Characterisation in Apuleius' Metamorphoses: Nine Studies 1443875333, 9781443875332

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Characterisation in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses

Pierides Studies in Greek and Latin Literature Series Editors: Philip Hardie and Stratis Kyriakidis Volume I: S. Kyriakidis, Catalogues of Proper Names in Latin Epic Poetry: Lucretius – Virgil – Ovid Volume II: Antonis Petrides and Sophia Papaioannou (eds), New Perspectives on Postclassical Comedy Volume III: Myrto Garani and David Konstan (eds), The Philosophizing Muse: The Influence of Greek Philosophy on Roman Poetry Volume IV: Sophia Papaioannou (ed.), Terence and Interpretation

Volume V:

Characterisation in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses Nine Studies Edited by

Stephen Harrison

Characterisation in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: Nine Studies Edited by Stephen Harrison This book first published 2015 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2015 by Stephen Harrison and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-7533-3 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-7533-2

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements ................................................................................... vii Contributors ................................................................................................ ix Editor’s Introduction ................................................................................ xiii A: Lucius Chapter One ................................................................................................. 3 Lucius in Metamorphoses Books 1-3 Stephen Harrison Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 15 Lucius as Ass (Metamorphoses Books 3-11) Stefan Tilg Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 29 Lubrico uirentis aetatulae: Lucius as Initiate (Metamorphoses Book 11) Wytse Keulen B: Others Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 59 Photis (Metamorphoses Books 1-3) Regine May Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 75 Byrrhaena and her Household (Metamorphoses Books 2-3) Stavros Frangoulidis Chapter Six ................................................................................................ 89 The Robbers and the Old Woman (Metamorphoses Books 3.28-7.12) Luca Graverini

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Table of Contents

Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 105 The Tale of Charite and Tlepolemus (Metamorphoses Books 4-8) Lara Nicolini Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 125 The Human Characters in the Tale of Cupid and Psyche (Metamorphoses 4.28-6.24) Costas Panayotakis and Stelios Panayotakis Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 147 And There Were Words: The Characterisation of the Gods in the Metamorphoses Danielle van Mal-Maeder Bibliography ............................................................................................ 167 General Index .......................................................................................... 183 Index Locorum ........................................................................................ 185

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am most grateful to the editors of the Pierides series, Philip Hardie and Stratis Kyriakidis, for their kind invitation to contribute this volume, and for their considerable patience in waiting for it. I am also most grateful to their anonymous referee, who pointed out a number of ways of improving the volume. I would also like to express my warm thanks to the contributors, with all of whom I have had the pleasure to collaborate closely outside this volume for some years, in most cases within the context of the Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius project, and to those who aided the editorial process: Paola D’Andrea and Sophie Bocksberger, who provided valuable help with translation, and Alex Locock-Harrison, who helped materially with copy-editing and layout. I am especially grateful to Luca Graverini, who in addition to his efficiency as contributor also gave generous help in the matter of formatting. In the final stages, I am most grateful to Helen Peraki-Kyriakidou for her great editorial care, and to Kathrin Lüddecke for her highly professional editorial services. The current volume cites the text of the Metamorphoses from the excellent recent Oxford Classical Text by Maaike Zimmerman (2012). Both editor and contributors would like to take the opportunity to thank Maaike for all that she has done for them and for the study of Apuleius in general in her leadership of the Groningen Apuleius group and in her editorship of Ancient Narrative.

Oxford, September 2014 Stephen Harrison

CONTRIBUTORS

Stavros Frangoulidis is Professor of Latin at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. He has co-organised several RICAN conferences on the study of the Ancient Novel, and co-edited the proceedings thereof (published as Ancient Narrative Supplementa). He has edited a thematic issue on the ancient novel (with Stephen J. Harrison), and a volume on Latin genre (with Theodore D. Papanghelis and Stephen J. Harrison), both published in the Trends in Classics series (Walter de Gruyter). He has written a number of articles on Roman comedy, the Latin novel and Senecan tragedy. Finally, he is the author of the following books: Handlung und Nebenhandlung: Theater, Metatheater und Gattungsbewusstein in der römischen Komödie (Stuttgart, J.B. Metzler, 1997); Roles and Performances in Apuleius' Metamorphoses (Stuttgart, J.B. Metzler, 2001); and Witches, Isis and Narrative: Approaches to Magic in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (Berlin and New York, Walter de Gruyter, 2008). Luca Graverini teaches Latin Language and Literature at the University of Siena. He has published widely on the ancient novel. His 2007 monograph on Apuleius has been translated into English by Benjamin T. Lee (Literature and Identity in Apuleius’ The Golden Ass, Ohio State UP, 2012); the volume on Il Romanzo antico he has written with Wytse Keulen and Alessandro Barchiesi is being translated by Thomas McCreight and will be published by Wiley-Blackwell. Together with Ben Lee and Ellen Finkelpearl he has edited a volume on Apuleius and Africa (New York, Routledge, 2014); he is also contributing to the Groningen Commentary on Book 11 of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. Together with Alessandro Barchiesi he will author and edit a four-volume complete commentary on Apuleius’ novel for the Italian publisher Valla-Mondadori. Stephen Harrison is Professor of Latin Literature at the University of Oxford and Fellow and Tutor in Classics at Corpus Christi College. He is the author of A Commentary on Vergil, Aeneid 10 (OUP, 1991), Apuleius: A Latin Sophist (OUP, 2000), Generic Enrichment in Vergil and Horace (OUP, 2007), Framing the Ass: Literary Form in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (OUP, 2013) and Horace (CUP, 2014), co-author of Apuleius: Rhetorical Works (OUP, 2001) [jointly with John Hilton and Vincent Hunink], of A

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Commentary on Apuleius Metamorphoses IV.28-VI.24 (Egbert Forsten, 2004) [jointly with the seven other members of the Groningen Apuleius Group], of Louis MacNeice: The Classical Radio Plays [jointly with Amanda Wrigley] (OUP, 2013), and of A Commentary on Apuleius Metamorphoses XI: The Isis-Book (Brill, 2015) [jointly with the seven other members of the Groningen Apuleius Group]. He is editor or coeditor of Oxford Readings in Vergil's Aeneid (OUP, 1990), Homage to Horace: A Bimillenary Celebration (OUP, 1995), Oxford Readings in The Roman Novel (OUP, 1999), Texts, Ideas and the Classics: Scholarship, Theory and Classical Literature (OUP, 2001), A Companion to Latin Literature (Blackwell, 2005), Metaphor and the Ancient Novel (Barkhuis, 2005), [joint ed. with M.Paschalis and S.Frangoulidis], The Cambridge Companion to Horace (CUP, 2007), The Greek and the Roman Novel: Parallel Readings (Barkhuis, 2007) [joint ed. with M.Paschalis, S.Frangoulidis, and M.Zimmerman], Living Classics: Greece and Rome in Contemporary Poetry in English (OUP, 2009), Fictional Traces: Receptions of the Ancient Novels [2 vols] (Groningen, 2011) [joint ed. with M.Futre Pinheiro], Expurgating the Classics: Editing Out in Latin and Greek (Bloomsbury, 2012) [joint ed. with Christopher Stray], Classics in the Modern World: A ‘Democratic Turn’? (OUP, 2013) [joint ed. with Lorna Hardwick], Generic Interfaces in Latin Literature. Encounters, Interactions and Transformations (de Gruyter, 2013) [joint ed. with Theodoros Papanghelis and Stavros Frangoulidis]. Wytse Keulen currently teaches Latin at the University of Rostock. His commentary on Apuleius’ Metamorphoses Book I (Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius) appeared in 2007. His most recent publication is a monograph on Aulus Gellius, elucidating the Noctes Atticae in the context of Antonine literary culture and Roman intellectual traditions (Gellius the Satirist: Roman Cultural Authority in Attic Nights, Leiden, Brill 2009). Together with Ulrike Egelhaaf-Gaiser, he edited Aspects of Apuleius' Golden Ass III: The Isis Book (Leiden, Brill 2012). He has been the organiser of an international commentary project on the Isis book of Apuleius; this commentary appears in the series Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius (2015). Danielle van Mal-Maeder is Professor of Latin Language and Literature at the University of Lausanne. As a member of the Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius group, she has written a commentary on Book II of the Metamorphoses (Groningen, Forsten, 2001). She has published extensively on Greek and Latin fiction and on rhetoric, and is the author of

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La fiction des déclamations (Leiden-Boston, Brill, 2007). She directs a research centre on ancient declamation and its reception. Regine May is Lecturer in Latin literature and language at the University of Leeds. She is the author of Apuleius and Drama: The Ass on Stage (Oxford, OUP, 2007) and numerous articles on Apuleius and the Latin novels. Her translation of and commentary on Apuleius, Metamorphoses Book 1 appeared with Aris and Phillips in 2013. Lara Nicolini works at the Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa. She has published extensively on Apuleius and is the author of a commentary on a section of the Metamorphoses (La novella di Carite e Tlepolemo. Napoli, 2000) and of an Italian translation of the novel with an essay on its interpretation (Apuleio, Le Metamorfosi, Milano, 2005); in 2011 she published Ad (l)usum lectoris. Etimologia e giochi di parole in Apuleio, on Apuleius' use of etymology and wordplay. Stelios Panayotakis is Associate Professor in Classics at the University of Crete, Rethymnon, and a member of the Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius group, as well as of the team project on writing a commentary on Book 11 of the Metamorphoses. He has published several articles on Apuleius, and a large-scale commentary on The Story of Apollonius, King of Tyre (Walter de Gruyter, 2012). Costas Panayotakis teaches Latin language and literature at the University of Glasgow, where he is currently a Reader. He has published extensively on Petronius, including a monograph entitled Theatrum Arbitri: Theatrical Elements in the Satyrica of Petronius (Brill, 1995), and on popular comedy (especially mime) in the Roman Republic. His most recent book is a critical edition (with translation and detailed commentary) of the fragments of the mimographer Laberius (Decimus Laberius: The Fragments, CUP, 2010). Stefan Tilg is Professor of Latin at the University of Freiburg. He is the author of Chariton of Aphrodisias and the Invention of the Greek Love Novel (OUP, 2010) and of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: A Study in Roman Fiction (OUP, 2014). He is also a member of the Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius group.

EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION

The serious study of characterisation in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses has a relatively short history, due mainly to the centuries of critical underestimation of the novel’s literary texture which I have chronicled elsewhere [see Harrison (2013) 13-38]; a just appreciation of the work’s subtlety and sophistication has emerged only in the last half-century or so. The earlier prejudice which viewed the output of Apuleius as late and decadent is one which is generally discredited in modern ancient novel studies: the Metamorphoses is no longer seen as an incoherent and marginal work in barbarous Latin, but rather as an elegantly expressed, intertextually complex and narratologically intriguing central work of Roman literature. Part of this complexity is the interest of the novel’s characterisation. Some concession was made to this even in the work of B.E. Perry (1967), who while giving a moderate literary value to the Metamorphoses granted that it had some psychological depth, noting (250) that “the tone in which the story is told is often much more serious, more moral and more sympathetic with the thoughts and emotions of the actors, however superstitious or credulous these may be, than in the Greek original” and pointing to “the lifelike portrayal of character and emotion for its own interest as a principal exhibit in many kinds of persons”. Though Perry thought of Apuleius’ novel as a series of interesting short stories rather than a coherent whole, and applied a moralising interpretation with which not all would agree, this is at least an admission that Apuleius’ characters have some of the complexity and realism we might expect of fictional personages in modern novels. In his key book The Roman Novel published three years later (1970),1 P.G. Walsh brought into broader critical play what had been evident to close Apuleian commentators since the Renaissance, namely that the complexity of the characters in the Metamorphoses depended not only on psychological realism but also on the skilful manipulation of literary models. From the 1970s Apuleius’ novel has been viewed with the same 1

Here I record with sadness the death of Peter Walsh on 16th January 2013 aged 89, and pay tribute to his major contribution to the study of the Roman novels and of Latin literature in general.

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intertextual lens being applied to more canonical Roman literature:2 an important factor here has been the production of the Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius (GCA) since 1977, a series which is about to conclude in the publication of Book 11 in 2015, which through detailed attention to the text brought out its literary qualities, the associated series of Groningen Colloquia on the Novel and their published proceedings, and the occasional volumes Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass which likewise accompanied the project. Other work along the same lines is to be found in the journal Ancient Narrative, founded in 2000, and in its important series of Supplementa which largely publish the proceedings of significant conferences. Another important development was the growing appreciation of the sophistication of Apuleian narrative technique in general. Pioneering work was done here in North America, e.g. Tatum (1969), Smith (1972), both reprinted in Harrison (1999), and the elegant treatment of the whole novel in Tatum (1979), as well as in the UK and continental Europe, e.g. Wlosok (1969), van der Paardt (1981), both again reprinted in Harrison (1999), some elements in Hijmans and van der Paardt (1978), Alpers (1980) and Dowden (1982). In 1985 appeared Jack Winkler’s field-changing Auctor & Actor: a narratological reading of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, which put Apuleius’ novel firmly on the map as a postmodern work of narrative tricksiness and ideological ambiguity. It is to this brilliant book that much of modern literary scholarship on the Metamorphoses owes its impetus; though it does not touch the episode of Cupid and Psyche, its exploration of the character of Lucius as both dupe and true initiate has been highly influential. Most of the more important work on characterisation in the Metamorphoses is discussed in the chapters that follow, but I shall here pick out some of the more significant trends and treatments.3 One major area has been the relationship between the characters of Apuleius’ novel and those of Greek and Roman epic, which provided a natural source given its status as one of the few extended fictional genres and as the centre of elite education. In the 1990s epic imitation in Apuleius became a major topic of scholarship, especially in the work of Ellen Finkelpearl (1990, 1998, mostly on Vergil) and Stavros Frangoulidis (e.g. Frangoulidis (1992) on the Odyssey and Frangoulidis (1991) on the Aeneid). The Odyssey has remained an important intertext in the analysis of the characters of the Metamorphoses, as shown e.g. in Montiglio (2007) and 2

For this tendency in novel studies generally see Doulamis (2011). The most extensive recent treatment of characterisation is in the dissertation of Elford (2012), which focusses on the episode of Cupid and Psyche.

3

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Graverini [(2007) 158-73 = (2012b) 141-54]. Likewise the Aeneid has proved a continuing focus of interest as a source for Apuleian motifs and characters: before Finkelpearl this had already been investigated by Walsh (1970) and La Penna (1985), and further articles of significance in this area appeared around the same time as Finkelpearl’s book: Shumate (1996), Harrison (1997), and Graverini (1998). My own approach in a series of articles [now collected in Harrison (2013)] was to propose new epic allusions in Apuleius’ novel, and to argue consistently that these were humorous or parodic, thus suggesting that Apuleius’ prose fiction was self-consciously less serious and elevated than its epic models; here I was following ideas of Apuleian epic parody shared with Westerbrink (1978) and Loporcaro (1992). This was based on the assumption of a learned readership which would recognise and interpret these allusions to the central texts of an elite education in the Roman Empire. Other literary genres have also been seen as contributing to characters in the Metamorphoses: the Greek novel, often used in a spirit of parody [Effe (1974), Graverini (2009)], Greek tragedy [Schiesaro (1988)], Roman love elegy, naturally used especially in Lucius’ affair with Photis [MüllerReineke (2000), Hindermann (2009a,b), Roman drama [May (2006)], Roman satire [Zimmerman (2006)], Roman historiography [Graverini (1997)] and Roman mime [Kirichenko (2010)]. The last-named scholar has provided in his book the most explicit challenge to the now conventional assessment of Apuleian characterisation as the building up of a coherent psychological figure through literary allusion, arguing rather that the impact of the characters in the Metamorphoses derives from their deliberately improvisatory and inconsistent character [for a response see May (2012)]. More generally within classics, discussion of characterisation in Greek and Roman literature often used to start from Aristotle’s approach in the Poetics and especially his statement (1450a) that in Athenian tragedy at least plot takes precedence over character, i.e. that characters do primarily what the plot needs them to do and are only secondarily developed for interest in psychology or realism. This could be seen as specially relevant to drama with its brief time limits, complete reliance on character-speech, and general lack of narrative opportunities for character-building. The modern study of Greek tragic characterisation, however, has plausibly questioned this, stressing individual coherence and realism [see e.g Easterling (1990), Seidensticker (2008)], and modern scholarship in other areas of Greek literature clearly points in the same direction [see e.g. Pelling (1990), which covers epic, comedy, Platonic dialogue, rhetoric and biography as well as tragedy, in all of which subtle and well-crafted

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characterisation of a recognisably modern kind is found]. The study of characterisation has been linked with the recent interest in the ancient analysis of emotion and identity, especially in Gill (1995), which interestingly suggested that in ancient Greek culture a modern-style conception of oneself as an autonomous subjective individual was in tension with a more objective view of oneself as an actor within a community and within a dialogic framework of larger values. This provides some argument for cultural difference in the matter of ideas about characterisation, but does not preclude the search for a rich and plausible psychological and intertextual approach to the construction of literary figures. Apuleius’ novel presents some particular issues and problems in the matter of characterisation. For example, if character is thought of as represented through mode of speech, all the human characters in the Metamorphoses talk in much the same way, even the anonymous and presumably uneducated old woman who is the official narrator of the tale of Cupid and Psyche: though it is possible to detect some elements of her narrative which might particularly appeal to her as a character [see van Mal-Maeder and Zimmerman (1998)], it is framed stylistically with the same attention to literary decoration and intertextuality as the rest of the novel, which constitutes an entertaining irony. Another key question surrounds the figure of Lucius: though he can be treated simply as a character constructed within the story-world, he is also of course the autodiegetic narrator, telling his own story with his own agenda, both actor and auctor in the famous terms of Winkler (1985). The chapters on Lucius here focus on attempting to present him as a coherently framed literary character, but this of course is not the only possible approach. In the area of the ancient novel more generally, the traditional view used to be that such narratives presented stock characters of little intrinsic psychological interest. This has been well deconstructed for the Greek novel in an important recent book by De Temmerman (2014). In the first full study of character and characterisation in the Greek novels as a whole, he argues that the ancient theory of character recognised three opposing pairs of elements: type v. individual, ideal v. realistic, and static v. dynamic, and shows through the application of theory both ancient and modern that these supposedly fixed binary pairs in fact constitute either end of a spectrum over which individual novelistic characters range freely, so that the same character can behave according to a type at one time and more individually at another. Though this volume cannot match the theoretical sophistication of De Temmerman’s work, it too sets out to

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show how complex and interesting characterisation is in Apuleius’ everattractive novel. For the essays in the current volume no ideological line has been imposed, and contributors have been free to offer their thoughts on how the text of the novel presents particular characters. The first section naturally concerns the protagonist Lucius, in the three states that he passes through in the novel: as a human traveller away from home in Thessaly (Harrison, Chapter 1), as an ass moving around central Greece (Tilg, Chapter 2) and as an Isiac initiate in Corinthian Cenchreae (Keulen, Chapter 3). The longer second section focuses on further characters from the main narrative, for example the slave-girl Photis, Lucius’ lover and witch’s apprentice (May, Chapter 4), Lucius’ older relative the Hypatan lady Byrrhaena and her household (Frangoulidis, Chapter 5), the story of Charite and her lover Tlepolemus, which crosses from the main narrative to an embedded tale (Nicolini, Chapter 7), and the robbers who capture both Lucius and Charite and their aged housekeeper who narrates the tale of Cupid and Psyche (Graverini, Chapter 6). The key inserted narrative of Cupid and Psyche receives its own chapter (Panayotakis and Panayotakis, Chapter 8), as do the gods (van Mal-Maeder, Chapter 9): it is sometimes forgotten that the gods in ancient literature are often as fully characterised as any human figure.

A: LUCIUS

CHAPTER ONE LUCIUS IN METAMORPHOSES BOOKS 1-3 STEPHEN HARRISON

1: Introduction This opening chapter treats the presentation of Lucius, the protagonist of the Metamorphoses, in the earliest part of the novel, before he is transformed into an ass towards the end of the novel’s third book (Met.3.24). Its main concerns will be the ways in which the text complicates the issue of Lucius’ identity even before his bestial metamorphosis, and his overall presentation as a character who can be seen to have a significant relation to the author Apuleius, to the implied readers of the text, and to previous well–known literary characters. Books 1-3 are naturally the main opportunity for readers of the novel to assess Lucius as a human character before Book 11, where he returns from animal to human state and enters the cult of Isis.1

2: Who is Lucius? Issues of identity The presentation of the narrative of the Metamorphoses as a first-person experience allows considerable flexibility in the characterisation of its narrating protagonist. Indeed, the text begins with a famous prologue where the identity of the speaker is notoriously unclear: Apuleius the author, an external prologue-speaker and the physical book have all been proposed as possible speakers of this opening section, as well as Lucius himself. 2 When the narrative proper begins in Met. 1.2.1, the identity of the speaker is still unrevealed (he is indeed for most of Book 1 an anonymous traveller on his way to Thessaly), but the reader becomes cumulatively better informed about his identity as the book proceeds. The speaker reveals very early on that his mother’s family are related to the 1 2

Lucius’ character in Book 11 is discussed in Wytse Keulen’s chapter in this volume. Kahane and Laird (2001).

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great Plutarch (1.2.1), which perhaps points to the connections of the Metamorphoses with that writer’s interests in both Isis and Platonism, he surprisingly locates the philosopher’s family in Thessaly rather than Boeotia, showing his incomplete grasp of the geography of central Greece;3 when he arrives at the house of Milo in Hypata, he presents his host with a letter of introduction from Demeas of Corinth (1.22.8), and in the next few chapters we discover that our narrator is indeed Lucius (1.24.6), but only when he is recognised in the market at Hypata by his former schoolmate at Athens, Pythias, now a local magistrate; that he comes from Corinth is only confirmed by his own words at 2.12.3. Clearly we are dealing with a deliberately teasing postponed revelation of crucial information; Lucius is not the only character whose naming is tantalisingly postponed, for the identity of Charite, the narratee of the tale of Cupid and Psyche in 4.28-6.24, is not revealed until well into Book 7 (7.12.2).4 Lucius’ family background, like his name and city of origin, is revealed only gradually. Apart from his links with the family of Plutarch, already noted as immediately revealed at 1.2, it is only near the end of the first book that we find out that his father is called Theseus (1.23.6), and in the second book in the encounter with Byrrhaena, a relative and old friend of his mother, that we learn his mother’s name, Salvia (2.2.8). These names point on the surface to an elite Greek origin and perhaps some links with the Roman gens Salvia:5 but we should remember that we are in the world of fiction, and I have argued elsewhere that the name Theseus is applied to Lucius’ father because of an imitation in the same scene of the humble hospitality offered to that hero in Callimachus’ Hecale,6 while the name Salvia could reflect the theme of salvation in the novel as a kind of anticipation of the ‘saving’ mother figure of Isis in the last book.7 Lucius is the only name we hear of as belonging to the protagonist; it is clearly inherited from the name of the protagonist of the Greek ass-tale as reflected in its summary version in the pseudo-Lucianic Onos. On the one hand, Apuleius’ Lucius is like the Loukios of the Onos and other Greek novel male protagonists (e.g. Daphnis, Charicles, Cleitophon, or Theagenes) in having a single name in the Greek fashion; on the other hand, that name is identical with a ubiquitous Latin praenomen. The novel seems to sit uneasily between these two frameworks of nomenclature: 3

The geographical switch may also indicate that we are moving into the realm of fiction – see Laird (1993) 160. 4 See Lara Nicolini’s chapter in this volume. 5 See e.g. Bowersock (1965), Mason (1983). 6 See Harrison (1997) and section 4 below. 7 See GCA (2001) 72.

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Lucius is addressed as such in the Metamorphoses even in the most formal situations (see the honorific Luci domine at 3.11.1, cited below) where a normal Roman address would use the gentilicium or cognomen,8 though as an elite Greek with a Latin-named mother we might expect him to be a Roman citizen with the tria nomina. Lucius would be a very unlikely cognomen for a Greek incorporating his natal name into the tria nomina (e.g. Plutarch, L. Mestrius Plutarchus): here as elsewhere the novel is careful not to be too socially and historically specific. Likewise, though Lucius is Greek in origin and presumably delivers his speech of selfdefence in Hypata in Greek (3.4.3-7.3), he finds it easy enough to turn to pleading in Latin in the law-courts of Rome at the end of the novel (11.28.6). The character of Lucius seems carefully poised between the worlds of Greece and Rome, perhaps to elicit interest in the widest possible set of readers (Romanised Greeks as well as Romans). Lucius’ elite status is clearly underlined in Books 1-3. Byrrhaena suggests that her relative and foster-sister Salvia made a socially distinguished marriage (clarissimas … nuptias, 2.3.2) and that Lucius’ father was thus of elevated rank.9 This high social position is later confirmed by the magistrate presiding at the festival of Laughter at Hypata in his fulsome apology to Lucius, indignant after the practical joke of a false accusation of murder (3.11.1): neque tuae dignitatis uel etiam prosapiae tuorum ignarae sumus, Luci domine; nam et prouinciam totam inclitae uestrae familiae nobilitas complectitur. “Nor are we unaware of your rank or of your family’s origin, master Lucius: for the nobility of your celebrated family covers the whole province”.

The Roman province here in Apuleius’ period should be that of Macedonia, which contained Thessaly and Hypata; as Lucius comes from the Roman province of Achaia further south (see 10.18.1), the statement implies (no doubt with some encomiastic exaggeration) that his family is of national standing throughout the provinces of Greece.10 The further honours offered by the magistrate, that Lucius is to be inscribed as Hypata's patronus and have a statue erected to him there (3.11.5) are

8

For Latin modes of address see Dickey (2002) 41-76. See GCA (2001) 85. 10 For a convenient map see Alcock (1993) 15. 9

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realistic for the second century empire, and such as would be paid to a Roman grandee.11 In Books 1-3 Lucius’ education is presented as matching his elite social origins. His learning and birth are flattered in a wheedling speech by the slave-girl Photis at 3.15.4: sed melius de te doctrinaque tua praesumo, qui praeter generosam natalium dignitatem praeter sublime ingenium sacris pluribus initiatus profecto nosti sancti silentii fidem. “But I expect better from you and your learning – you who apart from the noble rank of your birth, apart from your lofty intellect, have been initiated into a number of rites and know the fidelity of holy silence”.12

As narrator Lucius occasionally gives us a taste of his learning, both in the first three books and elsewhere: his killing of the three supposed assailants at the end of Book 2 is likened to Hercules' slaying of the three-bodied monster Geryon (2.32.7), the old woman's attempts to stop the girl Charite's escape attempt on the back of Lucius-ass are compared to Dirce's struggle with the bull (6.27.5), a rider of Lucius-ass is ironically referred to as Bellerophon (7.26.3) , and Lucius describes his adventures as an ass as a form of Odyssey, showing that he knows the opening lines of that poem (9.13.4-5). We might plausibly see these as trite and self-important mythological and textual references, as if he is anxious to tell us what he has recently learnt. But the best evidence of his education is the persuasive and highly inventive forensic oration of Ciceronian character which he produces when required to at the mock trial in Book 3 (3.4.3-7.3), just as he is able to earn money easily as an advocate in the Roman law-courts (11.28.6): these are clear signs of a good elite rhetorical education. Elite education is one of the resemblances between the fictional character Lucius and the real-life author Apuleius, which have often been noted;13 the issue must be confronted by all readers of the novel given the spectacular apparent merging of Lucius and Apuleius at 11.27.9 Madaurensem.14 Both come from provincial elites within the Roman 11

See Harrison (2000) 216. Note that he is later rebuked for not living up to his education by the priest Mithras at 11.15.1 (nec tibi natales ac ne dignitas quidem, uel ipsa, qua flores, usquam doctrina profuit), and comments on his own learning in oratory at 11.30.4 (studiorum meorum laboriosa doctrina). 13 See Harrison [(2000) 217 n. 25] with further references. 14 On the links between Apuleius and Lucius in Book 11 see Wytse Keulen’s chapter in this volume. 12

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Empire (N. Africa for Apuleius, Achaia for Lucius); both are highly educated and accomplished sophistic orators (see above for Lucius’ rhetorical skills, while Apuleius is of course the author of the extant forensic Apologia and apodeictic Florida and of a number of lost speeches);15 both are connected with Platonic philosophy (for Apuleius as Platonist see Apol. 10.6 , for Lucius’ connection with the Middle Platonist Plutarch see above)16 and both are initiates of various cults, another elite marker (Lucius: Met. 3.15.4 and Met. 11, Apuleius: Apol. 55.8). The Festival of Laughter in Book 3 seems especially aimed at reflecting the life of Apuleius through events that befall Lucius: there we have an innocent man who defends himself against an invented charge, just as Apuleius (in his own view) did in the court case of the Apologia,17 while the compensation offered of a statue (3.11.5, as already noted, modestly declined by Lucius) might reflect the offers of statues to Apuleius mentioned in the Florida.18 These resemblances do not require that the Metamorphoses should be read as a fictionalised autobiography; though they do point to a date for the novel relatively late in Apuleius’ career;19 we need not follow some earlier readers in believing that Apuleius himself was metamorphosed into an ass (Augustine Civ. 18.18 ), or in holding that Apuleius bore the praenomen ‘Lucius’ to match that of the hero of his novel (he may have done, and the name is supplied as such in many Renaissance and later editions, but there is no ancient evidence for this). Like many modern novelists, Apuleius seems to be adapting elements of his own life and experience in order to make the characterisation of his first-person protagonist more realistic and effective, and to set him in his own contemporary cultural background.

3: Lucius – a (non-) model reader? Very soon after Lucius appears unambiguously in the text as a character, we find him interacting with two unnamed travelling companions, whom he finds arguing about the veracity of an unidentified story one has just told the other (1.2.5-6):

15

See Harrison (2000). For Platonic connections in the Met. see Harrison [(2000) 252-9] with further references and O’Brien (2002). 17 For convenient background on the Apologia see Harrison (2000) 39-41. 18 Cf. Florida 16.36-7. 19 On this issue see Harrison (2000) 9-10. 16

8

Chapter One Ac dum ausculto quid sermonibus agitarent, alter exerto cachinno: ‘Parce’ inquit ‘in uerba ista haec tam absurda tamque immania mentiendo.’ Isto accepto sititor alioquin nouitatis: ‘Immo uero’ inquam ‘impertite sermonem non quidem curiosum sed qui uelim scire uel cuncta uel certe plurima; simul iugi quod insurgimus aspritudinem fabularum lepida iucunditas leuigabit.’ At ille qui coeperat: ‘Ne’ inquit ‘istud mendacium tam uerum est quam siqui uelit dicere magico susurramine amnes agiles reuerti, mare pigrum conligari, uentos inanimes exspirare, solem inhiberi, lunam despumari, stellas euelli, diem tolli, noctem teneri.’ Tunc ego in uerba fidentior: ‘Heus tu’ inquam ‘qui sermonem ieceras priorem, ne pigeat te uel taedeat reliqua pertexere’, et ad alium: ‘Tu uero crassis auribus et obstinato corde respuis quae forsitan vere perhibeantur’. “And while I listened to what they were at in their conversation, one of them, letting out a guffaw, said: ‘Spare me in fabricating those words of yours, so absurd and monstrous!’. Hearing this, I, being usually a thirster for novelty, said ‘No, not at all, let me share in your conversation, as I am not a curious person but the kind who would like to know everything or at least most things; at the same time the elegant pleasure of tales will smooth out the roughness of the ridge we are climbing’. And he who had spoken first said: ‘Indeed, that lie of yours is just as true as if someone were to say that rushing rivers turn back at the whispering of magic spells, that the sea becomes blocked and motionless, that the winds breathe their last and have no breeze, that the sun is held in its course, that the moon loses its dew, that the stars are torn from the sky, that daylight can be removed and night held in place’. Then I said, with some confidence in my words: ‘Hey, you, who contributed the speech before, don’t be ashamed or reluctant to spin out the rest, and to the other You are really rejecting with thick ears and obstinate heart things which may perhaps be truthfully related’”.

This passage presents the reader of the novel with some key questions: should he/she believe the tall tales which its narrators, whether Lucius or the tellers of the many embedded tales, frequently offer in the course of this often fantastic novel? Lucius’ own credulity is clear from the beginning, but is it to be imitated? Though he denies it, his attitude to strange stories reflects his general curiositas, a quality which gets him into trouble in the narrative through his desire to observe magic at close quarters. There is a tension here between the reader’s understandable desire for new stories of entertainment, which matches that of Lucius, and Lucius’ clear gullibility, which the reader is perhaps invited not to share: stories can be novel and worthwhile without being true. Lucius’ gullibility is confirmed by his reaction to the story told by Aristomenes which occupies most of Book 1, a tall tale involving sexual encounters with witches, informal heart surgery and sudden death (1.20.35):

Lucius in Metamorphoses Books 1-3

9

‘Ego uero’ inquam ‘nihil impossibile arbitror, sed utcumque fata decreuerint ita cuncta mortalibus prouenire: nam et mihi et tibi et cunctis hominibus multa usu uenire mira et paene infecta, quae tamen ignaro relata fidem perdant. Sed ego huic et credo hercules et gratas gratias memini, quod lepidae fabulae festiuitate nos auocavit, asperam denique ac prolixam uiam sine labore ac taedio euasi. Quod beneficium etiam illum uectorem meum credo laetari, sine fatigatione sui me usque ad istam ciuitatis portam non dorso illius sed meis auribus pervecto’. “‘I for my part’ I said, ‘think that nothing is impossible, but that all things come out for mortals just as the fates have decided: for many things which are extraordinary and almost unparalleled happen to you and me and all mortals, which might yet be lacking in plausibility when told to one who is unaware of them. But I believe this man, by Hercules, and bear him grateful thanks, because he has distracted us by the amusement of his witty story, and I have in the end emerged from a rough and lengthy journey without effort or tedium. This benefit I think is felt as a joy by that mount of mine too – without tiring him I am carrying myself right up to this gate of the city, not on his back but on my ears’”.

This reaction of Lucius clearly forms a ring with his initial curiosity and gullibility, and once again presents the issue of the pleasure of fiction – need a story be true or even realistic in order to be entertaining? But most striking is his interpretation of the story as light-hearted: here he shows a callow callousness towards the narrator Aristomenes, who has just unburdened himself of a story which tells how Socrates, a good friend of his, was murdered in traumatic circumstances which exposed Aristomenes himself to suspicion and led to his abandoning his family and changing his identity. Notable too here is Lucius’ incapacity to connect this story with his own situation, as he approaches Hypata, a famous city of witches; in the second and third books he deliberately seeks a sexual encounter with the witch’s slave Photis in order to observe her mistress’ magic rites, even though he has heard from Aristomenes of the disastrous consequences for Socrates of sexual involvement with a witch. This is one of several passages in the novel where Lucius is presented as an uncomprehending critic of something said or narrated to him which points to his own life or situation.20 The effect is usually one of dramatic irony for the second-time reader, who is aware of what is going to happen to Lucius in the plot: Socrates’ story of entanglement with an alluring female agent of magic, consequent disaster and complete life-change is in essence the story of Lucius himself, catastrophically metamorphosed as a consequence of his liaison with Photis. We find a similar effect in Book 2, 20

See Tatum (1969 = 1999).

