Sad Cypress by Agatha Christie (1940)

‘It looks, does it not, as though we return to our muttons?’
(Translation of a French phrase which means, ‘go back to the start’, part 2, chapter 2)

‘I’m not one to gossip!’
(In the pantomime world of Agatha Christie, this always the preliminary to someone launching into a massive gossip, in this case gabby Nurse O’Brien)

‘Just like the pictures, isn’t it?’
(Nurse O’Brien sums up the pop culture cheesiness of the plot)

‘Old sins have long shadows, as they say!’
(Pithy proverb from Nurse Nolan)

Mrs. Bishop’s bust heaved with a flash of jet.

Part 1. The murder of Mary Gerrard

The narrative is cast in three parts. Part one gives us the events leading up to The Murder.

Old Mrs Laura Welman is bed-ridden after a stroke. She is attended round the clock by two nurses, older, plump Nurse Jessie Hopkins and Nurse O’Brien, and periodically visited by the handsome, humorous local doctor, Dr Peter Lord.

Laura’s husband died years ago and she is the owner and sole inhabitant of the Hunterbury estate (well, along with the raft of servants). At the end of the drive is the village of Maidensford. When she dies it is expected that she will divide the estate between her niece, Elinor, and her late husband’s nephew, Roderick ‘Roddy’ Welman.

We are shown numerous scenes between Roddy and Elinor where it becomes clear that 1) they have been in love since they were boy and girl playing on the lovely Hunterbury estate; 2) neither of them have plans to get a job or career because their plans for their future entirely depend on inheriting Aunt Laura’s money; 3) Elinor is cold and calculating, deliberately restraining her love for Roddy, and wondering how long before Aunt Laura finally dies.

The fly in the ointment who queers the whole situation is Mary Gerrard. She is the same age as Elinor and Roddy but born into a different class. She’s the daughter of the grumpy old lodge keeper to the estate, angry old Ephraim Gerrard. But here’s the thing: when Mary was a girl, Laura Welman, with no child of her own, took a shine to her and paid for her to go to private school, have French and piano lessons and be sent abroad to finishing school. She is just back from two years in Germany. Thus she has been educated ‘above her station’.

Not only this, but here, right at the start of the narrative, Elinor receives a letter which is really a scrawled, illiterate note, warning her that someone is sucking up to the old lady in the hope of winning her fortune. This can only refer to Mary, but the question is: who wrote and sent Elinor this note? And why?

The scenes between Elinor and Roddy quite cleverly build up the picture of two immature and naive young people who think they’re in love because they’ve been such jolly good friends for so long, and who’ve put their lives on hold while they wait for the old lady to pass away, but whose love is not real. It is a kind of formality or type of politeness to each other. They way they continually ask each other whether they love each other indicates its superficiality and fragility.

All this is exposed by the simple event of Roddy walking by himself through the grounds wondering about the future and pondering his love for Elinor when out of the woods, illuminated by sunlight, walks Mary Gerrard like a vision of beauty. I’ll quote the entire little scene because it shows how clearly Christie writes, with a beautiful limpidity and simplicity. As Christie’s biographer Laura Thompson says (and maybe it’s an obvious enough remark) Christie’s popularity is less down to her plots or characters, than to her immense readability.

He went out of the walled garden by the gate at the far end. From there he wandered into the little wood where the daffodils were in spring. They were over now, of course. But the green light was very lovely where the sunlight came filtering through the trees.

Just for a moment an odd restlessness came to him – a rippling of his previous placidity. He felt: ‘There’s something – something I haven’t got – something I want – I want – I want….’

The golden green light, the softness in the air – with them came a quickened pulse, a stirring of the blood, a sudden impatience.

A girl came through the trees towards him – a girl with pale, gleaming hair and a rose-flushed skin. He thought, ‘How beautiful – how unutterably beautiful.’

Something gripped him; he stood quite still, as though frozen into immobility. The world, he felt, was spinning, was topsy-turvy, was suddenly and impossibly and gloriously crazy!

The girl stopped suddenly, then she came on. She came up to him where he stood, dumb and absurdly fishlike, his mouth open. She said with a little hesitation:

‘Don’t you remember me, Mr. Roderick? It’s a long time of course. I’m Mary Gerrard, from the lodge.’

Short sentences. Short paragraphs. Simple characters. Child-like psychology. Easily understood. Perfect undemanding holiday reading for generations of satisfied readers.

So Roddy not so much falls in love with as is transfixed by this vision of young beauty. And Elinor sees it. In every subsequent scene where Mary appears, Roddy stops in the middle of what he’s saying to follow her with his eyes, with the result that Elinor becomes a seething cauldron of hate and jealousy.

Roddy and Elinor are both based in London where they have their separate flats. They visit Aunt Laura one or two times more before they get a message that she’s had another stroke and is a bad way. They rush down to Hunterbury to comfort the poor woman who now can’t speak. But the nurses and the doctor, when he attends, can see that Laura is upset about something and between them work out that she is very concerned about her will. She appears to want to make provision for her beloved Mary in it. Elinor (witnessed by the two nurses) promises she’ll do this, and also call the family solicitor Mr Seddon to come and see her tomorrow.

