A note on Leo the Great’s style

I’m just finishing off On Christian Teaching (De Doctrina Christiana) by St Augustine of Hippo. In Book 4 of this fantastic volume,* Augustine discusses the Latin translation of the Bible, and makes this point about it’s style:

It must certainly be admitted that the stylistic embellishment that derives from rhythmical clausulae is missing in the Latin scriptures. Whether this is the fault of the translators or whether (as I suspect is more likely) they deliberately avoided such specious things, I do not venture to say: I admit I do not know. (Book 4.115, trans. R P H Green)

Clausulae are a stylistic feature of Latin prose where you end the different breaks in sense or grammar with different rhythms. There are metrical ones, popular in Cicero (d. 43 BC), that use long and short syllables the same way ‘classical’ Greek and Latin poetry do — although different metres (never use ‘strawberry jam-pot’, that’s obviously from epic); and there are the rhythmical ones, popular in Ammianus Marcellinus (d. AD 390), that use the stressed and unstressed syllables of Latin’s natural rhythm to produce the auditory effect.

Whether Augustine means what we call ‘rhythmical clausulae’ or ‘metrical clausulae’ here, I am not certain.

About a year ago, I sat down with Leo’s Tome and marked all of his rhythmical clausulae at the end of sentences or major clauses (ie. where there was a semi-colon). He also makes use of metrical clausulae, but I have not thoroughly investigated them. I found that Pope Leo I uses the standard ones consistently throughout the Tome, but I do not have my notes to hand, so I cannot tell you the exact findings.

Shortly thereafter, I also investigated his biblical quotations in the Tome. Here I found that he often diverges from the Vulgate. This is unsurprising — Jerome’s revision that we call the Vulgate was still relatively new at this stage, and Leo is probably quoting from memory most of the time, anyway. One of the things I found was that, when Leo’s biblical text is not the same as that of the Vulgate, at least one scribe has ‘corrected’ it to match.

What I also found is that on a number of occasions, Leo has transposed the word order or dropped in a different word with the same meaning, and as a result, produced a rhythmic clausula. Whether this was intentional or not, who can say? What it demonstrates is that Leo knew his clausulae, and he used them consistently enough that this affected his writing of the Latin Bible, which Augustine, above, has observed lacks clausulae.

This observation is part of how I view Leo and the fifth-century at large. The world is still very classical — until 476 there was a western Roman Emperor, there was a Senate, people were still writing in the traditional genres, etc, etc. And so, despite the gradual cultural shift that would end up ‘mediaeval’, fifth-century Latin authors still demonstrate themselves to be ‘classical’, even when quoting the Scriptures or doing something ‘mediaeval’ like argue Christology or make rulings about canon law.

Which should hopefully make us rethink ‘mediaeval’, anyway.

*Recommended for people interested in semiotics, preaching, rhetoric, the Bible, God, logic, and so forth. He, apparently, invented semiotics in Book 1 of this text. So there.

The Katabasis of Father Brown: Descent in “The Sign of the Broken Sword”

SPOILER ALERT!  What follows is a sort of commentary/essay on G.K. Chesterton’s story “The Sign of the Broken Sword.”  If you wish a. not to have any of the story spoiled and b. to know what exactly I’m talking about, read it first.  It is not long.  Then, come, read this post!

A katabasis (Latinised as catabasis) is, according to Raymond J. Clark in Catabasis: Vergil and the Wisdom Tradition, is a descent to the Underworld by a living human being in the flesh — ie. not a divinity, not in a dream, not necromancy.  Many katabaseis involve the hero of the story going to Underworld to fetch back a person or gain knowledge, thus requiring a favour of the Queen or King of the Dead, such as dread Persephone, Lord Pluto, or Ereshkigal.  The most famous katabasis in all of western literature is that of Dante in his Inferno, vol. 1 of The Divine Comedy.  This descent was patterned on that of Aeneas in Virgil’s Aeneid, Book VI; other mythological heroes to descend include Herakles and Orpheus.

The katabasis has survived into modern literature as well.  Two recent examples, both of them framed on Classical myth, are found in Gods Behaving Badly by Marie Phillips and The Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan.  Themes and images of descent make their appearance in less explicit places as well, however.  “The Sign of the Broken Sword” is one such place, beginning with a descent from the churchyard into the woods, and out again at the inn at the end.  Along the way, Father Brown and Flambeau wrestle with a mystery that itself is a descent into villainy, horror, and treason.

Our first clue that Chesterton has written us a katabasis comes in the first paragraph as he is setting the stage and setting the oppressive, heavy mood that persists throughout the story.  In describing the forest, he writes:

The black hollows between the trunks of the trees looked like bottomless, black caverns of that Scandinavian hell, a hell of incalculable cold.

First, Chesterton is not merely imagining that Hell would be a place of cold for northern peoples, an inverse of the Mediterranean Christian Hell of fire.  Hel in Norse mythology is the name of the goddess of the Underworld, one of the children of Loki (himself god of mischief), and she rules over an Underworld of cold ice — as Chesterton says, “a hell of incalculable cold.”  At first reading, I assumed Chesterton was merely making the hell reference to produce the weighty mood that he sought.  Such is not the case, as further evidence of katabasis, of descent, rears its head as our main characters walk away from the monument to General Arthur Saint Clare and make their way into the woods — into hell itself.

The first clue is merely incidental, but not to be missed — they are leaving an old graveyard, the earthly abode of the dead.  There is no more appropriate place to begin a descent to the Underworld than a graveyard, if you ask me.  Another piece of corroborating evidence is found as our protagonists pass “many hundreds of grey and ghostly trees” — strikingly reminiscent of the shades of the dead who abide in Hades, even described as “ghostly”.  And that this hell is Scandinavian is kept within the reader’s awareness by the description of the moon as being “like a lustrous snowball”.

At one point, Brown and Flambeau pass from one bit of forest to another.  As they are about to plunge into the depths of the next piece of wilderness, we read of Flambeau:

He stared firmly at the grey facade of forest in front of him, with the one black gap in it, like the mouth of the grave, into which their path plunged.

They are descending into “the mouth of the grave” — into Hell itself.  As they move through hell, at one point a tree branch curves against the white face of the moon — described as a “devil’s horn.”  As the evil of the narrative discussed by Father Brown and Flambeau unravels and becomes clear, they plunge through dark corridors and blackness.  The path grows steeper, more convoluted and twisted, the deeper into the tale of General Saint Clare they tread.  Ghostly language is used even to describe the spare light to be found in the wood at night, “a ghost of a net”.

We eventually reach a firmer reference to Hell once Father Brown has unravelled the clues and is about to relate to Flambeau the whole horrid, wretched story of evil:

“I mean that,” retorted the cleric, and suddenly pointed at a puddle sealed with ice that shone in the moon. “Do you remember whom Dante put in the last circle of ice?”

“The traitors,” said Flambeau, and shuddered. As he looked around at the inhuman landscape of trees, with taunting and almost obscene outlines, he could almost fancy he was Dante, and the priest with the rivulet of a voice was, indeed, a Virgil leading him through a land of eternal sins.

Thus, Father Brown is leading Flambeau through Hell.  Flambeau is like Dante, Father Brown like Virgil.  The Hell is one of coldest ice, a Scandinavian Hell as found in the wintry wood of Chesterton’s story.

And as Father Brown draws his story to a close, Flambeau sees the warmth of the light of the inn at which they shall rest come story’s end.  The katabasis will be soon over.  At the end, they emerge from the woods, from Hell, and come back to our world, to an inn, the Sign of the Broken Sword.