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OXFORD CLASSICAL MONOGRAPHS
Published under the supervision of a Committee of the
Faculty of Classics in the University of Oxford
The aim of the Oxford Classical Monographs series (which replaces the
Oxford Classical and Philosophical Monographs) is to publish books based
on the best theses on Greek and Latin literature, ancient history, and ancient
philosophy examined by the Faculty Board of Classics.
 Language and
Character in Euripides’
Electra

EV ERT VAN EMDE BOA S

1
 3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
United Kingdom
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford.
It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship,
and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of
Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries
© Evert van Emde Boas 2017
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
First Edition published in 2017
Impression: 1
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To my parents
 Preface

I think of this book as the product of a marriage between linguistics

and literary interpretation. To some, this may feel like a shotgun
wedding; but if I can convince others that this can be a fruitful
union between partners who give each other mutual reinforcement,
then I will consider it a success.
The book is based on my Oxford DPhil dissertation, submitted in
2010. The present text is considerably revised, even if the overall
structure and a good deal of the argument are fundamentally
unchanged. The revisions took much longer than hoped and foreseen:
uninterrupted teaching obligations and several other projects left
precious little time for the necessary work. If this unwelcome delay
has one positive consequence, it is that I have been able to take into
account several works on Greek linguistics, Greek tragedy, Euripides,
and Electra specifically that appeared in the intervening years. Once
the decision was made that I could not in good faith ignore these
works, it became clear that my book would in fact be much improved
by incorporating insights from three (!) new commentaries on the
play,1 as well as from various other important works of scholarship.2
Had the book appeared sooner, some parts of it and points in it would
probably have been outmoded almost at once (it is my hope that this
will be less the case for the revised text).
Many thanks are in order. My dual approach was reflected in a pair
of dissertation supervisors (one for the literary aspect, one for the

1
Roisman and Luschnig 2011, Distilo 2012, Cropp 2013. I have reviewed two of
these in van Emde Boas 2016. In fact almost nothing will be said in this book about
Roisman and Luschnig 2011—a commentary geared towards a different audience
(and see the justified reviews by Cropp 2011 and Kovacs 2012). The appearance of the
second edition of Cropp’s commentary (2013, revised from the 1988 edition) gave rise
to a particular quandary: the most straightforward solution—changing all my refer-
ences to conform to the new edition, on the principle that only the more recent edition
can be said to reflect Cropp’s thinking—turned out not always to be practicable (see
my review for various nuanced changes of phrasing between the editions), and I have
therefore retained some references to the older text.
2
Many works could be listed here (and several will be found in the bibliography),
but I am thinking particularly of Bakker 2010a, Mastronarde 2010, Rutherford 2012,
Roisman 2013, Giannakis 2014.
viii Preface
linguistic), and twice as many in this case really meant twice as good.
In Oxford, Bill Allan has taught me more about Euripides and tragedy
than he might realize, and if I say anything of interest about the
interpretation of Electra in this book, it is due in part to his constant
call for ‘pay-off ’. He oversaw the project with patience (which I must
at times have tried) and level-headedness (which I always appreci-
ated). In Amsterdam I have known Albert Rijksbaron as a teacher, a
supervisor twice over, and now as a collaborator (on a different book)
and as a friend. In each of these guises, his vast knowledge of Greek has
been an inspiration, his keenly discriminating mind a trusty guide.
My examiners, Felix Budelmann and Judith Mossman, deserve
gratitude not only for their comments and the most enjoyable two-
and-a-half hours of talking about Greek tragedy that I’ve ever had, but
also for recommending the book to the Oxford Classical Monograph
committee. Both of them are now valued colleagues and collaborators
on different projects, including my present work at the Calleva Centre
(Magdalen College, Oxford), where I am in the fortunate position of
working with Felix Budelmann on a daily basis.
Richard Rutherford acted as OUP’s assigned adviser during the
conversion from dissertation to book, and provided helpful notes
during that process. The OUP reader was extremely generous with
insightful comments, and suggested the new title (a great improve-
ment over the dissertation’s bland ‘Linguistic Studies in Euripides’
Electra’).
Earlier versions of two chapters were read by Philomen Probert
and Angus Bowie, and by Scott Scullion and Adrian Kelly; talking
through these chapters with them sharpened my thinking and pre-
vented many errors. The questions and comments of audiences at
various seminars and conferences where I presented material have
also led to numerous improvements: pride of place belongs to that
august institution, Oxford’s graduate work-in-progress seminars
(long may WiP thrive!). In general, the graduate community in
Oxford is not mentioned often enough in these prefaces; its members
made my DPhil experience a richer and better one.
Of my great teachers at school and university, I would like to
mention Jan Krimp and Ton Jansen (Haarlem), Fred Naiden (Tulane,
New Orleans), and Irene de Jong (Amsterdam). Teachers turn into
colleagues, and for their support and friendship (while this book was
lurking in the background), many thanks are due to my fellow
classicists (too many to list by name) at the University of Amsterdam,
 Preface ix
the University of Groningen, Leiden University, VU University
Amsterdam, and the University of Oxford.
My time as a graduate in Oxford (first for the MSt, then for the
DPhil) would not have been possible without the generous support of
the VSB-Fonds, the ‘Talentenbeurs’ of the Netherlands Ministry of
Education, the Prins Bernhard Cultuurfonds, the Arts and Humanities
Research Council, Corpus Christi College, and the Charles Oldham
Fund. In acquiring aid from the last of these sources, the assistance of
my College Adviser at Corpus Christi College, Stephen Harrison, and
of then College President, Sir Tim Lankester, was instrumental.
At the Press, Georgina Leighton, Lisa Eaton, and Manuela Tecusan
swiftly and expertly saw the book through to publication. I am grate-
ful for their warm support.
For sending me their work to read (and view), I thank Mary-Kay
Gamel, Ann Suter, Margaret Kitzinger, and Patrick Finglass.
Finally, for various reasons, I thank Glenn Lacki, Laura Bok, Tori
McKee, Liz Lucas, Rob Cioffi, Juliane Kerkhecker, Luuk Huitink, and
Mathieu de Bakker. Anouk Petersen was there with support in all the
important ways at all the important moments. Optimis parentibus,
who made it all possible, this work is gratefully dedicated.
 Table of Contents

List of Figures xv
A Note on Citations, Abbreviations, and Cross-Referencing xvi

Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra 1

1. Aims, approaches, outline 1
1.1. Reading, linguistically 1
1.2. Outline of the book 5
2. Linguistic approaches 7
2.1. Introduction: Bauformen and text types 7
2.2. Conversation analysis 9
2.3. Pragmatics 14
2.3.1. Speech acts 17
2.3.2. (Neo-)Gricean theories of meaning 20
2.4. Sociolinguistics 26
2.4.1. Gender 27
2.4.2. Politeness and power 31
2.5. Gnomic utterances in context: some aspects
of modern paroemiology 40
2.6. Narrative and argumentative texts:
discourse cohesion 47
3. Textual criticism 50
4. A view of the play 51
4.1. Characters and characterization 52
4.1.1. Conceptualization; characterization through style 52
4.1.2. Electra and Orestes 54
4.2. Themes and motifs 56
4.3. Tradition (and the recognition scene) 57
4.4. The roads not taken . . . 58
I. Rustic Language: The Peasant 60
1. Introduction 60
2. A peasant’s tale (1–53) 62
3. Husband and wife (54–81, 341–63, 404–31) 70
3.1. A marriage under face threat 70
3.2. Getting water (54–81) 71
3.3. Welcoming guests (341–63) 74
3.4. Preparing food (404–31) 76
4. Further stylistic points; conclusion 78
xii Table of Contents
II. Constancy amid Change: The Linguistic
Characterization of Electra 80
1. Introduction 80
2. Resistance through lament: the early scenes
(54–81, 112–214) 81
2.1. Electra as mourner 81
2.2. Electra as wife 83
2.3. Electra as Argive ‘maiden’ 87
2.4. The characterization of Electra 90
2.4.1. Patterns of miscommunication 90
2.4.2. Electra’s character: the debate 92
3. Electra and her unexpected guest (215–338) 98
3.1. The stichomythia (215–89) 98
3.2. The ‘message’ (300–38) 108
4. Recognition and planning (487–698) 122
5. Electra, Aegisthus, and Clytemnestra 127
5.1. A play of halves? 127
5.2. The ‘kakology’ (907–56) 128
5.2.1. Electra’s ‘undramatic’ generalizations 128
5.2.2. Analysis of the speech 135
5.3. ‘Into the boudoir’: Electra and Clytemnestra
(998–1146) 141
5.3.1. Opening exchanges (998–1010) 141
5.3.2. Clytemnestra’s speech (1011–50) 143
5.3.3. Parrhēsia (1055–9) 145
5.3.4. Electra’s speech (1060–99) 147
5.3.5. Mother and daughter (1102–46) 150
6. Exodos 153
6.1. The kommos (1177–232) 154
6.2. The deus ex machina (1233–358) 159