But tomorrow never comes. Aunt Laura dies in the night intestate i.e. she never made a will. In these circumstances the entire estate, and her considerable fortune, go to her next of kin who is Laura, with nothing to Roddy and nothing to Mary. Says the family lawyer:

‘The death duties, I am afraid, will be somewhat heavy, but even after their payment, the fortune will still be a considerable one, and it is very well invested in sound gilt-edged securities.’

In the event Elinor does the decent thing: she gifts Mary £2,000 which everyone thinks is very generous. But when she tries to offer Roddy some of the money he says he doesn’t want her charity and they end up having a row. In other words, the money which was meant to bring them together and ensure they lived happily ever after, ends up diving them more bitterly. They have broken off their engagement. Elinor suggests that Roddy goes away, abroad, takes a long break, to decide whether it’s she (Elinor) or Mary that he loves, so off he goes.

More than once Elinor is shown thinking ‘If only Mary wasn’t here… But for Mary… If only Mary were gone…’ maybe things between her and Roddy would return to ‘normal’.

Worse is to come because, now that they are not going to get married, Elinor is left as the sole inhabitant of the big old house at Hunterbury and decides she can’t bear to live there amid the ruins of her dreams. So she decides to sell it. All its rooms and gardens which she fondly planned to share in her happy marriage to Roddy, all these taste of ashes because of that damn Mary Gerrard! And so the narrative amply conveys all the reasons Elinor has for hating Mary, and how Elinor’s character becomes increasingly cold, calculating and bitter.

(I should have mentioned that shortly before Aunt Laura’s second stroke, Nurse Hopkins had mentioned to Nurse O’Brien that she can’t find one of the tubes of morphine in her nurse’s bag (it’s for a different patient of theirs: Eliza Rykin with cancer). She either mislaid it or, while her bag was left open in the hall, someone must have stolen it… a thought which neither of them fully acknowledge and quickly stifle, because it would imply that someone is up to no good.)

To cut a long story short, Mary dies and is thought to have been murdered. The actual death takes place at an innocent sandwich lunch. Laura has put Hunterbury up for sale. She therefore has to clear out all the furniture and writes asking Mary to come and do the same for the lodge where she grew up. Mary asks Nurse Hopkins to help her. On this particular day we are shown Elinor going shopping in the village high street and, at the butcher’s, buying types of paste to make sandwiches with. She frivolously mentions the fact that some fish pastes have been reported as causing food poisoning which the butcher assures her are not true of his.

Anyway, come lunchtime, Elinor invites Mary and Nurse Nolan from the lodge (where they’re cleaning out) up to the big house. Here she offers them the fish paste sandwiches we saw her making from the fish paste we saw her buying. Nurse Hopkins makes a pot of tea. Mary has a cup but Elinor doesn’t. Then Elinor invites Nurse Hopkins upstairs to take a look at the clothes she plans to throw out: maybe some of them can be redistributed to the poor and elderly in the village.

They do this for some time and when they come downstairs find Mary slumped in her chair, unconscious and blue. Nurse Hopkins immediately diagnoses poisoning, speaks very harshly to Elinor (obviously suspecting her of foul play) and barks at her to phone Dr Lord.

Here, on this dramatic scene, ends Part 1 of the novel.

Red herrings

According to Wikipedia:

A red herring is something that misleads or distracts from a relevant or important question. It may be either a logical fallacy or a literary device that leads readers or audiences toward a false conclusion. A red herring may be used intentionally, as in mystery fiction or as part of rhetorical strategies (e.g., in politics), or may be used in argumentation inadvertently.

The term was popularized in 1807 by English polemicist William Cobbett, who told a story of having used a strong-smelling smoked fish to divert and distract hounds from chasing a rabbit.

Euthenasia? Anyway, there are several red herrings I haven’t got round to mentioning yet. One is that we are shown old Aunt Laura confiding in Dr Lord, a sympathetic man, that she doesn’t want to end up helpless and gaga, being washed and cared for like a vegetable.

‘She’d talked to me about it. Asked me more than once if I couldn’t ‘finish her off.’ She hated illness, the helplessness of it…’

She would much rather the doctor put her out of her misery, something he cheerfully refuses to do, saying he didn’t intend to be hanged for murder. But did he? Put her quietly to sleep, as per her wishes?

Talking of Lord, it becomes clear in part 2 that he (rather inexplicably) carries a torch for Elinor. Could the doctor conceivably, somehow have poisoned Mary to make Elinor’s life better? Wildly improbable, but I’ve read worse things in Christie.

Ted Bigland’s anger This is Mary’s boyfriend, from her own (working) class. He is ‘a fine sturdy specimen’ who grew up with Mary and they obviously had some kind of understanding. We are shown a couple of scenes in which Ted asks to go out with her but Mary refuses and we are shown Ted’s frustration and then anger that Mary now thinks she’s ‘too good’ for him etc. Could this anger be motive enough for ted to murder her?