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Chapter One

where Byrrhaena points to a sculptural group of Actaeon being metamorphosed by Diana and says to Lucius (2.5.1) tua sunt cuncta quae uides, “everything you see is yours”. Byrrhaena means to offer Lucius the freedom of her house, but interpreters have persuasively viewed her words as also referring to Lucius’ future fate which is close to that of Actaeon – transformed into an animal through an unlucky encounter with higher powers, though Lucius-ass (despite several close shaves) avoids the bloody death which afflicts Actaeon as a stag.21 The effect on the reader is largely one of sympathy with Lucius, unaware of impending calamity, though the hero’s incapacity to sympathise with or learn from the sufferings of others also characterises him as thoughtless and unintelligent.

4: Lucius – an intertextual (anti-) hero?22 Recent scholarship has made it clear that Lucius’ experiences on his journey to Hypata in Books 1 and 2 are several times presented as parallel to those of the heroes of epic, suitably transformed for a new novelistic context. One key point of comparison, as I have emphasised elsewhere, is the Telemachus of the Odyssey: like Telemachus at the beginning of that epic, Lucius at the beginning of the novel is a young man travelling abroad and learning from various social encounters. This is particularly notable in the encounter with Byrrhaena at 2.2.5-9: ‘Est’, inquit ‘hercules, est Lucius’, et offert osculum et statim incertum quidnam in aurem mulieris obganniit; ‘Quin’ inquit ‘etiam ipse parentem tuam accedis et salutas?’ ‘Vereor’ inquam ‘ignotae mihi feminae’ et statim rubore suffusus deiecto capite restiti. At illa optutum in me conuersa: ‘En’ inquit ‘sanctissimae Salviae matris generosa probitas, sed et cetera corporis exsecrabiliter ad amussim congruentia: inenormis proceritas, suculenta gracilitas, rubor temperatus, flauum et inadfectatum capillitium, oculi caesii quidem, sed uigiles et in aspectu micantes, prorsus aquilini, os quoquouersum floridum, speciosus et immeditatus incessus’. “… he exclaimed: ‘by Hercules, it’s Lucius’ and he gave me a kiss. At once he whispered something inaudible to me in the lady’s ear. ‘Why not approach your foster mother yourself and greet her?’ he said. ‘I’m shy in front of a woman I don’t know’ I said, and at once, suffused with a blush, I stood back with head bowed. But she, turning her glance on me, said:

21

Though Lucius-ass’s encounter in the stables with the aggressive hostility of his own horse (3.26.4-8) could be seen as an allusion to the Actaeon-story, where Actaeon-stag is eaten by his own hounds. 22 In this section I reprise some material from Harrison (1990) and (1997).

Lucius in Metamorphoses Books 1-3

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‘Look at the noble goodness of his virtuous mother Salvia – and other things of a physical kind fit terribly closely: good height without being enormous, slim but sappy, moderate red colour, blond but unaffected hair, green eyes, but watchful and flashing in their gaze, quite eagle-like, a face flourishing in every part, and a gait which is attractive and not artificial’”.

This scene of recognition derives from Odyssey 4, where Telemachus arrives in Sparta at the house of Menelaus and Helen, and is eventually recognised by Menelaus (Odyssey 4.141-50): “‘Never, I think, have I seen such likeness in man or woman – amazement seizes me as I look. This boy is far too much like Odysseus to be any other than his son; surely he is Telemachus, the child that the hero left behind him, a babe in arms, when you Achaeans went up to Troy, planning bold war for the sake of shameless me’. Yellow-haired Menelaus answered her: ‘Wife, your thought has become my thought as well. Odysseus had just such feet and hands; his head and his hair were like this boy’s; his eyes had the same glance’”.23

The naming of the distinguished parent and the enumeration of physical resemblances form a pattern which is found elsewhere, but the fact that the recognition involves a distinguished lady and a callow young man on his travels suggests a specific reminiscence of the Odyssean episode. Apuleius even seems to be providing clever inversions of his Homeric model: the steward who fails to recognise or welcome Telemachus at the palace of Menelaus is replaced by an old man, also a servant, who does both with enthusiasm, while the enumeration of physical resemblances is allotted as in Homer to the second recogniser (Menelaus/Byrrhaena) who, again as in Homer, is the same sex as the parent whom the son is claimed to resemble (Menelaus/Odysseus; Byrrhaena/Salvia) but, against Homer, is not the same sex as the son himself. There is also the question of the subsequent attitude of the recognised young man; in Homer, the prudent Telemachus knows the identity of the royal pair who guess his identity and shows suitable courtesy, his modest reply being given through his companion Peisistratos (Odyssey 4.155-67), while Lucius shows embarrassment in trying to reject Byrrhaena’s polite advances (Metamorphoses 2.2.7). A point is being made here: Telemachus, whose behaviour at the court of Menelaus is a model of good manners, clearly copes with his initiatory travels rather better than Lucius, whose awkwardness here might be seen as symptomatic of the youthful

23

The translations of Homer in this section are taken from Shewring (1980).

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Chapter One

ignorance which leads him through his curiositas to adventures of magic and metamorphosis. Much later in the novel, Lucius famously compares his time as an ass to the informative travels of Odysseus (9.13), and there are moments in Books 1-3 too where parallels (and contrasts) with Homer’s Odysseus plainly emerge. One example is the relationship between Lucius and Milo’s maid Photis. The two find themselves alone for the first time in the low-life situation of the kitchen – Photis is stirring a saucepan and swinging her rear, which arouses Lucius (2.7.4-6): Isto aspectu defixus obstupui et mirabundus steti, steterunt et membra quae iacebant ante. Et tandem ad illam: ‘Quam pulchre quamque festive’ inquam ‘Photis mea, ollulam istam cum natibus intorques! Quam mellitum pulmentum apparas! Felix et certius beatus cui permiseris illuc digitum intingere’. “I was spellbound at the sight, and stood there lost in admiration. The parts of me that were asleep before now stood to attention. Finally I managed to speak to her: ‘My dear Photis,’ I said, ‘how lusciously and attractively you wiggle that wee pot, and your bottom with it! That’s a succulent dish you have in readiness there! How lucky a fellow would be if you let him stick his finger in – he’d be on top of the world!’”

The sexual imagery is crude and obvious, and looks forward to Photis’ encouraging reply and her subsequent sexual athletics. Two elements, the stupefaction of the hero at the sight of her attractions, and his rhetorical congratulations to the one who is to enjoy them, recall and invert another very different meeting of hero and girl in the Odyssey – that of Odysseus and Nausicaa on the beach. In Odyssey 6 Odysseus, cast up naked on the shore after the wrecking of his raft, encounters the princess Nausicaa, and addresses her with diplomatic rhetoric (6.158-61): “… happy in all his being must be the man whose gifts will prevail with you, the man who will bring you home as bride. I have seen no mortal creature like you, no man, no woman; astonishment holds me as I gaze”.

Lucius’ crude physical reaction stresses that the Apuleian scene is a good deal more earthy and low-life than its Homeric model, and that Lucius is a character considerably more interested in the pleasures of the flesh than Odysseus is. Sexual congress follows swiftly and easily between Lucius and Photis; between Odysseus and Nausicaa the wanderer’s compliments in fact lead nowhere.

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Odysseus is not the only famous epic hero of which Lucius in Books 1-3 proves to be a low-life version. Consider Milo’s invitation to Lucius to enjoy his poor hospitality (Met. 1.23.4-6): ergo breuitatem gurgustioli nostri ne spernas peto. erit tibi adiacens et ecce illud cubiculum honestum receptaculum. fac libenter deuerseris in nostro. nam et maiorem domum dignatione tua feceris et tibi specimen gloriosum adrogaris, si contentus lare paruulo Thesei illius cognominis patris tui uirtutes aemulaueris, qui non est aspernatus Hecales anus hospitium tenue. “I beg you not to look with contempt on our small and unpretentious dwelling. You will have the adjoining bedroom here, to afford you decent privacy. Do have a pleasant stay with us. You will add dignity to our house by consenting to stay here, and if you rest content with our small abode, you will bring great credit on yourself, for you will be imitating the virtues of your father’s namesake Theseus, who did not spurn the tiny lodging of the aged Hecale”.

The mention of Hecale at the end of course recalls one of the most famous Hellenistic instances of the theme of humble hospitality, that offered by the aged Hecale to Theseus and narrated in Callimachus' Hecale;24 but the language of Milo's elaborate speech also recalls that of Evander to Aeneas when the latter passes under the humble portals of Evander's modest house on the Palatine (Aeneid 8.362-5): ut uentum ad sedes, 'haec' inquit 'limina uictor Alcides subiit, haec illum regia cepit. aude, hospes, contemnere opes et te quoque dignum finge deo, rebusque ueni non asper egenis.' “When they came to the house, he said: ‘The victorious Hercules stooped into this door, this palace was large enough for him. Dare, my guest, to scorn wealth and think of yourself too as worthy of the god, and come to our sparse circumstances without ill-feeling’”.

The contrast with the two originals is clear and stresses both the low-life environment of the novel and (especially) Lucius’ own low character. Lucius’ miserly host Milo turns out to be too mean to offer him dinner, unlike the generous Hecale, who entertains Theseus with all she has, or the welcoming Evander, who likewise does full justice to a host’s duty. More significantly, Lucius turns out to be an unwelcome and unmannerly guest, 24

GCA (2007) 415.

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Chapter One

seducing his host’s maid without his knowledge and spying on his host’s wife. Though his father is ironically named Theseus, Lucius is too weak and self-indulgent a character to follow the Attic hero’s virtues, or to imitate Aeneas as a gracious guest.

5: Conclusion The presentation of Lucius in Metamorphoses 1-3 shows him to be an ass in waiting: his gullibility and incapacity for effective interpretation suggest that he is asinine in intelligence, his curiosity about magic present him as matching the proverbial inquisitiveness of the donkey, and his interest in the pleasures of the flesh and especially sex makes his imminent transformation into the greedy and macrophallic ass a highly suitable and poetically just development. Alongside this fundamentally disparaging general characterisation, we find also particular inversions of patterns of epic hospitality: while on his travels, Lucius has neither the sense nor the sensitivity of Telemachus, Odysseus, Theseus or Aeneas, and turns out to be a poor guest in the house of Milo (though this matches the poor hospitality he is offered). The opening Books of the novel also offer other, more sophisticated questions about the young man’s symbolic role and narrative identity: how far can he be a figure for the novel’s reader, suggesting possible strategies of reception of its many tall tales, and how far does he resemble the author Apuleius, with whom he shares a good education, sophistic inclinations and status as a member of a provincial elite? Both these topics will emerge again in the Books to come.

CHAPTER TWO LUCIUS AS ASS (METAMORPHOSES BOOKS 3-11) STEFAN TILG

1: Introduction Apuleius’ Metamorphoses is the only extant ancient novel whose hero is – at least for a considerable period – an animal.1 Although in terms of narrated time this period is in fact shorter than the periods when Lucius is in human form,2 it is clearly at the centre of the narrative and receives the most space. More than that, we meet the most persons, hear the most stories, and see the most places with the eyes and ears of Lucius the ass. The kaleidoscopic world of the Metamorphoses unfolds largely in this period, and, as we shall see, this narrative interest is often connected precisely with the particular asinine nature of the protagonist. Our protagonist is not transformed into an ordinary ass with an asinine mind. If that were true, the ass story would be fairly boring, at least by human standards. The whole point about the story is rather that Lucius the ass has a double nature: his body is that of an ass, but his mind remains human, a trope best known to Roman readers by Ovid’s homonymous Metamorphoses. Influences go both ways: one time Lucius’ asinine body will condition his thinking, another time he will try to make his ass body do human things. Much of the ass-man’s characterisation is predicated upon this ‘central joke’, as J. J. Winkler called it.3 An account of Lucius’ character as ass will therefore necessarily have to concern itself a great deal with his double nature and its consequent interplay between human 1

That is if one excludes the epitomic Onos attributed to Lucian, which reflects Apuleius’ lost Greek model. 2 Cf. the remarks on narrated time in van der Paardt (1978) 86-7. The largest span of narrated time is found into Lucius’ life as initiate in Book 11. 3 Cf. Winkler (1985) 149-53.

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Chapter Two

and animal. In a number of passages this play materialises even in language, for instance when Lucius refers to himself explicitly as ‘ass’ or as ‘Lucius’, thus focussing on either his animal or human nature or a combination of both. An extended and significant string of such passages is constituted by Lucius’ transformation into an ass and the remaining chapters of Book 3.4 As these passages also introduce a number of motifs running through Lucius’ further asinine existence, I devote my first section to them (2). The remaining four sections (3-6) elaborate on selected motifs alluded to in Book 3 and add some further topics. I draw related issues together into larger groups and develop my argument from more concrete to more abstract characterisations. A brief conclusion (7) will summarise my findings.

2: Initial characterisations: Lucius’ transformation and his crisis of identity (Met. 3.24-29) As is well known, Lucius as human has taken an insatiable interest in magic. When he learns that his host’s wife, Pamphile, is a master magician able to transform herself into a bird he does not rest until he finds a way to imitate her feat. Lucius starts an affair with Pamphile’s maid, Photis, who agrees to help Lucius in doing what Pamphile does. However, when Lucius applies the magic ointment Photis has given to him, it soon becomes clear that she made a mistake and confused the bird ointment with ass ointment. This is Lucius’ graphic and detailed description of his transformation:5 […] pili mei crassantur in setas, et cutis tenella duratur in corium, et in extimis palmulis perdito numero toti digiti coguntur in singulas ungulas, et de spinae meae termino grandis cauda procedit. Iam facies enormis et os prolixum et nares hiantes et labiae pendulae; sic et aures immodicis horripilant auctibus. Nec ullum miserae reformationis uideo solacium, nisi quod mihi iam nequeunti tenere Photidem natura crescebat. Ac dum salutis inopia cuncta corporis mei considerans non auem me sed asinum uideo, querens de facto Photidis, sed iam humano gestu simul et uoce priuatus, quod solum poteram, postrema deiecta labia, umidis tamen oculis obliquum respiciens ad illam tacitus expostulabam. (Met. 3.24.4-25.1)

4

For further similar passages cf. 4.22.7; 6.29.5; 7.2.4; 7.15.2; 9.13.3-5; 10.29.2; 11.2.4; 11.16.5. For the expression meus Lucius or meus asinus in particular also see Pasetti (2005) 246-8. 5 Translations come from Walsh (1994) with slight modifications here and there.

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“[...] the hair on my body was becoming coarse bristles, and my tender skin was hardening into hide. There were no longer five fingers at the extremities of my hand, for each was compressed into one hoof. From the base of my spine protruded an enormous tail. My face became misshapen, my mouth widened, my nostrils flared open, my lips became pendulous, and my ears huge and bristly. The sole consolation I could see in this wretched transformation was the swelling of my penis – though now I could not embrace Photis. As I helplessly surveyed the entire length of my body, and came to the realization that I was not a bird but an ass, I tried to complain at what Photis had done to me. But I was now deprived of the human faculties of gesture and speech; all I could do by way of silent reproach was to droop my lower lip, and with tearful eyes give her a sidelong look.”

This passage introduces the human-animal divide in a programmatic way. The ego-narrator goes to great lengths to mark the beginning of a serious crisis of identity. He carefully chooses vocabulary which contrasts his handsome former self as human with his new ugliness as ass, and adds some striking touches by using neologisms like crassare (“thicken”) or horripilare (“become bristly”), which both appear here for the first time in Latin. The distance of the experiencing ‘I’ from what it now perceives as its disfigured body is made abundantly clear. Lucius’ predicament is shown by his lack of consolation (nec ullum ... solacium) and salvation (salutis inopia) as well as the fact that, deprived of human gesture and voice (humano gestu simul et uoce priuatus), he cannot even properly express his discontent.6 The four remaining chapters of Book 3 expand on this conflict with pointed and sometimes boldly phrased allusions to the human-animal divide. In 3.25.3, Photis reacts to Lucius’ silent reproach by referring him to the antidote of roses which he should take the next morning. By eating roses, he would “step forth from the ass” and “return to my [i.e. Photis’] Lucius” (exibis asinum statimque in meum Lucium postliminio redibis). In 3.26.1, Lucius makes clear that he is fully aware of his double nature (Ego uero, quamquam perfectus asinus et pro Lucio iumentum, sensum tamen retinebam humanum, “Though I was now a perfect ass, a Lucius-turnedbeast, I still preserved my human faculties”) and starts to think about how he could put it to use, firstly for revenge on Photis (Diu denique ac multum mecum ipse deliberaui, an nequissimam facinerosissimamque illam feminam spissis calcibus feriens et mordicus adpetens necare deberem, “I gave long and serious thought to whether I should end the life of that most 6

Compare the almost parallel reverse description of Lucius’ retransformation in 11.13.2-5.

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Chapter Two

nefarious and abominable woman by kicking her repeatedly with my hooves and by tearing her apart with my teeth.”). Lucius refrains from this idea, mainly because he might still need Photis to help him in his retransformation, and ends up spending the night in the stable. Here he is attacked by his equine comrades and is forced away from the barley – which once more makes him hope to “become Lucius” again soon (Lucius denuo futurus, 3.27.1). To make matters worse, however, Lucius the ass is beaten up by one of his former servants and finally taken away by robbers as a pack animal. His comic attempt to invoke the Emperor is again frustrated by his lack of human speech (nomen augustum Caesaris inuocare temptaui. Et ‘O’ quidem tantum disertum ac ualidum clamitaui, reliquum autem Caesaris nomen enuntiare non potui, “I tried to call out Caesar’s venerable name. I repeatedly declaimed the ‘O’ eloquently and loudly enough, but nothing further; the rest of the appeal, the name of Caesar, I could not articulate”, 3.29.2-3). Book 3 closes with a further play on Lucius’ double nature: when he spots roses in a garden, he first is eager to eat them, but then has second thoughts about “getting rid of his ass” and “stepping forth into Lucius” (si rursum asino remoto prodirem in Lucium, 3.29.7): since the robbers might kill him, either because they suspect him of magic or fear his possible testimony against them, Lucius prefers to be sensible and chews on his ‘bit’ (or on ‘hay’, as other editors have it) “as though he were an ass” (in asini faciem frena [or faena] rodebam, 3.29.8).

3: Food, sex, and an ass’s idea of morality Some of the issues evoked by Lucius’ transformation and the following chapters of Book 3 are central to Lucius’ life as an ass and deserve more comment. Let us begin with the basics. Both food and sex are referred to in the initial passages laid out above, and both characterise Lucius’ further life, if in different ways. First, food.7 When Lucius after his transformation enters the stable he is forced back by his fellow equines from the barley that he himself had earlier provided for them (3.26.8). This seems to imply that he would have eaten the barley if he had not been prevented. A number of further clues demonstrate that the normal diet of Lucius the ass was indeed ordinary animal fodder. The mother of the shepherd boy, for instance, who accuses the ass of killing her son, enters Lucius’ stable and laments that “he is happily reclining in his manger, a slave to gluttony, perpetually stuffing and expanding that greedy, bloated belly” (Et nunc iste securus incumbens 7

Cf. e.g. Heath (1982); Schlam (1992) 99-112; Zimmerman (2008); Tilg (2011).

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praesepio uoracitati suae deseruit et insatiabilem profundumque uentrem semper esitando distendit, 7.27.3). When Lucius stays with a gardener in Book 9, he “could not fill my belly even with the usual fodder” (ne suetis saltem cibariis uentrem meum replere poteram, 9.32.4) because he and his master now shared the same diet of mouldering and bitter vegetables. Clearly the “usual fodder” would have been proper ass food. In 10.29.3 Lucius has to wait before he is admitted to the theatre and finds it “pleasant to munch the luxuriant grass sprouting at the entrance” (pabulum laetissimi graminis, quod in ipso germinabat aditu, libens adfectabam). Finally, the motif of eating roses, present throughout the life of Lucius the ass, befits an animal rather than a human. Of course the fact that Lucius the ass lives on animal food is not very remarkable in itself and can be seen as a realistic element in his characterisation. It is more unusual to see that, whenever there is a particular focus on Lucius’ animal diet, the narrator is keen on stressing his distaste for it and his preference for human food. In fact, the most memorable passages dealing with food show us Lucius the ass stuffing himself on bread and pastries. In 4.22.2-7 the housekeeper of the robbers provides a generous amount of barley, but Lucius points out to the reader that he has never eaten raw barley before and tells how he discovered the bread stored up by the robbers and devoured three basketfuls of it. In 10.13-17, when Lucius the ass is sold to two cooks, his fondness for their pastries even becomes a public sensation. Thus, the motif of food draws attention to Lucius’ double nature and helps to develop the idea of a human soul trapped in an animal body. Regardless of the specific (animal or human) quality of the food, however, it also characterises Lucius the ass as gluttonous and lacking in moderation; for, as Lucius puts it in 4.22.7, “the belly I had to minister to was bottomless” (uentri tam profundo seruiens). On the one hand this greediness is a general element of comedy.8 On the other hand it is also a clear contrast with Lucius’ later life as initiate, in which he learns to restrict his appetite according to religious rules (11.23.2; 11.28.5; 11.30.1). Perhaps surprisingly, sex does not characterise Lucius the ass in the same way as food does. The fact that he points to his increased natura (3.24.6, here meaning ‘penis’) as his sole consolation after his transformation is somewhat misleading. Sex comes up here and there as a motif during Lucius’ asinine life, but compared with food it cannot be said that he is driven by it. The only evidence that could be cited for this is a rather harmless scene in 7.14-6: as a reward for helping Charite out of the 8

Cf. e.g. May [(2006) 143-56] who compares Lucius with the stock character of the comic parasite.

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robber’s den, Lucius is brought to the countryside “where I could sport at will among the herds of horses, and present the owners with a crowd of mule-foals by my superior services in mounting the mares” (ut ... in greges equinos lasciuiens discurrerem daturus dominis equarum inscensu generoso multas mulas alumnas, 7.14.5). No sooner said than done, on the pastures Lucius “began to mark down the mares which would make the most suitable bed-mates for me” (equas opportunissimas iam mihi concubinas futuras deligebam, 7.16.2). The plan is quickly thwarted, however, by the stallions who are not amused by Lucius’ competition and give him another beating. Not only is this scene episodic, but from the way Lucius reports the plan of his owners in 7.14.5 it seems that the initiative was theirs rather than his own. Lucius just has to suffer the comic consequences. Two other passages can be dismissed easily: in 7.21 the accusations of a shepherd boy about Lucius’ alleged sexual assaults on humans are manifestly false; and Lucius’ distress at the suggestion of a peasant to castrate him is only natural (7.23.4-24.1). Of course there is one extended and famous sex scene involving Lucius the ass, his copulation with the Corinthian matron reported in 10.19-22. In this case, however, the initiative is clearly taken by the matron and she first has to overcome Lucius’ hesitations – he calls her “lust insane” (uaesana libido) in 10.19.3. That Lucius eventually enjoys what is happening to him “after so long a time” (post tantum temporis, 10.21.4) can hardly be called ‘revealing’.9 It is true that in terms of literary history the scene of the ass copulating with a woman is a remarkable success story and perhaps a key feature of Apuleius’ Greek model, in which it also occurs. Later, we find it in the recently published fragment of an ass story in P. Oxy. 4762 (3rd century AD), and a medieval scribe was so taken with Apuleius’ version that he added a much more obscene passage of his own, the so called spurcum additamentum.10 But all this does not mean that this sex scene tells us a great deal about Lucius’ character in the Metamorphoses.11

9

So Heine [(1962) 208-13] who argues that Lucius’ compliance ‘unmasks’ his immoral nature. 10 For P. Oxy. 4762 cf. May (2009), for the spurcum additamentum Hunink (2006) (both with references to earlier literature). 11 It is sometimes said that Lucius’ having sex with the matron marks a stage in a gradual process of ‘humanisation’ leading towards his eventual retransformation in Book 11. The idea is usually combined with Lucius’ eating of pastries like a human when staying with the cooks, also in Book 10 [cf. recently e.g. Frangoulidis (2008) 37-8]. I think this reading should be dismissed, not least because it conflicts

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If anything, Lucius’ critical remarks about the matron’s lust in 10.19.3 points to his tendency to moralise, which manifests itself especially with regard to sex. In 7.10-11 he is appalled by the erotic attraction of Charite to the seeming new leader of the robbers (who later turns out to be her fiancé); in 8.29 he condemns the homosexual lecherousness of the priests of Magna Mater; in 9.14, 9.23 and elsewhere we hear his indignation about the promiscuous wife of the baker. This strong moralistic current comes to a head at the end of Book 10, when Lucius first breaks out into a diatribe against corrupt judges. His inspiration is a pantomimic reenactment of the judgement of Paris, in which Paris “sold that first verdict for lustful gain” (originalem sententiam ... lucro libidinis uendiderit, 10.33.1). Following on this pantomime, Lucius is supposed to copulate against his will with a multiple murderess in the arena (10.34). His “shame” (pudor), his disgust at “being besmirched” (contagium) by the criminal and his fear of death at the hands of wild animals in the arena make him flee from the theatre and run towards Cenchreae, where he will soon wake up to his salvation by Isis. Of course there is often self-irony in these moralistic judgements of an ass, and Lucius is the first to draw attention to this.12 But it cannot be said that, as ass, he clearly falls short of his own standards, and judging from the end of Book 10 his disgust for lustful desire even marks the beginning of the end of his asinine life. Compared, for instance, with the ever promiscuous protagonists in Petronius’ Satyrica, Lucius the ass could be called almost chaste. 13 Returning to my initial comparison of the motifs of food and sex, it is small wonder, then, that Lucius’ later religious restrictions leading up to his initiations (11.23.2; 11.28.5; 11.30.1) apply only to food, not sex. During his asinine life, he has developed a critical distance towards sex anyway.

with later events. Lucius’ planned public copulation with a murderess in the arena in 10.34 is as little ‘human’ as his browsing on grass in 10.29.3. 12 Cf. e.g. 7.10.4: Et tunc quidem totarum mulierum secta moresque de asini pendebant iudicio (“At that moment the whole female sex and its morals lay perilously poised on the judgement of an ass.”); 10.33.4: Sed ne quis indignationis meae reprehendat impetum secum sic reputans: “Ecce nunc patiemur philosophantem nobis asinum” [...] (“But I would not wish any of you to censure this onset of my indignation with the unspoken reflection: ‘What? Shall we now endure that ass making pronouncements to us on philosophy?’”). 13 As seen already by Hammer (1926) 242.

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4: Lucius loses his voice In the scene of Lucius’ transformation there was a clear focus on the loss of his human voice and his consequent inability to express his thoughts in any articulate way. The motif was picked up soon again, in 3.29.2-3, when Lucius tried in vain to invoke the emperor. There are a number of further passages in which the ass wants to speak (or write) but cannot. In 7.3.3-4 he attempts to refute a story which accused him of raiding his host’s house himself. Similarly, in 7.26.2, he cannot say that he is not the murderer of the shepherd boy who was in fact killed by a bear. Two passages in the immediate context (7.25.8 and 7.27.5) are variants on the same theme in that other characters imagine that the ass would or would not say something to clarify the situation if he could speak. In 8.29.5 the ass is about to scream foul over the misdeeds of the priests of the Magna Mater, but as usual he is stuck with the first vowel of his bray. Yet another variation of our motif is in 6.25.1, when Lucius wishes he had a pen and paper to record the story of Psyche he had just overheard. These passages clearly exploit some slapstick comedy, but the larger significance of the motif becomes clear from the emphasis that is placed on it in both Lucius’ transformation and retransformation. Immediately after the latter, we see Lucius still speechless, but now because of joy over his regained voice: [...] tacitus haerebam [...] quid potissimum praefarer primarium, unde nouae uocis exordium caperem, quo sermone nunc renatam linguam felicius auspicarer, quibus quantisque uerbis tantae deae gratias agerem. (11.14.2) “[...] I dithered in silence, wondering what it would be best for me to say first, and how I could make first use of my new-found voice; what words I should use to launch auspiciously my tongue reborn, and how and at what length I should express my thanks to the great goddess.”

It has been argued that this passage, despite falling within the middle of the last book, constitutes a new ‘prologue’ (cf. the key words praefarer and exordium) in Lucius’ narrative, which marks the end of his asinine life and the beginning of his life as initiate. 14 In view of this metaliterary implication it could be generally said that the loss and recovery of his own voice is an intriguing motif for an ego-narrator. For what it is worth, the narrating Lucius keeps insisting on the paradox that he is telling the story 14

Cf. Graverini (2007) 57-8.

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of someone who could not speak at the time of the events.15 This paradox is further increased by the contrast between Lucius’ elaborate narrative and the general image of the ass in antiquity as a confirmed enemy of the Muses. 16 At the comic expense of the silently suffering Lucius, the narrating Lucius gleefully parades his own literary artistry. However, there is one problematic exception to the speechlessness of Lucius the ass. At the beginning of Book 11, when he awakes at the beach of Cenchreae and looks at the full moon he immediately starts to pray to the “queen of heaven” (Regina caeli, 11.2.1). This long and elevated prayer, which takes up the whole chapter 11.2, is reported in direct speech and its context makes it difficult to see it just as internal monologue (cf. fusis precibus et adstructis miseris lamentationibus, “I had poured out my prayers and added pitiable laments”, 11.3.1). Ellen Finkelpearl has argued that the influence of Isis (the divine power behind the full moon), which leads up to the retransformation and Lucius’ eventual recovery of his human speech, is felt as early as this first encounter with her and provides Lucius with a voice. 17 Another account could be that Lucius’ real or seeming prayer contributes to the general comic incongruence between the physical reality of the ass and his often high-flown ideas. Perhaps the ass just thinks or dreams that he delivers this prayer. In fact, the way in which it is sandwiched between two periods of sleep18 raises some doubts about its status in the real world.19 On the other hand, the idea of a somewhat surreal speech of the ass which does not follow the logical narrative rules 15 Cf. in addition to 6.25.1 referred to above e.g. 4.6.1-2, when Lucius is about to give a detailed description of the robber’s den: Nam et meum simul periclitabor ingenium, et faxo uos quoque an mente etiam sensuque fuerim asinus sedulo sentiatis (“at one and the same time I shall stretch my mind and also enable you to measure carefully whether I was an ass in thought and feeling as well as in body”); generally e.g. Laird (1990) 147-8. 16 Cf. e.g. the Greek proverbs ਜ਼ȞȠȢ Ȝ઄ȡĮȢ ਕțȠ઄ȦȞ and ਜ਼ȞȠȢ ʌȡઁȢ Į੝ȜંȞ (“An ass listens to the lyre / aulos”). Callimachus makes the ass a metaliterary symbol of his ignorant critics [cf. e.g. Asper (1997) 194-6], and Persius credits a despised audience with auriculas asini (“ass’ ears”, 1.121), reminiscent of Greek mythology in which king Midas got ass’s ears for judging Apollo as the lesser musician. 17 Finkelpearl (2003) 39-40. 18 Cf. 10.35.5: uespertinae me quieti traditum dulcis somnus oppresserat (“I surrendered myself to the silence of the evening, and sweet sleep descended on me”); 11.1.1: experrectus pauore subito (“A sudden fear aroused me”); 11.3.1: rursus mihi marcentem animum in eodem illo cubili sopor circumfusus oppressit, (“sleep enveloped and overpowered my wasting spirit as I lay on that couch of sand”). 19 Cf. e.g. recently Harrison [(2012) 76-7] who also argues for fantasy in this scene.

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would also fit in with a serious reading of our passage as a miraculous religious scene.

5: Lucius the outsider, the overhearer of stories, and the new Odysseus While Lucius the ass cannot speak, he is an excellent observer and listener. Mikhail Bakhtin famously argued that it is precisely Lucius’ position as an outsider to human society that puts him in a privileged position as far as his viewpoint is concerned.20 Since people do not take him seriously and are unconcerned about his presence, he can freely peep into the everyday private life of his surrounding characters. What he sees and hears in this way provides the material which the narrating Lucius later presents to his readers. According to Bakhtin, this privileged standpoint makes Lucius the ass even a forerunner of the picaresque narratives of the early modern period, in which we regularly have (if mostly human) outsiders telling their story from their ‘low’ point of view. A particular case of this general setting is Lucius’ overhearing of stories. From the large number of stories inserted into the framing narrative of the Metamorphoses, only two (Aristomenes’ story, 1.15-9; Thelyphron’s story, 2.21-30) are told to Lucius as human. All the others are picked up by Lucius the ass. This is not only due to the fact that the latter receives more narrative space, but also to the particular viewpoint of the ass discussed above and referred to explicitly in some passages of the Metamorphoses. In 9.15.6, for instance, Lucius playfully praises his big asinine ears because they allowed him to hear more than human ears could ever have done: At ego, quamquam grauiter suscensens errori Photidis, quae me dum auem fabricat perfecit asinum, isto tamen uel unico solacio aerumnabilis deformitatis meae recreabar, quod auribus grandissimis praeditus cuncta longule etiam dissita facillime sentiebam. “Though I was utterly furious with Photis for the error she made in changing me into an ass when intending to turn me into a bird, I was nevertheless heartened by one consolation at least in my hideous deformity: I was endowed with massive ears, and even at a distance I could very easily overhear all that was going on.”

20 Cf. Holquist (1981) 121-9 (from Bakhtin’s essay “Forms of Time and Chronotope in the Novel”).

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Notwithstanding some irony, this consideration clearly draws attention to the advantaged position of the ass as a listener to stories. The most prominent passage addressing this issue, however, comes two chapters earlier, when Lucius finds himself exploited as pack-animal in a mill and reflects on his life. This is a key passage in more than one regard and deserves to be quoted in full: Nec ullum uspiam cruciabilis uitae solacium aderat, nisi quod ingenita mihi curiositate recreabar, dum praesentiam meam parui facientes libere quae uolunt omnes et agunt et loquuntur. Nec inmerito priscae poeticae diuinus auctor apud Graios summae prudentiae uirum monstrare cupiens, multarum ciuitatium obitu et uariorum populorum cognitu summas adeptum uirtutes cecinit. Nam et ipse gratas gratias asino meo memini, quod me suo celatum tegmine uariisque fortunis exercitatum, etsi minus prudentem, multiscium reddidit. (9.13.3-5) “Nowhere at hand was there any consolation for my pain-wracked existence, except that my innate curiosity did something to restore me, for no one took any account of my presence; they all did and said whatever they liked without inhibitions. That godlike creator of ancient poetry among the Greeks, when seeking to depict a man of the greatest circumspection, was justified in singing of him who had attained the highest virtues by visiting many cities and gaining acquaintance with various peoples. Indeed, I myself now gratefully recall my existence as an ass, for when I was concealed in the ass’s covering and was tried by varying fortunes, I gained a knowledge of many things, though admittedly I was less wise.”