III. Orestes’ Linguistic (Dis)guises 165

1. Introduction 165
2. Orestes incognito 166
2.1. Initial observations 166
2.2. The general reflections 168
2.2.1. ‘A man in exile is powerless’ (236) 170
2.2.2. Pity and intelligence (290–6) 171
2.2.3. Evaluating character (367–400) 177
2.3. The second disguise (774–858) 185
3. Conclusion 186
 Table of Contents xiii
IV. Redrawing the Lines: Pragmatics and Gender
in Textual Criticism 188
1. Introduction 188
1.1. Vexed passages 188
1.2. L and P 190
2. Divided (?) we pray (671–84) 193
3. The hesitation scene (959–87) 204
3.1. On giving orders and having fashion
sense (959–66) 204
3.2. Diverging minds (967–87) 215
4. Conclusion 228

V. A Tense Affair: The Messenger Speech 229

1. Introduction 229
2. Not ‘what?’ but ‘how?’ 230
3. Analysis of the narrative 232
3.1. Setting the scene (774–8) 232
3.2. ‘A deliciously protracted game of cat and
mouse’ (779–97) 234
3.3. A moment for prayer (798–810) 238
3.4. The sacrifice of Aegisthus (810–43) 239
3.5. Aftermath and resolution (844–55, 855–7, 857–8) 242
3.6. Evaluation 243
4. Conclusion 246

VI. The Language of Rhetoric: The agōn Revisited 248

1. Introduction 248
2. Exordium 250
2.1. Clytemnestra 250
2.2. Electra 251
3. Narratio 253
3.1. Clytemnestra 253
3.2. Electra 255
4. Argumentatio 258
4.1. Generalizations 259
4.2. Clytemnestra’s hypotheticals 260
4.3. Rhetoric and characterization 262
5. Peroratio 265
5.1. Clytemnestra 265
5.2. Electra 266
6. Peroratio (II) 267
xiv Table of Contents
Conclusion: Approaching Tragic Language 269

Glossary of Linguistic Terms 273

Bibliography 280
Index Locorum 303
Subject Index 308
Index of Greek Words 318
 List of Figures

0.1. The discourse structure of drama. 5

0.2. Preferred and dispreferred second parts. 11
0.3. Speech act types. 19
0.4. Politeness strategies. 33
4.1. Proposed line-to-speaker attributions in Electra 671–84. 195
4.2. Proposed line-to-speaker attributions in Electra 959–66. 206
 A Note on Citations, Abbreviations,
and Cross-referencing

References to the works of ancient authors follow the conventions

adopted in the Oxford Classical Dictionary (Hornblower et al. 2012),
except that speeches by the orators are always referred to by number
and Euripides’ Heracles is abbreviated Her. instead of HF. Fragments
from tragedy are cited according to the relevant volumes of Tragi-
corum Graecorum Fragmenta. In the bibliography, journal titles fol-
low the abbreviations in L’Année Philologique. Sigla for Euripides’
plays are usually not preceded by ‘Eur.’ when no other authors are
discussed, unless this specification adds clarity.
Commentaries and editions are normally cited by author name
(and title of the play) only; thus ‘Basta Donzelli app. crit.’ refers to the
apparatus criticus in her Teubner edition of the Electra, and ‘Fraenkel
ad loc.’ or ‘Fraenkel on Aesch. Ag. 1’ refers to the relevant note in his
Agamemnon. ‘Cropp’, unless otherwise indicated, refers to the second
edition of his commentary (2013). All these works may be found in
the bibliography. Occasionally I also mention the proposer of a
textual emendation by name only: for full details in such cases, the
reader is referred to Basta Donzelli’s edition. Otherwise, all works
apart from standard reference works are cited using the author–year
format.
In keeping with OUP’s preferred house style (and with an eye to
the book’s digital edition), I have inserted cross-references to other
points in the book only by section number or footnote number (with
the chapter added only if the reference is to a different one), rather
than by page number. It is my hope that this will, on the whole, make
the reader’s job in tracing my argument easier rather than more
difficult. Translations of Greek and foreign languages throughout
the text are my own. For the use of the asterisk (*), see the Introduc-
tion, §1.2.
 Introduction
Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra

1. AIMS, APPROACHES, OUTLINE

1.1. Reading, linguistically

This book is first and foremost a literary reading of Euripides’ Electra,
a play that remains the subject of great interest and great controversy.
In the course of my reading, I will often draw the same kind of
conclusions (about the text and its interpretation, characters, themes,
and so forth) as have been drawn by scholars who worked on the play
previously. But the way in which I aim to reach those conclusions is
different from what is usual in work on Greek tragedy: throughout,
the basis of my analysis will be the play’s language. This may seem a
vacuous statement concerning a play of which we have nothing left
but its language,1 yet, in a discipline where ‘research into Greek

1
This statement requires some modification, of course—but not much. Almost all
of the ‘evidence’ for what we ‘know’ about Electra is circumstantial: (1) its relation to
works using the same mythical material, including Aeschylus’ Choephori and Sopho-
cles’ Electra (whether the latter comes before or after it; see §4.4); (2) its dating in
relation to that of other Euripidean works (which is insecure: see Basta Donzelli 1978:
27–71; long-held beliefs about allusions to contemporary events were disproven by
Zuntz 1955: 63–71); (3) its place in the Euripidean oeuvre and within tragedy more
generally (with regard to the development of this form, its literary techniques, etc.);
and (4) acting and performance aspects of the first performance (see n. 8). There are
very few—and largely inconsequential—scholia (see Keene 1893b), five papyrus
fragments (gathered in Basta Donzelli 1995a: xxxvii–xxxviii), and Euripides’ version
of the story does not appear to be represented in vase painting (the play is accordingly
absent from Taplin 2007). The curious reference to this play in Plutarch’s Lysander
(15.3) seems to suggest that Electra was known well enough in antiquity, disproving
the view that it ‘has never been a terribly popular play’ (Whitehorne 1978: 5). For the
play’s reception, see Bakogianni 2011 and Luschnig 2015.
2 Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra
tragedy’ has sometimes come to be synonymous with ‘research into
the (sociopolitical, religious, and historical) context of Greek tragedy’,
such a singular focus is worth making explicit upfront.2 More import-
antly, in approaching the play’s language, I plan to travel along some
different avenues from those normally taken by classicists in linguistic
enquiry: my close reading will be heavily informed by modern lin-
guistic methodology, and it is a secondary aim of the work to show
that this methodological apparatus, developed in the last half century
or so in general linguistics, can teach us much about tragic language
and how we should interpret it.
In saying that I will follow ‘different avenues’ I do not wish to
discount the rich body of work emerging in recent decades that
applies modern linguistic theory to ancient languages.3 Yet not all
of the linguistic approaches I will adopt have been utilized, or utilized
as fully as they can be, even in this current of research; and no one (to
my knowledge) has attempted to apply all of them, combined, to a
single text in order to see what they can tell us about the interpret-
ation of that text.
A methodological problem immediately rears its head: can we hope
to apply techniques that were developed in the study of modern
languages (usually in their everyday, spoken form) fruitfully to
ancient Greek (or to any ‘dead’ language), let alone to the highly
stylized Greek of tragedy?4 The answer is a qualified ‘yes’: we can, and
for various reasons. First of all, linguistic theory is often concerned
with identifying ‘universal’ features of language usage. It must be