Mary’s mysterious parentage Late in part 1, looking through paperwork in the Lodge, Nurse Hopkins comes across a marriage certificate for old Gerrard and his wife but the date of the marriage is a year after Mary (now 21) was born. Further enquiry reveals that Mary wasn’t old Gerrard’s daughter at all. He confirms this in person. Mary’s father was an unnamed ‘gentleman’ who impregnated a lady’s maid to old Mrs Welman. She subsequently married Gerrard after Mary was born. No wonder he resented Mary, and she said she often felt he didn’t behave like a father to her. The obvious question is who was the father and could it have any possible bearing on Mary’s murder?

Lewis Rycroft On one of her last nights, Mrs Welman called out ‘Lewis, Lewis, photograph’. She directed Nurse O’Brien to get an old photograph out of her (locked) tallboy, an old photo in a silver frame depicting a handsome young man. She held and admired it for a while and then ordered it be locked away again. Well, some time later, after Mrs Welman’s death, Nurse O’Brien moves to a new job with a new client, Lady Rattery, staying at a place called Laborough Court where, by the kind of fantastic coincidence beloved of Christie and romance authors in general, she sees on the grand piano the exact same photo, of a dashing young man. When she asks the butler, he tells her it’s a photo of Lady Rattery’s brother – Sir Lewis Rycroft. He lived locally and was killed in the War. She further finds out that Lewis was married but that his wife (Lady Rycroft) went into a lunatic asylum soon after the marriage, but remained living. In other words, according to the laws of the day, he was unable to divorce and remarry. Nurse O’Brien then speculates that this Sir Lewis and Mrs Welman must have had a love affair but couldn’t marry because of the mad wife problem. As she comments:

They must have been very fond of each other, he and Mrs W., and unable to marry because of the wife being in an asylum. Just like the pictures, isn’t it?

So I’m guessing this solves the mystery of Mary’s parentage. What if not only Mary’s father was Lewis Rycroft but somehow, he got Mrs Welman pregnant, and Mary was Mrs Welman’s natural daughter!!!

So that’s the state of play and information, as part 1 ends on the dramatic scene of Mary dying of poisoning in the sitting room at Hunterbury, as Elinor Welman looks on cold-eyed and Nurse Hopkins turns to accuse her, ‘her eyes hard with suspicion’.

Part 2. Enter Hercule Poirot

Part 2 opens with young Dr Lord visiting Poirot and begging him to help find the evidence to get Elinor off the charge of murder. She has been arrested and charged and the trial will take place soon. Poirot asks Dr Lord to give him a complete summary of all the characters and the events leading up to Mary Gerrard’s death – which is a very handy recap for the reader, too.

Poirot agrees to help and sets off on the usual round of interviews. A chapter apiece is devoted to his extended interviews of: Nurse Nolan; Mrs Bishop; Ted Bigland; Roderick Welman; Mr Seddon the family lawyer; Chief Inspector Marsden; Nurse O’Brien; then Elinor herself, in prison. Then he meets with Dr Lord and tramps about the scene of the crime, throughout the empty house, but also along the land running beside the house from which, they realise, anyone could have had a clear view through the kitchen window of Elinor making the sandwiches on the fatal morning.

Poirot returns alone to interview Nurse O’Brien and she confirms what I suspected about Mary being Mrs Welman’s illegitimate daughter. It’s spelled out in black and white in an old letter she found at the Lodge, written by Mary’s ostensible mother, the lady’s maid Eliza Riley, who took the baby as her own and married Ephraim Gerrard.

Part 3. In court

Christie was constantly experimenting with the format of her novels. More often than not someone is murdered and the narrative describes the process of finding the killer. This one plays a variation on the theme which is that it is the first novel in the Poirot series to feature significant part of the narrative in a courtroom.

The novel actually opens with a preliminary scene in court, with Elinor standing in the dock, being accused of the murder of Mary Gerrard and asked to enter a plea, before the scene shimmers and fades before our eyes and transports us back to the origins of the story (part 1) and Poirot’s investigations (part 2), which I have summarised above.

I say ‘experimentation’ but, of course, by 1940 this kind of brief opening in the present which quickly gives way to flashbacks explaining how we got to this point, had become commonplace in popular fiction and especially in the movies. And having a good deal of a murder mystery set in court as different witnesses present the evidence which slowly pieces together the truth, this device has obviously been used in tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of movies and TV crime series since.

But it was new in Christie’s oeuvre to include such a courtroom scene and to use it to reveal the truth. We’d gotten used to Poirot calling all the suspects together and doing one of his Big Explanations.