Here Lucius explicitly accounts for his vantage point with his position as an outsider who is not taken seriously enough to concern people. His interest in observing his surrounding world is linked with the leitmotif of the Metamorphoses, Lucius’ ‘innate’ curiosity. This, however, is not a characteristic which distinguishes Lucius as ass from Lucius as human. While there is some (not much) evidence for a proverbial attribution of curiosity to asses, and Lucius remains curious as ass, the origin of his curiosity and a greater emphasis on the motif can be found in his preceding human life. Change comes here only with Lucius’ life as initiate, in which he openly breaks with his former curiosity (e.g. 11.15.1; 11.23.5).21 21

For the proverbial use cf. the ‘peeping of the ass’ (੕ȞȠȣ ʌĮȡȐțȣȥȚȢ) found in the fragments of Menander’s Hiereia and reported in the collection of proverbs by Zenobius (5.39). The phrase can also be found in Onos 45. The phrase ਥȟ ੕ȞȠȣ ʌİȡȚİȡȖȓĮȢ (“from the curiosity of an ass”) in the final sentence of the Onos (56) is

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Another intriguing aspect of our passage is Lucius’ comparison with the Homeric Odysseus and his wisdom gained through his travels. On the one hand, this is a prime example of comic incongruence, which characterises Lucius the ass’ outlook on the world: our passage spells out what is implied in a number of episodes and motifs of the Metamorphoses, namely that an ass is following in the literary footsteps of lofty epic heroes.22 On the other hand, the passage suggests that Lucius’ Odysseuslike “knowledge of many things” (multiscientia) derives exactly from his vantage-point under the cover of his asinine hide and manifests itself primarily in the shape of stories he had the chance to see and hear. This is confirmed by the immediately following sentence in 9.14.1, which introduces a string of stories (in the context of which we also find Lucius’ praise of his big ears cited above): Fabulam denique bonam, prae ceteris suauem, compertam ad auris uestras adferre decreui, et en occipio (“From that experience I have decided to let you in on a good story, sweeter than all the others and ascertained, on which I now embark”). It turns out that stories are a defining and delightful characteristic of Lucius’ otherwise mostly tough life as ass. Related to this narrative joy, a further aspect of Lucius’ experience of stories should be considered. Moralistic interpretations of the Metamorphoses often say that Lucius’ reaction to the inserted stories is superficial and misjudges their content.23 While they could serve him as a wake-up call, Lucius exclusively focuses on their entertaining potential. For instance, the enthusiastic comment in 9.14.1, just cited above, introduces an adultery story which could make Lucius think about the role of uoluptas in life, if he were disposed towards such reflections; or the long story of Cupid and Psyche (4.28-6.24), which clearly parallels Psyche’s ruinous curiosity with Lucius’ own, is considered by Lucius the ass as nothing more than a bella fabella (“beautiful story”, 6.25.1). As with Lucius’ curiosity, however, this kind of seemingly superficial reaction is not exclusive to Lucius the ass but continues a pattern established in his former human life. When Aristomenes, for instance, has finished telling his gory tale of witchcraft in Book 1, Lucius is “most grateful to him for distracting us with such an amusing and elegant tale” (gratas gratias memini, quod lepidae fabulae festiuitate nos auocavit, rather an ad hoc coinage modelled on the preceding ਥț țȣȞઁȢ ʌȡȦțIJȠ૨ (“from the bottom of a dog”). For the distribution of the curiosity motif across the Metamorphoses see GCA (1995) 364-5. 22 For the Odyssean model for Lucius’ character and the Metamorphoses in general cf. e.g. Harrison (1990); Graverini (2007) 167-73; Montiglio (2007); Beer (2011). 23 Cf. most prominently Tatum (1969).

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1.20.5). Again the break comes with Lucius’ life as initiate, in which stories are completely absent.

6: Slavery, Isis, and Platonism In the chapters following upon his transformation, Lucius very soon has a defining experience shared with most asses in antiquity: he is beaten and used as a pack animal. There are countless further instances of these motifs in his later life as ass until his arrival in Cenchreae. On the one hand this is a realistic trait in the portrayal of a beast of burden. On the other hand Lucius’ toils and maltreatment as ass also have some figurative dimensions important to the interpretation of the Metamorphoses. Although they do not characterise Lucius immediately at the level of plot, I would like to touch on them at least as a sort of further reading at the end of this chapter. One of those figurative dimensions is slavery. Lucius the ass has often been compared to a slave because there is significant overlap between the perceptions of slaves and pack animals in antiquity and because the narrator himself draws attention to this in his phrasing. 24 In 3.26.8, for instance, he calls his horse his famulus, to whom he becomes a “fellowslave” (conseruus) in 7.3.5. The motif of slavery is also combined with other familiar motifs such as food: further above I have cited 7.27.3, in which Lucius is said to be a “slave to gluttony” (uoracitati suae deseruit). This figurative dimension of the ass picks up on Lucius’ human life, especially his affair with Photis, which revolves around Lucius’ seruitium amoris (“love slavery”, although this phrase, well-known from Roman love elegy, is not used) towards the slave girl Photis.25 At the same time, the slave metaphor points forward to the Isis book, in which Lucius’ “liberating slavery” in the service of Isis will be a central paradox, first alluded to in 11.6.5-7 by the goddess while he is still an ass.26 In the same speech, Isis adds a religious dimension to the ass when she asks Lucius to “shrug off the skin of this most hateful of animals, which has long been abominable in my sight” (pessimae mihique detestabilis iam dudum beluae 24

Cf. e.g. Gianotti (1986) 11-52; Fitzgerald (2000) 87-114; Ávila Vasconcelos (2009) 49-53. 25 Cf. esp. 3.19.5-6, where Lucius declares himself in seruilem modum addictum atque mancipatum (“your willing slave and bondsman”); also 3.22.5: tuumque mancipium (“your slave”). On seruitium amoris in the Metamorphoses see now esp. Hindermann (2009a) 155-76. 26 Cf. later esp. the speech of the priest in 11.15: ad seruiles delapsus uoluptates (“you tumbled on the slippery slope into slavish pleasures”).

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istius corio te [...] exue, 11.6.2). This is very likely an allusion to the theology of Isis, in which the ass is symbolically associated with SethTyphon, the incarnation of evil, who killed Isis’ husband Osiris.27 Finally, considering Apuleius’ Platonist leanings, it is also interesting to see that the slave image ties in with a Platonic condemnation of uncontrollable pleasures. This emerges, for example, from the phrases įȠ઄ȜĮȚȢ … ਲįȠȞĮ૙Ȣ (“slavish pleasures”), assigned to the immoderate soul of the tyrant in the Republic (9.587c), and ਲįȠȞĮ੿ … ਕȞįȡĮʌȠįઆįİȚȢ, said of corporal pleasures in the Phaedrus (258d-e). Another Platonic idea brings us back to a significant motif discussed above and suggests a larger convergence of concrete and figurative characterisations: according to the Phaedo (81e), gluttons will be reincarnated as asses.

7: Conclusion The defining characteristic of Lucius as ass is his double nature as an animal with a human mind. This feature accounts for comic incongruities on various levels: between animal and human appetites, between the physical reality of an ass and the intellectual self-construction of a man, last but not least between experiencing ‘I’ and narrating ‘I’. The scene of Lucius’ transformation into an ass and the following chapters at the end of Book 3 introduce his double nature by alluding to some significant motifs such as food and sex as well as the loss of his human voice. Lucius puts up with animal fodder, but his preference for human food is made perfectly clear. But while Lucius is driven by food throughout his asinine life, the same cannot be said about sex, which rather serves as a target of the ass’ moralising judgements. Lucius’ loss of his voice is to some extent compensated by his privileged position as an observer and listener. As an outsider to human society, people do not take his presence seriously and act and talk freely as if unobserved. Here, Lucius can take advantage of his ‘innate’ curiosity in order to learn about a wide range of human experiences – almost like the Homeric Odysseus, as he comically puts it. At a figurative level, certain phrases and the motif of beating characterise Lucius the ass also as a slave, a motif picked up with religious and philosophical overtones after his retransformation into a man.

27 Cf. Plutarch’s De Iside et Osiride 30–31 (= Mor. 362e-363d); Tatum (1979) 437 and 178-82.

CHAPTER THREE LUBRICO VIRENTIS AETATULAE: LUCIUS AS INITIATE (METAMORPHOSES BOOK 11) WYTSE KEULEN

“The souls of the young slip with extreme ease into pleasure, and are diverted away from the excellent qualities of education” Herodian, History of the Empire after Marcus, 1.3.1 (on Commodus) “Elderly prudence, when mixed in the assembly with boiling youth (driven mad as it is by glory and competitiveness), takes away the manic and excessively intemperate part” Plutarch, Should an old man take part in politics? (13, Mor. 791c)

1: Introduction The question of Lucius’ characterisation as an initiate is closely connected with the question of the interpretation of the Isis book as a whole. In my view, one of the crucial features of Book 11 is the ambivalence in Lucius’ characterisation, developing from the recurrent discrepancy between new, different and difficult standards of religious behaviour and philosophical self-control on the one hand, and the instability of Lucius’ efforts to deal with them on the other. We see Lucius enthusiastically exploring new poses, gestures, and roles as a reborn man and a zealous devotee of Isis, trying to find his new identity as Lucius reformatus, but at the same time his innate impulsiveness and youthful lack of inhibition keep re-emerging, revealing the continuity of his character and behavioural patterns.1 The 1

Gowers [(2001) 85] refers to a Greek ass-proverb (੕ȞȠȞ țİȓȡİȚȢ, “you’re trying to shave an ass” – said of something impossible), and connects this with Lucius’ shaven head at the end of the novel, suggesting that “Lucius’ restoration fulfils a very special kind of miracle”.

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ambivalence of Lucius’ characterisation therefore reflects the tension between continuity and change in the novel’s religious closure. Starting from the highly theatrical nature of contemporary literary culture, this article will approach Lucius’ characterisation in terms of performative acts of self-fashioning (assuming roles, donning masks, making symbolic gestures), which interact with his innate moral and immoral qualities (e.g. curiosity, impatience, etc.).2 Moreover, the associations between Apuleius and Lucius will additionally suggest viewing the ‘role’ of Lucius in the Metamorphoses as the author’s fictional younger alter ego in the wider context of Apuleius’ strategies of selfexpression as a virtuoso rhetor-philosopher.3 Along these lines, this chapter will investigate a number of different manifestations of the ethos of Lucius-actor in the Isis book such as his impatience (Lucius impatiens), his tendency to hesitate and linger (Lucius cunctans), his religious fervour (Lucius ardens), and his new obsession with chastity and pureness (Lucius pudicus). As we will see, these characteristics are vividly captured by a number of emblematic images, which portray Lucius in a key pose or with key gestures that epitomise his new character as a zealot for the Isiac cult, such as the gesture of pudor, with which he covers his genitals after his anamorphosis (Lucius pudicus), his sobbing and rubbing his face on the feet of Isis’ statue (Lucius supplex), or the proud parading of his bald pate at the end of the novel (Isiacus gloriosus). But the chapter will also explore aspects of ambivalence in these symbolical vignettes, created by the instability of Lucius’ characterisation. The tension between continuity and change in Lucius’ behaviour produces cases of slippage, related to a discrepancy between, on the one hand, the serious or religious intentions of his gestures, and, on the other, our continuing perception of Lucius as an impulsive, impatient, curious, and ambitious adolescent, who has a weak spot for beautiful goddesses and their statues.

2

For the importance of masks and role-playing as a metaphor for life (‘life is a theatre’) cf. Lucian, Necyomanteia 16. On the performative nature of Apuleius’ age see Korenjak (2000) 21-22; see also Whitmarsh [(2001) 295-301] on the construction of identity in Roman Greece as an act of performance. 3 On forms of constructing and performing identity in Apuleius, especially the Florida, see Finkelpearl [(2009) 29-30] who observes that the Isis Book “also explores drama, role-playing and masks (literally in the anteludia in Book 11)”. On the wider question of Apuleius’ philosophical self-fashioning, which embraces forms of literary self-expression through a whole range of philosophical, rhetorical, and narrative works, including the Metamorphoses, see Fletcher (2014). For the parallels between Lucius and Apuleius see Harrison (2000) 217-218; 228-230.

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This chapter will also view Lucius’ characterisation as an initiate in the wider context of a story of metamorphosis, education, and rites of passage, and will point to symbolic connections with Apuleius’ biography as an ‘outsider’ from the African periphery who became successful in the Roman centre. Book 11 not only features the re-transformation of a beast into a man (11.13), but also entails a process of Roman integration, socialisation and acculturation, in which the impulsiveness of a young outsider from the margins, who continues to get in the grip of his emotions quite easily, is more and more controlled by a religious and paideutic superstructure. In the Greek provincial location (Cenchreae), this superstructure is personified by the high priest Mithras, who plays the paternal role of Lucius’ educator, and foreshadows the important role of the patron figure Asinius Marcellus in Rome. Ultimately, Lucius finds salvation and integration, which he owes, like Apuleius, in particular to his effervescent rhetorical talent and his superior education – the patron gods Isis and Osiris discover in Lucius a promising talent for the future – but even then, he seems to find it difficult to behave in a moderate way. His proud joy at the closure of the novel paves the way for his role of narrator, who assumes the pose of a possessor of secret knowledge, who decides what to reveal and what not to reveal to his uninitiated reader.4 As we will see, the ethos of Lucius-narrator as a self-assured and fervent pastophorus is also traceable in his narrative choices, e.g. in the elaborate attention to his sudden rise to fame as the goddess’ favourite in Cenchreae, where he is celebrated for his fides and innocentia (11.16), and almost worshipped as if he were a god himself. Apparently, this is how Lucius-narrator likes Lucius-actor to be viewed (“at least in Cenchreae the people immediately acknowledged that I was a god-like star and completely innocent; in Rome things were much more difficult, with gossiping rivals and so on, but through my rhetorical talent and hard work I made it to the top there too”); it is also striking that Lucius neither confesses nor repents of any wrongdoing, or admits any guilt related to his former experiments with magic.5

4

Some scholars consider this pose as irritatingly self-important; see e.g. van MalMaeder [(2006) 261-262] for Lucius’ ethos as a pompous, self-assured, and presumptuous narrator. See also below, n. 43. 5 I do not share Kenney’s view (2003) that considers Lucius’ retrospective critical view of his youthful naiveté and argues that Lucius now would not approve of this semi-boasting. See also below, n. 44.

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2: Lucius pudicus There is a crucial scene in the Isis book, where Lucius appears to have become a very different person from the Lucius from the earlier books, at first sight at least, and from the Loukios that formed his model; the interpretation of the scene therefore entails the above-mentioned questions of continuity and change in a most particular way. Immediately after his retransformation, Lucius realises that he is standing naked in front of the priest and the Cenchrean crowd. Squeezing his thighs together, he tries to cover his genitals with his hands, assuming a modest pose which recalls Photis’ description as a Venus pudica: Nam me cum primum nefasto tegmine despoliauerat asinus, compressis in artum feminibus et superstrictis accurate manibus, quantum nudo licebat, uelamento me naturali probe muniueram. (11.14.4) “for, from the moment that the ass had deprived me of its cursed skin, I had tried to cover myself properly – so far as a naked man could – with sort of a natural clothing, by keeping my legs tightly closed and pressing my hands strongly over them.” in speciem Veneris quae marinos fluctus subit pulchre reformata, paulisper etiam glabellum feminal rosea palmula potius obumbrans de industria quam tegens uerecundia ... (2.17.2) “she beautifully transformed herself into the picture of Venus rising from the ocean waves; for a time she even held one rosy little hand in front of her smooth-shaven pubes, purposely shadowing it than modestly hiding it.”

The most obvious reason why Lucius covers his virility with his hands can be explained by the direct context of the narrative: he has just been turned into a man again, and human decency requires that one covers his naked body with clothes. Yet, in the wider context of the religious closure of the novel, the gesture acquires symbolic connotations, related to Lucius’ new identity as a follower of Isis, who will become member of a cult in which castitas and pudor are central virtues. The adverb probe (“properly”) emphasises the correct, moral nature of his concealing gesture (cf. 11.22.1 probabili taciturnitate), and may reveal the perspective of Lucius-narrator, the Isiac pastophorus. We may see this emblematic image in a dialectic contrast with another emblematic image from the first part of the novel, which more or less presents the opposite gesture. It is Lucius’ provocative gesture of exhibitionism in the already mentioned bedroom scene in 2.1617, where Lucius, who is already quite drunk, uncovers his genitals to

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Photis to make his intentions clear to her, and prays to her, as if she was the Love Goddess, to rescue him: cum ego iam uino madens nec animo tantum uerum etiam corpore ipso ad libidinem inquies alioquin et petulans et iam saucius, paulisper inguinum fine lacinia remota inpatientiam ueneris Photidi meae monstrans: ‘Miserere’ inquam ‘et subueni maturius ...’” (2.16.4) “I was now under the influence of the wine; I was naturally both mentally and physically restless and eager with desire, and I had been feeling the wound for some time: I removed my clothes as far as my loins and showed Photis my impatience for Venus. ‘Have pity’, I said, ‘and come quickly to my rescue ...’”

Whereas Lucius’ exhibitionistic gesture at the ‘Milesian’ beginning of the novel can be interpreted as a satirical emblem of shamelessness,6 his act of pudor at the religious end of the novel symbolises Lucius’ new moral and religious spirit. This gesture of pudor resonates with Lucius’ characterisation in Book 11 as a renatus (16), who has not only lost the hide of the ass, but also appears to have got rid of his asinine qualities of lustfulness and greed, and now directs his youthful enthusiasm towards religious virtues such as castitas and abstinentia (19).7 Losing the animal skin can here be seen in close association with the required Isiac abstinence from animal food. For the devotee of Isis, a central virtue is the religious patientia (below, section 3), to be demonstrated to a better and higher Goddess of Love, Isis, which can be seen in a meaningful contrast 6

For a comparison with the exhibitionistic gesture of Socrates in 1.6.4 an embarrassing gesture paradoxically made out of embarrassment (prae pudore), see Keulen [(2003a) 114-116], who also compares the exhibitionism of Crates, described by Apuleius in Flor. 14.3. Such gestures of self-exposure may function to point at the satirical nature of Apuleius’ fiction, inviting the reader to look beyond surface appearances to underlying values that really matter. The uerecundia of Lucius (1.23) and of Photis (2.17) in the early books can be unmasked as strategies of manipulation rather than genuine modesty; see Keulen (2006) 189. Both the ‘satirical’ and the ‘religious’ poses of Lucius symbolise important aspects of Apuleius’ philosophical self-presentation; on the ‘double nature’ of this self-presentation, also in the Florida (with both Marsyas and Apollo reflecting important sides of Apuleius) and the Apology (cf. Apuleius’ double selfpresentation as an unkempt Cynic on the one hand and his identity of eloquent philosophus formonsus on the other hand), see Finkelpearl (2009) 21-24. 7 van Mal-Maeder [(1997) 108-109] observes different comic resonances in Lucius’ ‘act of pudor’ with relation to the loss of the huge asinine genitals, as if Lucius experiences some kind of ‘castration’.

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with the impatientia Veneris, symbolically demonstrated in the past through an exhibitionistic gesture to the sex goddess Photis. Moreover, this newly acquired pudor, visually demonstrated before the Cenchrean crowd, resonates with the fides and innocentia that define Lucius’ image among the people from Cenchreae, where he quickly rises to stardom as the goddess’ favourite (11.16.2). Whereas the Cenchreans actually believe in the idealised image of Lucius pudicus, which is constructed and cherished by Lucius himself (as actor and narrator), the reader notices the incongruity with Lucius’ characterisation from the earlier books, where he was hardly characterised by pudor, fides, or innocentia. A reader who was familiar with the Greek ass-story may also have recognised a significant contrast with the characterisation of Loukios, who after his re-transformation is described as “naked” (Onos 54) and does not conceal his genitals. Even after his re-transformation, Loukios remains interested in sex and pays an unsuccessful visit to the lady who had slept with him when still possessing his asinine endowment; after he strips before her, she ridicules him for lacking the ‘mighty symbol of the ass’ (Onos 56). In Apuleius’ Latin version of the story, the symbolic gesture of pudor, a typically Roman virtue, not only underscores the different characterisation of his Lucius compared to Loukios, but also reflects the different religious ending of the Latin novel compared to the Greek model. After slipping out of the hide and role of the ass, this Lucius dons a different mask and makes different symbolic gestures. What seems hard for Lucius-actor, especially in the beginning, is the castitas related to food and drink, not the castitas related to sex (see below, the section on Lucius cunctans). The notion of purity in Book 11 is strikingly unrelated to sexual abstinence, unlike other Isiac passages from Latin literature;8 instead, it exclusively refers to ritual cleanness, abstinence from food and moral purity.9 In spite of his initial difficulties, we see later on that Lucius enthusiastically refrains from unholy food and even prolongs his abstinence on a voluntary basis.10 This ethos of the effervescent devotee who is “more Catholic than the pope” foreshadows the self-assured behaviour of Lucius the pastophorus, chosen by Osiris. At 8

Especially elegy, cf. Tib. 1.3.26: dum sacra [Isidis] colis ... te ... puro secubuisse toro; Prop. 4.5.34: ubi ... uenerem promiseris ... fac simules puros Isidis esse dies. 9 These virtues are exemplified by the priest, cf. 11.21.3: uir ... grauis et sobriae religionis obseruatione famosus. 10 Cf. 11.30.1: inanimae protinus castimoniae iugum subeo et lege perpetua praescriptis illis decem diebus spontali sobrietate multiplicatis (“I immediately submitted to the yoke of an abstemious and meatless diet, multiplying out of voluntary continence those ten days prescribed by everlasting law”).

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the end of the novel, Lucius’ parading as a bald priest could be viewed as another emblematic image of purity and chastity, a performance by which he proudly demonstrates that he has now truly been transformed into a Lucius pudicus (11.30.5).11

3: Lucius impatiens Even after his salvation and re-transformation, Lucius has not entirely left the slippery path of youth, which had got him into trouble before. As an impulsive young man, Lucius still runs the risk of going astray and lapsing into forms of irreverent behaviour – exactly the kind of behaviour which had led to his metamorphosis into an ass. There is a striking continuity between the earlier books and the final book regarding Lucius’ characterisation as a rash young man, who is burning to know things which are beyond the grasp of human knowledge. The only thing that seems to have changed is that his thirst for knowledge about magic has been replaced by a burning religious fervour. Lucius addresses Photis (3.19) and the priest of Isis (11.21) with very similar entreaties: praesta quod summis uotis expostulo, et dominam tuam, cum aliquid huius diuinae disciplinae molitur, ostende. cum deos inuocat, uel certe cum reformatur, uideam: sum namque coram magiae noscendae ardentissimus cupitor. (3.19.3-4) “Grant me something I clamour for with all my heart, and show me your mistress, when she sets in train something of this divine discipline. Let me see her when she invokes the gods, or at least when she changes her shape: for I have the most fervent desire to know magic at first hand.” Nec minus in dies mihi magis magisque accipiendorum sacrorum cupido gliscebat summisque precibus primarium sacerdotem saepissime conueneram petens, ut me noctis sacratae tandem arcanis initiaret. (11.21.2) “What’s more, my desire to receive the rites of initiation increased more and more, and with urgent entreaties I approached the high priest time and

11 See Appendix 4.2.3 in GCA [(1985) 288-289] on the relation between the desire for cleanness and purity (țȐșĮȡıȚȢ) and baldness. For the ambivalent meaning of the bald pate as an important aspect of Lucius’ new way of life, dress and personal appearance, illustrating the contemporary phenomenon of physical transformation as the embodiment of ‘conversion’, see Egelhaaf-Gaiser (2012).

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Chapter Three time again, asking him to initiate me at long last into the secret mysteries of the holy night.”12

We see Lucius here vividly characterised by impatience and lack of inhibition (in dies mihi magis magisque), nagging insistence (saepissime) and childish gullibility (with tandem revealing the ethos of the impatient adolescent: “when will my big day finally arrive?”). Clinging to the reassuring sign of the restoration of his servants and white horse, which confirmed a prophetic dream (11.20.7), Lucius feels inspired to serve Isis even more diligently (11.21.1: quo facto idem sollicitius sedulum colendi frequentabam ministerium, “after this event I assiduously performed the same diligent service of worship even more effectively”), because he expects this will bring him more beneficia, perhaps even more lucrum in the future.13 Yet, the comparative sollicitius has ambivalent connotations, since it expresses also something of the (over-)anxiety felt by Lucius (cf. 11.21.3: anxium ... animum), which the serene old priest tries to soothe. Here, the narrator uses the vivid image of the father soothing the child: at ille, uir alioquin grauis et sobriae religionis obseruatione famosus, clementer ac comiter et ut solent parentes inmaturis liberorum desideriis modificari, meam differens instantiam, spei melioris solaciis alioquin anxium mihi permulcebat animum. (11.21.3) “But he, in general a serious man and famous for his conscious observance of a pure religious practice, putting off my insistence in a mild and kind manner and in the way parents usually restrain the premature desires of their children, started to soothe my mind, which was anxious anyhow, with the solace of hope for a better future.”

The contrast between the premature desires and anxieties of the young Lucius (the ‘child’) and the religious sagacity of the priest (the ‘father’)14 is emblematic for the rite de passage that Lucius undergoes on more than

12

For Lucius’ burning desire to be initiated cf. also 11.22.2: diem mihi semper optabilem; 11.22.3: maxumi uoti; 11.22.6: dies uotis adsiduis exoptatus. 13 For Lucius’ keenness on lucrum cf. 11.20.3: lucrum certum ... anxius et in prouentum prosperiorem attonitus; 11.20.7: lucrosae pollicitationis. Lucius’ journeys through Greece seem to have to do with some kind of business, cf. 1.2.1: ex negotio. 14 Cf. 11.25.7: meum iam parentem, where Lucius again acknowledges that the priest is a father figure for him. The use of the adjective inmaturus shows the perspective of Lucius-narrator on Lucius-actor.

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one level in the religious closure of the novel.15 It also implies an equation between youth, lack of self-control (which lies in the nature of youth) and irreligious behaviour, and this equation forms the core of the priest’s warning in 11.21. The priest uses several terms that compare Lucius’ conduct with irreverent or even sacrilegious behaviour, like instantia (11.21.3; cf. 11.22.1: impatientia), auiditas, contumacia, and festinatio,16 which are set in contrast with terms that represent religious virtues, like patientia (11.21.5; cf. 11.22.1: obsequium) and temperantia (11.21.9: temperarem; cf. 11.19.3: abstinentiam; 11.22.3: uenerabili continentia).17 The core of the priest’s admonition is a warning that a sacrilegious refusal to obey the orders of the goddess can be fatal: Quae cuncta nos quoque obseruabili patientia sustinere censebat, quippe cum auiditati contumaciaeque summe cauere et utramque culpam uitare ac neque uocatus morari nec non iussus festinare deberem. nec tamen esse quemquam de suo numero tam perditae mentis uel immo destinatae mortis, qui, non sibi quoque seorsum iubente domina, temerarium atque sacrilegum audeat ministerium subire noxamque letalem contrahere; nam et inferum claustra et salutis tutelam in deae manu posita ... (11.21.5-6) “And he ruled that we initiates should also submit to all these things with due patience, because I should guard most carefully against overenthusiasm and obstinacy, and avoid both sins, so as not to delay when summoned nor to hasten unbidden. But he said that no one from his clergy was of such reckless mind, or rather so determined to die, that he would dare to undertake this ministry in a rash and sacrilegious spirit – unless also his mistress would command him in particular – and thus to inflict a deadly guilt on himself; for both the gates of the Underworld and the guardianship of life were in the hands of the goddess...”

15 For a reading of the Metamorphoses in terms of a series of rites of passage of Lucius (e.g. the Risus Festival in Book 3, the Corinthian ‘society of pleasure’ in Book 10, and the strict cult of Isis and Osiris in Book 11), see Habinek (1990). 16 Cf. 11.19.3: festinans; 11.21.5: festinare; 2.6.3: festinus denique et uecors animi ... ad Milonis hospitium perniciter euolo. 17 For abstinentia and patientia as virtues of the wise man, cf. Apul. De Plat. 2.20 [247]: abstinentia atque patientia; here, patientia has a specific religious sense of awaiting future things with confidence (cf. 11.21.3: spei melioris solaciis), without undertaking anything precipitately (ThLL s.v. patientia 714.38-53). For a close parallel from Christian literature cf. Cypr. Epist. 19.1: ut temeraria festinatione deposita religiosam patientiam deo praebeant. Apuleius often uses religious terms which later become key-words used by Christian authors in religious controversies, like obstinatio and praesumptio (cf. 9.14.5: sacrilega praesumptione; 10.26.5: obstinatione sacrilega, with GCA (2000) 329.

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The priest’s emphatic warning to Lucius that he should wait until he receives a divine summons to be initiated suggests, then, that his present impatience, expressed through his ardent entreaties to be initiated, can be interpreted as a continuation of his improper behaviour from the earlier books. Moreover, there are striking verbal similarities between the irreverent rashness, which Lucius is told to avoid here, and Psyche’s sacrilegious curiosity, as she wants to pry into forbidden knowledge of the divine18: Psyche opens the box with divine beauty brought from the Underworld) et repetita atque adorata candida ista luce, quanquam festinans obsequium terminare, mentem capitur temeraria curiositate. (6.20.5) “Having regained and worshipped the bright light of day, despite her haste to complete her mission, her mind was overcome by reckless curiosity.”

Lucius’ impatient zeal to be initiated is like the curiosity of the uninitiated, who are not allowed yet to learn the content of sacred books (11.22.8: a curiositate profanorum lectione munita) and have to wait patiently until they are initiated into the mysteries. Like Psyche, Lucius will risk lethal punishment if he gives in to his curiosity and does not heed divine instructions (11.21.6: noxam ... letalem; 6.21.1: infernus somnus ac uere Stygius). The sobrietas of the priest forms a striking contrast with the characterisation of Lucius, whose eagerness and impatience are associated with auiditas (cf. 11.21.5), which is almost a synonym of cupido or cupiditas, referring to Lucius’ desire to be initiated, and also suggests more literal connotations with immoderate appetite. In this context, it is significant that temperance in character and temperance in food seem to go hand in hand in the priest’s instructions for Lucius:

18 Earlier, Cupid had already warned Psyche for the sacrilegious curiosity, with which her sisters tried to infect her (5.6.6): identidem monuit ac saepe terruit, ne quando sororum pernicioso consilio suasa de forma mariti quaerat neue se sacrilega curiositate de tanto fortunarum suggestu pessum deiciat nec suum postea contingat amplexum, “But he warned her again and again, and often threatened her, lest she ever be persuaded by her sister’s pernicious advice to try to find out about her husband’s face, or lest by her sacrilegious curiosity she hurl herself down from such a height of fortune, and never feel his embrace again”. Cf. 6.21.4: Ecce … rursum perieras, misella, simili curiositate “See ... you almost destroyed yourself again, poor girl, by your incurable curiosity”.

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nec secus quam cultores ceteri cibis profanis ac nefariis iam nunc temperarem, quo rectius ad arcana purissimae religionis secreta peruaderem (11.21.9) “and just like the other worshippers I should now already exercise moderation in polluted and unlawful foods, in order that I might penetrate by a straighter route to the secret mysteries of the purest faith.”

The association between immoderate behaviour and gluttony points to another aspect of continuity in Lucius’ characterisation. As a sophisticated man about town, Lucius likes the joys and pleasures of human life, especially food (notably, as an ass, he was initiated into a cult of pleasure in Corinth).19 Temperance in character and temperance in food go hand in hand (11.21.3; 11.21.9): with both, Lucius seems to have some difficulties, and this may be an important reason why he is afraid of the castimoniae (11.19.3). In the De Platone (2.3), Apuleius places abstinentia and intemperantia as two middle terms between the virtue pudicitia and the vice libidinosa uita.20 Lucius is admittedly far removed from the life of lust led by the miller’s wife (9.14), but he has still a long way to go before he can become a true Lucius pudicus (see above). Yet, Lucius turns out to be very sensitive to the priest’s argument that abstinence from food and wine is his ticket to the secret mysteries (11.21.9).

4: Lucius cunctans In spite of his religious zeal, Lucius’ attitude is torn between two extremes, a strong eagerness to get involved in the cult on the one hand, and a fear of the religious restraints to be imposed upon him on the other hand. Thus, Lucius keeps fluctuating between ambition and anxiety, which seem produced both by a deep sense of insecurity about his future and an unwillingness to give up old habits. This sense of insecurity and instability marks Lucius’ characterisation at the opening of Book 11 (pauore subito), and remains traceable throughout almost until its end21: 19

See Tilg, Chapter 2 in this volume. For possible hints to Lucius’ characterisation as a smart city-dweller with an extravagant lifestyle cf. 11.28.1: erogationes urbicae with the Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius (2015) ad loc., comparing 7.6.3: urbicae luxuriae; Mart. 1.53.3: urbica … Tyrianthina. For Lucius as a man about town with a taste for meat and expensive clothing cf. 11.23.2: cibariam uoluptatem and 11.28.4: uoluptati struendae. 20 See GCA (1995) 139. 21 For other moments of anxiety or insecurity cf. 11.26.4: mirabar, quid rei temptaret, quid pronuntiaret futurum (“I wondered what business she was

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Chapter Three At ego quanquam cupienti uoluntate praeditus tamen religiosa formidine retardabar, quod enim sedulo percontaueram difficile religionis obsequium et castimoniorum abstinentiam satis arduam cautoque circumspectu uitam, quae multis casibus subiacet, esse muniendam. Haec identidem mecum reputans nescio quo modo, quamquam festinans, differebam. (11.19.3) “But although I was possessed of an eager disposition, nevertheless I was discouraged by reverent fear, because, of course, I had been informed through careful inquiry that compliance to the religion is difficult and that restraint consisting of abstinence is quite arduous, and that a life, which lies exposed to many accidents, must be safeguarded with careful circumspection. As I was reflecting on these again and again, in some strange way I procrastinated, in spite of my impatience.”