2
I do not mean to suggest that such a context is unimportant, only that it will not
be central to my approach. There seems, in fact, to have been something of a
pendulum swing towards work with a focus on language since the dissertation on
which this book is based was submitted: one may point here, e.g. to Rutherford 2012;
and note the review by Wright (2013).
3
Nor is it a coincidence that much of that body of work derives from what is
sometimes called ‘Dutch scholarship’ (even if this is somewhat unfair to the numerous
scholars of other nationalities who work in the field). Book titles such as Grammar as
Interpretation (Bakker 1997a) and The Language of Literature (Allan and Buijs 2007)
may be taken as emblematic of this tradition and explain my affinity with it. Outside
classics, my approach coincides with work in the (modern) field of stylistics. The
outstanding introduction to this field is Leech and Short 2007; good introductory
matter may also be found in Toolan 1998. Within this tradition, I found the work of
Toolan (1990) and that of Culpeper (e.g. 2001, 2002, 2009) on characterization
especially instructive.
4
‘Stylization’ itself is not a straightforward concept, of course. For some discus-
sion, see Silk 1996 and Rutherford 2010, 2012.
 Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra 3
admitted that, as soon as a linguist claims universality for a feature
he/she has described, two others will usually come out of the wood-
work to contest that claim.5 Yet many of the approaches I will
describe have proved remarkably resilient in the face of such criti-
cism, and have been fruitfully applied to a very considerable range of
languages, even in literary contexts.
Second, it has been argued that, in spite of some clear but super-
ficial differences between literary and everyday language, all literature
at a more fundamental level still uses the same rules and conventions
as any other form of linguistic expression. Herman has argued, for
example, that, in the case of drama,
it is a question of mechanics, in the exploitation by dramatists of under-
lying speech conventions, principles and ‘rules’ of use, operative in speech
exchanges in the many sorts, conditions and contexts of society which
members are assumed to share and use in their interactions in day‐to‐day
exchanges. The principles, norms and conventions of use which underlie
spontaneous communication in everyday life are precisely those which
are exploited and manipulated by dramatists in their constructions of
speech types and forms in play. Thus ‘ordinary speech’ or, more accur-
ately, the ‘rules’ underlying the orderly and meaningful exchange of
speech in everyday contexts are the resource that dramatists use to
construct dialogue in plays. (Herman 1995: 6)
In other words, for dramatic dialogue to be comprehensible to an
audience, it still must use the same linguistic resources that are
familiar to its members from their own daily conversations: naturally
occurring conversation is, as it were, the template on which dramatic
discourse is grafted. We find similar arguments used about ancient
Greek literature, for example by Schuren (2014: ch. 1) on tragic
stichomythia and by Bakker (1997b: 17), who argued that Homeric
speech is a stylization of everyday discourse ‘departing from it and yet
retaining, or even highlighting, its most characteristic forms’.6 The
phrase ‘or even highlighting’ in Bakker’s formulation might be
emphasized: literary language may be seen not so much as a devi-
ation, but rather as a concentration of natural language.

5
For cultural differences in how language is used by speakers, see e.g. the essays in
Blum-Kulka et al. 1989.
6
This is also a fundamental concern to Minchin 2007. Throughout that book,
Minchin is concerned with the applicability of modern linguistic concepts to Homeric
Greek.
4 Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra
An analogy may be drawn here with the debate concerning char-
acterization in Greek tragedy (more about this in §4.1.1). In an
influential article, Gould (1978: 55) argued that the stylized nature
of Greek tragic language was an obstacle to any straightforward
reading of (realistic) character in that language and pointed out for
instance that, if ‘we describe [stichomythia] to ourselves as “conver-
sation” or “dialogue” in its everyday sense, we are likely to be misled
as to its role in Greek drama’. In her response to Gould, Easterling
(1990: 89) points out that what we get in Greek tragedy is in fact not
quite like real-life character but a more ‘concentrated’ phenomenon:
‘what is important is that drama is much more intensely concentrated
and meaningfully shaped, “purer” than ordinary unscripted experi-
ence, so that everything the stage figures do and say . . . has to be taken
as significant’. This view of characterization in tragedy seems to me
justified, and I would argue that what holds for character holds—
mutatis mutandis, of course—for language as well: dialogue in tra-
gedy, for instance, may not be quite like conversation ‘in its everyday
sense’, but it is nevertheless significantly related to it, a ‘purer’ form of
it perhaps. To be able to understand that purer form, tools that help
us make sense of everyday conversation are vital.
In short, a better understanding of how language works will help us
to understand how ancient Greek literary language works. All this is
not to say that we should not constantly be sensitive to differences
between literary and everyday language,7 between Greek and other
languages, and between Greek society (as a determinant of language
use) and societies in our present day (this is especially true for the
sociolinguistic approaches discussed in §2.4).
One further caveat involves the different levels at which literary
language, especially that of drama, ‘means’. As audience members or
readers of a play, we overhear communication taking place between
characters, but at the same time the playwright is communicating
with us. Mick Short has represented this ‘embedded discourse struc-
ture’ as shown in Figure 0.1.

7
This sensitivity requires that we are not surprised in poetry by some linguistic
phenomena that would surprise us in everyday language—for example the fact that
characters in Greek tragedy consistently speak and sing in metre.
 Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra 5

Figure 0.1. The discourse structure of drama. Short 1981: 149.

In applying linguistic approaches to the language exchanged between

characters in a play—addresser 2 and addressee 28—we should be
continually aware that such language will be influenced by the aims of
addresser 1 (in our case, Euripides).9
In the end, in the matter of the value of linguistic methodology for
literary interpretation, the proof is in the eating (and hopefully the
pudding will taste good): if the approaches I use can be shown to lead
to plausible readings,10 a case might be made for some methodological
leniency, and we may give those approaches the benefit of the doubt.

1.2. Outline of the book

Most of what remains of this introduction is in essence a ‘crash
course’ in selected subdisciplines of modern linguistics that will
inform my analysis of Electra throughout the book. Since many or
all of these approaches may be unfamiliar to classicists, I will devote a
good deal of space to them. For the reader’s ease, key terms are
explained in a separate glossary at the end of the book that makes