Cast

  • Aunt Laura Welman – owner of the Hunterbury estate, old lady, bed-ridden after a stroke
  • Henry Welman – her husband, died decades earlier after just five years of marriage
  • Sir Lewis Rycroft – who Laura was in love with decades earlier, during the Great War, in which he was killed
  • Miss Elinor Carlisle – young niece of Laura Welman, in love with Roddy – ‘I’ve always fancied that you had, perhaps, rather an intense nature—that kind of temperament runs in our family. It isn’t a very happy one for its possessor’ – says to herself, ‘ It’s that beastly brooding, possessive mind of yours’
  • Roddy Welman – Mrs Welman’s (dead) husband’s nephew, posh, nervous, attended Eton
  • Mary Gerrard – daughter of the lodge keeper of the Welman estate who Aunt Laura took a shine to and had educated, piano, French etc, beyond her station ‘At twenty-one, Mary Gerrard was a lovely creature with a kind of wild-rose unreality about her: a long delicate neck, pale golden hair lying close to her exquisitely shaped head in soft natural waves, and eyes of a deep vivid blue’ – Nurse Hopkins thinks ‘Mary was one of the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen. Might have gone on the films any time’
  • Ephraim Gerrard – Mary’s father who has angrily rejected her since her posh education gave her hoity-toity ways: ‘an elderly man with a bent back was painfully hobbling down the two steps’; in the opinion of Horlicks the gardener, ‘always grumbling, and crusty as they make them’
  • Eliza Gerrard née Riley – lady’s maid to Mrs Welman, who had a baby and married Ephraim Gerrard
  • Ted Bigland – Mary’s boyfriend, from her original (working) class, works at Henderson’s garage – ‘a fine sturdy specimen’, a ‘good-looking, fair young giant’
  • Mrs Bishop – housekeeper at Hunterbury for 18 years, ‘a stately figure of ample proportions, handsomely dressed in black’
  • Nurse Jessie Hopkins – the District Nurse who came every morning to assist with the bed making and toilet of the heavy old lady, was a homely-looking middle-aged woman with a capable air and a brisk manner’ – ‘the biggest gossip in the village’ – according to Dr Lord, ‘the town crier’
  • Nurse O’Brien – ‘a tall red-haired woman of thirty with flashing white teeth, a freckled face and an engaging smile. Her cheerfulness and vitality made her a favourite with her patients’
  • Dr Peter Lord – ‘a young man of thirty-two. He had sandy hair, a pleasantly ugly freckled face and a remarkably square jaw. His eyes were a keen, piercing light blue’
  • Horlick the gardener – ‘a tall, good-looking young fellow wheeling a barrow’
  • Dr Ransom – Dr Lord’s predecessor, now retired
  • Mrs Slattery – Dr Ransom’s housekeeper
  • Mr. Seddon of Bloomsbury Square – Aunt Laura’s lawyer
  • Mr Abbot – the butcher
  • Chief Inspector Marsden – police officer in charge of the criminal investigation, an experienced, kindly looking man’

In court

  • Sir Samuel Attenbury – counsel for the prosecution – there’s a flicker of Christie’s casual antisemitism when she has Elinor describe him as ‘the horrible man with the Jewish nose’
  • Sir Edwin Bulmer, K.C. – leading barrister assigned to defend Elinor; he is described as ‘the forlorn hope man’ because he takes on hopeless cases – a specialist in ‘sob stuff – stressing the prisoner’s youth’ etc
  • Dr Alan Garcia – distinguished forensic analyst
  • Inspector Brill – police officer in charge
  • Alfred James Wargrave – rose grower from Emsworth, Berkshire
  • James Littledale – qualified chemist employed by the wholesale chemists, Jenkins & Hale
  • Amelia Sedley of Boonamba, Auckland, New Zealand
  • Edward of Auckland, New Zealand, now living in Deptford

Nurses

I’ve been reading Laura Thompson’s account of Christie’s time as a nurse working for a Voluntary Aid Detachment (VAD) at Torquay Hospital during the First World War. It’s a happy coincidence that this novel is the one which contains more nurses, and comment about the profession of nursing, than any others to this point.

Dr Lord numerous times emphasises the professionalism of the two nurses, but also how they’d be scared to death of lapsing in their duties. When interviewing Nurse Nolan, Poirot is a little patronising and she quickly corrects him in the tone of brisk practicality which is what the reader also picks up from Thompson’s account of Agatha’s own time as a nurse.

Poirot sighed. He said: ‘As you say, men fight shy of illness. It is the women who are the ministering angels. What should we do without them? Especially women of your profession – a truly noble calling.’
Nurse Hopkins, slightly red in the face, said: ‘It’s very kind of you to say that. I’ve never thought of it that way myself. Too much hard work in nursing to think about the noble side of it.’
(Part 2, chapter 3)

Bookishness

Hercule Poirot said: ‘One does not practise detection with a textbook! One uses one’s natural intelligence.’
Peter Lord said: ‘You might find a clue of some sort there.’
Poirot sighed: ‘You read too much detective fiction.’

‘Her mother had been a lady’s maid to old Mrs Welman. She married Gerrard after Mary was born.’
‘As you say, quite a romance – a mystery romance.’

Wordsworth

Suddenly, out of the blue, Poirot quotes a fragment of Wordsworth and tells us he is a fan.

‘Therefore, the next step logically would seem to be: Mary Gerrard was not killed! But that, alas, is not so. She was killed!’
He added, slightly melodramatically:

“But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!”

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Roddy.
Hercule Poirot explained:
‘Wordsworth. I read him much.’

Period vocabulary

Says Nurse Nolan:

‘She wasn’t one of these girls who are all S.A. and IT. She was a quiet girl!’

Where S.A. obviously stands for ‘sex appeal’, a phrase Nolan can’t even bring herself to utter, and IT refers to It Girl:

The expression ‘It Girl’ originated in British upper-class society around the turn of the 20th century. It gained further attention in 1927 with the popularity of the Paramount Studios film It, starring Clara Bow.

Summary

The two Agatha Christie novels I’ve enjoyed most have been The Secret of Chimneys and The Seven Dials Mystery because they are the funniest, most high spirited books, the silly far-fetched plots being part of the comedy.