The Apuleian joke with the expression religiosa formido (occurring only here) is that, at first sight, Lucius seems inhibited by religious awe, but then actually turns out to be afraid of religio, in the sense of the observance of strict religious rules and restrictions concerning drink, food, and sex.22 As a young bon vivant (see above), he is unfamiliar with this kind of discipline, in contrast with the high priest, who is a uir alioquin grauis et sobriae religionis obseruatione famosus (11.21.3: “a serious man and famous for his conscious observance of a pure religious practice”).23 Not submitting to divine ordinance is described by the priest as a twofold religious sin (11.21.5: utramque culpam), which Lucius could commit either by hastening to be initiated while unbidden (non iussus

initiating, what event she was proclaiming to come ...”); 11.29.3: quo me cogitationis aestu fluctuantem ad instar insaniae percitum sic instruxit nocturna diuinatione clemens imago (“While I was tossed on this tide of speculation and excited to the point of madness, a kindly nocturnal apparition instructed me thus ...”). 22 Apuleius plays with the ambivalent sense of religio, which, on the one hand, is a synonym of formido in the sense of ‘religious awe’ (cf. Lucr. 5.1218: cui non animus formidine diuom contrahitur; Sen. Nat. 6.29.3: ubi formido mentes religione mixta percussit), and on the other hand means ‘religious rule’ or ‘taboo’ (that which is prohibited), which refers here to the rules of chastity (religionis obsequium et castimoniorum abstinentiam). For Apuleius’ use of an adjective instead of an objective genitive cf. e.g. 1.19.2: caedis humanae. 23 Compare St. Augustine’s repeated doubts about his own abilities to exercise the necessary self-restraint for Christianity (e.g. Conf. 8.7.17-18; 10.30.41-47). See Shumate [(1996a) 248-9] for a comparison between Lucius and Augustine regarding their difficulties in embracing a new religious perspective because of a kind of slavery to old habits and cognitive paradigms.

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festinare), or by delaying while being summoned (uocatus morari). Lucius appears to embody the latter sin at several points in Book 11, where he seems reluctant to heed the command of the goddess (at least in the eyes of the priest), or keeps lingering at a place although the goddess instructs him to move on (11.24.5; 11.26.1; see also below, section 5).24 After the priest’s warning in 11.21, Lucius seems to have improved, as he stops pressing Mithras to be initiated, and in his own view, his behaviour is no longer characterised by impatientia (11.22.1). However, as soon as Isis reveals to him in a dream that the day of his first initiation has come, Lucius is again driven by his old insistence, which has now grown even stronger (11.22.5: solito constantius destinaueram iam uelut debitum sacris obsequium flagitare, “I had decided that I would demand more insistently than usual my acceptance as a follower, because it was a holy duty”). There is not only a clash between Lucius’ impudent resolution and the all-knowing authority of the priest,25 but also a discrepancy between the way Lucius’ behaviour is perceived by himself and by the priest. For Mithras, who is aware that Isis has fixed this day for the first initiation, presents a completely different perspective on Lucius, and does not perceive him as persistent or pushy at all, but as half-hearted and inert, thus putting him in his place: et ‘Quid’ inquit ‘iam nunc stas otiosus teque ipsum demoraris? Adest tibi dies uotis adsiduis exoptatus, quo deae multinominis diuinis imperiis per istas meas manus piissimis sacrorum arcanis insinueris.’ (11.22.6) “He also added: ‘Why are you staying idle now, why are you lingering? Here comes for you the day you have always desired in your constant prayers, in which you will be introduced to the holiest secrets of our sacred rites, thanks to the divine commands of the goddess with many names and through these hands of mine.’”

Terms like otiosus and manus not only underline the paternal authority of the priest, who is responsible for educating and disciplining Lucius (11.21.3), but also give a Roman dimension to this pedagogic relationship. The priest seems to observe in Lucius a disobedient young man who is 24 There is a foreshadowing of this incongruity in 11.12.2: although the goddess had explicitly ordained him to act incunctanter (11.6.2), Lucius – still an ass – is able to restrain himself, and does not display asinine festinatio but human cunctatio: nec … inclementi me cursu proripui, … sed placido ac prorsus humano gradu cunctabundus … sensim inrepo (“I did not spring forth at an inelegant run ... but I creep in gradually and hesitatingly with calm and absolutely human steps”). 25 Fredouille [(1975) ad loc.] compares this passage to a scene from comedy.

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devoted to leisure (otiosus),26 and now has to be disciplined into the negotia of the cult. The priest’s hands (manus) symbolise the knowledge and attention given by the priest as educator to his young initiate (cf. 2.3.1: meis istis manibus educaui), but also embody his absolute claim on Lucius as a father-like authority, who will lead the young Lucius to manhood/initiation, requiring unconditional submission. In this context, the emblematic image of the older man laying on his hand on a younger man (cf. 11.22.7: iniecta dextera; 11.23.4: arrepta manu) gives vivid expression to Lucius’ position in a new religious and social hierarchy.27 The verb demorari (like morari and commorari) indicates Lucius’ reluctance to carry out his parent’s orders immediately (which is, again, observed through the eyes of the priest), a reluctance which acquires an additional religious dimension here, in terms of unwillingness to submit to divine instructions.28

5: Lucius ardens After his first initiation, too, Lucius finds it quite difficult to discipline himself to the strict orders of the cult. Again we see his innate tendency to linger somewhere longer than necessary, and his yielding to a fascination with divine statues, as he gazes at Isis for several days (11.24.5). Scholars have rightly pointed out the parallel between his fascination for Isis’ appearance (also reflected in the ecphrasis of her epiphany in 11.3-4, with the allusion to Venus anadyomene) and his fascination for Photis; in both cases, a Venus-like figure inspires Lucius with emotions of pleasure and delight. Lucius’ fascination for Venus-like figures is also palpable in the intense pleasure he feels while watching the pantomime dancer 26

Looking at Lucius through the eyes of the priest, a Roman reader could connect Lucius’ characterisation as otiosus with the behaviour of the young Greek, who had once travelled to the luxury retreat of Hypata, cf. 2.19.6: certe libertas otioso (thus Hanson; F otiosa), et negotioso quidem aduenae Romana frequentia (“indeed we offer freedom for the man of leisure, the bustle of Rome for the travelling businessman”). Note, however, that Lucius himself mentions ex negotio as the motive of his journey (1.2.1). 27 Cf. the ‘manus iniectio’ performed by Milo on Lucius in 1.26.2: iniecta dextera clementer; 3.10.3; 3.12.5. Significantly, Lucius tries to resist Milo’s claiming gesture in two of these three cases, which shows the defiant character of a young man towards paternal authority (1.26.2: dum cunctor, dum modeste renitor; 3.10.3: me renitentem). It is important to note that the right hand of the priest holds the sistrum with the roses (11.6.1) and that the goddess tells Lucius to kiss the hand as an expression of religious awe (11.6.2). 28 Cf. 10.3.1 nec adulescens aegrae parentis moratus imperium.

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impersonating Venus in 10.31.1-2 and 10.32.1-2. Even if erotic delight and religious joy are not identical emotions, they are very similar, as is clear in Lucius’ case, especially in the overwhelming intensity with which he experiences them. This is also underlined by a possible Lucretian reminiscence in the phrase that depicts Lucius’ burning desire to be initiated in Isis’ mysteries (11.21.2: nec minus in dies mihi magis magisque accipiendorum sacrorum cupido gliscebat, “what is more, my desire to receive the rites of initiation increased more and more”): possibly alluding to Lucretius’ description of erotic sufferings, which impedes any emotional attachment, Apuleius may suggest that Lucius “hopelessly falls in love with Isis”, but is unable to find the proper measure and the behaviour appropriate to a member of the cult.29 Lucius’ gazing at an artistically well-crafted statue of a goddess and actually believing that this is the divinity herself embodies a common feature of pagan religion.30 As an initiate, Lucius remains true to himself, but also shows some aspects of change, if we compare his behaviour to some passages from Book 2. At the beginning of the second book, in a similar way, Lucius took great aesthetic pleasure in looking at the statue group of Diana and Actaeon again and again. In both Book 2 and 11, Lucius’ staring at statues of goddesses is presented as an expression of religious awe through the adjective uenerabilis (2.4.3; 11.20.4), which underlines the continuity in characterisation of Lucius as a religious spectator. Another aspect of continuity is the notion of uoluptas (11.24.5: inexplicabili uoluptate), which at the same time reflects a change in outlook, a development from aesthetic pleasure to religious ecstasy. Ecce lapis Parius in Dianam factus tenet libratam totius loci medietatem, signum perfecte luculentum, ueste reflatum, procursu uegetum, introeuntibus obuium et maiestate numinis uenerabile. (2.4.3) 29

Cf. Lucr. 4.1069: inque dies gliscit furor atque aerumna grauescit, in the middle of a famous passage that depicts the dangers, sufferings and illusions of Love. 30 Cf. Liv. 45.28.5: Iouem uelut praesentem intuens motus animo est; Plin. Nat. 36.21 (a Pygmalion-like story about the statue of Aphrodite on Knidos) aedicula eius tota aperitur, ut conspici possit undique effigies deae, fauente ipsa, ut creditur, facta. The adoration of statues met with criticism, especially of Christians (but their criticism reflects a wider debate); cf. Min. Fel. Oct. 22.1: quis ergo dubitat horum imagines consecratas uulgus orare et publice colere, dum opinio et mens imperitorum artis concinnitate decipitur, auri fulgore praestringitur, argenti nitore et candore eboris hebetatur (“who can doubt that it is to their consecrated images that the common folk offer prayer and public worship, while the fancy and judgment of the uncritical is at the mercy of artistic finish, dazzled by the glitter of gold, lulled to the rest by the sheen of silver, and the whiteness of ivory”).

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Chapter Three “My attention was drawn to a piece of Parian marble made into the likeness of Diana, occupying in balance the centre of the whole area. The statue gleamed brilliantly, with her garment breeze-blown, vividly running forward, coming to meet you as you entered, awesome with the sublimity of her godhead.” dum haec identidem rimabundus eximie delector ... (2.5.1) “As I repeatedly ran my eye over this scene with intense delight ...” nec tamen me sinebat animus ungue latius indidem digredi, sed intentus in deae specimen pristinos casus meos recordabar. (11.17.5) “Yet, my enthusiasm did not allow me to go away from there any further than a nail’s width, but keenly intent on the statue of the goddess I recalled my former tribulations.” narratis ... meis propere et pristinis aerumnis et praesentibus gaudiis me rursum ad deae gratissimum mihi refero conspectum ... (11.19.1) “After I had speedily described both my previous misfortunes and my present joys, I went back again to the contemplation of the goddess, which was my greatest delight.” (Isis’ statue) Ac dum, uelis candentibus reductis in diuersum, deae uenerabilem conspectum adprecamur ... (11.20.4) “Then the gleaming white curtains were drawn apart and we prayed to the venerable vision of the goddess ...” paucis dehinc ibidem commoratus diebus inexplicabili uoluptate simulacri diuini perfruebar, inremunerabili quippe beneficio pigneratus. (11.24.5) “After this, I lingered there for a few days and I fully enjoyed the immense delight of the divine statue, as being pledged to the goddess by an act of kindness that cannot be repaid.”

With the adjective irremunerabilis, Lucius indicates that his staring in awe at Isis’ image can only be an inadequate substitute for something else. He is conscious of the fact that he is supposed to thank Isis in a different way, but is not able to do so through his own limitations. In view of this, his lingering (commoratus) and gazing becomes ambivalent: on the one hand, it comes close to irreverent behaviour, as we observed above in section 4 (cf. 11.21.5: morari); on the other, it is Lucius’ means of expressing his truly felt religious yearning. As a matter of fact, Isis responds with

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impatience to Lucius’ indecision (similarly to the priest in 11.22), which shows that his lingering seems to irritate her. When she finally (tandem) gives him clear instructions to prepare his home journey (domuitionem), which is already late (tardam, reflecting the focalisation of the impatient goddess), Lucius finds it very hard to break the bonds of his fervent yearning for her (11.24.6: uix equidem abruptis ardentissimi desiderii retinaculis). Is this the religious fervour of the cultor inseparabilis (cf. 11.19.1) or do we see Lucius acting like a Pygmalion, who cannot tear himself away from his beloved statue?

6: Lucius supplex: eloquence as the ‘capital of poverty’ of Lucius (and Apuleius) This section focuses on two aspects that Apuleius and his alter ego Lucius have in common: the multi-levelled theme of poverty and the use of rhetoric as their most important personal trump card, both in the role of servant of a deity and as a central feature of an oratorical career (cf. e.g. Apol. 73.2-3; Flor. 18.42-43), a trump card that can help to overcome human shortcomings (symbolised by ‘poverty’) and to reach out for (make contact with) the divine. Lucius repeatedly expresses his feelings of inadequacy in worshipping the goddess or while performing religious ceremonies in her honour, emphasising his shortcomings and lack of means on a material, spiritual, and linguistic level. Paradoxically, this inadequacy inspires him to zealous outbursts of rich and abundant eloquence, singing poetic hymns and moving prayers to the deity’s universal power and making colourful verbal paintings of her appearance (11.2-4; 11.25).31 The opening of Book 11 already sets the tone for this paradoxical tension between inadequacy and abundance in the Bittgebet addressed to the lunar goddess (11.2), in which Lucius conceals his inability to identify the deity by invoking as many goddesses as possible. Lucius, who is still an ass, makes his desperate invocation into a dramatic performance as a supplex, adding ritual immersions in the sea, tears and lamentations to give extra vehemence to his prayers. Then, the narrator underlines his own limited capacity to describe the goddess’s appearance, allowing for the possibility that the goddess herself will inspire him with a rich abundance of rhetorical skill (11.3):32 31

For Lucius’ taste for rhetoric in Book Eleven, especially for ecphrasis, see van Mal-Maeder (2006). 32 Here, one could argue that Isis already inspires Lucius to brilliant rhetoric; after his re-transformation, he owes his “reborn tongue” (11.14.2: renatam linguam) to

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Chapter Three Eius mirandam speciem ad uos etiam referre conitar, si tamen mihi disserendi tribuerit facultatem paupertas oris humani uel ipsum numen eius dapsilem copiam elocutilis facundiae subministrauerit. “I shall try to describe her marvellous appearance for you, if only the poverty of human language grants me the possibility to express myself or the deity herself supplies a lavish abundance of rhetorical eloquence.”

Shortly after his retransformation, Lucius again feels at a loss in finding words to thank the goddess (11.14.2: quibus quantisque uerbis tantae deae gratias agerem, “what words, and how many, should I use to express my gratitude to so great a goddess?”). As an initiate and a poor mortal, Lucius can express his feelings in front of the goddess only in negative terms (e.g. 11.24.5: inexplicabili uoluptate; inremunerabili ... beneficio). Lucius’ inability to part from Isis’ statue and to free himself from the bonds of desire (11.24.6) is closely associated with his inability to offer his gratitude to the goddess in full measure (deae monitu, licet non plene, tamen pro meo modulo supplicue gratis persolutis, “at the instigation of the goddess, I humbly performed a ceremony of thanksgivings – if not in full measure, yet in keeping with my limitations”), which suggests that he would have liked to be much more generous.33 Here and in other passages, Lucius also laments his small financial means (pro ... modulo), which do not allow him to show his gratitude to Isis and to the priest in the measure he should.34 It is as if Lucius is desperately looking for other means to show her his religious zeal and to ‘repay’ Isis for the beneficia bestowed on him. In this vein, using the same tension between poverty and religious gratitude, Lucius presents his religious eloquence in 11.25 as an inadequate substitute for a higher, more worthy reward for the goddess, which he cannot afford or does not possess. The parallel between these

her. The topos of the deity inspiring the literary activity of the orator or philosopher is well attested for intellectuals in the 2nd century A.D.: cf. Aelius Aristides, Hieroi Logoi 4.17-18 and 4.22 (Asclepius); Apul. Flor. 18.42 (Asclepius). For the connections of Lucius’ prayer to Isis with the Life of Aesop and with the Greek Isiac Hymns see Hunter (2007). 33 Cf. 11.23.1, where Lucius cannot afford to buy everything needed for the initiation by himself, although he is quite eager to spend: ea protinus nauiter et aliquanto liberalius partim ipse, partim per meos socios coemenda procuro (“I immediately make the necessary purchases eagerly and rather lavishly, both in person and through my friends”) – with aliquanto liberalius possibly implying that Lucius is more generous than he can afford. 34 Cf. 11.25.6: religiosus quidem, sed pauper alioquin; 11.25.7: ueniam postulabam, quod eum condigne tantis beneficiis munerari nequirem.

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two expressions for true religious devotion – lingering/staring in awe at the goddess’ image on the one hand (11.24) and singing an inspired hymn to Isis on the other hand (11.25) – is underlined by the common motif of human poverty, which is expressed on a concrete and a symbolical level: material poverty and the poverty of language.35 Lucius refers to this parallel and its symbolical value explicitly at the end of his hymn to Isis, where the contemplation of the goddess is again mentioned as a way of expressing religious zeal and of concealing human shortcomings (material poverty and poverty of speech) at the same time: at ego referendis laudibus tuis exilis ingenio et adhibendis sacrificiis tenuis patrimonio; nec mihi uocis ubertas ad dicenda, quae de tua maiestate sentio, sufficit nec ora mille linguaeque totidem uel indefessi sermonis aeterna series. ergo quod solum potest religiosus quidem, sed pauper alioquin, efficere curabo: diuinos tuos uultus numenque sanctissimum intra pectoris mei secreta conditum perpetuo custodiens imaginabor. (11.25.5-6) “As for me, my talent is too small to sing your praises, my patrimony is too meagre to offer you sacrifices; the abundance of my language is not enough to express what I feel about your majesty, not even if I had a thousand mouths and as many tongues nor an endless flow of inexhaustible speech. And so I shall do the only thing a devotee, though a poor one, can do: I shall always keep and preserve your divine countenance and your holy godhead in the secret recesses of my heart and there I shall contemplate it forever and ever.”

The paradoxical association between religious zeal and human shortcomings points to an important paradox in Lucius’ religious attitude, the paradox of the ‘capital of poverty’. It is rhetoric that turns out to be Lucius’ personal trump card in his service to the goddess; it is rhetoric that turns out to be his own special religious recompense to her. Rhetoric becomes Lucius’ personal enactment of human shortcomings towards the divine, and he makes this enactment into a dramatic hyperbole. The result is another emblematic image of Lucius, in which he performs the role of supplex with such fervour that it comes close to exaggeration, since he

35 The recurrent emphasis on poverty in the Isis Book may reflect an important theme from Apuleius’ own life; see Harrison (2000) 57-61, and Apol. 17-18, where Apuleius plays up his ‘poverty’ as part of his philosophical self-fashioning. Cf. the description of Marsyas as fortuna egenus (“unencumbered by wealth”) in Flor. 3.8 and see Finkelpearl [(2009) 18-19] for the analogy with the Apology.

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does not kiss the statue’s feet, as is more usual (cf. 11.17.4), but rubs them with his face:36 prouolutus denique ante conspectum deae et facie mea diu detersis uestigiis eius, lacrimis obortis, singultu crebro sermonem interficiens et uerba deuorans aio. (11.24.7) “Finally, after I had prostrated myself before the sight of the goddess and after rubbing her feet for a long time with my face, I spoke with rising tears, while strangling my speech with frequent sobs and stifling my words.”

The goddess does not remain insensitive to Lucius’ fervent religious eloquence (cf. 11.5.4) and she comes to his rescue in more than one way; his prayers and hymns to Isis lead to important changes in his life, a metamorphosis and a new career (cf. the use of curriculum in 11.6.5 and 11.21.7 in the sense of a radical change in one’s ‘curriculum uitae’ through the providence of the deity). Lucius’ rhetorical talent becomes a central characteristic of his at the end of the Isis Book, where it enables him to have a successful career on the Roman forum, under the patronage of Isis and Osiris (11.6.6: uiues autem beatus, uiues in mea tutela gloriosus, “you will live happily, under my guardianship you will live in glory”; cf. 11.27.9: studiorum gloriam; 11.30.4: gloriosa in foro … patrocinia). What is more, rhetoric becomes the essential capital of the poor man from Madauros (11.27.9: Madaurensem, sed admodum pauperem), which enables the man from the province to become big in Rome. The discovery of Lucius as a promising young orator, who uses his reborn tongue (renatam linguam) to honour the gods and to earn a living in Rome, to a certain extent echoes Lucius’ experiences in Hypata at the local religious Festival of Laughter. There, Lucius’ aunt Byrrhaena, who was responsible for the cultic activity of the local elite, observed in the innate qualities of this well-born young man (his wit, his physical presence, his sparkling eyes) a welcome potential to add prestige to the religious cult of the God of Laughter.37 Lucius unwittingly met the 36 For Lucius’ zealous religious performance cf. also 1.1.4: marino lauacro trado septiesque summerso fluctibus capite; 11.3.1: fusis precibus et adstructis miseris lamentationibus. 37 Cf. 2.31.2-3: hunc tua praesentia nobis efficies gratiorem. Atque utinam aliquid de proprio lepore laetificum honorando deo comminiscaris, quo magis pleniusque tanto numini litemus, “by your presence you will make this a happier occasion for us. And I hope you will invent something cheerful from your own wit to honour

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expectations by his defence speech in the Hypatan theatre, which was a plea full of pathos, but made everybody burst with laughter. Rome is not Hypata, and Isis and Osiris are not the God of Laughter; yet, mutatis mutandis, Lucius receives a similar opportunity to make it to the top at the end of the novel, because the gods and authorities from the cult acknowledge his rhetorical talent. As in Hypata, Lucius’ supplications and prayers in Cenchreae play a key role for his salvation and social prestige, and become ambivalent when seen in the context of Lucius’ youthful zeal and fierce ambition, and possibly also his interest in lucrum. Lucius’ rhetoric becomes a spectacular success in Rome, but also this success is ambivalent, and causes disruptive forms of slander (11.30.4 maleuolorum disseminationes).38 The envy that Lucius’ rhetorical performances cause in Rome can also be viewed as a reaction to his youthful ambition, and confirms Lucius’ general characterisation of a young man on the threshold between adolescence and adulthood.39

7: Isiacus gloriosus In the various poses of Lucius-actor as a proud devotee of Isis and Osiris, there is a clear development from the period of his re-transformation and initiations, where higher authorities encourage him to publicly show his triumph and tell him to cheer up,40 to the very last part of the novel, where Lucius has learnt to perform his role of proud priest in a self-assured way, after having been elected into the prestigious collegium pastophorum. Shortly after his retro-metamorphosis, the priest admonishes Lucius to embody his triumph through his facial expression and gait, in such a way, that all others will be inspired by it: sume iam uultum laetiorem candido isto habitu tuo congruentem, comitare pompam deae sospitatricis inouanti gradu. uideant inreligiosi, uideant et errorem suum recognoscant: en ecce pristinis aerumnis absolutus Isidis magnae prouidentia gaudens Lucius de sua Fortuna triumphat. (11.15.4)

the god with, to help us appease this powerful deity better and more thoroughly”. See Keulen (2006) 183-4. 38 Compare Whitmarsh [(2001) 202] on Alexander the Great as a youth, compared to ‘well-born puppies’ by Dio Chrysostom Or. 2.1-2: “it is in the nature of youth either to succeed spectacularly or to cause chaos.” 39 For the close relation between envy, ambition, and youth, cf. Plut. An seni 8, Mor. 788e; 13, Mor. 791c; 25, Mor. 796a. 40 Cf. 11.29.4: laetum capesse gaudium; 11.29.5: animo gaudiali rursum sacris initiare deis magnis auctoribus.

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Chapter Three “Put on a happier face now, to match that bright garment of yours. Join the procession of the saviour goddess with jubilant step. Let the unbelievers see; let them see and recognise their error. Look, Lucius, freed from his former tribulations and rejoicing in the providence of great Isis, triumphs over his Fortune!”

Here, gaudens can be interpreted in a performative sense, thus becoming almost as a synonym of triumphans.41 Lucius’ enactment of his religious triumph by showing gaudium recurs in the emblematic image of Lucius at the end of the novel, where religious joy seems to have become an integral part of his physiognomy: rursus denique quaqua raso capillo collegii uetustissimi et sub illis Sullae temporibus conditi munia, non obumbrato uel obtecto caluitio, sed quoquouersus obuio, gaudens obibam. (11.30.5) “And finally, with my head once more shaved completely, neither covering nor veiling my baldness, but exposing it in every direction, I joyfully performed the duties of that most ancient priesthood, founded in the days of Sulla.”

In a similar way, the triumphant image of Lucius’ statuesque embodiment of Sol-Apollo in the temple of Isis, on the morning after his first initiation (11.24), is a result of the initiative of the religious authorities. Just as the statue of the lyre player Bathyllus in Flor. 15.8 is consecrated in the temple of Juno by the tyrant Polycrates, Lucius has been placed on a podium in the temple of Isis by explicit instructions of the authorities of the cult (11.24.2: iussus; 11.24.4: ad instar Solis exornato me et in uicem simulacri constituto, “after I had been adorned in the likeness of the Sun and been set up there to serve as a statue”). It is not an act of his own, but a token of being accepted and acknowledged by the community, which puts him on display as an icon of religious triumph:42 Mane factum est, et perfectis sollemnibus processi duodecim sacratus stolis, habitu quidem religioso satis, sed effari de eo nullo uinculo prohibeor, quippe quod tunc temporis uidere praesentes plurimi. namque in ipso aedis sacrae meditullio ante deae simulacrum constitutum tribunal ligneum iussus superstiti byssina quidem, sed floride depicta ueste 41

See GCA 2015 ad loc., comparing Paul. Fest. 98: gaudium: ਕʌઁ IJȠ૨ ȖĮȣȡȚ઼Ȟ (LSJ s.v. ‘bear oneself proudly’, ‘prance’); see Maltby (1991) 254. 42 Contrast the hybris of Aesop, who puts himself as a statue of Apollo, leader of the Muses, in the middle of a group of divine statues, Aesop Romance 100; see von Möllendorff (1994) 154.

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conspicuus. et umeris dependebat pone tergum talorum tenus pretiosa chlamida. Quaqua tamen uiseres, colore uario circumnotatis insignibar animalibus; hinc dracones Indici, inde grypes Hyperborei, quos in speciem pinnatae alitis generat mundus alter. hanc Olympiacam stolam sacrati nuncupant. at manu dextera gerebam flammis adultam facem et caput decore corona cinxerat palmae candidae foliis in modum radiorum prosistentibus. sic ad instar Solis exornato me et in uicem simulacri constituto, repente uelis reductis, in aspectum populus errabat. (11.24) “It became morning, and after completing the ceremonial rites I proceeded, marked out as a servant of the deity by twelve robes, which is quite a religious outfit, but I am not prevented from speaking about it by any restraint, because many people who were present at that time have seen it. For at the very centre of the sacred temple I stepped, as I was ordered to do, on to a wooden platform placed in front of the statue of the goddess, attracting the interest with my robe, which was made of fine flax, but embroidered with gay colours. And a precious cloak hung down my back from my shoulders all the way to my heels. But wherever you might let your eyes wander, I was marked by animals that where delineated all around with different colours; on one side there were Indian dragons, and on the other side there were Hyperborean griffins, which a world beyond ours begets in the shape of a winged bird. The initiates call this the Olympic stola. And in my right hand I carried a torch which was aflame in full strength, and a crown with leaves of a brightly shining palm, which stuck out like rays, beautifully surrounded my head. After I had thus been adorned in the likeness of the Sun and had been set up there to serve as a statue, the curtains were suddenly raised and people wandered in to see the spectacle.”

The elaborate description of Lucius’ embodiment of Sol-Apollo reflects the proud ethos of Lucius-narrator, relishing his former celebrity status in Cenchreae. The narrator’s decision not to keep any detail from his readers regarding his costume, even if it was a mystic dress (11.24.1: habitu quidem religioso satis), is a departure from his pose as a discreet possessor of secret knowledge (11.23.5), a departure which he justifies by the fact that this part of the ceremony was public. Along similar lines, Luciusnarrator proudly emphasises that his (deserved) status as the goddess’ favourite was the talk of the town in Cenchreae (11.16.2-3). Although one could argue that this behaviour reveals Lucius’ continuing naiveté or would even come across as an objectionable self-importance,43 there is no 43

Lucius’ changes of strategy in revealing religious details are interpreted as an expression of the narrator’s vain character by van Mal-Maeder (2006) 262: “ces déclarations successives contribuent à façonner l’ethos discursif de Lucius, en donnant de lui l’image d’un narrateur vaniteux, prompt à souligner qu’il est maître

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doubt that Lucius’ feelings of religious devotion are genuine and that there is no conflict between the views of Lucius-actor and Lucius-narrator. Kenney’s view that we have here the critical perspective of a mature Lucius-narrator, who includes his experiences with Isiac cult in the retrospective view of his imprudent behaviour, is therefore unwarranted.44 The detailed description of his public exposure as a divine statue does not merely show Lucius’ taste for rhetoric: details like the crown of palm leaves, representing the rays of the sun, serve to call attention to his image of a god-like hero, who has been chosen by the goddess because of his marvellous qualities. Moreover, although only Sol is explicitly mentioned, the insignia of Lucius’ ‘statue’, especially the long cloak with the Hyperborean griffins, vividly suggest the iconography of Apollo in his role of musician with the lyre, and bring in associations with poetic victory and inspiration. For the Cenchreans, the freshly initiated Lucius is someone to admire for his other-worldly experiences during the initiation, as symbolised by his mystic dress. Yet, they also perceive a god-like side in Lucius himself, dressing him up like Apollo, the epitome of high Hellenic culture. Importantly, Lucius comes from the city of Corinth, an important cultural centre, where he had been part of a network of power; moreover, in the first Book, he boasts of his studies in Athens, the epicentre of Hellenic culture, and claims to descend from Plutarch.45 In 11.24, the narrator seems to focus on his own iconic image from the superior perspective of a Corinthian, who could be easily ‘king’ in the province. Inviting us to join the Cenchrean crowd, flocking to admire Lucius-Sol-Apollo, Lucius-narrator draws our attention to the Apollo-side of his character, as it was perceived through provincial eyes. This draws the attention to Apuleius’ recurrent use of the mask of Apollo in his strategies of self-expression throughout his literary corpus to express important aspects of his identity.46 de son discours, détenteur d’un art et d’un savoir qu’il distille quand et comme bon lui semble.” 44 See especially Kenney (2003) 177-178; for similar criticism of Kenney’s views see Graverini (2012a) 93 n.18. 45 For Lucius as part of a powerful network in Corinth, cf. the repeated mentioning of Demeas, probably a local dignitary in Corinth, in the first book (1.21.8; 1.22.4; 1.22.8). For Lucius’ studies in Athens cf. 1.24.5: condiscipulus apud Athenas Atticas meus; for Plutarchan descent cf. 1.2.2. Cf. also the elaborate and poetic description of Greece as the cultural background of the narrator in the Prologue. 46 See the inspiring observations of Finkelpearl (2009) on Apuleius’ use of the masks of Apollo and Marsyas in Flor. 3 to express two sides of his own identity (high Greek/Roman literary culture versus provincialism). See also above, n. 6. The present passage may be added to the relatively few references to Apollo in

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8: Conclusion Lucius’ characterisation in Book 11 is that of an ambitious and impulsive youth on the threshold between adolescence and adulthood, who feels genuine religious devotion for the goddess who saved him, and who tries out various gestures and modes of behaviour to re-invent himself in his new role of Lucius reformatus. In these vivid poses and roles, Lucius dramatises both aspects of change in his character, like his obsession with chastity and pureness (Lucius pudicus), and aspects of continuity, like impatience (Lucius impatiens), or passionate desire (Lucius ardens). An important change does take place in Lucius at the religious closure of the novel: his energies are directed to the right things now, but they are still the energies of Lucius, the exuberant protagonist of a fictional narrative of metamorphoses, filled with all kinds of exotic details and spectacular gestures. His last metamorphosis, the metamorphosis from a curious young Greek sophist into a proud established member of the Roman elite, with the distinctive function of pastophorus, does not take place in one, magical moment, but takes a lot of time, several initiations, some doubts and worries, and quite a lot of money. If there is humour or some sort of comic effect in Lucius’ behaviour, it may be observed in the realistic details of his characterisation as a novelistic figure, who reveals interesting parallels and contrasts with Apuleius.47 Although Lucius tries to keep up his pose as a discreet possessor of secret knowledge, he also stays true to his role of storyteller (11.23.5-6). The fact that Lucius does not turn out to be very good in keeping religious secrets and being silent about details from the cult may be one of the features of his young, impulsive character,

Apuleius’ oeuvre, discussed by Finkelpearl (2009) 16: “surprisingly underrepresented”. In the story of Cupid and Psyche (Met. 4.32.6), Lucius-narrator in his role of Milesian author (or should we directly think of Apuleius himself?) again associates himself closely with Apollo, boastingly suggesting that Apollo did him a favour by giving the oracle in Latin verse. In De Deo Socratis (17 [157]), Apuleius mentions Apollo as the god who had acknowledged the wisdom of Socrates. In De Platone (1.1 [180-182]) Apuleius refers to the legend that it had been an incarnation of Apollo who had fathered Plato, and that Apollo’s bird, the swan, was prophetically connected with the founding of the Academy (De Plat. 1.1 [182-182]); see Sandy (1997) 194. 47 The humour of the Isis Book, then, does not appear to consist of a satire on rapacious priests or an exposure of the young Lucius as a gullible, superstitious dupe, who becomes victim of a greedy, insincere cult. For this interpretation see e.g. van Mal-Maeder (1997); Harrison (2000) 240-252; Murgatroyd (2004).