8
The model ought really to be supplemented with an additional level: that of the
actors representing ‘addresser 2’ and ‘addressee 2’ (cf. the similar diagrams in Mahler
2013: 153). Much has been written, of course, about acting and performance in
antiquity (e.g. Easterling and Hall 2002, Csapo 2010), and it must be noted that
direction and acting choices will have influenced heavily the way Electra’s first
audience perceived the play. Yet any speculation about such aspects must remain
just that: speculation. Accordingly, actors and acting will not play a significant role in
this book.
9
I do not wish to imply that such aims are retrievable (though I have few qualms
about approaching the Electra as a work written by an author who intended it to have
meaning in some ways but not in others), only that we should be constantly aware that
there is more going on in a play than communication between characters.
10
As a first step towards showing that this is the case, I will as often as possible use
examples from Electra in my description of linguistic approaches in this chapter.
6 Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra
references to the relevant discussions in this section; and these terms
are accompanied by an asterisk (*) at their first occurrence here and
then throughout the later chapters. This typographical practice is
meant to identify terms whose meaning may not be evident and
terms that are used in an unfamiliar, technical manner. Armed with
the glossary, the reader may thus work through my actual reading of
the play in the subsequent chapters without (constant) recourse to the
discussions in this introductory chapter. Still, it will be necessary to
provide a relatively full account of the approaches first, since they
underpin my analyses even when I do not explicitly say so. I will also
briefly outline (in §3) my principles in practising textual criticism
(roughly speaking, I do this only where it matters). Finally, I end the
introduction with a very brief view of the play in which I give a
preview of the major issues of interpretation in Electra that will
concern me later in the book.
In the first three chapters that make up the body of this book, I will
apply the theories described here to the language of three important
characters in the play, in each case in order to show that their
characterization is driven in part by their linguistic behaviour.
Chapter I deals with Electra’s husband, the Peasant, and serves both
as a concise exemplification of my approach and as a reading of the
first few scenes of the play. Chapter II is concerned with the play’s
central character, Electra herself: the main thrust of this chapter (by
necessity the longest of the book) will be, again, to show how Electra’s
linguistic behaviour helps to establish her overall characterization,
although many other issues are treated along the way. Chapter III
deals with Orestes in a similar, if somewhat more limited fashion
(I focus on his language in the first half of the play): my reading
argues for a new way of looking at Orestes’ moralizing passages in the
early scenes and against the excessive distrust that these passages
(especially 367–400) have so frequently aroused.
Chapter IV takes a somewhat different tack. In it I zoom in on two
scenes of (presumed) stichomythia, 671–93 and 959–87, both notori-
ous for problems concerning the division of lines and their attribution
to speakers. My aim is still to show how an analysis of Orestes’ and
Electra’s language in these scenes helps us to make sense of their
characters; yet I also hope to demonstrate that some of the linguistic
approaches I have introduced have a bearing on textual–critical
problems, specifically on issues of line-to-speaker attribution (that
is, the attribution of a line to one out of several possible speakers).
 Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra 7
By focusing on stichomythia, chapter IV also becomes the first in a
series of chapters concerned with particular ‘forms’. Chapters V and
VI, which complete the book, continue on this path by looking at two
other forms: the messenger speech (chapter V) and the agōn (chapter
VI). I hope that my analyses in these chapters can contribute to our
understanding of the workings of narrative in Euripides’ tragedies as
well as to our understanding of his use of rhetorical techniques,
although similar issues of interpretation (especially characterization)
also remain central to my purpose.

2. LINGUISTIC APPROACHES

2.1. Introduction: Bauformen and text types

Any Greek tragedy—and one by Euripides perhaps most of all—
consists of various, fairly well circumscribed forms (rhēsis, sticho-
mythia, choral ode, amoibaion, monody, etc.), and each of these
forms should be accorded a somewhat different approach. The meth-
odological tools that will help us understand the internal workings of
a long messenger speech are not the same as those that elucidate the
finer nuances of a fast-flowing stichomythic exchange. This is one of
the reasons why advances in modern linguistics may be so helpful to
an analysis of Greek tragedy: even though many admirable works of
classical scholarship have explored each of the tragic subgenres in
great detail,11 the idea that language ‘works’ differently in these
different forms is rarely made concrete, nor are those differences
explored fully.
My own approach will be guided by divisions along somewhat
different lines from the traditional Bauformen mentioned above,
namely those of what is sometimes called ‘text types’: narrative,
argument, description, dialogue, and so forth. The categories covered

11
See the collected discussions in Jens 1971. On individual forms and some more
particular applications, see Schwinge 1968, Collard 1980, and Schuren 2014 on
stichomythia; Schadewaldt 1926 and Battezzato 1995 on monologues; Erbse 1984
and van Wolferen 2003 on prologues; de Jong 1991, Barrett 2002, and Dickin 2009 on
messenger speeches; Duchemin 1968 and Lloyd 1992 on the agōn; Popp 1968 on the
amoibaion. I have left choral odes out of consideration (see §4.4).
8 Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra
by these headers are not necessarily discrete, but rather frequently
recurring networks of form, function and content.12 It will be clear
from the terms themselves—‘narrative’, ‘argument’, and the like—
that such categories do not neatly correlate to the different building
blocks of tragedy, even though some overlap may be expected (mes-
senger speeches are mostly narrative, agōn speeches are largely argu-
mentative, and so forth).
Modern linguistic theory has become more and more attuned to
differences in the workings of language in such different forms and
has developed different analytical techniques for each. Fundamental
to all of this is the realization that the sentence, traditionally the unit
of analysis for linguistic study (something that is demonstrably still
the case in all grammars of ancient Greek), is not a very helpful ‘level’
to zoom in on, or at least not unless sentences (or, better, utterances)
are considered part of a larger discourse, which coheres in significant
ways and is situated in a particular communicative context. The text
types mentioned above display telling differences in how they cohere
internally (which affects how certain structural features such as
particles, pronouns, and tenses are used) and in how they interact
with their extralinguistic context.
Accordingly, in my outline of linguistic approaches, my initial and
main focus will be on the workings of conversation, understood not
as a collection of self-contained sentences but as an intricate complex
of interrelating utterances. From this discussion of the structure of
conversation I move on to other aspects of linguistics that demand
that language be examined in its communicative context: that is to
say, I will maintain a focus on the fact that tragedy features language
used by particular speakers for particular addressees in particular
situations. Finally, I will briefly mention some aspects that will
prove important particularly to my analysis of larger stretches of
narrative text and argumentative text—and here I will pay special
attention to the use of particles and tenses.

12
For an introduction to text types (or ‘modes of discourse’), see Smith 2003.
Plato’s distinction between διήγησις and μίμησις could be seen as a rudimentary
precursor to text types (though whether he meant exactly the same as we do when
we distinguish between ‘narrative’ and ‘non‐narrative’ is not a straightforward
question).
 Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra 9
2.2. Conversation analysis
In the last half century or so, studies of naturally occurring conversa-
tion have taught us much about the fundamental workings of spoken
communication between two or more interactants. Many of those
studies were conducted in the name of conversation analysis (CA)*.13
CA sets out from the observation that conversation is characterized
by turn-taking*: one participant speaks and stops, another starts
and stops again, and so forth. With two participants, this gives an
A–B–A–B–A–B . . . pattern of distribution, which is complicated in
the case of three or more speakers. Speakers will normally hold the
floor*, that is, they will maintain the ‘right’ to speak, until they come
to a point where another speaker is meant to take over. At such
moments, the present speaker either selects* the next speaker to
take a turn (for instance by directing a question at a particular
addressee) or may allow anyone to self-select*. If no one self-selects,
the first speaker may opt to continue speaking and take another turn
him- or herself. Self-selection, of course, also takes place when a
speaker first initiates conversation.
CA deals extensively with many particulars of turn-taking and of the
selection process that are less relevant for Greek tragic discourse: these
include overlaps (remarkably rare in natural conversation, but presum-
ably much rarer still in fifth-century BC theatre), pauses, gaps, and so
forth (silences, however, are of great interest in tragedy as well, though
less so in the case of Electra).14 More relevant to my purposes, however,
are the notions of adjacency pairs* and preference organization*.
An adjacency pair is an ‘automated’ pattern in the structure of
conversation that consists of a first part* produced by one speaker
and a second part* produced by a different speaker. The utterance of a

13
I give a fuller introduction to the theory in van Emde Boas in press-a. The
foundational works are Sacks et al. 1974 and Sacks 1992, now supplemented by
Schegloff 2007. Good introductions to the field may be found in Levinson 1983:
ch. 6, Mey 2001: ch. 6, Sidnell 2010, and (very fully) in Sidnell and Stivers 2012. CA
has been applied to drama, e.g. by Herman (1991, 1995, 1998a, 1998b), Bennison
(1993), Culpeper (2001: 172–80), and Mandala (2007). It has very rarely been used in
classical studies; the only exceptions (as far as I know) are Minchin 2007, Drummen
2009 (an article that owes much to Basset 1997), Smith 2012, and Schuren 2014: ch. 1.
CA will also feature prominently in Bonifazi et al. in press. Mastronarde 1979 is not
influenced by CA, yet is concerned with similar issues.
14
On silences in tragedy, see Taplin 1972, Montiglio 2000: ch. 2, Chong-Gossard
2008: chs 3–4.
10 Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra
first part immediately creates the expectation of a second part
designed to complete the adjacency pair. Here is a simple example
of an adjacency pair from Electra (1116–17):
ΗΛ. τί δ᾽ αὖ πόσιν σὸν ἄγριον εἰς ἡμᾶς ἔχεις; QUESTION
ΚΛ. τρόποι τοιοῦτοι. ANSWER

El. And why do you let your husband treat us so savagely?