But of Christie’s mid-period novels this may be the one I’ve enjoyed reading most. The final explanation is as preposterously contrived as all her other plots but there’s something perilously close to depth and real psychology in the characterisation of Elinor Welman. And the penultimate scene where Dr Lord drives her to a sanatorium where she can finally rest and be at peace, had, for a moment, a flicker of the depth and real emotion you look for in proper literature.

But then the final scene of the novel has Poirot conveniently tidying up any loose ends for the benefit of the holiday reader and it turns back into pantomime again.


Credit

‘Sad Cypress’ by Agatha Christie was published by the Collins Crime Club in March 1940.

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Pro Milone by Cicero (52 BC)

All five speeches in the Oxford University Press selection of Defence Speeches by Cicero are given extremely thorough and wonderfully lucid introductions by the volume’s editor and translator, D.H. Berry. Pro Milone has the longest introduction of the lot, at 12 pages of small font, i.e. a lot of content because there’s a lot to explain.

The trial of Titus Annius Milo, generally referred to as Milo, was held between 4 and 7 April 52 BC. He was charged with the murder of Publius Clodius Pulcher. While he was prosecuted by the usual number of three advocates – Appius Claudius Pulcher, Marcus Antonius and Publius Valerius Nepos – he was defended by just Cicero.

Publius Clodius Pulcher

For a change the background is fairly simple. From the late 60s onwards Clodius had established himself as a rabble-rousing tribune of the people who developed a wide popular following and developed tough street gangs to intimidate and beat up his opponents. He first clashed with Cicero when the latter testified against him at his trial for dressing up as a woman in order to infiltrate the rites of the goddess Bona Dea being held in Julius Caesar’s house (because Caesar held the office of pontifex maximus) in December 62.

From that point onwards Clodius sought revenge and his gangs took to intimidating Cicero on numerous occasions. In 58, Clodius was elected tribune of the plebs and passed a law declaring anyone who had put to death Roman citizens without a trial guilty of treason. This was targeted solely at Cicero who, as consul in 63 BC, had followed the advice of the senate and had five leading members of the Catiline conspiracy put to death. Despite the support of the senate, the letter of the law defined Cicero as a criminal liable to the death penalty and so he was forced to flee into exile in Greece. 18 months later, in 57, the political atmosphere in Rome changed and he was allowed to return.

During his absence Clodius’s street gangs for the first time met their match in equal and opposing groups of fighters organised by ex-gladiator Titus Annius Milo, who held the post of tribune. Milo arrested some of Clodius’s men, was attacked by his gangs, attempted to prosecute Clodius for violence and, when that failed, recruited gangs of his own to meet violence with violence.

In 56 Clodius brought Milo to court but the trial was broken up by brawling and not reconvened. When Cicero defended another tribune he used the opportunity to issue a rallying cry to patriots to gather round patriots such as Milo and against traitors such as Clodius. The two became close allies. Milo provided bodyguards to protect the builders who were rebuilding Cicero’s house (after Clodius had it demolished during his exile) from Clodius’s gangs who were attacking them.

In April 56 Cicero delivered a blistering attack on Clodius and especially his sister, the notorious Clodia, as part of his defence of Marcus Caelius Rufus (referred to as as Caelius) in the speech known as Pro Caelio. Clodius’s hatred grew even deeper and resulted in several violent incidents, but Clodius’s main enemy was Milo.

In late 53 both Milo and Clodius stood for office, Milo for consul, Clodius for praetor. Cicero strongly backed Milo’s campaign since, as consul, he would be able to control Clodius. But every attempt to hold elections was foiled by outbreaks of violence and 52 opened with no magistrates elected.

The murder of Clodius

It was only a few weeks into the year, on 18 January 52, that Milo and his entourage encountered Clodius and his followers on the Appian Way outside Rome heading in opposite directions. They passed in surly silence but the rearguard of both gangs provoked each other and started fighting. It spread and became a general melee. Clodius was wounded with a spear and taken to a nearby inn at which point Milo was faced with the choice between leaving a wounded and infuriated enemy alive or doing away with him for good. So he had his men drag Clodius into the road and finish him off, leaving the body.

Milo’s trial

Having been done various favours by Milo over the years Cicero felt duty bound to speak in his defence. His presentation was seriously hampered by booing and catcalls from Clodius’s followers and it is said that Cicero didn’t manage to finish. In any case the facts were generally agreed and Milo was convicted. He hurriedly went into exile in Massilia, modern Marseilles. Subsequently Cicero polished his text and had it published. It was his last surviving court speech and is widely considered his masterpiece.

What makes it twice as interesting is that it is the only speech by Cicero for which we have an independent and separate account, by a first century AD scholar named Quintus Asconius Pedianus (3 to 88 AD) and that Asconius’s account drastically differs from Cicero’s. Its existence suggests the extent to which Cicero manipulated the facts and distorted the narrative (lied) in his speeches.