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which form a conspicuous contrast with Apuleius’ mature philosophical self-presentation in other contexts.48 At the same time, the partial biographical identification of Lucius with the author can serve to bring out a ‘serious’ dimension of the novel and its religious ending, without neglecting the ‘tongue-in-cheek’ nature of Apuleius’ masquerade with the novelistic protagonist Lucius.49 There is a clear contrast between the characterisation of Lucius in the Isis book, where no one doubts the sincerity of his motives, and his characterisation in the earlier books, where he embodies aspects of a parasite and is viewed by many people as a dangerous opportunist, trying to ingratiate himself with important families for opportunistic or even criminal reasons.50 Lucius’ ambivalent reputation in Hypata, resulting in his ridiculed performance during the Risus Festival, may reflect Apuleius’ ambivalent reputation in Africa, related to the indictment of using magic to marry the wealthy widow Pudentilla. Along similar lines, the issues of provincialism for Lucius in the Isis book possibly reflect in a symbolical way Apuleius’ experience as an African provincial, a Madaurensis, sed admodum pauper, in Rome. In Cenchreae, representing the Greek province, Lucius is already illustris shortly after arrival, whereas in Rome, he is merely an aduena (cf. Met. 11.26.3), who still has to work his way to the top. Lucius’ rise to celebrity in Cenchreae may reflect something of the celebrity status of Apuleius in the provincial town of Madauros, where he had risen to stardom through his education in Carthage and Athens (cf. Flor. 18.1415). However, like Lucius in Rome (Met. 11.30.4), Apuleius had to be aware of inuisores (cf. Flor. 9.1), who were keen on detecting marks of provincial identity in him.51 Whereas in Carthage he was nec lare alienus ... nec magistris peregrinus (Flor. 18.14), in Rome, he was an aduena from Madauros, whose rhetorical talent and industrious pursuit of studies only slowly paved his way to the top. Lucius’ proud self-fashioning in 48

Cf. e.g. Flor. 15.24-27 on the philosophical principle of opportune silence. See Habermehl [(2002) 312] on Lucius as a refracted “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”. 50 Cf. Met. 1.24.1, 7.1.5-6. and Plutarch, Quomodo adulator ab amico internoscatur 2, Mor. 49d; 7, Mor. 52b. 51 Cf. Flor. 9.7, where Apuleius speaks in front of the Carthaginians: quis enim uestrum mihi unum soloecismum ignouerit? Quis uel unum syllabam barbare pronuntiatam donauerit? For the meaning of this passage in relation with the anxiety of a provincial about appearing less than totally Roman, see Finkelpearl (2009) 27; for the possible connection between Lucius’ and Apuleius’ inuisores see ibid. 31-32. Cf. the programmatic remarks in the Prologue of the Met. about the aduena in the urbs Latia, who may offend by his exotic Latin (1.1.4-5). 49

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Rome as a bald Isiacus gloriosus, originating from the Greek province, may convey something of the way in which Apuleius, priest of Asclepius, established his reputation in Rome by assuming roles and donning masks, thus cultivating the exotic identity of an ‘outsider from the periphery’ (cf. Apol. 24). Both Lucius and Apuleius present rhetoric as their most important personal trump card, which transforms their ‘human poverty’ into a sublime and rewarding career as priest and orator. Just as Lucius, Apuleius was dependent on a powerful network of Roman authority figures to become acknowledged as a successful orator (cf. Flor. 17.4). As with Lucius, not everyone may have been pleased with the self-assured performance and the youthful ambition of the outsider from Africa and not everyone may have been convinced of his innocentia.52

52

In the Apology, Apuleius presents innocence also as a chief virtue of himself (Apol. 5.3: innocentiam eloquentiam esse; 11.6: natura uox innocentiae ... distributa), which presents another parallel with Lucius’ self-presentation (Met. 11.16.2).

B: OTHERS

CHAPTER FOUR PHOTIS (METAMORPHOSES BOOKS 1-3) REGINE MAY

1: Introduction Amongst all the characters in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Photis is one of the most discussed and fascinating, second only to the narrator Lucius himself and the goddess Isis in the mysterious Met. 11. This is remarkable for a character who appears just briefly in Met. 1, takes centre stage in parts of Met. 2 and 3, but is then never seen again, although she does not quite disappear from the protagonist’s thoughts throughout the novel. It is Photis, the apprentice witch, whose choice of the wrong lotion transforms Lucius into a donkey, after he had started a torrid love affair with her in order to ensure her willingness to introduce him to her mistress’s magic. She is the only person in the novel with whom Lucius enters into a voluntary and sustained relationship, with the exception of Isis at the end. Even the matrona in Met. 10 with her Pasiphaean tastes, whose sexual overtures do not leave Lucius with much choice, and whose actions mark the end of Lucius’ life as a donkey just as much as those of Photis inaugurate it, is not remembered later, unlike in the Onos, where the remetamorphosed Loukios is spurned by the lady because of his now much reduced sexual equipment. We see Photis entirely through the eyes of Lucius, the first person narrator, which does not offer an objective characterisation, and we never encounter her own thoughts, unless filtered through the unreliable viewpoint of Lucius. His negative portrait of her after his metamorphosis has been influential: although scholars are often charmed by her, she gets a ‘bad press’.1 Amongst the issues discussed concerning Photis are: the differences from her Greek counterpart in the Onos, the nature of her love affair with Lucius (is it mutual or is he exploiting her?), the character of her magical mistakes, and especially her relationship with Venus and Isis 1

Carver’s phrase [(1990) 55].

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in the novel, all of which contribute to the assessment of her character and its importance for the novel.

2: Palaistra in the Onos In the Greek Onos, Loukios is interested in finding out more about magic, but instead of approaching the witch herself, he decides to chat up her maid, who in the Onos, and thus most likely in the lost Greek original, is called Palaistra. The name is a vivid anticipation of the seduction scene between the pair, where Palaistra, whose name means ‘wrestling ground’, takes the lead and instructs Lucius during their lovemaking by using the technical terms of wrestling. It is clear from the start that Palaistra in the Onos is only a means to an end, and Loukios, when planning to seduce her (Onos 5) already makes use of wrestling metaphors: “Strip for action with Palaestra the maid at once – […] Try a roll over her, have a good workout, and get to close grips with her – you can be sure that you’ll easily get your information. Slaves know it all, the good and the bad.”2

Palaistra’s name is a straightforward characterisation of a one-dimensional and simplistic character3 through a speaking name, given the very athletic love-making she and Loukios indulge in, described in the extended metaphor of a wrestling match (Onos 6-10). Palaistra is used as a hetaira name in Plautus’ Rudens; note also Gymnasium in Cistellaria.4 The character of Photis in Apuleius’ version is altogether more developed and multi-dimensional,5 and the change of name indicates that the Latin version is less rough and athletic, readying her for a lot of intertextual games. The name Photis, also found in inscriptions,6 is here used pointedly. Scobie links it with foculus (‘brazier’, thus perhaps ‘Hottie’) referring to Met. 2.7, discede … quam procul a meo foculo (“get as far away as you can from my oven”), but still thinks that Greek phos, ‘light’,

2

Translation: Sullivan (1989). For the name cf. Scobie (1969) 58; Hijmans (1978b) 110; May (2013), 206. On the spelling of the name in the MSS as Photis/Fotis cf. GCA (2001) 138. 4 May (2006) 178; cf. Schlam (1978) 97: “In adopting his material from his Greek source Apuleius has not only avoided the associations with prostitution which the name Palaestra carried but created Fotis as a woman of wit and charm.” 5 Scobie (1969) 62: “What in the Onos is little more than a crude, underdeveloped sketch is elaborated by Apuleius into a vivid, detailed portrait”. 6 Alpers (1980) 203, with n. 34. 3

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is the “most probable root of the name”.7 De Smet argues that both ‘light’ and foculus may be intended, with the latter suggesting sexual passion, with each meaning coming to the forefront at different moments of the story.8 Both explanations are in character, but the name is most generally derived from Greek phos, thus meaning ‘light’, Photis may therefore be associated with Lucius, whose name means ‘man of light’,9 making them a more evenly matched couple than the Greek pair. Both Palaistra and Photis are named early on in the narrative, but the narrative strategy of their introduction is different: the naming of Photis in Met. 1.24 corresponds to the introduction of Palaistra in Onos 2, who had not been characterised at all in detail until then (she is called only “young girl” in Onos 2, and “the little maidservant Palaistra” in Onos 3). Photis is described in charming diminutives, as ancillula in Met. 1.21 and 1.26, and as scitula, “sexy”, in Met. 2.6, at the point where she appears especially useful to Lucius.10 There is a mutual attraction between her and Lucius even before he realises her usefulness. The strictly chronological order of the story in the Onos describes Palaistra showing Loukios to his room; they hold a conversation, but it is matter-of-fact, not an erotic seduction. Instead, the stress is on her effectiveness as a servant. Lucius in Met., which (unusually) leaves out this scene in the chronological order, puts a much more poignant slant on it when he recalls it after he has made up his mind to seduce Photis in order to gain magical knowledge. In his recollection Photis flirts with him (Met. 2.6: in cubiculum te deduxit comiter et blande lectulo collocauit et satis amanter cooperuit et osculato tuo capite quam inuita discederet, “she led you graciously into the bedroom, arranged you seductively in bed, and tucked you in quite lovingly. After she kissed you on the head [...] how unwilling she was to leave.”). Photis actually takes the lead here in their relationship, as she directs seductive glances at him.11 7

Scobie (1969) 63. de Smet (1987) 618-9. 9 For the phrase cf. C. Panayotakis (2001) 578. Hijmans [(1978b) 110] finds a complicated Etruscan derivation for Lucius, but rejects it as unlikely. The association with ‘light’ names and Lucius’ lovers continues: Carver (2013) points out how poor Photis reflects and anticipates the rich matron in Met. 10.19. Whereas Lucius, he argues, prefers not even to contemplate a continuous relationship with Photis after his transformation into a donkey (Met. 3.24), he has a sexual affair with the matron in his asinine form (Met. 10.22). Just like the names of Photis and Lucius, her “mythological alter-ego” (Carver’s words p. 254) Pasiphae’s name has the connotation of light (Greek “Shining on All”). 10 Cf. May [(2006) 171] on the comic imagery this evokes. 11 Cf. Schlam (1992) 71: “Fotis is no passive instrument”. 8

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3: Photis’ Seduction Another example of the differences between Palaistra and Photis is the scene where Lucius chats her up: after he has decided to find out about magic, but had been warned by the story of Aristomenes and his aunt not to dabble with witches, Lucius wishes to avoid the witch Pamphile. Instead he plans to seduce her maid to persuade her to divulge her mistress’ secrets. The Onos is more matter-of-fact in the seduction scene than the Met. Palaistra had previously shown no sign of interest in the young man, and here she is only unerotically described as preparing dinner (Onos 5). It is only when Loukios, intent on seducing her, describes her dance that we see the erotic element: (Onos 6): “Palaistra, you beauty, how rhythmically you twist and tilt your buttocks in time with the saucepan, and your loins flow as they move. Happy the man who gets a dip in there.”12 There is no indication until this moment of Palaistra’s willingness to engage in flirtation with her master’s guest. She is however up for it. Palaistra, though, facetiously (Onos 6) warns Loukios off (like Photis warns Lucius), and says he might burn himself on her. She is dangerous, she says, as she can make a dish out of any man and chop him up. Loukios joins the metaphorical game and demands to be butchered and cooked by her. After this crude exchange, they agree on meeting that night, and Palaistra prepares bedding scattered with roses and wine. The love-making itself (Onos 8-10) is, as noted before, described in a sustained set of metaphors from wrestling, with Palaistra being the trainer and Loukios the trainee. Both characters are emotionally uninvolved and laugh their way through the wrestling training manual. It is not love that makes Loukios postpone his future travels, but mere ‘wantonness’ (Onos 11). No special event triggers his placing his request for magical information,13 and Palaistra gives in to Loukios’ request readily. He flatters her by claiming that he thinks she has some magical powers herself and that she holds him captive by them, and she readily admits she knows no magic (Onos 11). Palaistra agrees promptly to show Loukios her mistress’ transformations, and there is no anxiety, acted or heartfelt, that he might leave her, and no indication that the wrong lotion had been chosen on purpose. Photis, on the other hand, is more flirtatious and less pliable to his wishes. Given that 12

Translation: Sullivan (1989). In the Met. Lucius is able to capitalise on Photis’ mistake of getting goat hair instead of human hair for the magic ritual, which effectively exposes him to public ridicule during the Risus festival and thus force her into showing him magic to make up her error to him. There is no equivalent of the event in the Onos. 13

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less emotion was involved from the start, the newly asinine Loukios’ reaction to his metamorphosis is less severely menacing than that of Lucius in Met.: he merely looks at Photis angrily but has no human voice to curse her (Onos 13), and placed by her in the stable he merely bites his lips (Onos 15). On the other hand, Photis is already described as pretty and up for some fun before Lucius knows about his desire to use her to gain access to magical knowledge. The cooking scene is described luxuriously and seductively. She shimmies sinuously whilst cooking, seemingly unobserved (Met. 2.7): illud cibarium uasculum floridis palmulis rotabat in circulum, et in orbis flexibus crebra succutiens et simul membra sua leniter inlubricans, lumbis sensim uibrantibus, spinam mobilem quatiens placide decenter undabat. (She was turning the cooking pot round and round with her flower-like hands, and she kept shaking it with a circular motion, at the same time smoothly sliding her own body, gently wiggling her hips, softly shaking her supple spine, beautifully rippling.)14

This gives Lucius the conversation opener he needs. For Romans, dancing was connected with loose morals, especially in women. Sallust’s description of the Catilinarian conspirator Sempronia, for example, includes her dancing skills, amongst her knowledge of poetry and banter (Sall. Cat. 25), to characterise her as a later traitor to the state.15 Photis’ dance around the pots anticipates her movements during their first sexual encounter (Met. 2.17), where she moves equally sinuously. Photis’ dance, and Lucius’ delight in it, indicate their readiness for sexual encounters, signalling an important change of focus, turning Photis from a passive means to an end and a mere athletic trainer of wrestling and sexual positions to a charming and active partner in the love affair. The metaphors used for Photis’ and Lucius’ lovemaking are taken from a more conventionally Latin set of metaphors, the militia amoris. As soon as Lucius considers seducing Photis, he thinks about it in military terms (Met. 2.6: comminus cum re ipsa nauiter congredere, “come to grips with the situation bravely”, cf. the love scene Met. 2.16f.) in a scene comparable to Onos 2. The changed name, the move to more sophisticated metaphors, from crude wrestling to urbane and Romanised military love, the implied mutuality of attraction, and the correspondence of her name 14 15

Translation: Hanson (1989.). Cf. Corbeill (1997) 106.

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with that of Lucius, both possibly punning on ‘light’, turn Photis into a more complex and developed character than Palaistra.

4: An Equal Relationship? The relationship in the Greek version is a source of pleasure but lacks deeper emotions. It is a matter of debate whether there are genuine emotions involved in the Latin version, i.e. whether Lucius feels affection towards Photis which goes beyond this business transaction, as it were.16 Although Lucius uses Photis to find out more about magic (Met. 2.6), he also professes his love for her several times during their relationship, often in terms of the seruitium amoris: at Met. 2.18 he declares that he prefers her company to anyone else’s, at Met. 3.19 he declares himself enslaved to her, at Met. 3.22 he asks to be made her slave,17 and at Met. 3.23 he swears that he prefers no other woman to her. He is very strongly attracted to her, as his physical reaction indicates (Met. 2.7: steterunt et membra quae iacebant ante, “[I stood in amazement...] as did a part of me which had been lying limp before.”), but it has been questioned whether this involves real love, as his professions of love are conventional and self-serving, and his immediate reaction after his transformation is that he wants to kick her to death but needs her help and therefore refrains from doing so (Met. 3.26). Compared to Loukios’ angry glances in the Onos, this reaction is much more severe; perhaps the deeper attachment between them in Apuleius leads to deeper disappointment and blame than in the Onos. Again Lucius’ description of events and his emotions is intentionally vague. Photis similarly states her love for him (at Met. 2.10 she declares herself his servant; at Met. 3.13f. she offers herself to be whipped by him and professes her love, which she repeats in Met. 3.15; at Met. 3.16 her love for him has brought her back, and at Met. 3.20 she disregards her own safety for his sake), and is often reluctant to let him go away from her (at Met. 2.18 he has to ask her permission to go and see Byrrhaena). Her affection for Lucius has been doubted because of her attempts to control his movements,18 though unjustifiedly so, since she has no ulterior motive for delaying Lucius other than her attraction to him. 16

Lucius loves Photis: Scobie (1969) 60; GCA (2001) 137. Lucius only uses her: Sandy (1974) 236, (1978) 132; Schlam (1978) 98; de Smet (1987) 616. 17 Schmidt [(1982) 288] argues that Met. 3.22 tuum ... mancipium is not seruitium amoris but literal slavery. 18 Schlam (1978) 98: “She asserts a will to keep and control him. She is reluctant to let him go to dinner at Byrrhena’s and he must beg her permission (2.18). She

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Much of their swearing of love consists in taking turns at dominating each other, which may indicate again that the balance of the relationship is important. Although Lucius and Photis alternate their domination of one another, there are signs of Photis’ submissiveness, e.g. in her readiness to offer Lucius to use her sexually as a boy,19 or her willingness to let Lucius beat her as punishment for her mistake with the goat hair (Met. 3.13ff.). Her overall demeanour indicates that not only is she up for a relationship with Lucius, she also obviously wants to prolong it and postpone fulfilling Lucius’ wish to witness Pamphile’s magic, as she fears that would make her lose him (Met. 3.22). After his metamorphosis, she ceases to be useful to Lucius, as he feels he can no longer embrace her (Met. 3.24) as a donkey, and he turns on her; even though Lucius’ real commitment to her at times is doubtful (and his narration of the story does not seem to commit him either way), Photis at least seems to be genuinely fond of him.

5: Photis as Venus The repeated identification of Photis and Venus is again an important change from the Onos, and part of the power game of domination and submission Lucius and Photis play. Photis playfully twice strikes a pose to become the goddess of love, first as Aphrodite Anadyomene Met. 2.16, with free flowing hair on Lucius’ demand, then as Venus Pudica20: laciniis cunctis suis renudata crinibusque dissolutis ad hilarem lasciuiam in speciem Veneris quae marinos fluctus subit pulchre reformata, paulisper etiam glabellum feminal rosea palmula potius obumbrans de industria quam tegens uerecundia. (Met. 2.17) “She…stripped herself of all her clothes, and let down her hair. With joyous wantonness she beautifully transformed herself into the picture of Venus rising from the ocean waves. For a time she even held one rosy little hand in front of her smooth-shaven pubes, purposely shadowing it rather than modestly hiding it.”21 resists his desire to experience a magic transformation himself, which she regards as a way for him to escape from her (3.22). He overrides her will, but she then bungles the salves.” 19 A rare event for women, cf. Priapea 3, Sen. Controv. 1.2.22 with Walters (1997) 42 n.4. 20 Cf. Alpers (1980), Schlam [(1992) 71], and Slater [(1998) 20] on the iconography. More on the identification of Photis and Venus through related imagery: Nethercut (1968) 112-13. 21 Translation: Hanson (1989).

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Photis also assumes the Venus pendula position (Met. 2.17: “swinging Venus”; girl on top) during their lovemaking, and finally at Met. 3.22 Lucius declares that he wants to become Cupid to her Venus. Photis metamorphoses throughout the love scenes from a simple slave into a statue and then into the goddess herself. The Venus pendula position, also called mulier equitans (“woman riding horseback”), is another change from the Onos, where Loukios is on top (Onos 9). This position is often associated with prostitutes and wanton women, but van Mal-Maeder argues that the concept of the position is not meant as a subjugation of Lucius, and no moral judgement is intended by Apuleius.22 Nevertheless, it is still striking that the position is the reverse of the one taken up in the Onos, and its other Latin name has led many scholars23 to assume that it is an anticipation of things to come for Lucius: that he, very soon, will be ridden in another way, after his transformation into a donkey. If this is the case, Photis has an important part to play in the narrative’s structure: she has unwittingly already initiated Lucius’ metamorphosis. It also binds her more closely into the structure of the narrative than Palaistra; Photis’ covering herself in Met. 2.17 anticipates the pantomime Venus at Met. 10.31, where another mortal woman impersonates Venus, and where her silken garment reveals more than it conceals.24 The real Venus will play a somewhat antagonistic role herself in the story of Cupid and Psyche, where she tries to pursue and dominate Lucius’ alter ego Psyche until their reconciliation at the end of the story. Like Photis, the real Venus, too, is in Met. 4.31, during her marine procession, described like a well-known work of art.25 Photis’ identification with Venus again turns her into an important foil for Lucius and prepares for her recurring in his thoughts in the moments when he thinks of his metamorphosis. Unlike the illiterate Palaistra, Photis is characterised by herself quoting literary motifs from the elegiac conceit of militia amoris (Met. 2.17) and seemingly consciously playing literary games with Lucius herself as part of her seduction technique. In addition, Apuleius invests her with literary characteristics primarily from two genres, comedy and elegy, both suitable

22

References and detailed discussion in GCA (2001) 413-15. E.g. James (1987) 93. Schlam [(1992) 71-2] argues that the position indicates her control of the situation. 24 Heine [(1978) 34] is too sceptical in assuming this is unintentional and based on Apuleius’ predilection for certain words. On the scene itself cf. May (2008). 25 Cf. Slater (1998) 20. 23

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to the depiction of erotic love.26 The language generally employed in the seduction scene is very Plautine;27 the meat Photis is cooking and Lucius’ joke that he divined the sausage with his nose (quod naribus iam inde hariolabar, Met. 2.7) especially recall Miles Gloriosus 1254ff. where the courtesan Acroteleutium and her witty maid Milphidippa pretend to smell whether the soldier is inside the house, who then comments hariolatur, “she does divination!” Much of the sermo amatorius Lucius and she indulge in can be found in comedy and Roman elegy. The metaphors of the militia amoris deployed during their sexual encounter are however found primarily in Roman elegy, and Lucius’ choice of and seduction of Photis, as well as their relationship and lovemaking, have much in common specifically with the advice given in Ovid’s Ars amatoria, as Hindermann (2009a and b) has shown. She compares for example Apuleius’ ekphrasis of Photis’ hair in Met. 2.8f., which includes a list of possible hairstyles, with Ovid’s catalogue (AA 3.135-48) of the same topic, where each woman is advised to wear what suits her best; both Photis’ non operosus, sed inornatus ornatus (“not artistic, but unordered adornment”) and the unordered hairstyles of Iole and Ariadne in Aǹ 3.153-58 are the most seductive ones.28 Consequently, Lucius and Photis play at being lovers in comedy and elegy, and Apuleius enhances this impression by choosing elegiac and comic vocabulary. Photis’ actions unwittingly anticipate major themes of the novel, e.g. the interlacing of art, literature and reality, metamorphosis, sex and abstinence, and (via her identification with Venus) the worshipping of another goddess, Isis, as we will see below. Furthermore, Photis’ intelligence, playfulness and association with art and literature beyond her status as a slave make her a sophisticated seductress, tempting to the educated Lucius. Unlike the crude Palaistra, whose erotic rhetoric is that of wrestling down her partner, Photis enters a game of give and take with Lucius, taking at times a dominant role, and deepening their relationship and arguably their erotic attachment, and ensuring her continued presence in the novel’s fabric through his remembrances of her.

26

For comedy cf. May (2006) 171-80; for elegy cf. Mathis (2008), Hindermann (2009a and b). 27 Cf. GCA (2001) 147; May (2006) 174-5. 28 Cf. Hindermann (2009a) 103-29, esp. 113-23.

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6: Witchcraft and Curiosity It is Photis that turns Lucius into a donkey by picking the wrong lotion from Pamphile’s stock. It is never made clear in the text whether she has done so on purpose, for jealous fear of Lucius flying away from her and taking up with other women, or whether it was incompetence. After all, she says that she is barely to keep other Thessalian women away from him (Met. 3.22: uix a lupulis conseruo Thessalis). Lucius himself does not know, and as we see the story through his eyes, we never find out. Lucius should however have been more careful in entrusting himself to her magical abilities, because it is clear from the Risus festival incident that Photis is capable of bungling magic.29Although she seems competent enough to be trusted by Pamphile to restore her to her human form after she returns from her expeditions as an owl (Met. 3.23), she made a mess of the acquisition of the Boeotian’s hair for the summoning spell (Met. 3.17), a warning that although she may be competent enough under instruction, she cannot perform magic unguided and may quite possibly get it wrong. This merely partial knowledge of magic tallies with her actions when she recognises her error in transforming Lucius into a donkey. She immediately admits she chose the wrong lotion, but knows and reveals to Lucius the remedy at once: eating roses. It is not clear why she brings back the goat hair instead of the Boeotian’s, as the knowledge that hair from the beloved must be used for a summoning spell is quite widespread in antiquity30 and she knew that Pamphile needed it for that specific purpose, and her mistake would be discovered presently. She wanted to flee but did not, for Lucius’ sake, she claims. Returning and bearing the consequences of her error allows her to spend more time with Lucius. On balance, therefore, a mistake is more likely than a deliberate swap, and Lucius should heed this warning31 and rely only on her limited capacity to remetamorphose animals back into humans, but not trust her to perform magic properly on her own. His failure to be careful and his insistence on blaming her throughout the novel after he had turned into a donkey are in

29

See Frangoulidis, Chapter 5 below. On the prevalence of erotic spells in antiquity cf. Gager (1992) 78, and ibid. 1618, on the use of hair in love magic. 31 Assuming that Photis’ error is another of the many warnings Lucius receives against dabbling with magic, but does not heed, puts this episode in line with the tale of Aristomenes, the tale of Thelyphron, the statue of Actaeon in Byrraena’s atrium and the explicit warnings of his aunt Byrrhaena, all of which are obvious warnings that Lucius ignores. 30

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themselves characteristic of Lucius, and influence his negative portrait of her, but this says more about him than about her motivations. It is through Photis that Lucius makes his acquaintance with magic, and he uses sex as a means to an end. On a symbolic level, thus, Photis represents the forbidden elements of curiosity and magic,32 which in the Met. are intrinsically linked with desire for food and sex, through her cooking and attractiveness. Lucius is less interested in sex than in magic, cf. Met. 2.6, and uses the former to access the latter, but it is clear that with Photis Lucius is not able to separate one from the other. Lucius has been firmly trying to avoid getting involved with magic directly, by avoiding Pamphile and taking up with her accident-prone apprentice, but the combination of magic and sex in the Metamorphoses results in his downfall despite his half-hearted caution. Photis’ association with magic and our assessment of it has consequences for our reading of the Isiac ending. In order to overcome his dangerous association with magic, Lucius will eventually forego sex and eating meat during his initiation (Met. 11.23).

7: Anti-Isis or Her Anticipation? The similarities of the Photis episodes with the Isiac ending have led many scholars to an intrinsically negative interpretation of Photis as an anti-Isis. The two females are obviously linked in their description, and much of Apuleius’ (re)shaping of Photis’ character has to be seen as intentional in order to create a contrast to Isis. It is not clear, though, whether Photis should be seen entirely as an anti-Isis and Venus, or as an earthly anticipation of the goddess.33 Some extraordinary parallels have often been noted between the portrait of Photis and that of Isis, especially between Met. 2.8-9 (ecphrasis of Photis’ hair), Met. 2.17 (Photis poses as Venus) and Isis’ epiphany in Met. 11.3. For example, Photis as Venus at Met. 2.17 is garlanded with roses, Venus’ priest carries roses which Lucius can eat (Met. 2.6), and at Met. 2.11 Photis’ night of love is called metaphorically the ‘ship of 32

Cf. Penwill (1975) 60; Cooper (1980) 460-1; de Smet (1987) 614-5; Schlam (1992) 71, Shelton (2005) 312-14. 33 Cf. e.g. Sandy (1978); Schlam (1978) 98: “sex as well as magic are characterised in terms of unholy adoration”; van Mal-Maeder (1997) 94 n.25. For recent overviews of the scholarship cf. Hindermann (2009a) 185-89 and Carver (2013). Carver sees the relationship of Photis and Isis as a matter of continuity rather than opposition, as the love of Photis contains some base as well as high aspects which anticipate the role of Isis.

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Venus’, nauigium Veneris, which anticipates the Isiac festival of Nauigium Isidis when Lucius is retransformed. Especially telling is the parallelism between the ekphrasis of Photis’ hair and that of Isis in Met. 11.3, down to verbal correspondences.34 Unusually for a slave,35 Photis has long flowing tresses, which mark her out as a literary construct rather than a realistic slave, and which imitate the iconography of Isis. Both let their hair fall in ringlets over their shoulders but have gathered it up again on the top of their heads.36 Lucius’ viewing of Pamphile’s transformation into a bird anticipates the initiation into the mysteries of Isis, suggesting that he undergoes an initiation into magic: in Met. 3.15 Photis urges Lucius to keep silent, which anticipates the ritual invocation of silence during Isiac initiation (Met. 11.23).37 This witchcraft initiation is often described as an initiation into the ‘wrong’ mysteries,38 e.g. when Photis says she alone knows secrets (quae sola mortalium noui, Met. 3.15), whereas Isis, too, claims to be the only one to have the knowledge (mihi tantum licere) to expand Lucius’ lifespan (Met. 11.6). Indeed, the parallels are often indicative of a contrast, e.g. Lucius’ attraction to Photis’ hair, and to how she cooks meat in Met. 2.7, is in stark contrast to Lucius’ shaving his hair for Isis and abstaining from meat (Met. 11.28; 11.30).39 Connected with this issue is the interpretation of the Isiac priest’s words to Lucius in Met. 11.15, where in hindsight Lucius’ transformation into a donkey is blamed on his seruiles uoluptates, his “slavish pleasures”. This is often seen as referring to Lucius’ sexual adventures with Photis,40 or more abstractly to his curiosity, for which Photis becomes a symbol, “the embodiment of both sensual lust and magical power.”41 Either way, Photis is retrospectively made to carry some of the blame for Lucius’ metamorphosis.

34

On hair in Apuleius cf. Englert and Long (1973); on the comparison of Photis’ and Isis’ hair cf. Alpers (1980) 201; GCA (2001) 21. 35 Cf. May (2006) 179. 36 Photis’ hairstyle may be reminiscent of that in RE Suppl. 6 (1935), 97, s.v. “Haartracht” (Stephan), thus Englert and Long (1973) 237 n.8; Alpers (1980) 201 is sceptical. 37 Cf. van Mal-Maeder (1997) 97-8, with further literature. 38 Cf. Wlosok (1969) 78-9; Sandy (1978) 135-37; de Smet (1987) 617; and especially Schmidt (1982) 269-82, a very detailed analysis. 39 Shelton (2005) 314. 40 Griffiths (1978) 156; Alpers (1980) 199. 41 Cooper (1980) 461. Sandy [(1978) 130-33] sees Lucius a slave to lust and more importantly to magic, Penwill (1975) as a slave to curiosity.

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Photis is thus often seen as an anti-Isis,42 in charge of the wrong mysteries, her name accordingly interpreted as giving the wrong kind of ‘light’ and ‘illumination’, from whom Lucius must be rescued by the real Isis. Certainly, Pamphile’s transformation in Met. 3.15 is reminiscent of a mystery initiation. Witches are clearly seen as oversexed, offering the wrong mysteries, females to whom submission is required, not equality or voluntary service as in the case of Isis. Photis thus becomes associated with everything that is bad in Lucius (curiosity, sexuality, interest in food and witchcraft) and to which he succumbs by dallying with her. On the other hand, the often listed parallels between Photis and Isis may not be intended to create a contrast, a binary opposition between Met. 1-10 and Met. 11; rather this repetition of motifs can stress the continuity by which Lucius moves from one interest in initiation (magic) to another (mystery cult), from earthly to divine love.43 In effect, the assessment of possible contrast or continuation depends on the reader’s interpretation of Isis and Lucius’ relationship with her; but whatever the outcome of that assessment, Photis should not be seen just as a dangerous antecedent of Isis alone, but in her own terms as a delightful, charming and witty girl that the protagonist quite rightly becomes rapidly fond of.

8: Photis in the Rest of the Metamorphoses Heine sees Lucius’ character as essentially picaresque and as one that does not develop, and similarly claims that other characters in the novel are only episodic.44 Photis does appear only in one episode, but afterwards Lucius periodically recalls her, the only character in the Met. to whom this applies. Lucius’ host Milo, too, reappears in Met. 4.8 and 7.1, but only because the robbers mention him. Lucius himself does not recall anyone else in the Met. once he has left them physically behind, neither Charite, the girl who he found so attractive that he attempted to kiss her feet whilst they were fleeing from the robbers, nor, as mentioned before, even the 42 Alpers (1980) 201-6; Schmidt (1982) 199, 269-82. de Smet (1987) 613-23; Krabbe (1989) 84-122; Schlam (1992) 68, 71-2; van Mal-Maeder (1997) 97. 43 More positive interpretations of the relationship between Photis and Isis: Carver (1990), (2013); Citati (1990); cf. also GCA (2001) 4.9-11; Hindermann (2009a). 44 Cf. Heine (1978) 28. Photis’ presence and importance in the Met. is often underestimated: GCA [(2001) 143] on Met. 2.7 wrongly says that Photis remains anonymous in Book 1, although she is addressed in Met.1.24. Mathis [(2008) 211 n.22] misleadingly states: “Interestingly, Photis completely disappears from the narrative after Lucius has obtained his goal of experiencing magic” and claims that he forgets her entirely.

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wealthy matron in Met. 10 who shared several nights with him and to whom his Greek equivalent attempts to return. Photis is the only exception. Mentions of Photis of course offer a shortcut for Lucius to express his anger at his fate of asinine metamorphosis; but even so, Photis remains important enough to be recalled throughout the novel right up to the Isis episode, offering Lucius the opportunity for passing the blame to her for his metamorphosis rather than blaming himself. This phenomenon she shares in part with the Greek Palaistra, who is recalled by Loukios in a similar fashion. At Onos 27 he complains that he got barley for breakfast rather than meat, and he cursed Palaistra for not changing him into a dog instead. At Met. 7.14 (Sed quas ego condignas Photidi diras deuotiones inprecer, “But how justly would I damn Photis with dreadful curses”) Lucius similarly recalls Photis by name and curses her on Charite’s wedding day for not turning him into a dog instead of a donkey, because he is disappointed at being fed with barley rather than leftovers from the banquet, presumably meat, just like Loukios in the Onos. He blames her for her error, and contemplates cursing her, and sees himself as the victim. Palaistra does not reappear afterwards until Onos 54, in the alternative ending of the novel, where Loukios explains dispassionately and without rancour his re-metamorphosis in the theatre, and states that “a Thessalian maid of a Thessalian witch” had caused his asinine form. The stress is on the causality of witchcraft, not on hurt emotions and curses, and the unnamed Palaistra is of no greater significance to him than her mistress. In the Metamorphoses, the reminiscence in Met. 11 must be an Apuleian addition to the plot, but recurring mentions make Photis once again more important to the narrative than Palaistra. Photis’ reappearances have different functions in the Met., depending on the nature of Lucius’ reminiscences. She first reappears in Met. 7.1, in the messenger speech by the robber who was left behind in Hypata and who reports that Lucius had been accused of the robbery himself, and of using Photis to find out about where Milo’s jewels were hid, falsis amoribus ancillae Milonis animum inrepens (“having wormed his way into the affections of Milo’s maid with false protestations of love”). The phrase may imply Photis’ affections were genuine, and Photis’ mention, though unnamed, here recalls Lucius’ agency in his own downfall through dabbling with sex and magic, and the extreme measures he was willing to take to see magic performed; although in context Lucius immediately resorts to blaming everyone but his own curiosity for his mishap and is worried primarily about the false accusations against him. What Lucius does not mention is that here a

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glimpse of Photis’ future fate is possible.45 As she is a slave, her confession would have necessarily been extracted by torture, and her punishment for aiding Lucius against her own master could have been dire. Even the death penalty would have been a possibility. Lucius, characteristically, does not consider the consequences of his own actions for others in the novel, especially as he continues to blame Photis for his asinine shape. At Met. 9.15 there is a certain shift in Lucius’ reminiscences:46 the miller’s wife has illicit sex with her lover, which reminds Lucius of Photis, with whom he is still furious for her error: at ego, quamquam grauiter suscensens errori Photidis… (“as for me, although I was deeply angry at Photis’ mistake…”). He finds “one consolation” (uel unico solacio) in his big asinine ears which satisfy his curiosity, since he can eavesdrop on the miller’s wife. Fulfilling his curiosity is his only solace, while he continues to blame Photis for the mistake. Naming Photis again shows his continued folly and curiosity, turning Photis into a foil for Lucius’ own character. It is clear here that he has not learned anything, not even that feeding his own curiosity caused his downfall as much as Photis’ error. Finally, in Met. 11.20, Lucius, restored to his human form by Isis, now lives in her temple, and has a nocturnal vision of Isis’ priests giving him gifts. It turns out that the next day he is reunited with his slaves and horse whom he had left behind in Hypata. He recalls that Photis had “put the halter on him” (incapistrasset) in his wanderings. This last mention of Photis shows another interesting shift in Lucius’ assessment of her: he is no longer looking back at her in anger, there is no cursing or declaration of her error. Instead, this is said in an almost neutral tone; Photis is still the agent, the hapax legomenon incapistrasset again harks back to his metamorphosis into a quadruped, but Lucius no longer expresses blame and anger, now that his interest in what she had to offer, sex and satisfaction of his curiosity, have been channelled towards Isis instead. Photis becomes the image and agent of what Lucius feels he has left behind. During key points of the narrative Photis’ name works as a shortcut to remind the reader of Lucius’ asinine state and his journey in character development. He remembers her often angrily, but also resignedly and gratefully for her allowing him to satiate his curiosity, and finally views her without resentment. As her name, which mirrors his, indicates, she

45 46

See further Carver (2013) for the following. Cf. GCA (1985) 149, ad loc.