Cl. Such are his ways.

Questions invite answers. By uttering a question, a speaker (Electra)

not only selects another speaker (Clytemnestra; at this point the first
speaker normally must give up the floor), but also raises the expect-
ation that that new speaker will use his/her speaking turn to answer
the question. Apart from question–answer, prototypical adjacency
pairs include greeting–greeting, offer–acceptance, and apology–
minimization. More complex patterns have also been identified,
such as the adjacency triplet complaint–apology–forgiveness.15
More than one possible type of second part can complete a first
part. For example, answers are not the only possible responses elicited
by questions: a second speaker may well refuse to provide an answer
or may protest his/her ignorance. What CA has shown convincingly,
however, is that not all second parts are equal. There is a ranking, a
preference organization*, operating over the alternative responses to
first parts, such that there is at least one preferred* and one dispre-
ferred* category of response. These notions do not necessarily equate
to psychological ones (in that they do not refer to speakers’ and
hearers’ personal preferences), but are rather structural features sug-
gesting that one type of response (the dispreferred one) is more
marked and consequential for the flow of the conversation. Dispre-
ferred responses will usually be performed with more linguistic com-
plexity and will be accompanied by hesitations, hedges, explanations,
and so forth:16
Speaker A: Can you help me carry this box? REQUEST
Speaker B: Well, ehm, I’m not supposed to do heavy lifting. REFUSAL

Some general patterns of preferred and dispreferred responses are

laid out in Figure 0.2. It is not certain that these patterns are uni-
formly applicable to tragic dialogue (the preferred response in one

15
See Edmondson 1981 and Culpeper 2001: 152–3.
16
For such linguistic elaborations in the light of politeness theory, see §2.4.2.
 Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra 11

Figure 0.2. Preferred and dispreferred second parts. Following Levinson

1983: 336.

culture might be the dispreferred one in another);17 yet, for the first
four categories at least, I would contend that the patterns they
describe exist in Greek tragic discourse.18
The expectation raised by a first part is powerful: once an adjacency
pair is initiated, a second part is normally expected, even if it takes a
while to arrive; otherwise at least an account for the absence of a
second part is required. While such disruptions of adjacency pairs are
less common and typically significant, delays in the completion of an
adjacency pair are fairly common, and thus strict ‘adjacency’ is not a
condition for the fulfilment of a pair. Rather, a first part gives rise to
‘conditional relevance’: if some other move occurs instead of the
required second part, it will be interpreted, where possible, as an act
preliminary to the performing of the second part; the relevance of the
overarching adjacency pair normally remains in place until its first
part is attended to. An example of delayed fulfilment of an adjacency
pair in Electra is found a few lines down from the example cited
earlier in this section (1124–32):

17
There is also great variation in preference patterns depending on individual
contexts. Preference is, in fact, a highly complex topic in CA: good discussions are
Schegloff 2007: ch. 4 and Pomerantz and Heritage 2012.
18
The fact that, as indicated in this figure, denials are the ‘preferred’ (= unmarked)
response to expressions of blame (for modern English, this is borne out by empirical
research: see Atkinson and Drew 1979: 80; other languages may behave differently)
again makes it clear that preference organization cannot be equated with the speakers’
desires, personal preferences, and so on.
12 Introduction: Modern Linguistics and Euripides’ Electra

g
ΗΛ. ἤκουσας, οἶμαι, τῶν ἐμῶν λοχευμάτων·
τούτων ὕπερ μοι θῦσον (οὐ γὰρ οἶδ᾽ ἐγώ)
δεκάτῃ σελήνῃ παιδὸς ὡς νομίζεται· REQUEST
τρίβων γὰρ οὐκ εἴμ᾽, ἄτοκος οὖσ᾽ ἐν τῷ πάρος.
ΚΛ. ἄλλης τόδ᾽ ἔργον, ἥ σ᾽ ἔλυσεν ἐκ τόκων. QUESTION  19
ΗΛ. αὐτὴ ᾽λόχευον κἄτεκον μόνη βρέφος. ANSWER 
ΚΛ. οὕτως ἀγείτων οἶκος ἵδρυται φίλων; QUESTION 
ΗΛ. πένητας οὐδεὶς βούλεται κτᾶσθαι φίλους. ANSWER 
ΚΛ. ἀλλ᾽ εἶμι, παιδὸς ἀριθμὸν ὡς τελεσφόρον ACCEPTANCE
θύσω θεοῖσι. . . . 20
El. You have heard, I think, that I have given birth? Please make the customary
tenth-night sacrifice for me: I do not know how to myself, as I am
inexperienced and was childless until now.
Cl. This is the duty of someone else, the woman who delivered your child!
El. I was my own midwife, and bore the child on my own.
Cl. Is your house so bereft of friendly neighbours?
El. No one wants to acquire friends who are poor.
Cl. Well then, I will go and sacrifice to the gods for the child’s completed term.

Clytemnestra does not immediately accede to Electra’s request, but

rather uses two insert expansions* to sort out preliminary issues. The
first part of the original adjacency pair (the request) retains its
conditional relevance over the stretch of intervening question–answer
sequences, which, because they intervene before the second part of
the original pair, will be taken as somehow meaningful for the
fulfilment of that pair. In other words, the structure steers interpret-
ation of Clytemnestra’s questions as preliminaries she wants dealt
with before making a decision about Electra’s request. That she is not
entirely satisfied with Electra’s answers is clear from her use of the
particle ἀλλ(ά) in 1132, which suggests that Clytemnestra breaks off
the series of questions (implying that a sufficient answer has not been
provided) and instead reverts to the original issue of the request.21
In addition to insert expansions, other expansions* are possible as
well: adjacency pairs may be elaborated by pre-expansions* (which
prepare the ground for the production of the adjacency pair) and

19
Readers may object that Clytemnestra’s first insertion is not a question: this is
true in the grammatical sense, but I nonetheless think that her utterance is meant to
elicit information from Electra and thus functions, at least in part, as a question (it also
functions as a kind of objection). For such ‘indirect speech acts’, see §2.3.1.
20
For the text (many editors transpose 1107–8 after 1131), see ch. II, §5.3.5.
21
See van Emde Boas in press-a for my treatment of this ‘assentient’ use of the
particle (and cf. the treatment in Denniston 1954: 16–20).
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Title: Cicero and his friends

A study of Roman society in the time of Caesar

Author: Gaston Boissier

Translator: Adnah David Jones

Release date: November 24, 2023 [eBook #72216]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Ward, Lock & Co, 1897

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Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file
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granted to the public domain.
 CICERO

AND HIS FRIENDS

A STUDY OF ROMAN SOCIETY IN THE TIME OF

CAESAR

BY
GASTON BOISSIER
OF THE FRENCH ACADEMY

TRANSLATED, WITH AN INDEX AND TABLE OF CONTENTS, BY

ADNAH DAVID JONES
THIRD EDITION

LONDON
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
CONTENTS
 PAGE

INTRODUCTION:

CICERO’S LETTERS 1
Importance of private correspondence in ancient times.
Characteristics of Cicero’s letters, 1

CICERO IN PUBLIC AND PRIVATE LIFE:

I. PUBLIC LIFE 22
Severe judgments on Cicero in modern times, 22
i. Circumstances which determined Cicero’s political attitude.
Birth, philosophical ideas, character, 24
ii. Cicero’s political career. An opponent at first of the
aristocracy, 36. Attempts to form a middle party, 46. The
knights, 47. Finally joins the aristocratic party, 51
iii. Judgment on Cicero should be from the point of view of his
contemporaries, 51. Corrupt state of the Roman people,
64
iv. Cicero’s work for the Republican party after the death of
Caesar, 69. His death, 77

II. PRIVATE LIFE 79

i. Sources of his wealth, 79
ii. His married life, 89
iii. His children, 100
iv. His relations to his slaves, 108. His clients, 113. Rabirius,
116

ATTICUS 123

i. His reasons for not entering public life, 124. His life at
Athens, 127. His life in Rome, 132
ii. His character in private life, 134
iii. His character in public life, 147
 CAELIUS:

THE ROMAN YOUTH IN THE TIME OF CAESAR 159

i. Family and education of Caelius, 160. Influence of women
at Rome, 163. Clodia, 166
ii. Character of Caelius, 176. Joins Caesar’s party, 184
iii. Caesar had no genuine friends, 191. Reasons of Caelius’
enmity to him, 197. His death, 206

CAESAR AND CICERO:

I. CICERO AND THE CAMP OF CAESAR IN GAUL 209

i. Cicero’s return to Rome, 210. State of the city, 211. Leaves
the aristocratic party and joins the triumvirs, 216
ii. Renews his intimacy with Caesar, 224. Pompey and Caesar
compared, 226. Caesar in Gaul, 230
iii. Cicero’s letters to his brother and to Trebatius supplement
the Commentaries, 241. Effect produced in Rome by
Caesar’s victories, 251

II. THE VICTOR AND THE VANQUISHED 257

Cicero’s intention to retire from political life, 257
i. Resumes intercourse with Caesar, 260. The exiles recalled
through his influence, 268. The Pro Marcello, 271
ii. Discussion between Cicero and Caesar as to Cato. Cato not
so hard as he is usually considered, his rectitude made
him unpractical, 277. Unfitted to lead a party, 284.
Becomes more moderate, 285. His death, 287. Contrasted
with Caesar, 288
iii. Caesar wishes to conciliate the Republican party, 291.
Appoints members of it to public offices, 293. In spite of
this there was a profound discontent with the new
government, 297

BRUTUS:
 HIS RELATIONS WITH CICERO 303
i. His family, education, and character, 304. His friendship
with Cicero, 308. Roman ideas of governing the
provinces, 311. Joins Pompey, 317
ii. Brutus’s prospects of high office destroyed by the battle of
Pharsalia. Turns to philosophy. Cicero does the same and
produces his philosophical works, 318
iii. Formation of a new Republican party, 329. Influences
brought to bear on Brutus in order to implicate him in the
conspiracy against Caesar, 330
iv. Causes of the failure of Brutus and his party, 339

OCTAVIUS:

THE POLITICAL TESTAMENT OF AUGUSTUS 359

The Ancyran Inscription, 361
i. The narrative intentionally incomplete, 364. Light thrown
by it on the internal government of Augustus, 368.
Relations of Augustus with his soldiers, 369. With the
people, 372. With the senate, 373. His policy in
reconstructing public buildings, 377
ii. The preamble of the Edict of proscription and the Ancyran
Inscription, together, contain the political life of
Augustus, 381. Permanent effect of his policy on the
government of the empire, 386
iii. Publication of Cicero’s letters, 388
 CICERO AND HIS FRIENDS