Some people thought the best line of defending Milo would have been to claim that eliminating Clodius was in the interests of public peace and order. Marcus Junius Brutus wrote and circulated the speech he thought should have been given along these lines. But instead Cicero decided to base his entire long speech on the premise that Clodius knowingly set a trap for Milo, who was therefore justified in defending himself. However, according to Asconius the encounter on the Appian Way was an accident and the outbreak of violence was an accident.

Asconius’s version

Berry includes in this edition a translation of Asconius’s version, his summary of the events surrounding Clodius’s murder and of the trial itself (and of the trials of Clodius and Milo’s associates which followed). In fact he recommends that the reader read it first, before reading Cicero’s account. It is a trim ten pages long.

Berry points out the key substantive difference between Cicero and Asconius, namely Cicero says Clodius planned an ambush which Milo heroically defended himself from, while Asconius (and, in the event, the jury) believed it was sheer luck that led to a purely accidental meeting on the Appian Way.

But there’s another way in which Asconius’s account sheds light on Cicero’s –it is brief and to the point. It is arranged in a simple chronological order, dealing with the background, the events on the day, and the complex arrangements regarding Roman law which led up to the trial itself. In many places it reads like a Wikipedia article. Asconius doesn’t mention himself once.

All this is, of course, in striking contrast to what I’ve learned to think of as Cicero’s style, which is:

  • wordy, very wordy, gabby and verbose
  • rarely if ever addresses the facts, and if it does you barely notice because they are drowned in:
  • a never-ending stream of self-glorifying self-promoting references to himself, to his great achievement in saving the state during the Cataline crisis, to his importance as a mentor and role model for the young, to his tastes in literature, to the hard work he’s put in to becoming Rome’s leading advocate, and so on and so on
  • barrages of references to Great Romans From The Past: to Scipio Aemilianus and Gaius Laelius and Quintus Metellus and Cato the Elder, and so on and on, great names yoked into his discourse in order to boost it, make it sound more patriotic and weighty
  • cluttered and repetitive: his defence of Archias is short by his standards but still manages to repeat certain claims 3 or 4 times; arguments and related sub-arguments pop up unexpectedly, with no apparent logic and then, a few pages later, pop up again
  • melodrama: in every trial Cicero makes out that the entire future of Rome, and all its citizens and women and children and their great heritage is at stake! and that only acquitting the noble defendant – a man ‘who has done more for his country than any other man in history’ (76) – can save the nation from ‘national calamity’! This unrelenting hyperbole must have gotten pretty tiring.

In contrast to all this, Asconius’s style and presentation is a wonderful breath of fresh air and makes you realise that not all ancient writing needs to be as verbose, overwrought, self-indulgent and confusing as Cicero’s.

Here’s Cicero:

So give me your attention, gentlemen, and lay aside any fear you might have. For if you have ever had the power of judging loyal and valiant men, if you have ever had the power of judging meritorious citizens, and if specially selected men from the most distinguished orders have ever been given the opportunity of demonstrating, by their actions and their votes, that approval of valiant and loyal citizens which they have so often expressed in the past by looks and words; if that is how it is, then you have at this moment complete power to decide whether we who have always upheld your authority should linger on in adversity for all time, or whether, after being persecuted for years by the most degraded citizens, we are at long last to be revived by your good selves, and by your honour, your courage and your wisdom. (4)

Here’s Asconius:

Milo was travelling in a coach with his wife Fausta, the daughter of Lucius Sulla the dictator, and his friend Marcus Fufius. Following them was a large column of slaves and also some gladiators, including two well-known ones, Eudamus and Birria. These were moving slowly at the rear of the column, and started an altercation with Publius Clodius’s slaves. As Clodius looked back menacingly at the disturbance, Birria pierced his shoulder with a spear. Then a fight began, and more of Milo’s men ran up. The wounded Clodius, meanwhile, was carried into a nearby inn in the territory of Bovilla. (32C)

I appreciate that Cicero was working within a specific genre – the advocate’s speech – that oratory had a host of rules, that the audience expected a show of rhetorical fireworks and that, in this respect, Cicero’s over-ripe performances were following convention and pleasing the crowd. And that, by contrast, Asconius’s commentary is just that, a scholarly text conforming to a completely different set of conventions and required to be precise and factual. But my God, what a relief it is to turn from Cicero’s gluttonous grandiloquence to Asconius’s spartan diet of bread and water.

Two versions of Cicero’s speech

Berry devotes several pages of his introduction to making a key point about the text. The version we have is a document Cicero heavily revised and reworked after the trial. Evidence for this comes from two sources. Firstly Asconius and the noted 1st century orator Quintilian both refer to the original version Cicero actually delivered at the trial – they’d both read it – and distinguish it from the text we have.

Secondly, Berry is the latest in a long line of scholars to detect a noticeable change in the text: the first two-thirds of the speech are favourable to the then-most powerful man in Rome, former general Gnaeus Pompeius, generally known as Pompey the Great:

  • ‘the wise and fair-minded Gnaeus Pompeius’ (2)
  • ‘a man of lofty and almost divine mind’ (21)
  • ‘a man of the highest principles’ (21)
  • ‘the exceptional carefulness of Gnaeus Pompeius’ (65)
  • ‘so very brave a man as Gnaeus Pompeius’ (66)

But around section 70, Pompey becomes more the focus of the speech and for the final third the references to him become notably hostile. Berry thinks this is because the first two-thirds are close to what Cicero delivered on the day, when the outcome of the trial still hung in the balance and it made sense to suck up to Pompey. The final third of the second version of the text was composed after it had become clear that Pompey in fact supported the prosecution and (tacitly, in the background) helped Milo be convicted. Hence the switch in tone from sucking up to critical.