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works as a foil for his character throughout the Met., up until after his remetamorphosis and his entering Isis’ service.

9: Conclusion If Photis were only to appear as an anti-Isis, there would have been no need for her careful characterisation through literature and art. She is changed very much from her crude and illiterate Greek predecessor Palaistra, and turned into a charming, literary and literate creation. She is fashioned with the help of literary allusions, as someone who appropriates art and literature as part of her seductive technique. She is more than a mere means to an end: Photis is an important foil for Lucius and a credible love interest, an equal and challenging partner for someone with literary interests. Within the structure of the narrative she is a symbol for magical initiations and the dangers of sexual attraction, helping once again to display Lucius’ fatal attraction to magic and curiosity beyond what is good for him; but, above all, Photis is fascinating in her own right.

CHAPTER FIVE BYRRHAENA AND HER HOUSEHOLD (METAMORPHOSES BOOKS 2-3) STAVROS FRANGOULIDIS

In fond memory of Professor Charles L. Babcock On the morning following his arrival in Hypata Lucius walks in town, eager to see rare and marvelous things (2.1.1).1 The only object that fits the bill is a well-dressed matrona named Byrrhaena, who is accompanied by an old man and a retinue of servants. The woman recognises Lucius as her nephew. Alone in a foreign city, Lucius meets a previously unmentioned member of his family and is invited to stay at her house, but declines her offer as he has already arranged to stay with Milo. Byrrhaena warns her nephew to stay away from Pamphile, Milo’s wife, for she is a dangerous witch. Pamphile recalls the powerful witch Meroe, who either changes her victims into other creatures or kills them if they resist her advances. Byrrhaena’s warnings play a key role in Lucius’ steering clear of Pamphile and in devising his allegedly clever plan to have an affair with Photis, Pamphile’s maid. Photis is an apprentice witch without intimate knowledge of the magic arts; yet, Lucius thinks that through her he could secure safer access to Pamphile’s magic. In the narrative, then, involvement in magic comes via a sexual relationship with a beautiful girl. Lucius’ affair with Photis leads to his metamorphosis into a donkey, but at least it saves him from the fate of Pamphile’s other lovers. In fact,

1

English translations of the Metamorphoses are from the Loeb edition of Hanson (1989). I would like to thank Ben Petre, Eleni Manolaraki, and Antony Augoustakis for their valuable suggestions in reading a draft of the paper and to the editor of the volume, Stephen J. Harrison, both for his kind invitation to contribute to the volume and his valuable remarks and corrections.

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through Isis’ positive ‘magic,’ her cult, Lucius is restored to his former self and reenters the community at a higher (spiritual) level. Scholars recognise the positive role of Byrrhaena as Lucius’ protector in the narrative, for she tries to hold him back from his erotic adventures.2 Others have recognised some faults in her character, for she allows Thelyphron’s humiliation to take place in her house, she plays a role in Lucius’ ridiculing in the Risus festival, and finally invites him to a feast at her house, perhaps to provoke him to retell his experience, like Thelyphron before him.3 The present chapter attempts to demonstrate the twofold function of Byrrhaena in the narrative of Lucius’ stay in Hypata: (1) to make clear in hindsight that human initiative can only minimise the dangers of magic, while divine intervention can offer release from them; and (2) to determine the different direction of Lucius’ fate, and therefore the turn of the plot, from that of all other characters who fall victim to the witches and either lose or mar their lives. Thus through Byrrhaena’s presence in the narrative the prospect of Lucius’ deliverance from magic becomes a viable option in the story. Once in Hypata, Lucius walks into town in search of wondrous encounters, aware that he is in the capital of Thessalian magic. He sees little of note, however, except for a well-dressed woman, accompanied by an attendant and a retinue of slaves. S. J. Harrison has recognised in Byrrhaena’s appearance the Vergilian description of Dido when she appears for the hunt in Aeneid 4.136-139.4 The Vergilian intertext adds dignity to Byrrhaena’s portrayal. However, Lucius apparently takes her to be a witch, and hurries to approach her (2.2.3). The woman recognises Lucius as her nephew on the side of his mother Salvia, who grew up with her. Byrrhaena then offers a detailed description of Lucius’ appearance (2.2.8-9). This description serves as a token of anagnorisis, designed to confirm the view that he is indeed the son of Salvia.5 At this point we hear that Byrrhaena helped to bring Lucius up, which accounts for her 2

E.g. James (1987) 241; Meltzer (1987) 101; Krabbe (1989) 87; Clarke (2005) 67. 3 Finkelpearl (1998) 79; Lateiner (2000) 327, and n.35, id. (2001) 226. See also Turpin (2002) 29, s.v. desponderas. 4 Harrison (1997) 58-59. 5 Harrison [(1990) 195-97] traces the Homeric model of Menelaus’ recognition of Telemachus in Odyssey 4.141-50; Harrison (1997) 58; and also Harrison, Chapter 1, section 4, in this volume. For issues of Lucius’ identity, as developed in the narrative, see the compelling discussion of Harrison, Chapter 1, section 2, in this volume.

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continuing concern for him even once he has declined her hospitality (2.3.1). Her welcoming behaviour is quite the opposite of that displayed by Milo, Lucius’ host. Milo’s door remains closed to him when he seeks entrance, and only opens once Lucius has presented a recommendation letter from Milo’s friend, Demeas of Corinth (1.22.1-5). Despite this frosty reception, Lucius insists on staying with Milo, as he allegedly does not have any reasons not to be satisfied with his host (2.3.5). It could perhaps be argued that the narrative would halt if the protagonist stayed with his aunt, as she does everything in her power to discourage him from meddling with the dark arts: all the magical events and encounters (Photis, the wineskins episode, the transformation) take place at Milo’s house. While still conversing with Lucius during their initial meeting, Byrrhaena takes him to her large and richly decorated house, indicating that she belongs to high society in Hypata. Inside the house is an atrium with pillars in each corner, topped by Victory statues surrounding a sculptural rendition of Diana and Actaeon (2.4). R.G. Peden has read the four winged Victory statues as a concealed epiphany of Isis in her role as Isis-Victoria-Fortuna, and the figure of Diana as representing one of the many faces of Isis.6 N.W. Slater develops this idea, arguing that the presence of the winged Victories as epiphanies of Isis offers another vantage point, from where Lucius becomes part of the sculptural composition and not just the subject in control of the gaze.7 In this reading, Isis is both Diana and the winged figures, while Lucius is both Actaeon and himself.8 This fascinating interpretation attempts to construct meaning from the group of statues in the atrium by viewing them as a mirror of the novel’s narrative. Alternatively, one could point out that in the ecphrasis Diana engages in a destructive metamorphosis, turning Actaeon into a stag to punish his voyeurism, whereas Isis engages in a positive one, helping Lucius to return to his former human self. Viewed in another way, the narrative of the sculpture may also be read as designed to increase the verisimilitude of the narrative by offering another example borrowed from the myth of man turning into an animal as a result of unlawful erotic desire.9 This is important in view of Lucius’ imminent metamorphosis into a donkey. In any event, the central position occupied 6

Peden (1985) 282. Slater (1998) 36. 8 Slater (1998) 36. 9 The presence of an atrium adorned with statues could also be intended to make clear the sense of verisimilitude in the narrative: the sumptuous decoration in Byrrhaena’s house is designed to confirm the view that its owner is a member of high society. 7

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by the sculpture of Diana and Actaeon facilitates the transition from presentation of the myth to discussion of the witch Pamphile. The tableau features Actaeon’s metamorphosis into a stag as a punishment for spying on the goddess naked (2.4). In his description of the sculptures, Lucius dwells on an aesthetic appreciation of the artwork rather than the myth it represents, emphasising how the artist mimics nature to the point that there is no visible distinction between illusion and reality, and markedly omitting any reference to Actaeon’s didactic punishment. Lucius’ failure to understand the significance of the sculpture has persuasively been compared to Aeneas’ similar misinterpretation of the paintings of the Trojan War featured in the temple of Juno in Aeneid 1.453-93.10 Byrrhaena senses Lucius’ pleasure at watching the statues and informs him that everything he sees belongs to him (2.5.1): ‘Tua sunt’ ait Byrrhena ‘cuncta quae uides’. Scholars have read Byrrhaena’s comment either as anticipating Lucius’ fortune as a result of his curiosity11 (i.e. everything he sees describes his fortune), or as a polite offering of all the facilities in her house.12 In the latter reading Byrrhaena also seems to restate her initial invitation to her nephew to stay at her house, and admire the sculpture as his own as often as he wishes. Once alone with her nephew, Byrrhaena expresses her fear at the dangers Lucius may face at the hands of Milo’s wife Pamphile who is a lustful and powerful witch, able to move the world upside down and throw it into chaos (2.5.4). Pamphile is interested in young men who catch her eye and dominates their minds, quite literally turning them into her slaves. If they resist her advances, she transforms them into stone, sheep or other animals, or even kills them. This portrayal of Pamphile reveals some points of contact with the presentation of Diana in the ecphrasis as well as differences, which, in turn, illuminate the contrast between the witches and the goddess in their capacity to transform.13 Both Pamphile and Diana are able to bring about transformation: Pamphile can change her unfaithful lovers into other forms or other beings (2.5.7) and Diana changes Actaeon into a stag (2.4.10). Here one may find the only similarity discerned between the two figures. Pamphile has many lovers and is constantly on the lookout for new ones, while Diana is a virgin 10

Harrison (1997) 59-60. Harrison (1997) 59; also Harrison, Chapter 1, section 3, in this volume; Nethercut (1968) 113-15; Slater (1998) 36; Wlosok (1999) 147. 12 Harrison (1997) 59; and Harrison, Chapter 1, section 3, in this volume. 13 Nethercut [(1968) 113] develops a parallel between Actaeon and Lucius watching Pamphile’s rites from a hidden spot and between Actaeon’s fate and that of Lucius as a donkey. 11

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goddess. Moreover, the witch punishes those who resist her passion or those who fall into her disfavour, thus exerting control over her lovers; Diana, on the other hand, eliminates erotic desire the moment it arises. The rumours about Pamphile point to the perils of being involved with her, whereas the link of Diana with the Actaeon tale illustrates the disastrous consequences of unlawful erotic desires. However, both the narrative of the portrayal of Pamphile and the Actaeon ecphrasis send out a clear message on the serious consequences of sexuality outside the context of marriage and the preservation of the oikos. In possessing supernatural powers, Pamphile recalls the powerful witch Meroe in several ways.14 Pamphile is able to throw the world into chaos (2.5.4); in a similar way, Meroe is able to generate disorder in the world (1.8.4); just as Pamphile can coax her lovers with smooth talk (2.5.5-6), Meroe too enslaves Socrates (1.7.8);15 like Pamphile who can change her lovers into stones or other animals (2.5.6), Meroe has metamorphosed one unfaithful lover into a beaver and another into a ram (1.9.1-4); she even sends Socrates to his death when he tried to evade her with his friend Aristomenes (1.19).16 These similarities suggest that Pamphile is a double of Meroe and in retrospect may foreshadow Lucius’ fortune, and, therefore, the turn of the plot away from the fate of Meroe’s earlier victims, who were involved with her and either lost their lives or were marked for life. In his encounter with Byrrhaena, Lucius discovers that the excitement he was looking for while strolling in town is under his host’s roof. He thus wishes to head straight back to his host Milo’s house. In spite of her warnings, Byrrhaena is unable to persuade Lucius to stay away from the evil arts. On the way there, he devises a plan to avoid Pamphile, the wife of his host, and instead flirt with her maid, the beautiful slave-girl Photis.17 Photis, in Lucius’ thinking, is less dangerous, and thus can offer safe passage to Pamphile’s magic (2.6.6). Thus, Lucius can acquire knowledge of the art of transformation, a feature shared by gods and witches alike. Lucius’ objective combines the proverbial dulce and utile. The employment of the maid as means to get access to the mistress is reminiscent of the function of the stock character of the go-between in Roman comedy and elegy. What is more, at this point for the first time Lucius speaks about the girl in erotic terms and even recalls that she has 14

Shelton (2005) 313. Shelton (2005) 313. 16 For a discussion of Meroe’s deeds in relation to Lucius’ fortune see Murgatroyd (2001) 40-46. 17 On the characterisation of Photis see May, Chapter 4 in this volume. 15

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already expressed an interest in him (2.6.7); earlier he did not pay any attention to her, although he twice conversed with her (1.22.2-5 and 1.24.2). In his estimation, his involvement with the servant will enable him to get into contact with Pamphile’s arts without suffering any harm. However, Lucius becomes a victim of Pamphile’s magic via the allegedly non-dangerous Photis, and therefore of his own plan. Lucius changes into an animal but at least protects himself from the worst. Had Lucius been involved directly with the powerful witch Pamphile, his fate would have been similar to that of all the other lovers of Meroe or the other victims of powerful witches who either lost their lives or were permanently scarred. Lucius’ metamorphosis into a donkey facilitates his move from Hypata and his arrival at Isis’ cultic center at Cenchreae, as the ass is owned by various masters and is able to change locations. At Cenchreae he prays to the goddess for release from his troubles and permanently shields himself from the vicissitudes of evil fortune by entering her cult as a priest, gaining access to the divine world he foolishly sought to know via magic. This view is reinforced by the fact that the witches in the novel are presented as possessing supernatural powers (Meroe is explicitly defined as femina diuina, 1.8.2), but unlike the divine benevolence of Isis, the magic wielded by the witches is only ever depicted negatively. Byrrhaena’s words of warning lead Lucius to avoid Pamphile and seek involvement with Photis instead. Thus through Byrrhaena’s presence, the prospect of a release from the powers of magic and, therefore, of a reversal in the plot remains a possibility in the narrative. This development comes about when, on returning to Milo’s house, Lucius puts his allegedly clever plan into action. He sees Photis in the kitchen cooking a meal and begins his flirting (2.7-8).18 His involvement with the girl resembles that of Actaeon in the ecphrasis as well as the narrative of Pamphile pursuing her lovers. Yet, it also contrasts with both. These differences foreshadow the different fortune awaiting Lucius and, therefore, the turn of plot from that of Actaeon or the victims of Pamphile’s magic. Like Actaeon spying on Diana’s bath, Lucius lustfully observes Photis as she cooks the meal; but unlike Pamphile’s lovers, he takes the initiative in flirting. Moreover, Diana instantly eliminates desire the moment it arises, whereas Pamphile dominates her lovers, quite literally turning them into slaves; if they resist her advances, she punishes them by turning them into other beings or killing them. On the other hand, 18

Harrison [(1990) 197-98] has discussed the passage in relation to its literary antecedents: the parallels, similarities and contrasts, between Lucius’ stupefaction at the sight of Photis and Odysseus’ astonishment at Nausicaa’s beauty in Odyssey 6.158-68.

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the beautiful girl Photis responds to Lucius’ flirting, and is likened to Venus, goddess of love (2.8).19 In fact, the affair shows elements of mutual love. The elevation of a servant girl to divine status is also consistent with the elegiac topos of seruitium amoris, involving deification of the mistress.20 After an exchange of passionate kisses, Photis orders Lucius to prepare for a night of passion in his room, having twice warned him of the dangers arising from sexual involvement with her (2.7.7 and 2.10.2). Thus, Lucius succeeds in his objective of becoming involved with Photis. In the development of the narrative Byrrhaena demonstrates her continued concern for Lucius: one day Byrrhaena invites her nephew to a banquet she is hosting (2.18.1). Lucius is unwilling to attend because this will divert him from his objectives; but he decides to seek Photis’ permission. This brings to the fore the theme of seruitium amoris. Photis grants permission together with a warning to come home early: there is a gang of robbers that roams the streets killing people and the authorities are unable to arrest them: Hypata, we understand, is a lawless society (2.18.3-4). Lucius assures Photis that he will return early as he prefers her company. His further motive is, of course, to gain access to magic without further delay. The lavish feast laid on by Byrrhaena contrasts to the reception Milo provided Lucius upon his arrival in town, sending him to bed hungry after an evening of stultifying conversation (1.26.7). Hypatan high society is represented at Byrrhaena’s banquet, as befits her elevated status in the community. During the dinner conversation, the hostess asks her nephew about his impressions of the town, defined as an excellent place for any kind of visitor (2.19.5-6). Lucius agrees, but states his fears about the witches who do not even leave the dead unharmed (2.20.1-3). His response makes the guests burst into raucous laughter and turn their attention to Thelyphron, who is sitting alone in the corner (2.20.5). The guests’ behaviour offends Thelyphron so much that he rises to leave (2.20.6); but Byrrhaena insists that he stays and urges him to tell his story to her nephew (2.20.7). The fact that Byrrhaena pressures Thelyphron to retell the tale of how he lost his nose and ears to witches and thus causes him to be ridiculed in 19

For a discussion of the ecphrasis of Photis’ hair and the sexual innuendos in the kitchen scene see Schmeling and Montiglio (2006) 29-35. Later, at 2.17, Lucius likens Photis to Venus rising from the sea, when she strips herself of all her clothes and stands naked in joyful wantonness in front of him. 20 For a discussion of the elegiac topos of seruitium amoris and the portrayal of Photis as an elegiac puella see Hindermann (2009b) 76-77.

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her house has been taken as reflecting poorly on her as a hostess.21 However, it is clear that any damage caused to Thelyphron is outweighed by the didactic value of his tale for her nephew, which is entirely in line with her repeated efforts to warn him against the dangers of magic. Byrrhaena looked after Lucius in his early childhood (2.3.1) and her present behaviour seems to function as a continuation of her earlier contact. The narrative of the tale sends a double message: (1) at Hypata everyone is in danger, whether living or dead; and (2) lustful liaisons present dangers for the males involved. Byrrhaena’s insistence that her guest narrate his tale gains greater weight as she is ignorant of Lucius’ involvement with the beautiful Photis. In the tale, Thelyphron, on the way from Miletus to watch the Olympic Games, runs out of money and makes a stop in Larissa in the hope of finding employment. A recent widow seeks to hire a guard to protect her late husband’s corpse from the witches during the funeral vigil and thus maintain the impression of being a devoted uniuira. Thelyphron overestimates his abilities and agrees to guard the corpse. During the vigil, he tries to stay awake, but the witches put him into a deep sleep. After verifying the next morning that the corpse is intact, the widow gives the guard payment for his work. The truth of what actually happened during the night only emerges during the funeral procession. The dead man’s elderly uncle accuses his widow of having poisoned her husband for the sake of a lover (2.27.5). The widow rejects his accusations, but the uncle appeals to Zatchlas the priest to reanimate the dead man so that he can testify to the conditions of his death (2.28.1). In his testimony, the reanimated young man confirms the uncle’s version of events, but also reveals that the guard hired to watch over him was mutilated in his place during the night. The shorter tale is well integrated into the larger story of Lucius’ involvement with Photis in several ways. Like Lucius, Thelyphron is new in town. Furthermore, the over-confident Thelyphron, who believes he can emerge unscathed from contact with magic, recalls Lucius, who seeks contact with Pamphile’s magic via the less dangerous Photis. Moreover, both the widow and Photis resort to the evil arts of enchantment: the former poisons her husband for reasons of lust by recourse to magic (2.29.5: Malis … artibus), and the latter is an apprentice in magic, a ‘disciple’ of the witch Pamphile. The affinities between the embedded tale 21

Newbold (2003) 93 and 94. For the contrary view of Byrrhaena as an exemplary hostess see Vander Poppen (2008) 106. See also Frangoulidis (2014) 275-287, passim.

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and the larger story of Lucius generate anxiety over Lucius’ fortune, if he continues his pursuit of magic, despite the fact that Photis is not an evil character. The sarcastic laughter of Byrrhaena’s guests at the end of Thelyphron’s tale, as the guard touches his nose and ears and discovers that they are wax replacements, which fall off (2.30.7), recalls the guffaws when Thelyphron is first introduced (2.20.4-5); and also mirrors the reaction of the crowd towards the mutilated guard during the funeral procession. This repetition demonstrates that Thelyphron has been put in a marginal position in the town as a result of his involvement in magic (2.20-30). Following the tale, Byrrhaena informs Lucius that tomorrow is the day dedicated to the god of Laughter, invites him to participate in the rite, and advises him to think of something witty to honour this great god, as they have done since the foundation of their city, and thus duly propitiate the deity (2.31.2-3). Lucius agrees and then leaves in a drunken state. On his way home, the inebriated Lucius thinks that he sees three robbers trying to get in the house and kills them with his sword; these robbers are later revealed to be wineskins, animated by Pamphile (and Photis). This is the first time Lucius suffers through contact with magic, even if indirectly; thus far, he has only heard stories of the fates suffered by other characters. The entire episode implies that in Hypata one must guard oneself against ubiquitous magic. The watchman perhaps saw Lucius engaging in a fight with the wineskins, thought that he was drunk and informed the magistrates.22 The Hypatans, who are ignorant of the role of magic in Lucius’ ordeal, bring a charge of triple murder against him as part of their local celebrations in honour of the god of Laughter.23 We have no information about such a festival from the ancient world.24 From evidence we can gather from the text, it could be argued that the rite appears as an institutionalised ritual of integration in which 22

For an ingenious reading of the Laughter festival from the perspective of a first and second time reader see Penwill (1990) 2-5. For the judicial strategy adopted by both the prosecutor and the defendant in the Laughter festival see the brilliant analysis by La Bua (2013) 675-701. 23 On the morning of the Laughter festival Lucius thinks of his trial and execution. His stance recalls Aristomenes, who thinks along similar lines following his encounter with the witches Meroe and Panthia. Unlike Aristomenes, however, Lucius really is put in the dock, even if only to generate laughter. For an excellent discussion of the multi-layered interextuality in the Laughter festival with many elements taken from comic intertexts see May (2006) 186-207. 24 Hanson (1989) 120.

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the entire community participates. The procedure seems to involve some kind of a mock trial, a type of dokimasia that informs rites of passage.25 Most probably, the Hypatans prefer to set up either strangers or fools (or ideally both, like Lucius), who are ignorant of the rite, and thus ensure a novel celebration in honour of the god of Laughter. The fact that there is no mention of magic in Lucius’ trial demonstrates that the ritual trial itself is unrelated to magic, but the origin of this trial might stem from some kind of involvement in magic, as happens in the incident with the wineskins. In the mock trial Lucius is humiliated in public: the alleged robbers are revealed to be wineskins pierced where he pierced them the previous night with his sword, and the trial ends with the participants in the festival bursting into raucous laughter. Following the celebration, the magistrates arrive in Lucius’ room and deliver a speech to explain the rite (3.11). The authorities firstly inform Lucius that they are aware of his noble birth and that the humiliation he went through in the mock trial was not meant to harm him but was only part of the celebration in honour of the great god; second, they assure him that he will always enjoy the favour of the god for the great service he has performed in his honour, as if he were his priest; and third, they announce to him the decision of the city to inscribe him as patronus and preserve his image in bronze for helping them to carry out another year of celebration in honour of the god of Laughter (3.11.5). The awarding of exceptional honours to Lucius signals his admission into the community with a new, honourable social status.26 Yet, Lucius refuses to accept these privileges, as they would serve as a reminder of his role as fool in the festival (3.11.6). His denial to accept the honours may signal the loss of favour of the god, and in retrospect may explain his subsequent sorrows as a result of his metamorphosis into an ass and his ordeals. It has been suggested that Byrrhaena plays some role in the humiliation of Lucius for the sake of the god Risus. For one thing, she anticipates his presence and wit in the festival the following morning (2.31.2-3).27 Moreover, after the festivities she invites him to another banquet, possibly to entertain her guests with his version of events (as Thelyphron is badgered into doing earlier in the narrative).28 However, Byrrhaena may not be viewed as entirely responsible for Lucius’ ridicule in the festival: she only invites Lucius to think of some witty mode of 25

See discussion in Frangoulidis (2002) 177-88. For further discussion see Frangoulidis (2002) 184. 27 Finkelpearl [(1998) 79] views Byrrhaena as equally responsible with Photis for his humiliation in the Risus festival; see Lateiner (2000) 327, and n.35. 28 Lateiner (2000) 327, and n.35; id. (2001) 226. 26

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honouring the god in the traditional way, as the Hypatans have done since the foundation of their city (2.31.2). Granted this, Lucius’ humiliation in the festival is only temporary and does not permanently ruin him, as happens with Thelyphron who loses his nose and ears to witches. What is more, it could be argued that, when Byrrhaena invites Lucius to think of something witty to celebrate the god, she has another celebration in mind: the feast which will take place at night in her house. This idea gains weight when Byrrhaena’s slave is later sent to ask Lucius to join the feast, as promised the previous night (3.12.2):29 ‘Rogat te’ ait ‘tua parens Byrrhena, et conuiuii cui te sero desponderas, iam adpropinquantis admonet’ (“‘Your aunt Byrrhena,’ he said, ‘invites your presence, and reminds you that the party you promised last night to attend will soon be starting’”). In this feast, Byrrhaena wants to honour the god, involving Lucius too, and does not seem to have sinister motives. In this feast, perhaps the guests will engage in humorous banter so as to please the god. Yet, Lucius detects malicious intentions in the invitation of his aunt: he fears that he will be forced to narrate and, therefore, relive his experience in the Laughter Festival, turning himself into a source of mirth, as happened with Thelyphron during the previous night; Byrrhaena, on the other hand, in a different frame of mind, simply wants to honour the god with the participation of her nephew.30 Lucius thus refuses the

29

See Turpin [(2002) 29, s.v. desponderas], who observes the following: “At dinner the night before Byrrhaena had invited Lucius to help in the celebration of Risus that was to take place the next day (2.31). At that time this sounded like a simple invitation to the feast, but Byrrhaena’s words subsequently turned out to be an ironic reference to the joke played on Lucius. Now, however, she reverts to the non-ironic meaning of her words, and insists that the invitation had been given and accepted.” 30 At this point, it is instructive to compare Lucius’ experience in the Laughter festival as a result of his encounter with magic with that of Thelyphron following his contact with the witches, so as to make clear the differences between them. In both cases the protagonists are humiliated and in both cases there is extensive laughter. Yet, any similarities end here. Lucius’ humiliation in the festival is only temporary (3.1-10); whereas Thelyphron receives permanent scars, losing his nose and ears to witches (2.30.7). Furthermore, Lucius’ ridiculing takes place within the context of a religious festival, unlike that of Thelyphron, which takes place during a funeral rite, which in some respects is the very opposite of the Risus festival. Finally, the Hypatan magistrates offer exceptional honours to Lucius for the great service he has rendered to the community and their god Risus (3.11.5), though Lucius refuses to accept them (3.11.6); whereas Thelyphron actually receives payment not for his work as guard, but for the body parts which the witches

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invitation of his aunt and prefers to stay at Milo‫ތ‬s home, where he remains exposed to the dangers of magic. Following the festival, Photis enters Lucius’ room and informs him in private of the actual events that took place the previous night (3.13-18). Lucius came into contact not with robbers, she reveals, but with wineskins, animated by Pamphile’s magic. Photis was unable to obtain hair from the Boeotian youth Pamphile was pursuing, and so used goat hair from wineskins as a substitute in a rite of erotic magic. Photis could not reveal in public the role of magic in the wineskin incident, as happened earlier with the reanimated husband during the funeral procession (2.29-30), because of her fear of punishment from her mistress (3.15.3). Thus, Lucius’ utmost humiliation in the Laughter Festival is due to Photis’ involvement in Pamphile’s magic. In some sense, Lucius’ contact with magic and his ridicule in public the next day could be seen as a kind of revenge by Pamphile on Photis for replacing the hair of the Boeotian lover with goatskin hair. Yet, rather than staying away from witchcraft, Lucius is determined to move his plan forward: he takes advantage of Photis’ guilt over her own mistake, and asks her to show him her mistress while she is changing into a bird to fly to her Boeotian lover. When the opportunity is offered, Lucius is so excited by the spectacle of Pamphile changing into an owl that he asks to be changed into a bird too; Lucius thus hopes to fly around Photis, seeking to be a kind of Cupid to match her as ‘Venus’ (3.22.5). In the proposed transformation Lucius appears in the subservient position of Cupid, accompanying his mother everywhere she goes, and Photis in the elevated place of the goddess Venus. Thus, the theme of metamorphosis is intricately interwoven with the erotic theme, becoming subservient to it. However, Photis refuses to grant this wish, for fear that Lucius will fly away to meet other lovers, despite the assurances of everlasting devotion he offers (3.22.6). In his plea, Lucius makes reference to two different birds – the eagle and the owl – which also imply a metamorphosis. The eagle is Jupiter’s faithful royal companion, inspiring admiration (3.23.1), whereas the owl is a hateful and ill-omened bird (3.23.3-4). As an eagle Lucius would always return to his nest after long flights, whereas as an owl he would be an object of hatred and run the risk of losing his life. Through the use of these exempla Lucius makes it clear to Photis that as a bird he will remain close to her.

removed from his face (2.30.6): praemium non industriae sed debilitationis consecutus (“having earned the reward, not of hard work, but of mutilation”).

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However, Photis is an inexperienced witch, despite Lucius’ belief to the contrary (3.19.5). Her first mistake (over the wineskins) foreshadows the second one, during which the incorrect use of Pamphile’s ointments transforms the protagonist into an ass rather than a bird (3.24.4-6). In changing her lover into an ass, Photis recalls Pamphile or other powerful witches later in the narrative who change their lovers into animals and even kill them. However, unlike these witches who transform their lovers to punish them, Photis’ change of her lover into a donkey is due to a mistake in her use of Pamphile’s magic ointments. It seems that Lucius and Photis are a perfect match for each other: the former fails to heed repeated warnings against the dangers of magic he receives in the course of plot; and the latter is prone to mistakes due to her inexperience. Lucius then succeeds in avoiding the dangers posed by Pamphile; yet, in his foolish attempt to master Pamphile’s magic, he comically falls victim to the allegedly safe Photis and, therefore, to his own supposedly clever plan. Despite losing his human form, the prospect of deliverance from his hardships remains open for him: his metamorphosis engineers his move from Hypata and arrival at Isis’ cult site at Cenchreae.31 There he sees the full moon, rising over the sea, and prays to this moon goddess for assistance (11.2). The goddess responds to his prayer (11.5-6), identifies herself as Isis and presents herself as willing to offer him release from his troubles, but demands abstinence and devotion (11.6.7): tenacibus castimoniis (“determined celibacy”). As a goddess of purity, Isis can only accept sexual consummation for reasons of oikos preservation and reproduction. Abstinence enables re-transformation (11.13). It was, after all, the combination of lust and his pursuit of magic that was ultimately responsible for Lucius’ metamorphosis into a donkey and the consequent side-effects. What is also worth observing here is that Isis engages in a positive metamorphosis, restoring Lucius back to human form, unlike Diana who changes Actaeon into a stag or the witches who instantly exact revenge on their lovers when the latter resist their advances. Lucius’ sexual continence subsequently meets the demand for celibacy for entrance first into Isis’ service and then into that of Osiris for even greater protection from human vicissitudes.32 With his initiation into the Isiac cult Lucius acquires access to the divine he initially sought to obtain in his foolishness through the pursuit of magic. Thus, his curiosity, which was responsible for all his troubles, at last acquires a positive connotation, eventually 31 32

On this scene see Keulen, Chapter 3 in this volume. For the abstinence of Isis’ priests see Murgatroyd (1991) 108-09.

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bringing him close to the gods. His release from his troubles and ensuing religious and social elevation contrasts with the ruinous fortunes of Meroe’s lovers and the other victims of powerful witches. From this perspective, Lucius’ decision to stay away from Pamphile and become involved with Photis, his metamorphosis into an ass and his wanderings can be seen as narrative devices leading him to Isis, who reforms Lucius externally and internally in the final book. In sum, I suggest that Byrrhaena has a twofold function in the narrative of Lucius’ presence in Hypata. First, her presence retroactively underlines that human initiative can only minimise the dangers of magic, and not offer adequate protection from it. This assistance can only be offered by ‘official’ forms of the divine (such as Isis) after an earnest appeal for deliverance. Moreover, Byrrhaena offers an explanation for Lucius’ salutary trajectory compared to the destruction of other characters who meddle in magic. Had these characters met a figure like Byrrhaena in the course of their travels, their fortunes might have been different. The admonition of Byrrhaena to Lucius with respect to magic determines the choice he makes to stay away from the dangerous witch Pamphile, and instead become involved with the less powerful Photis. This choice leads him to lose his human form but spares him from the worst. It is through Byrrhaena’s presence that the prospect of Lucius being redeemed from magic remains open. This offers a variant on the fate of most victims in the novel (e.g. the lovers of Meroe, Socrates, Aristomenes, Thelyphron, etc.), as the protagonist is the only one to survive the side-effects of witchcraft.