INTRODUCTION

CICERO’S LETTERS

No history is more readily studied now-a-days than that of the last

years of the Roman Republic. Learned works have recently been
published upon this subject in France, England, and Germany,[1] and
the public has read them with avidity. The importance of the subjects
which were then debated, the dramatic character of the events, and
the grandeur of the characters warrant this interest; but the
attraction we feel for this singular epoch is better explained by the
fact that it is narrated for us in Cicero’s letters.
A contemporary said that he who read these letters would not be
tempted to seek the history of that time[2] elsewhere, and in fact we
find it much more living and true in them than in regular works
composed expressly to teach it to us. What more would Asinius
Pollio, Livy, or Cremutius Cordus teach us if we had them preserved?
They would give us their personal opinion; but this opinion is for the
most part open to suspicion because it comes from persons who
could not tell the whole truth, from men like Livy, who wrote at the
court of the emperors, or who hoped, like Pollio, to get their treason
pardoned, by blackening the character of those whom they had
betrayed. Instead of receiving a ready-made opinion it is better to
make one for ourselves, and the perusal of Cicero’s letters enables us
to do this. It throws us into the midst of the events, and lets us follow
them day by day. We seem to see them pass before our eyes,
notwithstanding the eighteen centuries that intervene, and we find
ourselves in the unique position of being sufficiently near the facts to
see their real character, and sufficiently distant to judge them
dispassionately.
The importance of these letters is easily explained. The politicians
of those times had more need of correspondence with each other
than those of the present day. The proconsul starting from Rome to
govern some distant province felt that he was withdrawing altogether
from political life. To pass several years in those out-of-the-way
countries which the public rumour of Rome did not reach, was very
irksome to men accustomed to the stir of business, the agitations of
parties, or, as they said, the broad daylight of the Forum. They did
indeed receive a sort of official gazette, the Acta diurna, the
venerable ancestor of our Moniteur. But it appears as though every
official journal is condemned by its nature to be somewhat
insignificant. The Roman journal contained a rather tame official
report of public meetings, a short summary of important cases tried
in the Forum, besides an account of public ceremonies and accurate
notice of atmospheric phenomena or prodigies occurring in Rome or
its neighbourhood. This is not precisely the sort of news that a
praetor or proconsul wished to know, and therefore, in order to fill
up the gaps in the official journal, he had recourse to paid
correspondents, who made “news-letters” for the use of inquisitive
provincials, as was the fashion among ourselves in the last century;
but while, in the eighteenth century, literary men of reputation,
intimate with the nobles and well received by ministers, undertook
this duty, the Roman correspondents were only obscure compilers,
workmen as Caelius calls them, usually chosen among those hungry
Greeks whom want made ready for anything. They had no
admittance into the great houses, nor could they approach the
politicians. Their part simply consisted in running over the town and
picking up what they heard or saw in the streets. They carefully
noted theatrical chit-chat, inquired about actors who had been hissed
and gladiators who had been beaten, described minutely handsome
funerals, noted the rumours and ill-natured gossip, and especially
the scandalous tales they could catch.[3] All this chatter amused for a
moment, but did not satisfy those political personages who wished
above all to be kept abreast of affairs, and, in order to become
acquainted with them, they naturally applied to some one who was in
a position to know them. They chose a few trustworthy and well-
informed friends of good position, and through them learnt the
reason and the real character of the facts reported dryly and without
comment by the journals; and while their paid correspondents gave
them only the talk of the town, the others introduced them into the
cabinets of the high politicians, and made them listen to their most
private conversations.
No one felt this need of being kept informed of everything, and, so
to say, of living in the midst of Rome after he had left it, more than
Cicero. No one liked that excitement of public life which statesmen
complain of when they possess it, and never cease to regret when
they have lost it, more than he. We must not believe him too readily
when he says that he is tired of the stormy discussions of the senate;
that he seeks a country where they have not heard of Vatinius or
Caesar, and where they do not trouble themselves about agrarian
laws; that he has an anxious craving to go and forget Rome under the
agreeable shades of Arpinum, or in the delightful neighbourhood of
Formiae. As soon as he is settled down at Formiae or Arpinum, or in
some other of those handsome villas which he proudly calls the gems
of Italy, ocellos Italiae, his thoughts naturally return to Rome, and
couriers are constantly starting to go and learn what people are
thinking and doing there. He could never take his eyes off the Forum,
whatever he may say. Far or near he must have what Saint-Simon
calls “that smack of business that politicians cannot do without.” He
wished by all means to know the position of parties, their secret
agreements, their internal discords, all those hidden intrigues that
lead up to events and explain them. This is what he was continually
demanding of Atticus, Curio, Caelius, and so many other great men
mixed up in these intrigues either as actors or spectators, and what
he himself narrates to his absent friends in the most lively manner,
and thus the letters that he received or sent contain, without his
intending it, all the history of his time.[4]
The correspondence of political men of our time, when it is
published, is far from having the same importance, because the
exchange of sentiment and thought is not made so much by means of
letters now as it was then. We have invented new methods. The
immense publicity of the press has advantageously replaced those
cautious communications which could not reach beyond a few
persons. Now-a-days the newspapers keep a man informed of what is
doing in the world, whatever unfrequented place he may have retired
to. As he learns events almost as soon as they happen, he receives the
excitement as well as the news of them, and has no need of a well-
informed friend to apprise him of them. To seek for all that the
newspapers have destroyed and replaced among us would be an
interesting study. In Cicero’s time letters often took their place and
rendered the same services. They were passed from hand to hand
when they contained news men had an interest in knowing; and
those of important persons which made known their sentiments
were read, commented on, and copied. A politician, who was
attacked, defended himself by them before people whose esteem he
desired to preserve, and through them men tried to form a sort of
public opinion in a limited public when the Forum was silent, as in
Caesar’s time. The newspapers have taken up this duty now and
make a business of politics, and as they are incomparably more
convenient, rapid, and diffused, they have taken from
correspondence one of its principal subjects.
It is true that private affairs remain for it, and we are tempted to
think at first that this subject is inexhaustible, and that with the
sentiments and affections of so many kinds that fill our home life it
would always be rich enough. Nevertheless, I think that private
correspondence becomes every day shorter and less interesting,
where it is only a question of feeling and affection. That constant and
agreeable intercourse which filled so large a place in the life of
former times, tends almost to disappear, and one would say that by a
strange chance the facility and rapidity of intercourse, which ought
to give it more animation, have been injurious to it. Formerly, when
there was no post, or when it was reserved for the emperor’s use, as
with the Romans, men were obliged to take advantage of any
opportunity that occurred, or to send their letters by a slave. Then
writing was a serious affair. They did not want the messenger to
make a useless journey; letters were made longer and more complete
to avoid the necessity of beginning again too often; unconsciously
they were more carefully finished, by the thought we naturally give to
things that cost trouble and are not very easy. Even in the time of
Madame de Sévigné, when the mails started only once or twice a
week, writing was still a serious business to which every care was
given. The mother, far from her daughter, had no sooner sent off her
letter than she was thinking of the one she would send a few days
later. Thoughts, memories, regrets gathered in her mind during this
interval, and when she took up her pen “she could no longer govern
this torrent.” Now, when we know that we can write when we will, we
do not collect material as Madame de Sévigné did, we do not write a
little every day, we no longer seek to “empty our budget,” or torment
ourselves in order to forget nothing, lest forgetfulness should make
the news stale by coming too late. While the periodical return of the
post formerly brought more order and regularity into
correspondence, the facility we have now for writing when we will
causes us to write less often. We wait to have something to say,
which is seldomer than one thinks. We write no more than is
necessary; and this is very little for a correspondence whose chief
pleasure lies in the superfluous, and we are threatened with a
reduction of that little. Soon, no doubt, the telegraph will have
replaced the post; we shall only communicate by this breathless
instrument, the image of a matter-of-fact and hurried society, which,
even in the style it employs, tries to use a little less than what is
necessary. With this new progress the pleasure of private
correspondence, already much impaired, will have disappeared for
ever.
But when people had more opportunities for writing letters, and
wrote them better, all did not succeed equally. Some dispositions are
fitter for this work than others. People whose minds move slowly,
and who have need of much reflection before writing, make memoirs
and not letters. The sober-minded write in a regular and methodical
manner, but they lack grace and warmth. Logicians and reasoners
have the habit of following up their thoughts too closely; now, one
ought to know how to pass lightly from one subject to another, in
order that the interest may be sustained, and to leave them all before
they are exhausted. Those who are solely occupied with one idea,
who concentrate themselves on it, and will not leave it, are only
eloquent when they speak of it, which is not enough. To be always
agreeable, and on all subjects, as a regular correspondence demands,
one must have a lively and active imagination which receives the
impressions of the moment and changes abruptly with them. This is
the first quality of good letter writers; I will add to it, if you like, a
little artifice. Writing always requires a certain effort. To succeed in
writing we must aim at success, and the disposition to please must
precede the wish to do so. It is natural enough to wish to please that
great public for whom books are written, but it is the mark of a more
exacting vanity to exert one’s powers for a single person. It has often
been asked since La Bruyère, why women succeed better than men in
this kind of writing? Is it not because they have a greater desire to
please and a natural vanity which is, so to say, always under arms,
which neglects no conquest, and feels the need of making efforts to
please everybody?
I think nobody ever possessed these qualities in the same degree as