The speech itself

It takes up 40 pages in the OUP edition and is divided into 105 sections. The central point is that Cicero chose to frame the events as Clodius having set a trap for Milo and so the response of Milo and his entourage was justified self-defence. He says:

  • it was Clodius who set a trap for Milo (6) and repeatedly tries to narrow the entirety of the case down to this one point, that either Clodius or Milo set a trap, and it was Clodius (31)
  • if it is agreed that Clodius set a trap, then it is no crime for a Roman to kill a criminal if his house is being burgled, or he is being assaulted or sexually attacked – a bandit may be lawfully killed (11) – and gives a roll call of Eminent Romans who have killed enemies but still been honoured (8, 9, 10)
  • it is a natural law which needs no encoding, that a man may use violence to defend himself if attacked (10)
  • he states and then repeats the claim that, by killing Clodius, Milo did the state and the people a favour, to ‘the benefit to our country, the benefit to you, and the benefit to all loyal citizens’ (30)
  • it was just the latest in a long line of services Milo has performed ‘for our country’
  • the senate has repeatedly spoken in favour of Milo (12)

Cicero asks who had the most motive for setting a trap? The obvious answer is Clodius, for Clodius was running for the office of praetor whereas Milo was running for consul and showed every sign of being elected. Now if they’d both been elected, Milo would have cramped Clodius’s (no doubt treasonous plans) at every turn – so Clodius had a clear and obvious reason for eliminating Milo. Whereas, now that he has been brought to trial for Clodius’s murder, Milo’s position is in deep jeopardy: in other words Milo had no motive for killing Clodius, quite the contrary, his murder has jeopardised his career and even his life (34).

Having established, to his own satisfaction, that the case boils down to which of the 2 men planned to ambush the other, Cicero compiles a dozen or more ways in which the time and location and make-up of the two entourages all favoured Clodius, so he was the obvious planner and trapper.

Cicero’s speech is laced with the usual references to Great Romans in order to big up his speech, to make it seem more weighty and prestigious by associating his case with Famous Men, something which really counted in this super-patriotic society.

In a related way, he continually makes the case sound as if it’s not about the guilt of just one man, but that the entire fate of the state – and therefore of the entire world (19) – is at stake. This is a familiar Cicero strategy, to make it sound as if the entire world will collapse if his man isn’t acquitted.

And both lines of argument are also connected with Cicero’s relentless flattery of the jury:

  • ‘specially selected men from the most distinguished orders’ (4)
  • ‘the most distinguished men from all the orders’ (5)
  • ‘the brightest luminaries from the most distinguished orders’ (21)

Indeed the final phrase of the entire over-ripe performance is unfettered sucking up to the jury of ‘those who are the best, the wisest and the most brave.’ (105)

Above all else, Cicero’s speech is full of endless references to himself, to his tangled history with Clodius – with an extended description of how it was Clodius’s intimidation which (unfairly) drove him into exile in 58 – and all after he had saved the state, single handed, by his own quick thinking (36 and 73 and yet again at 82).

There is something more than ludicrous about Cicero’s endless self glorification and self justification, his references to the way ‘the entire people of Italy was united by concern for his welfare’ (38), and the later passages which repeatedly refer to his exile and then ‘my restoration’ (39, 68 and 87 and 88).

The reader learns to shiver at the familiar words ‘And as for me, gentlemen…’ which introduce yet another variation on what a hero he was single-handedly saving the state during the Cataline crisis, how unjustly he was terrorised into exile by Clodius, and how ‘all of Italy’ and ‘the entire Roman people’ celebrated his return. One of the most frequent words in a speech by Cicero is ‘me’.

And so it comes as no real surprise, but is still vaguely ludicrous that the final passage in the entire speech is an extraordinarily long eulogy not to Milo, but to himself!

But as things are, Titus Annius, there is one consolation that sustains me – the thought that there is no duty of love, support, or devotion in which I have failed you. I have incurred the hostility of the powers that be for your sake; I have exposed my body and my life many times to the weapons of your enemies; I have abased myself as a suppliant before many people for your sake; I have risked my own property and possessions, and those of my children, by throwing in my lot with yours; and today, if any violence has been arranged, of if there is to be any life and death struggle, then I claim it as my own. What, then, does that leave? What more can I do for you, to repay your services to me, except to consider your own fortune, whatever it may be, my own? I shall not refuse it. I shall not say ‘No’. (100)

Several times Cicero refers to the tears in his eyes as he speaks (‘I can no longer speak for tears’, 105). This is a histrionic performance. He was on a stage. He was playing a tragic death scene, playing to the crowd, tugging the heartstrings of the jury, using every rhetorical and psychological and dramatic trick to align his own auctoritas and his noble self-sacrificing actions with those of Milo, trying to make them both out to be ‘saviours of their country.’