CHAPTER SIX THE ROBBERS AND THE OLD WOMAN (METAMORPHOSES BOOKS 3.28-7.12) LUCA GRAVERINI

1: Robbers in the Metamorphoses The role of robbers and outlaws in the plot of the Metamorphoses becomes more and more important from the first book to the long story of Charite and Tlepolemus, and in the recapitulation of Lucius’ adventures offered by the priest Mithras at 11.15.3 they come first in the list of Lucius’ persecutors. Their first appearance is rather discreet: at 1.7.6 Socrates tells his friend Aristomenes that he has been “set up by monstrous bandits and stripped of everything”,1 but we are not given any further detail. Robber bands are clearly perceived as a serious threat in the narrative world: when Aristomenes asks the inn-keeper to let him out in the middle of the night, he refuses because “the roads are infested with robbers” (1.15.2); then, at 1.23.2 Milo says that he cannot adequately furnish his small house for fear of burglars.2 At 2.15.3 a band of bandits attacks the Chaldaean Diophanes and his fellow travellers, and his brother gets killed. At the end of Book 2, Lucius mistakes three animated wineskins for “robbers, and very bloodthirsty ones at that” (2.32.3); the blunder is made easier by darkness and Lucius’ drunkenness, but also by the feeling that one always has to guard against the threat of outlaws: at 2.18.3, Photis had warned him that 1

Translations from Apuleius’ Metamorphoses are by Hanson (1989), occasionally with slight adaptations. 2 Milo’s remark is clearly an exaggeration, coherent with his comic depiction as a miser; nevertheless, it contributes to reinforce the idea that robbers pose a constant threat - cf. GCA (2007) 406, ad loc.

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the streets of Hypata are often raided by “an insane gang of young aristocrats”, and therefore it is not impossible to see “people lying murdered everywhere out in the street”.

1a: Robber gangs: plot-motors, between reality and fiction At this point, we need to consider shortly to what extent this dangerous narrative world is the free product of Apuleius’ fantasy, or a faithful representation of real life in his times. There has been a wealth of studies in recent years trying to assess the degree of historicity of Apuleius’ fiction;3 this kind of research involves major methodological and practical problems,4 but it now allows us to safely assume that there is a solid basis of reality to Apuleius’ account of the robbers, although he tends to exaggerate their cruelty and their influence on everyday life.5 This exaggeration is connected with an evident effort, on Apuleius’ part, to aggrandise his robbers and give them an epic/heroic status. As we have seen, the first two books do not go very far in the way of giving any robber a well-developed personality: robbers are not individual characters but only factiones, “gangs”, and we do not know anything about them except the fact that they are, indeed, robbers. Their first tentative characterisation occurs in Book 3, when the three wineskins Lucius ‘killed’ at the end of Book 2 become the corpus delicti in his farcical trial: the opposing parties describe them as terrible bandits6 or innocent young citizens,7 but understandably enough the wineskins/robbers remain anonymous. Several literary genres are exploited in chapters 3.1-9 to provide the narration with a noble patina: epic,8 rhetoric,9 tragedy and 3

Most recently and thoroughly Riess (2000-2001) and (2001); a classic study is Millar (1981). More references in Riess (2000-2001) 260 n. 1. 4 There are obviously problems regarding the amount of available historical evidence and its statistical representativeness; even more important are the issues one has to face when trying to use a work of fiction as the source of sociohistorical data. 5 See e.g. Riess (2000-2001), esp. 270-271. 6 3.5.2: saeuissimos latrones; 3.5.6: extremos latrones; 3.5.8: barbari prorsus et immanes homines. 7 3.8.3: miseremini indigne caesorum iuuenum; 3.9.4 on their forma and aetas. 8 Most notably the unequivocably Homeric beginning of the book, on which see Harrison (2003) 244. 9 See e.g. van der Paardt’s commentary [(1971) 63-64] on Lucius’ defence speech at 3.4.3-6.5.

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comedy,10 historiography.11 However, at 3.9.9 we discover (if we did not suspect that already) that all this literary display was only leading to a spectacular anticlimax: in fact, the whole trial was just an elaborate practical joke at Lucius’ expense in honour of the god Risus. Although this first characterisation is nothing else than a hoax, we do not have to wait much to see ‘real’ bandits in action. Shortly after the Risus festival they make their dramatic entrance into the novel (3.28.1) and take Lucius-ass away from Hypata, starting off the long series of his vicissitudes. Whether fake or real, robbers are one of the most efficient plot-motors in Apuleius’ novel; in this, the Metamorphoses follows the tradition already established by the Greek novels, crowded with robbers, pirates, kidnappers, and all sorts of criminals, who constantly persecute the main characters, condition their actions, and make them move through vast geographic areas and down the social ladder;12 in Apuleius, as we have seen, Mithras appropriately mentions them first in his list at 11.15 of forces in the service of blind Fortune, the almighty goddess that governs the plot of Books 1-10.

1b: Towards a more detailed characterisation: epic models and their novelistic adaptation Far from always staying mere narrative devices, in some cases the robbers become more fully fledged characters, both collectively and individually. Their sudden appearance at Milo’s house is described in terms that suggest the sudden attack of a well organised army: Nec mora cum ui patefactis aedibus globus latronum inuadit omnia, et singula domus membra cingit armata factio, et auxiliis hinc inde conuolantibus obsistit discursus hostilis. Cuncti gladiis et facibus instructi noctem illuminant; coruscat in modum ortiui solis ignis et mucro. (3.28.12) “Instantly the doors were forced open and a troop of robbers invaded the

10

See May (2006) 182-207. See e.g. the direct speech of one of the ‘robbers’ quoted by Lucius at 3.5.3-5, with Graverini (1997) 270-271; or the use of expressions like dirigitur proeliaris acies at 3.6.1, with van der Paardt (1971) ad loc. 12 Cf. MacKay (1963) 147. He traces the origin of the ‘pirate motif’ to Euripides’ Hypsipyle (148), but one might also go back to Odysseus’ ‘Cretan’ stories in the Odyssey (see 1d in this chapter). 11

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Globus is a strictly military term;13 the idea of a clash between opposing armies, or of the siege of a big city, is also reinforced by such expressions as inuadit, singula domus membra cingit armata factio, auxiliis, and discursus hostilis.14 The use of this kind of language, that is clearly reminiscent of historiography, might convey the idea of a certain ‘realism’ (although a rather magniloquent one) in the description of this scene.15 Apuleius, however, goes beyond the characterisation of these robbers as an army, and even provides them with a kind of poetic and epic nobility in the final phrase: for the bright glare of the swords compare e.g. Turnus who strictumque coruscat / mucronem (“brandishes his naked blade”) in Vergil, Aen. 10.651-652.16 The small house of the stingy Milo appears to grow larger during their attack too: it now has membra (“wings”) and even an army (the auxilia) to defend it,17 while the word gazae is used for his treasure at 3.28.3, which might remind the reader of Troy’s treasure in Vergil, Aen. 1.119 and 2.763.18 The novel, as it seems, always seizes an opportunity to use exaggeration and magniloquence. This is confirmed at 4.6 by the description of the robbers’ hideout, a cave on the side of a steep mountain. Of course, a robbers’ den has to be hidden and hard to reach, but its sophisticated ecphrasis as a locus horridus also introduces the reader into a literary space that is clearly 13

ThLL 2055.3-5; cf. van der Paardt (1971) ad loc. For discursus see ThLL 1369.13-74 (praecipue militum huc illuc uagantium). More examples from Lamachus’ story in Book 4 are provided by GCA (1977) 2089, Appendix 1: military terms in the robber episode. 15 On the army-like organisation of robber gangs see Riess (2001) 43; on the fact that many robbers were actually former soldiers, Riess (2001) 72-76, and Garraffoni (2004). This kind of organisation of bandits, in any case, is typical in the ancient novel: see e.g. the boukoloi in Achilles Tatius 4.11-18; or Theron recruiting his ‘army’ in Chariton 1.7. 16 Trnsl. Fairclough (1950). Apuleius is following an established epic tradition here: the association of mucro with the verb corusco or the adjective coruscus became standard in post-Vergilian epic (see e.g. Sil. It. Pun. 2.242 and 17.458; Stat. Theb. 1.614; 9.542; 10.774). 17 On this contradiction see van Mal-Maeder (1995) 104-115. 18 The word means stricto sensu “opes regiae” or “opes ciuitatum”: see ThLL s.v. gaza, 1721.60-1722.26. 14

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connected with tragedy and, again, epic.19 Nothing good, and nothing low or trivial, is likely to happen in such a place. In fact, as soon as another band joins the first one in the cave, a banquet takes place which is worthy of the Lapiths and Centaurs (4.8.5): a parallel proverbial for its barbaric excesses, but still a form of epic aggrandisement not at all inappropriate for a group of outlaws who live on the fringe of society.20 Then, in keeping with the epic tradition, a retrospective narration of past battles and adventures takes place at the end of the banquet. Despite these lofty traits, it is also evident that the robbers cannot consistently live up to their heroic models, and often fall back on a more prosaic, everyday ‘reality’. For example, one of the robbers who had attacked Milo’s house exposes the low nature of the other band’s exploits: “you, honest robbers, with your petty, slavish pilferings, are just junkdealers creeping timidly through baths and old ladies’ apartments” (4.8.9). Can robbers like that rightly aspire to mythic grandeur – even to that of such savage and heinous characters as the Lapiths and Centaurs? In fact, there are several textual indicators in the three following stories of Lamachus, Alcimus and Thrasyleon showing that they do. Their names already hint at their ambitions:21 Lamachus was a famous fifthcentury general, Alcimus means ‘the strong one’, and Thrasyleon is ‘Lionheart’.22 The description of their deeds also owes something to epic models: Thrasyleon’s stratagem to sneak into Demochares’ house, for example, has long been recognised as a sort of re-enactment of the taking of Troy through Odysseus’ trick of the Wooden Horse.23 Yet, in another way, the answer to the same question is obviously that epic loftiness does not suit them at all: nothing can really make us forget that these are common robbers and not great generals of the past or mythical heroes. The problem is not their lack of success: an epic or tragic hero can indeed fail, like Hector; and failure is actually the norm for the hero’s antagonists, like the Cyclops. It is not the fact that they are involved 19

For a thorough analysis of this description and its models (especially Vergil and Seneca) see Schiesaro (1985). 20 It is also somehow justified by geography: the original mythical banquet was like our robbers’ den located in Thessaly. 21 Those who raided Milo’s house remain anonymous, but their spokesman is described as the strongest of all: 4.8.6 unus, qui robore ceteros antistabat – a sort of Ajax. On this kind of characterisation see 1c in this chapter on Haemus. 22 Cf. Walsh [(1970) 158] on these names. For Haemus (‘the bloody one’) at 7.5.6 see Nicolini’s chapter in this volume. 23 See Finkelpearl [(1998) 92-96] with further literature.

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in trivial and unheroic deeds either: that can also happen to an epic or tragic character, like Ajax when he slaughtered the flock of sheep. Apuleius’ robbers are motivated by the hope of material gain, but again this is also true for many epic characters: in Book 10 of the Iliad a secondrate hero like Dolon seems to risk his life more in order to obtain a rich reward than to prove his valour, and even Odysseus and Diomedes extend their dangerous espionage mission to capture Rhesus’ horses. There certainly is a quantitative difference: failures and petty motives, that only occasionally appear in epic literature, are prominent features of Apuleius’ robbers. However, on a more fundamental level, the problem is simply that, as robbers, Apuleius’ characters cannot but be a representation of a contemporary and lowly socio-historical reality that his readers know very well: a reality that is irremediably inconsistent with epic and myth.

1c: Parody and the rules of the genre Apuleius’ robbers are complex characters. They are just robbers, and not always particularly successful ones at that, the dregs of contemporary society; yet, through their words, names, physical features, moral qualities and actions they often remind the reader of a lofty, mythic, ancient and irrecoverably lost literary world. This contrasting and unstable characterisation has often been interpreted in terms of parody and humorous discrepancy between uerba and res; the idea of ‘epic inversions’ that produce comic effects is also often suggested.24 This can certainly be the case in some places: for example, there is an unmistakable comic side to the story of Alcimus defeated by a cunning old woman at 4.12, and the grisly and very high-flown description of his death “gives a theatrical emphasis to his sorry end”.25 Nevertheless, it would be misleading to imply that epic traits applied to lowly characters are always meant to produce comic effects: this kind of characterisation is also due to other, perhaps more important reasons. First of all, we should take structural necessities into consideration. Through Books 1-3 the main character Lucius becomes more and more clearly a sort of epic hero, who in some cases adopts but in other cases 24

See e.g. Frangoulidis (1991) and (1992); Loporcaro (1992); Harrison (2002) 457). For a caveat against the excessive use of parody as hermeneutic category in Apuleius, especially if we consider it as an essentially comic device, see Lazzarini (1985) 131-133. 25 Westerbrink (1978) 67.

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subverts the epic honour-code (for example, at 3.19.6 he “does not long for his return” to stay with his lovely Photis):26 the antagonists of such a character all too naturally share the same dynamic of adoption of epic values and unwillingness or impossibility to really behave according to them. The robbers, of course, fall short of ‘real’ uirtus, but this is also true for Lucius, who falls short of Odyssean prudentia.27 As Warren Smith puts it, “the robbers see themselves in a world of kings, generals, and battles rather than one of low crime”;28 but then again, also Lucius sees himself as the scion of a noble family of philosophers who is embarked in a sort of ‘quest for knowledge’,29 only to find himself metamorphosed into an ass. Both Lucius and his antagonists aspire to epic grandeur but are brought down by the hard contact with ‘reality’. This hard fall from the heights of epic literature does not necessarily (with emphasis on “necessarily”) create effects of parody, inversion, or humorous contrast between uerba and res. For example, the story of Thrasyleon cannot be described in these terms. The actions of Thrasyleon and his band (4.12-21), more than the language Apuleius uses to describe them, evoke epic models, and in particular Vergil’s Ilioupersis.30 The reader clearly feels that something is out of place there, but it is certainly not, or not only, a dissonance between uerba and res. Through both words and actions, the text suggests an epic model, and this model is perceived by the reader at the same time as appropriate and unappropriate: there are some analogies in the narrative pattern, but Odysseus is an unattainable model for Thrasyleon – the epic hero is inevitably ‘larger than life’, the robber is not. ‘Epic inversion’ would not appropriately describe the situation, either: there might be something grotesque in Thrasyleon’s story, his band is certainly not successful, but there is real cunning and courage in his actions. Finally, in spite of some out-of-place magniloquence, there is also pathos in these chapters, which makes it difficult to read them as a sustained parody of their epic model.31 There is no clear and humorous 26

Cf. Graverini (2012b) 151-152; see also Graverini (2014) for a more general outlook on the adoption/subversion of epic codes by novelistic characters. 27 9.13.4-5. This seems to change in Book 11: see Graverini (2012a) 92-96. 28 Smith (1994) 1595. 29 Winkler [(1985) 257] was the first to suggest that “the very structure of the asstale is a parody of the theme of a restless quest for a revelation”; see also Graverini [(2012a) 89-94] for a critical revision of this idea. 30 The parallel is clear enough, but the verbal connections are surprisingly few and subtle; see above, n.23. 31 The ancient idea of parody was certainly different from the modern one (see

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inversion of epic codes in this story: rather, we can detect a complex web of analogies and differences. This imperfect parallelism with epic literature is not limited to the robbers, and is a generic feature of the ancient novel itself. Ancient prose narrative was in many ways an heir of the epic tradition;32 nevertheless, the novel creates its own literary space in the world of reality and verisimilitude, and cannot leave it for long to enjoy the freedom allowed by myth, which is the realm of epic and tragedy. The novel can only emulate epic in some ways and to a limited extent, but this does not imply that the epic identity be completely lost: there are some changes an epic hero necessarily has to undergo to adjust to a novelistic environment, and some established strategies a writer can adopt to make this adjustment easier. The metamorphosis from epic-style to novelistic is a smoother process than the simple, outright inversion of some traits (brave to coward, noble to vile, and so on), and it does not necessarily result in a stark blackand-white characterisation that could only be interpreted as parody. This is clearly shown in the description of the robber who is characterised in greater detail – and who, paradoxically enough, is no robber at all. Tlepolemus takes on the name of Haemus, ‘the bloody one’, and infiltrates the gang of bandits who have kidnapped his fiancée Charite. He is introduced and described at 7.5.2-3: … immanem quendam iuuenem… nescio an ulli praesentium comparandum – nam praeter ceteram corporis molem toto uertice cunctos antepollebat et ei commodum lanugo malis inserpebat – sed plane centunculis disparibus et male consarcinatis semiamictum, inter quos pectus et uenter crustata crassitie relucitabant. “… an enormous youth... hardly to be compared with any of those present. In addition to the general massiveness of the build, he stood a whole head higher than all of them, and a beard was just beginning to overspread his cheeks. But he was half-clothed in a veritable patchwork, ill-fitting and badly stitched together. Among those rags his chest and belly glistened, packed with muscle”.

Westerbrink [(1978) 72 n. 1] for literature on this subject), but in both cases some degree of comic and humour is involved. Quintilian, for example, considers it as a means of producing urbanitas at 6.3.97; cf. 8.6.74 for the connection of urbanitas with laughter. 32 Of course, there is a vast literature on this subject. See e.g. my chapter 1.4 (pp. 36-39) in Graverini-Keulen-Barchiesi (2006), with further literature at p. 58.

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Caterina Lazzarini33 has thoroughly analysed this passage and found that there is an internal tension between the defining traits of this character. Haemus is tall, big and strong, almost described as a second Ajax (cf. Il. 3.226-227) or a new Turnus (Aen. 7.783-784); but he is also very young, so much so that he is only beginning to grow a thin beard. This contrast between heroic exaggeration and extreme youth is often explained as epic inversion having parodic intent.34 Yet, as Lazzarini notes, the topos of the first lanugo on the hero’s cheeks is also an epic one:35 the closest parallel is in the Aeneid, where Vergil describes Cydon’s squire and lover Clytius (10.324-325), but compare also Hermes in Homer, Il. 24.348 (cf. Apul. Apol. 63) and the two sons of Iphimedeia, extremely tall and large but still beardless in Od. 11.307-320. More parallels could be provided,36 but it is clear enough that Haemus’ juvenile features are still within the domain of epic, a niche epic that leaves some space to pathetic and erotic, rather than heroic and warlike elements. Haemus freely mixes virile, Ajax-style strength with features that are typical of minor epic characters, and will be fully developed by elegiac and erotic poetry.37 In fact, Haemus/Tlepolemus is repeatedly characterised as having both epic and elegiac features: his introduction as a warlike hero and at the same time as a youngster not yet completely grown into a man could be considered as an appropriate prelude to his genre-crossing and even gender-crossing capacities.38 He goes so far as cross-dressing at 7.8.1,39 33

Lazzarini (1985) 154-160. See e.g. Frangoulidis [(1992) 73], who emphasises the “comic tone of the narrative”, followed by Riess (2001) 256 n. 43; Lazzarini herself [(1985) 156] sees a “parodic element” in Haemus’ contrasting description. 35 Lazzarini (1985) 156; see also Nicolini [(2000) 219, ad loc.] for further (“even then my beardless cheeks glistened with the smoothness of boyhood”). 36 For a collection of passages see Kenney [(1990) 150] on Apul. Met. 5.8.4; Nicolini [(2000) 219] on Met. 7.5.4; add Valerius Flaccus’ description of Pollux at 4.232-235 and see also below, n. 47. The squalor of the rags Haemus wears can be considered an instance of the tragic Telephusmotiv according to Lazzarini (1985) 156 and n. 71. 37 On lanugo in erotic contexts see Theoc. 6.3; 11.9 (Cyclops); 15.85 (Adonis); Calp. Sic. 2.87; Ov. Am. 1.14.23; Her. 15.85; Met. 9.398; 13.754; Mart. 1.31.5; 2.61.1; 9.36.5; 10.42.1. 38 On characters provided with contrasting features see also Nicolini, Chapter 7 in this volume, which points out that the composition of Tlepolemus’ character is as much a patchwork as his clothes, and suggests that such contrasts can also be explained as adaptations to different narrative contexts and as the result of the influence of different models. 34

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when he needs to seek refuge from a persecutor, Plotina, who in turn disguises herself as a man. He also does a short stint as a cook and waiter, apparently becoming a comic character at 7.11.3.40 When he conquers the brigands he appears as a reincarnation of Odysseus taking Troy or killing the Cyclops.41 Finally, the episode of his murder at the hands of Thrasyllus in 8.4-5 plays on the different conventions of the harmless and elegiac small game hunting and of dangerous, epic big game hunting.42 A learned and blasé reader might certainly smile at this particular mélange. Nevertheless, this is not epic inversion or parody, but a more sophisticated process of transformation which is not mainly intended to provoke amusement: selection of minor characters and less manly features, gender shifts, and contamination of genres are among the techniques all ancient novelists use to adjust epic characters to a novelistic world. This transformation and adaptation strategy is typical of the genre, and was already a standard in prose narrative long before Apuleius.43

1d: Greek and Latin fictional outlaws We can support this view by comparing a scene from a Greek novel that is not usually considered as having a strong parodic or comic vein. In Chariton 3.3.17-18 and 3.4.8-9 the pirate Theron tries to conceal his true identity from his captors by telling false stories; in both cases he pretends to be a Cretan, victim of adversities and treason. This is a lie of course, but not a casual one: Odysseus, back in Ithaca, resorts to very similar false narratives, and like Theron he repeatedly claims to be a Cretan fallen into disgrace (Od. 13.256 ff.; 14.199 ff.; 19.165 ff.). The fact that Theron mentions Cephalonia (3.3.18) as a landmark in his travels can be considered as a not-too-subtle hint at this Homeric precedent, given the obvious links the island has with Odysseus (cf. e.g. Il. 2.631 and Od. 24.355). It might also be noted that Cephalonia is a rather unlikely stop for one who, like Theron, alleges that he is sailing from Crete to Ionia: it is clearly not mentioned to provide his account with geographical 39 Even in this case Haemus has a lofty precedent: Thetis (or Peleus) hid Achilles on Skyros and disguised him as a girl in order to make him avoid the dangers of the Trojan war. Haemus is not the only novelistic character to follow his example: cf. Achilles Tatius’ robbers at 2.18.3, and especially Cleitophon at 6.1.1-3. 40 See also Nicolini, Chapter 7 in this volume. 41 See e.g. Lazzarini (1985) 159-160. 42 See Graverini (2009). 43 On this, see more thoroughly Graverini (2014).

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verisimilitude. So, the pirate Theron is presented as a sort of Odyssean character in these chapters. His Odysseus is closer to the ragged old man who tells false short stories in the second half of the Odyssey than to the great hero and narrator of the rest of the poem; he is a partial and provocative, but not preposterously implausible reinterpretation of an epic hero who was, after all, a sort of patron saint of all liars.44 Is this parody? Not at all – there is certainly no trace of humour in this passage, and the epic characterisation of Theron only adds to the pathos of the episode. Of course there is a great distance between Theron and Odysseus; but the same is also true for Chaereas, the main character. He is a descendant of Odysseus too, so much so that, for example, his final reunion with Callirhoe at 8.1.17 is celebrated with a quotation of Od. 23.296, where the epic hero is finally welcomed by Penelope in their old bed. Yet, nothing could be more different from Odysseus than the irascible, violent, undecided, and even suicidal Chaereas of the first books of the novel. One might even say that Callirhoe is a better epic character than Chaereas: appropriately enough, she gets the honour of closing the first book with going to sleep, in the manner of Homeric heroes.45 Again, selection of features and preference for secondary traits, gender shifts, a subtle balance of correspondences and differences: this is the working of the novel, its way of adapting epic models to a new and different narrative world. To sum up, there are important elements of continuity between Apuleius and the Greek novels in their characterisation of robbers. One cannot deny, however, that the connection with epic literature is more prominent, consistent and sophisticated in Apuleius than in most of his Greek counterparts; this is especially clear if we consider that most of the robbers’ epic features are concentrated in parts of the novel that are supposedly Apuleius’ additions to the plot he found in Lucius of Patrae’s lost Metamorphoseis.46 If Onos 21.3 reproduces well enough the lost in the 44

Cf. Lucian, VH 1.3: “The founder of this school of literary horseplay is Odysseus, with his stories at Alcinous’ court of winds enslaved and men with one eye...”. Already in the Odyssey he can tell “many lies that look like truths” (Od. 23.203): he perfectly symbolises and anticipates the novel’s new narrative world, where verisimilitude rules instead of myth. 45 On this topic see e.g. Harrison (2003). 46 It seems to be impossible to define precisely how much (if anything) of the three robber stories in Book 4 Apuleius found in his lost model, but scholars usually emphasise Apuleius’ originality in this part of the Metamorphoses. See Loporcaro

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Greek original, for example, there we find an unnamed robber who could have provided a model for the ambiguous characterisation of Haemus/Tlepolemus we have examined above. He is only very rapidly sketched as a “big, tall, formidable-looking youth”: a turn of phrase that is perhaps capable of reminding the reader of such figures as the epic heroes mentioned above or Alexander the Great,47 but this young bandit cannot certainly compare to Apuleius’ elaborate and allusive description of Charite’s fiancée we have analysed above. Increased complexity and a special emphasis on epic models are indeed a signature of Apuleius’ literary technique.

2: The Old Woman Lucius’ kidnappers have a decrepit and drunken old woman in their service (4.7.1); she is entrusted with the important task of taking care of her masters’ salus atque tutela (“health and upkeep”), but they clearly show her no respect or gratitude. They address her very rudely as a useless lazy old crone at 4.7.2-3; both the wording and the contents of their apostrophe introduce her as a comic character.48 She is never named, and usually stays within the confines of the very subordinate role she has in the Pseudo-Lucianic Onos (20-24) and probably in the lost Greek original as well: she is ordered to guard and console Charite, a young girl kidnapped by the brigands, at 4.24.2; she tries in vain to prevent Lucius and Charite from escaping from the robbers’ den at 6.27.1-5;49 she ends up by hanging herself for fear of retribution at 6.30.6, and the robbers rid themselves of her corpse unceremoniously by dropping it from a precipice. Besides these analogies, and excepting Apuleius’ usual tendency to [(1992) 75-77] for a survey of the literature on this subject; Mason (1994) on the relationship between the three ass-novels. 47 Onos 21.3: for the epic heroes see above, p. 90f. For Alexander’s formidable physique see Historia Alexandri, Rec. E 38.7. In the mosaic at the Museo Nazionale di Napoli, originally from the House of the Faun at Pompeii, the great general is represented as a youth still growing a partial beard. 48 See GCA (1977) 63-66; May (2006) 252-253. 49 A slapstick scene, whose theatrical qualities are almost explicitly pointed out at the end: 6.27.4-5: illa uirgo captiua... uidet hercules memorandi spectaculi scaenam, non tauro, sed asino dependentem Dircen aniculam (“the captive maiden… saw before her, by Hercules, a scene from a memorable show: an aged Dirce dangling from an ass instead of a bull”). The two final words might supply the title of a mime: cf. Graverini (2006) 13.

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expand the narrative and dialogues he found in his model, there are two main differences between the old woman in the Onos and the corresponding character in the Metamorphoses.

2a: The old woman and her anilis fabula The first difference is the fact that, while in the Onos (22.1) the old woman only guards Charite, Apuleius also makes her tell a long story to console the young captive girl: so, she becomes the narrator of Cupid and Psyche, the longest and most important secondary tale in the novel (4.28.1-6.24.4). This is not the place to investigate the meaning of this tale, its sophisticated literary texture, and its relevance in the narrative structure of the novel;50 we will rather focus on the paradoxical fact that such a meaningful, sophisticated and important tale as Cupid and Psyche is told by such a lowly narrator as a drunken old woman.51 This paradox might appear even more important if we consider that, in fact, many of the inserted tales in the Metamorphoses are narrated by such a lowly narrator as a donkey; and that the whole novel, in the end, is the narration of a character who has been so foolish as to let himself be transformed into a donkey. The text itself seems to point out that there is some deep parallelism on the narratological level between Cupid and Psyche and the novel that contains it, and therefore between the old woman and the main narrator of the novel: several scholars have noted the striking resemblance between sed ego te narrationibus lepidis anilibusque fabulis protinus auocabo (“but right now I shall divert you with a pretty story and an old wife’s tale”), the words with which the old woman introduces her tale at 4.27.8, and at ego tibi... uarias fabulas conseram auresque tuas... lepido susurro permulceam (“but I would like to tie together different sorts of tales for you… and to caress your ears into approval with a pretty whisper”), the beginning of the Prologue.52 In fact, entrusting lowly and unreliable narrators with important and meaningful narrations is a literary technique frequently adopted by satiric literature.53 The Metamorphoses inscribes itself in this tradition: satiric self-belittlement is an important feature both 50

See e.g. Zimmerman et al. (1998) and GCA (2004). This has often struck readers and interpreters as strange and unrealistic: cf. e.g. May (2006) 251. 52 Winkler (1985) 53; see Graverini [(2012b) 30-31] with further references. 53 See Graverini (2012b) 95-131; Graverini-Keulen (2009). 51

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of the main narrator of the novel and, which concerns us most here, of the drunken old woman who narrates Cupid and Psyche. It is worth noting that this is not a common practice in the Greek novels: from this point of view, the old woman marks a departure from the models provided for Apuleius by the Greek narrative tradition. For example, in Chariton 1.11.1-2 Callirhoe and her kidnapper Theron are in a very similar situation to that which begins the story of Cupid and Psyche in Apuleius. The girl is in despair, and the pirate “consoles her, trying to deceive her through inventions of various genres”.54 The usual consoling, entertaining, and deceiving power of narrative is clearly implied both in Chariton and in Apuleius; but there is no hint in Chariton that Theron’s ‘inventions’ have any particular importance or literary sophistication, and in fact they are only mentioned in passing and not fully reported. Indeed, the case is different for Cupid and Psyche, although the old woman is certainly not a more dignified narrator than the pirate Theron. The key to understanding this paradoxical situation is the fact that the story is introduced, in the old woman’s own words, as an anilis fabula. Now, ‘old wives’ tales’, in all ancient literature from Plato onwards, is a derogatory definition for narratives that have no useful scope or meaning, and whose only goal is to offer entertainment. Satiric literature, however, often takes a self-ironic stance, and labels as ‘old wives’ tales’ stories that are, in fact, meant to provide some kind of useful, though usually very generic, moral or philosophical teaching: the best example is probably the celebrated tale of the two mice in Horace’s Satire 2.6, introduced at vv. 7778 as anilis... fabellas told by the poet’s neighbour Cervius.55 What is really striking in Apuleius’ treatment of this literary topos is that Cupid and Psyche is the one and only anilis fabula in ancient literature that is actually narrated by an old woman:56 Apuleius, as it seems, turns the secondary character he found in his model into the narrative embodiment of a metaphorical expression.57

54 This statement might be compared to the Prologue’s programme in Apuleius, uarias fabulas conseram auresque tuas... permulceam (1.1). 55 On all this see Graverini (2012b) 105-118. 56 Cf. Graverini (2012b) 110. 57 For other instances of this process in Apuleius see Keulen (2003b) 167-168; McCreight (2006) 125 and passim; Plaza (2006).

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2b: Delira et temulenta anicula The second difference is that in the Metamorphoses the old woman is described as a drunkard: this is first stated by the robbers at 4.7.3, and then stressed again by Lucius at 6.25.1 (sic... delira et temulenta illa narrabat anicula, “so ran the story told... by that crazy, drunken old woman”). The first passage is part of the initial introduction of the old woman as a lowlife comic character, but the second, where madness is also added to the picture, might have a more specific function. Those words are Lucius’ comment at the end of the tale of Cupid and Psyche, a story allegedly told only to console Charite, which is apparently nothing more than a folk-tale, but which also shows many signs of high literary refinement and has some unmistakable epic features.58 Since furor and inebriation are traditional features of the epic poet, Lucius’ comment could be read as summarising for the reader the complex nature of this tale by pointing out the poetic madness and drunkenness of the narrator.59 Needless to say, this old woman cannot be on a par with Homer or Ennius: but perhaps she is not as distant from Horace’s satiric description of uinosus Homerus (“Homer the winebibber”) or of Ennius, who “never sprang forth to tell of arms save after much drinking”.60 Again, this old woman makes us look at satire, a literary genre that, like the novel, lives and thrives by absorbing, metabolising, and bringing down to earth nobler genres.61 Her characterisation, in particular, might serve as an implicit assessment of the features of the tale she tells, and of its relationship with its literary models: as Stephen Harrison points out, the very choice of the narrator of Cupid and Psyche contributes to “transforming the lofty world of the epic into the more dubious domain of the novel”.62

3: Conclusions The novel is indeed a dubious and complex domain. Its characters live in a no-man’s land in ancient literary space, and frequently cross the borders of several genres such as epic, tragedy, historiography, comedy, satire – not to forget, of course, the ‘real’ world. In fact, one might say that their 58

See e.g. Harrison (1998). Cf. Graverini (2003) 214-215. 60 Hor. Epist. 1.19.3-8. 61 On the satiric features of Apuleius’ novel see Zimmerman (2007); Graverini (2012) 118-131. 62 Harrison (1998) 53. 59

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complex literary patina helps to underline their fictionality, and to create that delicate balance between claims to truth and creative invention that is typical of the ancient novel. One cannot deny that there is a high degree of artificiality to such an elaborate construction of characters, an artificiality Apuleius often seems to enhance in comparison to the Greek novelists. While they usually (although certainly not always) try to make discreet use of the tricks of their trade and to create a more harmonious blend out of different literary ingredients, Apuleius tends to show off his literary sophistication; he almost seems to invite his “careful reader” (cf. 9.30.1 and 11.23.5) to visit his workshop and admire the quality and variety of tools at his disposal. This can sometimes result in humorous and comic contrasts, but as we have seen one should not overestimate this aspect of novelistic writing. What is constantly there, instead, is certainly a tendency towards literary refinement, and a display of literary culture we could appropriately label as ‘sophistic’.63

63

For the ‘sophistic’ aspect of Apuleius’ career and production see Harrison (2000).

CHAPTER SEVEN THE TALE OF CHARITE AND TLEPOLEMUS (METAMORPHOSES BOOKS 4-8) LARA NICOLINI

1: Two endings for a story - the atypical structure of the ‘Charite cycle’ Like a kind of Isiac anteludia in narrative form (cf. Met.11.8-11), Apuleius’ novel in fact consists of a very long parade of different characters of varying importance and depth, sometimes well portrayed, other times just barely outlined with a completely anonymous walk-on part. Every single one of them, however, is destined only to make a brief appearance, and then to disappear, as the donkey goes on in his whirl of adventures and new characters come on stage. There is a single exception in the Metamorphoses to this normal narrative practice: that is to say, a character who does not disappear, and a story that, although seemingly ended, resumes with an unexpected and tragic conclusion. It is the story of a maiden held captive by the brigands, a maiden who remains unnamed for a large part of the tale. Unlike all the other secondary narrative insertions, which are generally of contained size and can be easily isolated from the main plot, the story of this maiden is not over in the course of a few chapters, but mingles with the story of the donkey over a long period, and is distributed across even more books. The story, which has had the privilege of being acknowledged as a narrative cycle,1 consists in fact of two main sections placed far apart, separated by an extensive interruption in the form of the tale of Cupid and Psyche. The first section, with the kidnapped maiden as the protagonist, at the same time acts as a framework, justification and counterpart of the Cupid and Psyche story. These two sections, both of remarkable length, 1

The so called Charite-Complex, as Junghanns named it [(1932) 156-165].

