bachelor of the title – was taken by Thomas Betterton, the ‘Laurence Olivier of his day’, who also played tragic leads and so would have given the role more depth and seriousness than a purely comic actor. However you judge the effect, it is extremely impressive of Congreve to have touched this deeper nerve when he was barely into his twenties.

Anyway, our boys and girls goad Heartwell into declaring he will do anything to be rid of his married state, which is what they’re conspiring for all along – and we, the audience, know that he is not in fact married at all, since the ceremony was carried out by Bellmour in disguise.

On the last three pages the elaborate scam is revealed. Sharper and Settle have married Sir John and Captain Bluffe to two women they thought were Amarinta and Belinda – except they aren’t. The real Amarinta and Belinda now take their masks off to reveal themselves – to the two braggart soldiers’ shock and surprise – and when they turn to the women they have married – they reveal themselves as Silvia and Lucy.

SIR JOHN: Pray, madam, who are you?  For I find you and I are like to be better acquainted.
SILVIA: The worst of me is, that I am your wife—

So Lucy is married to Captain Bluffe – who announces he will no more to the wars – Silvia is married to the insufferable Sir John, but does at least acquire a title. And Heartwell breathes a huge sigh of relief to realise he isn’t married after all.

And Bellmour – with the abrupt reversal in attitude for which these plays are notorious – declares he is happy to acquire the fetters of marriage with acid-tongued Belinda. It only remains for Vainlove to marry Amarinta and all the loose ends are tied up but Bellmour notices Vainlove, given his contrary psychology, showing signs of reluctance to marry her and so announces that he and Belinda will get married first the next morning, to set an example to Vainlove and Araminta.

Then there’s the traditional music and dancing.

Animal imagery

There’s a lot of animal imagery. Vainlove is referred to as an ass, Bellmour an ape and a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Heartwell an old fox, Sir John a lion, women as hares to be hunted or partridges to be covered, cuckolded men are like stags with horns. The references add colourful imagery to the endless truisms about love and marriage and adultery.

Maybe they link to Belinda’s comment about ‘filthy, awkward, two-legged creature man’, but I don’t see that there’s anything very deep going on here. All the Restoration comedies are based on a worldview which sees human beings as amoral animals devoted to quenching animal drives, lust being topmost, but also drunkenness and gluttony, and using their God-given minds not to seek a devout and spiritual life, but to concoct fantastically complicated schemes for their own debauchery.

SIR JOSEPH: Nay, Gad, I’ll pick up; I’m resolved to make a night on’t… Adslidikins, bully, we’ll wallow in wine and women. Why, this same Madeira wine has made me as light as a grasshopper.

Quite often, reading these plays, you can sympathise with Bishop Collier and his characterisation of the plays as deliberately encouraging lust, avarice, greed, gluttony, jealousy, anger and sometimes violence.

VAINLOVE: Why did you not find me out, to tell me this before, sot?
SETTER: Sir, I was pimping for Mr. Bellmour.
SHARP: You were well employed.

More noticeable is Congreve’s way with extended metaphors, or with a metaphor which allows him to bring in colourful imagery. Thus at the very opening Bellmour has a little speech which in four clauses contains four images from the game of bowls:

BELLMOUR: Business is the rub of life, perverts our aim, casts off the bias, and leaves us wide and short of the intended mark.

This is so contrived I wonder if the actor paused and waited for a ripple of applause from the audience at the author’s cleverness.

At the start of Act Five, Bellmour bumps into Setter who asks him how things went in the plot to have sex with Laetitia, and both of them jokily use an extended naval metaphor to describe the result:

SETTER: Joy of your return, sir. Have you made a good voyage? or have you brought your own lading back?
BELLMOUR: No, I have brought nothing but ballast back – made a delicious voyage, Setter; and might have rode at anchor in the port till this time, but the enemy surprised us – I would unrig.

So Bellmour has unloaded his cargo.

Misandry

Woke modern critics attack the Restoration comedies for their misogyny e.g. Sharper describing Araminta as:

a delicious melon, pure and consenting ripe, and only waits thy cutting up.

But it seems to me that all the characters, regardless of gender, age or class, manipulate and denigrate each other on the basis of an utterly heartless and cynical worldview. And for every dismissive generalisation the men make about women, the women make one about men, and the aristocrats make about their servants, and the servants make about their stupid masters.

  • BELINDA:  Oh, you have raved, talked idly, and all in commendation of that filthy, awkward, two-legged creature man.
  • LUCY: Man was by nature woman’s cully made:
  • HEARTWELL: Lying, child, is indeed the art of love, and men are generally masters in it
  • ARAMINTA to VAINLOVE: Thou hadst all the treachery and malice of thy sex

The plays may contain umpteen libels against women, but the biggest indictment is how the men talk and behave and Belinda has a vivid little speech about how, in the end, disappointing men are, after all the impressive wooing, once you actually marry them.

BELINDA:Thou art so troublesome a lover, there’s hopes thou’lt make a more than ordinary quiet husband.
BELLMOUR: Is that a maxim among ye?
BELINDA: Yes: you fluttering men of the mode have made marriage a mere French dish… You are so curious in the preparation, that is, your courtship, one would think you meant a noble entertainment – but when we come to feed, ’tis all froth, and poor, but in show.  Nay, often, only remains, which have been I know not how many times warmed for other company, and at last served up cold to the wife.

The exhausted libertine

I think it’s Dorimant in The Man of Mode that critics point out sounds tired – or is it Belvile in The Rover? The point is that many of the plays start with the leading male character sounding exhausted.

Now, the critics I read appear to take this at face value as an indictment of the libertine lifestyle as a whole, as if the plays are observational documentaries. But something in Bellmour’s final words in this play made me realise there’s a simpler and less moralising interpretation.

Structurally, all the plays end with the lead characters marrying and many critics have pointed out the complete lack of psychological verisimilitude involved in witty, cynical characters who’ve spent four acts slagging off marriage as an institution for stubborn fools – suddenly deciding that marriage is a wonderful state and entering into it with boundless enthusiasm.

Seen from this perspective, the trope of the tired libertine makes more sense. It stands to reason that, in preparation for this last act about-face, hints should be dropped right from the start that the lead libertine is actually quite tired of his life of endless seduction and is, in fact, teetering on the brink of abandoning it.

And therefore that the male lead’s expression of these thoughts and feelings have little or no moral or psychological content, but are a structural necessity of the form, as formulaic as most other aspects of the plays.

In fact, almost all these Restoration comedies can be reinterpreted as the final acts in the libertine’s long career. They’re all plays about Life Changes and Conversions.


Related links

More seventeenth century reviews