But wait! Cicero has more to say about himself! He always does:

How unhappy I am! What appalling luck I have had! You succeeded, Milo, in obtaining the help of these men in recalling me to my country; shall I be unsuccessful in obtaining their help to keep you in yours? What shall I say to my children, who count you as their second father? What shall I say to you, brother Quintus, who are now far away, but who shared those difficult times with me? That, in attempting to protect Milo’s welfare, I was unable to obtain the help of the very men who had helped Milo to secure my own welfare? Unable in what sort of cause? One that was approved by all the nations of the world. Unable to protect Milo’s welfare from whom? From those who had felt the greatest relief at the death of Publius Clodius. And on whose advocacy? My own. (102)

What terrible crime did I devise or what awful deed did I commit, gentlemen, when I tracked down, uncovered, exposed and expunged those indications of our impending destruction? All my troubles, and those of those close to me, derive from that source. Why did you want me to return to Rome? Was it so that I could watch the expulsion of those by whom my restoration was secured? I beseech you, do not let my return be more painful to me than my departure was! For how can I consider myself restored if I am to be separated from those who were responsible for securing my restoration? (103)

Subsequent trials

One last important thing: because it is so widely considered Cicero’s ‘masterpiece’ and is often read or studied by itself, a false impression is created of Pro Milone as sitting in splendid isolation like a statue on a plinth. It is salutary, then, to learn from the introduction (and from Asconius’s account, which devotes its last 2 pages to the fact) that the Milo trial was immediately followed by a succession of further trials, all related to the events of that day, and that Cicero was just as involved in these trials as in the Milo one.

Far from his world falling apart when Milo was convicted – as his histrionic performance stated – Cicero merely went back to his study and knocked out another defence speech. And another. And another.

Thus, although Milo was found guilty in the trial we’ve been following, and packed his bags and went into exile overnight, he was, in his absence, the subject of three further trials:

  • Milo prosecuted for electoral malpractice (bribery) – convicted in his absence
  • Milo prosecuted under the law on illegal association – convicted in his absence
  • Miilo prosecuted under a different law about illegal violence – convicted in his absence

But the battle between Milo and Clodius’s followers raged on in the courts:

  • Milo’s gang leader, Marcus Saufeius – the man who actually supervised the attack on the inn where Clodius had taken refuge and his actual murder – was tried and acquitted by just one vote – and he was defended by Cicero and Caelius.
  • Saufeius was then immediately retried, under an alternative law about illegal violence, was again defended by Cicero, and again acquitted, this time by a larger majority.
  • Meanwhile, Clodius’s gang leader, Sextus Cloelius, was prosecuted for taking Clodius’s body into the senate building on the day of his funeral, which resulted in the building being set on fire, and was convicted by a near unanimous verdict.
  • A number of other Clodians were tried and convicted.
  • A Clodian ex-tribune, Quintus Pompeius Rufus, was prosecuted by Caelius for the burning of the senate house, convicted and went into exile – Cicero was delighted because Pompeius had been spreading the lie that Cicero had organised Clodius’s murder.
  • Then another Clodian ex-tribune, Titus Munatius Plancus Bursa, was prosecuted by Cicero, also for responsibility in the burning of the senate house, convicted and went into exile.

Plancus’s conviction, in particular, pleased Cicero. We have a letter to a friend in which he says the conviction of Plancus gave him more pleasure than the death of Clodius a) because he preferred justice to be done in a court of law than at swordpoint b) because it reflected well on his friend Milo but – and this is what is so characteristically Ciceronian about the letter and his reasons – because c):

I was especially pleased at the display of good-will towards me on the part of honest men in the face of an astonishing amount of pressure from a very grand and powerful personage [he’s referring to Pompey, who tried to defend Plancus]

As so often in his legal speeches, the whole thing ends up being about him. He goes on to say:

It is a great victory. No braver Roman ever lived than those jurymen who dared to find him guilty in spite of all the power of the very personage who had empanelled them [Pompey]. They would never have done that if they had not felt my grievance as their own.

There is something winningly boyish in Cicero’s complete inability to conceive of justice as an objective factual thing, and persistently see it in solely personal terms, of whether the great figures in the land, judges and juries are for him or against him.

Slavery

Few editors comment on it but I am continually appalled at the casual references to slavery in every one of these old Roman texts. I know slavery was universal and universally accepted, and the editors of all the books I’ve read generally take it for granted – but it never ceases to shock and upset me.

A moment in Asconius’s text is even more upsetting than usual, where he claims that, immediately after the fight on the Appian Way, Milo had travelled to Clodius’s country villa to find his son (presumably to kill him) but, finding the son had been taken away, interrogated the head slave, Halicor, by cutting off his limbs one by one, before going on to murder Clodius’s bailiff and two other slaves.

!

This incident is contained in the Asconius text that Berry includes in this edition and translates, but he nowhere mentions it and it doesn’t, of course, crop up in Cicero’s speech, which makes Milo out to be a noble and patriotic man, the saviour of his nation, a man who had ‘freed his country at his own personal risk’ (72).

But it’s moments like this, the steady trickle of throwaway references to how despicably slaves were treated in ancient Rome without free men blinking an eye, which make me feel physically sick and make all reference to the ‘civilisation’ of the ancient world seem like a mockery.


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