Cicero. That insatiable vanity, that openness to impressions, that
easiness in letting himself be seized and mastered by events, are
found in his whole life and in all his works. It seems, at first sight,
that there is a great difference between his letters and his speeches,
and we are tempted to ask ourselves how the same man has been
able to succeed in styles so opposed; but astonishment ceases as soon
as we look a little closer. When we seek the really original qualities of
his speeches they are found to be altogether the same that charm us
in his letters. His commonplaces have got rather old, his pathos
leaves us cold, and we often find that there is too much artifice in his
rhetoric, but his narrations and portraits remain living in his
speeches. It would be difficult to find a greater talent than his for
narrative and description, and for representing to the life as he does
both events and men. If he shows them to us so clearly, it is because
he has them himself before his eyes. When he shows us the trader
Cherea “with his eyebrows shaved, and that head which smells of
tricks, and in which malignity breathes,”[5] or the praetor Verres
taking an airing in a litter with eight bearers, like a king of Bithynia,
softly lying on Malta roses,[6] or Vatinius rushing forth to speak, “his
eyes starting, his neck swollen, his muscles stretched,”[7] or the Gallic
witnesses, who walk about the Forum with an air of triumph and
head erect,[8] or the Greek witnesses who chatter without ceasing and
gesticulate with the shoulders,[9] all those characters, in fine, that
when once they have been met with in his works are never forgotten,
his powerful and mobile imagination sees them before painting
them. He possesses in a wonderful degree the faculty of making
himself the spectator of what he narrates. Things strike him, persons
attract or repel him with an incredible vivacity, and he throws
himself entirely into the pictures he makes of them. What passion
there is in his narratives! What furious bursts of anger in his attacks!
What frenzy of joy when he describes some ill fortune of his enemies!
How one feels that he is penetrated and overwhelmed with it, that he
enjoys it, that he delights in it and gloats over it, according to his
energetic expressions: his ego rebus pascor, his delector, his
perfruor![10] Saint-Simon, intoxicated with hatred and joy, expresses
himself almost in the same terms in the famous scene of the “bed of
justice,” when he sees the Duke of Maine struck down and the
bastards discrowned. “I, however,” says he, “was dying with joy, I
was even fearing a swoon. My heart, swelled to excess, found no
room to expand.... I triumphed, I avenged myself, I swam in my
vengeance.” Saint-Simon earnestly desired power, and twice he
thought he held it; “but the waters, as with Tantalus, retired from his
lips every time he thought to touch them.” I do not think, however,
that we ought to pity him. He would have ill filled the place of
Colbert and Louvois, and even his good qualities perhaps would have
been hurtful to him. Passionate and irritable, he feels warmly the
slightest injury, and flies into a passion at every turn. The smallest
incidents excite him, and we feel that when he relates them he does
so with all his heart. This ardent sensitiveness which warms all his
narratives has made him an incomparable painter, but as it would
always have confused his judgment it would have made him an
indifferent politician. Cicero’s example shows this well.
We are right then in saying that we find the same qualities in
Cicero’s speeches as in his letters, but they are more evident in his
letters, because he is freer and gives more play to his feelings. When
he writes to any of his friends, he does not reflect so long as when he
is to address the people; he gives his first impressions, and gives
them with life and passion as they rise in him. He does not take the
trouble to polish his style; all that he writes has usually such a
graceful air, something so easy and simple that we cannot suspect
preparation or artifice. A correspondent who wished to please him,
having spoken to him one day of the thunders of his utterance,
fulmina verborum, he answered: “What do you think then of my
letters? Do you not think that I write to you in the ordinary style?
One must not always keep the same tone. A letter cannot resemble a
pleading or a political speech ... one uses every-day expressions in
it.”[11] Even if he had wished to give more care to them he could not
have found leisure. He had so many to write to content everybody!
Atticus alone sometimes received three in the same day. So he wrote
them where he could—during the sitting of the senate, in his garden,
when he is out walking, on the high-road when he is travelling.
Sometimes he dates them from his dining-room, where he dictates
them to his secretaries between two courses. When he writes them
with his own hand he does not give himself time to reflect any the
more. “I take the first pen I find,” he tells his brother, “and use it as if
it were good.”[12] Thus it was not always easy to decipher him. When
any one complains he does not lack excuses. It is the fault of his
friends’ messengers, who will not wait. “They come all ready to start,
with their travelling caps on, saying that their companions are
waiting for them at the door.”[13] Not to keep them waiting, he must
write at random all that comes into his mind.
Let us thank these impatient friends, these hurried messengers
who did not give Cicero time to make eloquent essays. His letters
please us precisely because they contain the first flow of his
emotions, because they are full of graceful negligence and
naturalness. As he does not take time to disguise himself we see him
as he is. His brother said to him one day, “I saw your own self in your
letter.”[14] We are inclined to say the same thing ourselves every time
we read him. If he is so lively, earnest, and animated when he
addresses his friends, it is because he so easily transports himself in
imagination to the places where they are. “I feel as though I were
talking to you,”[15] he writes to one of them. “I don’t know how it
happens,” he says to another, “that I think I am near you while
writing to you.”[16] He gives way to his passing emotions in his letters
even more than in his speeches. When he arrives at one of his fine
country houses that he likes so much, he gives himself up to the
pleasure of seeing it again; it has never seemed to him so fine. He
visits his porticoes, his gymnasia, his garden seats; he runs to his
books, ashamed of having left them. Love of solitude seizes him so
strongly that he never finds himself sufficiently alone. He ends by
disliking his house at Formiae because there are so many intruders.
“It is not a villa,” he says, “it is a public lounge.”[17] There he finds
again the greatest bores in the world, his friend Sebosus and his
friend Arrius, who persists in not returning to Rome, however much
he may entreat him, in order to keep him company and philosophize
with him all day long. “While I am writing to you,” he says to Atticus,
“Sebosus is announced. I have not finished lamenting this when I
hear Arrius saluting me. Is this leaving Rome? What is the use of
flying from others to fall into the hands of these?” I wish, he adds,
quoting a fine verse very likely borrowed from his own works, “I wish
to fly to the mountains of my birthplace, the cradle of my infancy. In
montes patrios et ad incunabula nostra.”[18] He goes in fact to
Arpinum; he extends his journey to Antium, the wild Antium, where
he passes the time counting the waves. This obscure tranquillity
pleases him so much that he regrets he was not duumvir in this little
town rather than consul at Rome. He has no higher ambition than to
be rejoined by his friend Atticus, to walk with him in the sun, or to
talk philosophy “seated on the little bench beneath the statue of
Aristotle.” At this moment he seems disgusted with public life, he
will not hear speak of it. “I am resolved to think no more about it,”[19]
he says. But we know how he kept this sort of promise. As soon as he
is back in Rome he plunges into the thick of politics; the country and
its pleasures are forgotten. We only detect from time to time a few
passing regrets for a calmer life. “When shall we live then?” quando
vivemus? says he sadly in this whirlwind of business that hurries him
on.[20] But these timorous complaints are soon stifled by the noise
and movement of the combat. He enters and takes part in it with
more ardour than anybody. He is still excited by it when he writes to
Atticus, its agitation is shown by his letters which communicate it to
us. We imagine ourselves looking on at those incredible scenes that
take place in the senate when he attacks Clodius, sometimes by set
speeches, sometimes by impetuous questions, employing against him
by turns the heaviest arms of rhetoric and the lightest shafts of
raillery. He is still more sprightly when he describes the popular
assemblies and recounts the scandals of the elections. “Follow me to
the Campus Martius, corruption is rampant, sequere me in
Campum; ardet ambitus.”[21] And he shows us the candidates at
work, purse in hand, or the judges in the Forum shamelessly selling
themselves to whoever will pay them, judices quos fames magis
quam fama commovit.
As he has the habit of giving way to his impressions and changing
with them, his tone varies from letter to letter. Nothing is more
desponding than those he writes in exile; they are a continual moan;
but his sentences suddenly become majestic and triumphant
immediately after his return from exile. They are full of those
flattering superlatives that he distributes so liberally to those who
have served him, fortissimus, prudentissimus, exoptatissimus, etc.,
he extols in magnificent terms the marks of esteem given him by
people of position, the authority he enjoys in the Curia, the credit he
has so gloriously reconquered in the Forum, splendorem ilium
forensem, et in senatu auctoritatem et apud viros bonos gratiam.[22]
Although he is only addressing his faithful Atticus, we think we hear
an echo of the set orations he has just pronounced in the senate and
before the people. It sometimes happens that on the gravest
occasions he smiles and jokes with a friend who amuses him. In the
thick of his conflict with Antony he writes that charming letter to
Papirius Poetus, in which he advises him in such a diverting manner
to frequent again the good tables, and to give good dinners to his
friends.[23] He does not defy dangers, he forgets them; but let him
meet some timorous person, he soon partakes his fear, his tone
changes at once; he becomes animated, heated; sadness, fear,
emotion carry him without effort to the highest flights of eloquence.
When Caesar threatens Rome, and insolently places his final
conditions before the senate, Cicero’s courage rises, and he uses,
when writing to a single person, those energetic figures of speech
which would not be out of place in a public oration. “What a fate is
ours! Must we then give way to his impudent demands! for so
Pompey calls them. In fact has a more shameless audacity ever been
seen?—You have occupied for ten years a province that the senate
has not given you, but which you have seized yourself by intrigue and
violence. The term has arrived which your caprice alone and not the
law has fixed for your power.—But let us suppose it was the law—the
term having arrived, we name your successor, but you resist and say,
‘Respect my rights.’ And you, what do you do to ours? What pretext
have you for keeping your army beyond the term fixed by the people,
in spite of the senate?—You must give way to me or fight.—Well
then! let us fight, answers Pompey, at least we have the chance of
conquering or of dying free men.”[24]
If I wished to find another example of this agreeable variety and
these rapid changes, I should not turn to Pliny or to those who, like
him, wrote their letters for the public, I should come down to
Madame de Sévigné. She, like Cicero, has a very lively and versatile