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represent two completely different experiments in narrative technique: the first part fully coincides with the main plot of the adventure of the donkey, captured by brigands, with which the kidnap of the maiden mingles: she will share the misfortunes of the donkey, an attempted escape and even an (avoided) danger of death. The second part of the story, by contrast, is a veritable internal digression, assigned to a secondary narrator and – as is a constant feature of secondary tales in every kind of Rahmenerzählung or framing narrative – completely separated from the story of the protagonist, being placed at a different narrative level; the striking point of this second part is that it does not have any relation of necessity, or consequentiality, with the previous narration. The tragic tale of the separation and the death of the two lovers at the hand of the villain of the moment could have been inserted at any other point of the book, and could have had different, even completely anonymous,2 protagonists, instead of representing the sequel of previous events, faced by characters already known. The idea of joining together the two sections, adding an unexpected tragic end to the ‘small-scale version of a Greek novel’ constituted by the first part (with a happy ending guaranteed and almost imposed by the rules of the genre), is evidently a choice of Apuleius, probably with a specific meaning for the general architecture of the novel.3 What this meaning might be we will return to later. Now, let us see in the meantime the features and main characters of this large section of the Metamorphoses. The first narrative kernel, the closest to the plot of the Greek Onos, is divided into two parts in its turn. A brief introduction of a few chapters (4.23-27), where an anonymous uirgo captiva arrives in the bandits’ cave, is followed by the long interruption of the bella fabella of Cupid and Psyche, the tale by which the thieves’ old servant comforts this desperate and terrified maiden (4.28-6.24). Once the long digression is over, the 2

This is the rule in the case of so many secondary insertions, not only the minor ones, but also those with a sufficient extent or relevance (it is sufficient to think, for example, about the story of the three brothers in 10.35-38; of the modern version of Phaedra at 10.2-12, or the wicked assassin of 10.23-28): the anonymity is one of the many elements which reveal the folkloric nature of the various materials used in the secondary episodes. Then again, even the characters of our novel are anonymous in the Greek source, or at least in the Onos. 3 In fact, even in the Onos the young maiden who has been a prisoner with the donkey, will subsequently die with her fiancé (34.1-2), but there this fact, inserted as a brief note (as occurring by accidental drowning) has no narrative development and simply functions to justify a new movement in the plot, as the death of the masters determines the escape of the servants, who will take the donkey with them.

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maiden’s story resumes at 6.25, continuing as part of the main plot and developing adventures typical of fiction until about half-way through the following book (7.14): it encompasses an (unsuccessful) attempt at escape, with the donkey as co-protagonist, a threat of death for the two fugitives, and the heroic exploit of the maiden’s fiancé, Tlepolemus, who sets the two victims free through a clever and risky plan; it is exactly at this point that the maiden’s name, Charite, is finally disclosed to us.4 After the wedding of the couple, the heroic donkey, who has helped Charite in the moment of danger, is destined to a life of pleasures, a chance of good fortune that will obviously not be fulfilled, because of Lucius’ usual bad luck, this time embodied by wicked herdsmen and envious stallions. And so, the paths of the donkey and Charite separate. Among the new dangers which the donkey faces, his tortures suffered at the hand of sadistic masters, and his close encounter with a hungry shebear, the reader has already forgotten the girl and her bridegroom, when their story resumes – and ends – at the opening of a new book (8.1-14). Here a servant of the young pair takes his place in the main plot as a secondary narrator and tells their other servants, his companions (and Apuleius’ readers as well) of the terrible end which they suffered. Here the second part of the story begins, inspired more by Greek tragedy than by a Greek novel.5 We are told that, after the wedding of the couple, the wicked Thrasyllus, one of the rejected suitors, kills Tlepolemus during a hunting expedition, and tries to obtain Charite’s hand afterwards; but the dead husband appears in a dream to his young wife and alerts her, revealing the previous facts; and so the girl, once she has lured the assassin into a trap, accomplishes her revenge by blinding him, and eventually commits suicide on her husband’s grave. The narration of these events occupies chapters 8.1-14, the most extensive secondary narrative section in the novel after the tale of Cupid and Psyche. This quite heterogeneous narrative structure reveals to an attentive reader a likely conflation of tales of varied nature and origin. Almost all 4

It is chiefly a narrative choice: the discovery of the girl’s name works as a sort of aprosdoketon, revealing in the climax of the story not so much the identity of the maiden herself (to which the name adds little), but rather the identity of the false thief who threatens to put her into a brothel, and who is none other than her fiancé Tlepolemus; on this subject see Nicolini (2000) 74-85. 5 Although Charite shows some features typical of tragic heroines in the first part, these are rather frantic and almost grotesque manifestations, resembling, mutatis mutandis, some performances of Petronius’ Encolpius, whereas in the second part, as May points out [(2006) 268], “Charite’s real tragic potential comes to light, that is when her tragedy-inspired actions are no longer comically undercut”.

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the narrative material, in fact, is absent from the pseudo-Lucianic Onos, which encompasses only, and in a very reduced form, the arrival of the girl in the cave, the attempt at escape, and the final liberation. This fact, together with the many contradictory elements in Apuleius’ novel, and together with the mildly incoherent connection between different moments of the story,6 gives us reason to think that Apuleius made a deviation on purpose, and without excessive concern for coherence, from his usual Greek source, where the situation was probably not so different from that of the Onos. As a consequence, no matter which model Apuleius referred to, it would be possible to suppose for our story a genesis of this kind: Apuleius had at his disposal a Greek source, with a story A (the girl kidnapped by the robbers and finally rescued by her fiancé) and a story B (the tragic tale of the two lovers who die just after the wedding), both of them in an embryonic stage; he also had at his disposal tales which were more or less famous, diffused at folkloric level and apt for filling in the skeleton of the plot he already possessed; for example, for story A, the vicissitudes of the young man and his complicated plan to rescue his lover, and for story B, the tragic story of two newlyweds betrayed by a friend, and of the woman’s revenge against her husband’s killer. In writing his novel, Apuleius decided to integrate these two originally different tales within his main plot, each of them as it occurred, but associating them with the same characters. But, as it is natural in every patchwork, some details remained of each of them, giving evidence of their original autonomy. This would explain well, besides the imperfect connection of the parts, the discrepancies and contradictions that are often so evident even in the characterisation of the protagonists, who are not always coherent. On the contrary, as we will see, the stratification of sources and possible models becomes the main tool for the characterisation of the characters.

2: The character of Charite - contradictory features and stratification of models Among the contradictory aspects of the cycle, the most striking is concerned with the characterisation of Charite herself. The terrified maiden with no spirit of initiative who appears in 4.23 and the clever and brave heroine of Book 8 really seem two different characters, which the author of the story has joined under the same name. And this name itself, a

6

On which cf. for example Nicolini (2000) 43, n.95, but see also below.

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‘speaking name’ according to a common usage in the Metamorphoses,7 particularly befits the protagonist of the first section, depicted with typical features of the Greek novel’s heroines: the beauty and grace that seduce at first sight.8 Indeed, we observe how Apuleius does not lose the chance to turn the traditional Leitmotiv9 to comic purposes, by highlighting how the maiden’s beauty was so evident as to be appreciated even by a donkey [mehercules asino tali concupiscendam, “Heavens, she could have put ideas into the head even of an ass like me!”, trnsl. Walsh (1994), 4.27.2] But these features of beauty and grace soon fade into the background, in order to make room for completely contrasting aspects of her character, whether actual, as in the manly courage expressed in the attempt to escape at 6.28, or completely imaginary, as in the shamelessness by which she seems to react to the erotic interest of the bandits’ chief (we are at the solemn moment when totarum mulierum secta moresque de asini pendebant iudicio [“the whole female sex and its morals lay perilously poised on the judgement of an ass”, trnsl. Walsh (1994), 7.10]. In this section of the tale, the character is constructed mainly through her actions, which the plot requires from time to time: a character who has no specific physiognomy, a dull and completely secondary character, for which the limited characteristics of previous fiction10 are sufficient. In the second part of the story, by contrast, the figure of Charite is presented with considerable accuracy and coherence, and in her new portrait, psychological characterisation prevails over her physical beauty. In order to construct his character, Apuleius recurs to elements he draws from other genres, such as tragedy, elegy and epic. It is sufficient to compare two similar situations in order to realise the differences between the first and the second Charite: between the melodramatic suicide she

7

On ‘speaking names’ in the Metamorphoses see Hijmans (1978b) partic. 107117. 8 Labelled as uirgo dulcissima by her fiancé (5.5.3), Charite is really almost a personification of Greek charis (for a discussion of this name see GCA (1985) 161. 9 On the conventional element of the beauty/grace of the novelistic heroine (and of the male protagonist as well), cf. Fusillo (1989) 189-190, Nicolini (2000) 155156. 10 Besides, what matters in the first part is the function the character of Charite has to fulfil in the narrative economy: the desperate girl in need of consolation serves to introduce a special consolatory tale which is to demonstrate how love triumphs over all and how the most dramatic stories could end positively. Sed ego te narrationibus lepidis anilibusque fabulis…auocabo [“... here and now I’ll divert you with the pretty story of an old wife’s tale”, trnsl. Walsh (1994), 4.27.4]. And the narration of Cupid and Psyche begins.

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threatens in front of the old servant11 and the noble, heroic one she actually carries out in the tragic ending12 there is, even at the level of expression, all the distance which lies between a stock and one-dimensional repertory scene from the Greek novels (or even from comedy!) and the same situation presented in a completely different manner in an epic poem.13 Now, it is precisely on this new development of the character that scholarship has concentrated its attention, by pointing out many possible models. If it is in fact true that the most ancient origins of this real exemplum of conjugal virtue belongs to a well-attested tradition of the tale in Greece and the Orient, several influences certainly derive from a milieu 11 4.25.3: longe longeque uehementer adflictare sese et pectus etiam palmis infestis tundere et faciem illam luculentam uerberare…incipit et … sic adsuspirans altius infit: ‘Em nunc certe nunc maxime funditus perii, nunc spei salutiferae renuntiaui. Laqueus aut gladius aut certe praecipitium procul dubio capessendum est’ [“and began to maltreat herself much more severely. She started to beat her breast with heavy blows and to belabour that bright face of hers ... her sighs grew deeper. Then she began : ‘Now it’s all up with me for sure, now I’m utterly finished, now I’ve lost all hope of being saved. The noose or the sword must be my only recourse, or at any rate I must throw myself off a cliff, no doubt about that.’”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)]. 12 8.13.4-5: ‘Abicite’ inquit ‘importunas lacrimas, abicite luctum meis uirtutibus alienum. Vindicaui in mei mariti cruentum peremptorem, punita sum funestum mearum [mearum] nuptiarum praedonem. Iam tempus est ut isto gladio deorsus ad meum Tlepolemum uiam queram’ [“Dry your untimely tears, renounce the grief which is out of keeping with my valorous deeds. I have exacted vengeance from the bloodstained murderer of my husband; I have punished the plunderer who brought death to my marriage. It is now time for me to seek through this sword the downward path to Tlepolemus”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)]. 13 According to others, however, one can see in the first phase already the tendency to characterise Charite as a tragic heroine, mainly through certain attitudes and expressions, however frantic: in the suicide passage cited above, May [(2006) 255256] has recognised some possible reminiscences of Lucan’s Cornelia and Seneca’s Phaedra (cf. Lucan 9.106-107: numquam ueniemus ad enses aut laqueos aut praecipites per inania iactus, “never shall I resort to the sword or noose or a headlong fall through the air”, trnsl. Duff (1962); Sen. Phaedr. 258-260: decreta mors est: quaeritur fati genus/ laqueone uitam finiam an ferro incubem? / an missa praeceps arce Palladia cadam?, “I am resolved on death; I seek but the manner of my fate. With the noose shall I end my life, or fall upon the sword? or shall I leap headlong from Pallas’ citadel?”, trnsl. Miller [1960]). But on this theme, particularly widespread in rhetorical tradition, cf. the note by Nicolini (2000) 163. Another possible phrase from Lucan has been identified by Lazzarini [(1985) 137 n.17] in Charite’s exclamation in saxeo… carcere seruiliter clausa (“shut up like a slave in this rock-walled prison”, trnsl. Walsh [1994], 4.24.4); cf. Lucan 5. 609: sub carcere saxi, “in the prison of [Aeolus’] cave”, trnsl. Duff (1962).

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more familiar to Apuleius, namely Greek and Latin literature. Moreover, some modern critics attribute the complexity of Charite’s figure to different contributions from different genres: and it is a complexity positively interpreted, not as a contradiction, but as an element of the character’s realistic nature.14 The main plot, the scheme of the romantic triangle husband-wife-adulterer (for which we cannot exclude a priori the influence of the myth of Isis-Osiris-Seth),15 could be ascribed, as previously mentioned, to a widespread narrative tradition. As in other occasions, the main reference could be to Plutarch,16 who had dealt with this theme twice in his works, writing the tragic story of the Galatian Kamma; in this story, Kamma’s husband, Sinatos, is killed by surprise by the powerful tetrarch Sinorix, the rejected suitor of the woman. The latter pretends to accept his courtship, but subsequently poisons him to avenge her husband, and commits suicide, after having delivered a proud speech. The same theme is found in other two tales at least: a folktale set in the Caucasus, telling, in the declared form of an exemplum of feminine virtue, the adventure of a faithful wife who takes revenge on her husband’s killer and commits suicide afterwards, and an analogous Chechen version of the same folk-tale, even if this resembles our story less.17 Into this traditional material, broadly spread in the following centuries, some elements derived from Greek tragedy and Latin epic are inserted. Some of the plot elements seem to be borrowed in particular from Greek tragedy. For example, the making of the husband’s statue by the widow; the cult of images of the dead man, with Bacchic connotations; the apparition to the wife of the dead husband, preventing her from contracting a new marriage: all these elements seem to derive, at least

14 Thus, for example, Finkelpearl (1998) 176: “characters who partake of aspects of several genres and levels simultaneously achieve a tension between the constraints of various types of literature that may come close to the contradictions inherent to reality”. 15 Naturally, the possible religious reference has been already indicated by Merkelbach (1995) 444-446; and Finkelpearl [(1998) 120] is right when she points out that different literary echoes work together to make Tlepolemus a sort of Doppelgänger of Osiris, even if this does not imply accepting all Merkelbach’s conclusions. 16 Moralia 257F and 768B. On Apuleius’ relations with Plutarch in the matter of philosophical conventions and religious beliefs, and his debts to the Greek writer as a source, see Walsh (1988) 73-85, and (1994) 32-34. 17 The fortune of the so-called ‘Charite-Kamma Thema’ has been studied in all its versions by Anderson [(1909) 537-549], to which we refer the reader.

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partially, from Euripides’ version of the history of Protesilaus.18 Conversely, some secondary details and lexical echoes concerning the construction of the characters, and in particular the in-depth examination of this prototype of ‘model wife’, have been traced back to Latin epic. In particular, Dido is the figure with which Charite has been decisively associated, mainly because of some lexical indications that some think openly reveal the model. It is an association, however, about which it is necessary to be cautious. It is clear that Apuleius often has Vergil in his mind and employs his vocabulary, situations and characters: obviously this aspect is not limited only to our episode. The presence of Vergil is a constant factor in the novel as a whole, and has been accurately examined since the Renaissance.19 Among the elements immediately recalling Vergil in the episode (even if not the narrative of Dido), the most evident are the sentences describing the spread of Fama after Tlepolemus’ death, and the raging reaction of Charite amens, the victim of a sort of Bacchic delirium. It is not difficult, in fact, to recognise a sort of Vergilian cento in this elaboration of the figure of Charite (8.6.4-5): necdum satis scelere transacto Fama dilabitur et cursus primos ad domum Tlepolemi detorquet et aures infelicis nuptae percutit… amens et uecordia percita cursuque bacchata furibundo per plateas populosas et arua rurestria fertur insana uoce casum mariti quiritans.20 18

On this possibility, cf. Maass (1886) 9-15. Walsh (1970) 163-164; other material in Nicolini (2000) 61-64. Against this (after the clarifications by Hijmans [(1986) 352-355], who observes how this cult of the dead could have been derived from rituals actually followed in everyday life) see Finkelpearl (1998) 129. 19 Fundamental is the rich material collected by the valuable commentary on the Metamorphoses by Filippo Beroaldo. In modern times, after the pioneering studies by Forbes (1943) and Westerbrink (1978), the most important and reliable studies are certainly those by Lazzarini (1985) and the chapters devoted to the Vergilian model in the more recent volumes by Finkelpearl (1998) and Harrison (2013). 20 Since Beroaldo’s edition of 1500 commentators refer to the parallels of Aen. 4, 196: protinus ad regem cursus detorquet Iarban (“Immediately she directed her course towards king Iarbas”) and 9.473-475: pennata per urbem /nuntia Fama ruit matrisque adlabitur auris /Euryali [“meanwhile winged Fame, flitting through the fearful town, speeds with the news and steals to the ears of Euryalus’ mother”, trnsl. Fairclough (1950)]; even Dido’s despair in Aen. 4.300-301: saeuit inops animi totamque incensa per urbem/ bacchatur [“Helpless in mind, she rages, and all aflame raves through the city”, trnsl. Fairclough (1950)] is to be integrated with Aen. 9.477-479: euolat infelix et femineo ululato / scissa comam, muros amens atque agmina cursu / prima petit… [“forth flies the unhappy lady and, with a woman’s shrieks and torn tresses, in her madness makes for the walls and for the foremost ranks”, trnsl. Fairclough (1950)] where the mother of Euryalus is in

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“The crime had scarcely been perpetrated when Rumour slipped from the scene and guided her twisted course to the house of Tlepolemus where she smote the ears of the hapless bride... She rushed wildly about in a frenzy, coursing through crowded streets and the fields of the countryside, bewailing with demented cries her husband’s misfortune”, trnsl. Walsh (1994).

Other further elements which characterise Charite echo Vergil, because of some unequivocal word choices, and in particular some passages of Aeneid 4 which were surely very famous in collective memory. 21 Even in the crucial episode of Charite’s death (8.13), the resemblances have been under examination for centuries. John Price 22 already noticed how the contents of the proud final speech closely follow the nouissima uerba in which Dido takes stock of her life in Aen. 4.651-662. In particular, the sentence uindicaui in mei mariti cruentum peremptorem, punita sum funestum mearum nuptiarum praedonem [“I have exacted vengeance from the bloodstained murderer of my husband; I have punished the plunderer who brought death to my marriage” trnsl. Walsh (1994), 8.13.] has been seen as echoing Aen. 4.656: ulta uirum, poenas inimico a fratre recepi (“avenging my husband, I have exacted punishment on my enemy brother”), and the continuation iam tempus est ut... deorsus...uiam quaeram [“It is now time for me to seek through this sword the downward path”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)] as imitating, although not closely, Aen. 4.654: et nunc magna mei sub terras ibit imago (“and now my noble spirit will pass beneath the earth”). Perhaps even the gruesome details of the suicide recall Vergilian precedent: ferro sub papillam... transadacto corruit et in suo sibi peruolutata sanguine…balbuttiens [“She then drove the sword below her right breast, and slid the ground. As she writhed in her own blood, she stuttered some last incoherent words”, trnsl. Walsh (1994), 8.14] follows Aen. 4.663-665: ferro / conlapsam aspiciunt comites ensemque cruore / spumantem sparsasque manus (“her servants saw she had fallen on the blade, the sword frothed with blood and her hands bespattered”). Other minor verbal reminiscences should be added to these as well as some similarities of situation in the episode as a whole, starting from Charite’s scenes of despair, the dream apparition of the dead husband, and

despair. But it is important to underline that for other details the underlying model seems to be Evander’s grief in Aeneid 11, perhaps also with some echoes of Lucan; see further the excellent observations by Lazzarini [(1985) 142]. 21 Again see Lazzarini (1985) 142-144. 22 In his edition of 1650, cited by Oudendorp (1786-1823) 3.2453.

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the suicide by her beloved’s sword.23 In short, Dido is the character who certainly provides most material for the framing of Apuleius’s maiden. But I believe that over-drastic conclusions should not be drawn from this, for example, arguing that it is a ‘finalised construction’, aiming to convey some specific message, which goes beyond the limits of narration. In particular, it seems to me hazardous to suggest that Charite could constitute a sort of corrective counterpart of her model, a Dido more chaste and more faithful to her husband, and to say that Apuleius seeks to expunge the features of moral weakness of the Vergilian character, in a ‘reaction’ to Vergil’s elaboration of the queen of Carthage, such as is attested in other African authors.24 In the first place, it is significant that Apuleius’ passage is elaborated by joining together elements (lexical and otherwise) extrapolated from different sources, which can be referred not only to the particular story of Dido, but also to a similar type of situation that is often present in epic. Moreover, it is often the resemanticisation of these analogies of vocabulary and contents (i.e. the application of similar ways of expression to the description of different scenes and feelings), that provides the true sense of the operation. In fact, the reuse of words and images for different situations is a natural possibility of development for every successful literary episode: but we are, precisely, in the context of an artistic operation that seems to be inspired more by aesthetics than by literary debate. As we infer from the relation between the Metamorphoses and the pseudo-Lucianic Onos, Apuleius does not create from nothing, but rather employs pre-existent materials, re-writing them in his well-crafted and brilliant prose, combining them thanks to his literary competence. Therefore, he often draws from stock images, scenes and even terminology: this was the material that he found at his disposal, settled ‘in a sort of literary language’ consolidated and organised by situations, that acted as a filter in the language code as a whole.25 According to all the evidence, even in our case the writer rewrites – or perhaps simply artistically translates – a story which surely had a considerable afterlife (as attested by its several conventional features and its wide diffusion). In this story a desperate and deceived heroine reacts to misfortune in a manly manner, kills a traitor, avenges the destruction of her love, and eventually commits suicide. These situations were certainly 23 On these resemblances between the two episodes with different interpretations and conclusions see Lazzarini (1985) 140-144, Finkerpearl (1998) 124-128. For more precise indications see the notes ad loc. in Nicolini (2000). 24 This is the view of Finkelpearl (1998) 115-148, and Graverini (2012b) 196-197. 25 The concept is explained most clearly by Lazzarini (1985) 143; cf. also 147.

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already known and extensively explored by both Latin and Greek literature, in every genre and in various forms, the novel certainly included. It was simply natural to refer to earlier material for the characterisation of the heroine and of the other protagonists as well, it was like using a code; but the intertext must not be taken by modern criticism necessarily as a model that has been varied with a specified goal; and in the same way the literary reminiscences that we find do not necessarily constitute veritable allusions conveying a particular meaning every time. Rather, Apuleius elaborated a typical genre scene, by borrowing some situations and even several lexical elements from one or more famous scenes in the greatest Latin poem. But it was a literary choice, or perhaps even not a choice at all: Vergil belonged to the main cultural heritage of every Latin writer, the Aeneid being a key object of school and rhetorical education, and was therefore in the memory and in the ear of Apuleius, and those of his audience as well. This does not imply therefore the automatic conclusion that Dido is ‘the model’ (even by opposition) of Charite: Dido is simply one of the various models in the elaboration of this versatile character.26 A veritable syncretism of literary motives of various origins emerges from an attentive reading of the episode (in particular of its second part). Among the elements contributing, in different degrees, to the definition of the character and of the plot itself, some motifs from Ovid have been highlighted, in particular the theme of Charite’s fears for Tlepolemus’ hunting, which can be associated with Venus’ fears for Adonis, and more recently, some elements from Seneca;27 elements from Livy and Petronius have also been suggested, less convincingly in my opinion.28 Furthermore, for the hunting episode in which Tlepolemus dies the story of Atys is surely important: this is told by Herodotus (1.34-5) and seems so similar in some aspects that it has even produced a plausible conjecture in a particularly problematic passage of the story.29 Eventually, as far as regards Charite’s nightmare of the nuptiae dispectae – a crucial scene for the characterisation of the heroine in the first phase – May has suggested a 26

Besides, for Dido herself Vergil already exploited the rich series of motifs available in a wide stock of feminine tragic figures, with none of these being recognisable as a unique model: cf Heinze (19153) 134-138. 27 May (2006) 267. 28 Cf. Finkelpearl [(1998) 120-121] for a possible reminiscence of Livy, and 144146 on the relation between Charite and Petronius’ matron. 29 The mention of Attis at Met.4.26.8 seems to be not immediately pertinent to the figure of the Phrygian youth; on Kiessling’s emendation of Attis to Atyis Finkelpearl [(1998) 119] expressed herself with great equilibrium.

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possible parallel with a similar episode in the pseudo-Senecan Octauia, when Poppaea tells her nurse the dreadful dream she had after her nuptials with Nero.30 In this case, the similarities of situation are more convincing than their lexical counterparts, but what matters more is that a further source of inspiration in Apuleius’ cultural background could be operating for one of the elements of his story. Besides, Charite herself seems to want to mark a sort of emulation of tragedy in the sentence by which she explains her own drama to the old woman: specta denique scaenam meae calamitatis, “just contemplate the tragedy that has befallen me” (trnsl. Walsh [1994], 4.26.2). In short, we observe a dense presence in the novel of cultural elements of various origins, and it seems risky to identify among them a specific model from which we can infer some particular meaning of the whole story. It is more likely, I believe, that the re-elaboration of several different motifs and suggestions constitutes the main contribution of Apuleius to the re-elaboration of an already known story, in particular to the characterisation of an original and multiform character, instead of the fixed and conventional type which he found at his disposal.

3: The male characters in the story: Tlepolemus and Thrasyllus What has been said about Charite is valid for Tlepolemus as well. On the one hand, the contradictory aspects characterising him depend on the contamination and combination of different sources, and on the other hand they seem to be a necessary consequence of the character’s being moved from one genre to another.31 Tlepolemus, ‘he who endures the fight,’32 is also a ‘speaking name’, again better befitting the protagonist of the first part of the story, the mighty and bold youngster who so easily pretends to be a bloodthirsty robber, and defeats an entire gang of ferocious bandits by himself. In the second part of the story, the same name does not seem to characterise so appropriately the husband of Charite who turns into a sort of shy elegiac hero, a second Adonis warned by his woman about the dangers of an unsuitable hunting expedition,33 and becomes the easy 30

May (2006) 252-255. On this see below. 32 Apparently from tlao and polemos; cf. Dos Santos Palma Granwehr (1981) 146. 33 Cf. already above, but as Hijmans reminds us [(1986) 359, n. 20], the topos of the hunting lover is also found in Prop. 2.19.13 ff. and Tib. 4.13.17 f. More recently see Graverini (2009) 64-71. 31

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victim of a boar and the treacherous Thrasyllus. Of course it is also true that the space reserved for the male character was necessarily limited in this second part of the story, focussed as it is on a heroine who distinguishes herself for her features of manly fearlessness (cf. 8.11.4: masculis animis, “animated by a men’s courage”; 8.14.2: proflauit animam uirilem, “and died like a man”; features which have already been indicated in 6.27.5: sumpta constantia uirili, “with a daring that belied her sex”). As compensation, Tlepolemus is the undoubted protagonist of the first section of the story,34 when he not only plays the role of the main actor, but is even the narrator of the ‘double treachery’ of Haemus and of Plotina’s story. For this reason too, his characterisation takes place on a double track, and the description that the main narrator gives of him is mingled with that emerging from several direct speeches of the character, and from the self-portrait he is presented as giving. By introducing himself to the robbers in the guise of the ferocious bandit Haemus, the character shows he possesses a gift for humorous narration, by glossing his new name with – more than appropriate – sentences depicting him as humano sanguine nutritus [7.5.6] (with clear reference to the Greek haima, one of the word-plays based on code-switching which the author loves so much), or as aemulus uirtuti paternae [7.5.6] (in aemulus we can see the meanings of both ‘emulator’ and ‘little Haemus’ at the same time).35 This capacity to be a narrator-inventor, which makes him close to a comedy character in some aspects,36 will have its effect, as the bandits will easily fall into his trap, aided by another key element of the deceiver’s characterisation: his language. In fact, in the general disguise of 34

In the first part, where Tlepolemus is decidedly the protagonist, his figure is so central that he ends up characterising in some ways the faint figure of Charite, meaning that every action of his reflects or has some consequence on the definition of the feminine character. When Tlepolemus is absent, the maiden still has a minimal sense of initiative and a limited importance; but as soon as Tlepolemus appears on stage in the guise of a bandit, the girl switches to a situation of complete passivity: not only her actions, but also her direct speeches disappear (and while Tlepolemus plots, acts, and rescues her, Charite is more and more absent, mute and almost invisible in the scene). 35 On possible multiple interpretations of Haemus’ name, cf. Hijmans (1978a) and (1978b) 115-116; Dos Santos Palma Granwehr (1981) 146; Nicolini (2011) 221. 36 And the motif of disguise seems to come from comedy; see May (2006) 263264; it appears in a very similar situation in Plautus’ Miles Gloriosus, where Pleusicles dresses up as a ship’s captain in order to free her beloved who is held prisoner by the soldier see Duckworth (19942) 169-170, and Rosati (1997) 112. But see also below.

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Tlepolemus, the character deploys a kind of stylistic exercise, since he performs the role most effectively by using a feature typical of robbers: the jargon of sermo militaris.37 Accordingly, from the beginning the new arrival acts as a perfect comes who, by means of references to the god Mars, solemn addresses to his commilitones38 and daring proposals of military assaults (7.10.5: proximum castellum petam, “[that will suffice] to attack the nearest village”), builds up a false characterisation to which the invented account of his deeds will contribute. Particularly effective here is the false story of Plotina, with its mirrored variations of the main theme of the disguise: in the tale the woman who persecutes Haemus’ gang is dressed as a man, whereas Haemus is compelled to disguise himself as a woman in order to escape capture. From his perspective, the main narrator offers a completely different characterisation of the figure, by stressing mainly his physical appearance: on the other side it has to be said that to an expert reader and one wellversed in epic, this appearance immediately recalls an heroic warrior, rather than a cruel bandit. From his first appearance the new brigand, corpore uastus et manu strenuus (“well built and powerful”, 7.4), has in fact the aspect of an epic warrior from the time of Homer on: like the Iliadic Ajax he is large and strong and tops the others by a head (Iliad 3.226-7). Curiously, a little later Apuleius does not choose the adjective which is formulaic for such contexts in Latin epic, ingens,39 but prefers immanis, perhaps in order to add a nuance of ambiguity to his portrait (immanis conveys well the cruel and wild side that Haemus himself will reveal); on the other hand, his height (another aspect of the physical presence of the epic hero) is expressed in clearly Vergilian terms: the phrase toto uertice cunctos antepollebat [he was a whole head higher than all of them”, trnsl. Walsh (1994), 7.5] must recall the precedents of Turnus and Ornytus at Aen. 7.784 and 11.683 [toto uertice supra est, “by a whole head overtopping all” trnsl. Fairclough (1950)]. Even the detail ei commodum lanugo malis inserpebat [“a soft beard was spreading over his cheeks” trnsl. Walsh, 7.5], a recurring image in the characterisation of the youthful epic hero in his first youth, derives from epic [cf. e.g Verg. Aen. 10.324: flauentem prima lanugine malas, “his cheeks golden with a soft beard”; Stat. Theb. 6.586: deserpit genis nec se lanugo fatetur, “the growth

37

On this feature of the brigands’ jargon see already Graverini, Chapter 6 above. Cf. also Nicolini (2000) 220-221. 39 Among several examples of ingens with this meaning in Vergilian epic, cf. for example Aen. 1.99, 6.413, 8.367, 10.842. 38

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steals over his cheeks”, trnsl. Shackleton Bailey (2003)],40 even if it is divergent from the rest of the description41 perhaps Graverini is right, when he sees in this feature of characterisation a shift to more erotic genres.42 If we also add that the self-presentation of the brigand in 7.5.6: ego sum...Haemus ille Thracius cuius... [“I am that celebrated brigand Haemus the Thracian, a man...”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)], has been identified by Westerbrink43 as a parody of Odysseus’ famous self-presentation to the Phaeacians (“I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, who is known to all men for his tricks”, Od. 9. 19-20),44 we realise that the reader is alerted by many literary signs to the fact that perhaps he is not facing a typical villain. Besides, the treachery of Haemus is practically declared: neue de pannulis istis uirtutes meas aestimetis [“do not judge my merits by the rags I wear”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)], he urges the robbers at 7.5.5, and the use of the proverb produces a comic tension between the immediate sense (the traditional concept that a man’s qualities should not be judged from his external appearance) and the tragic irony which underlies it (if the robbers actually observed the popular adage, but in a very different meaning, they would not trust one who has only the appearance of a robber, but in reality is a completely different person). Truth to tell, the main narrator had added in his description a detail that sounds more like an ironic signal, rather than a generic characterisation, with the benefit of hindsight; the new brigand is in fact brave and mighty, but he appears to be in a very bad condition: sed plane centunculis ... male consarcinatis semiamictum [“only half-covered with a patchwork cloak which was ill-fitting”, trnsl. Walsh (1994), 7.5.3]. Now, the existence of 40

But the motif, recurring since Homer, is present, even with no vocabulary analogies, in several other passages of the Aeneid; cf. Bernhard (1927) 200, Nicolini (2000) 219. 41 Actually, the features of heroic strength and almost beardless youth should not overlap, and this tension has been recognised as conveying a parodic meaning by Lazzarini (1985) 156; for a different opinion see Graverini, Chapter 6 above, which plausibly argues that the particular mélange of epic features, seemingly discordant, is the price Apuleius pays in order to adapt the epic character to the novelistic world. 42 See Graverini, Chapter 6 above. 43 Westerbrink (1978) 69-70. On Tlepolemus’ mode of self-introduction, following the mechanism of riddles cf. Nicolini (2000) 221. 44 But cf. also Lazzarini [(1985) 157] who by a useful synoptic scheme, shows how the whole presentation closely follows the typical heroic code for self-presentation, immediately referring to that of Aeneas to the Carthaginians and of Odysseus to the Phaeacians.

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an idiomatic expression, which has been already employed by Plautus, is sufficient to induce us at least to suspect that here Apuleius has inserted a pun, based on the double meaning of centones sarcire, an established idiom for ‘to invent lies.’45 And this character-narrator proves to be a master in inventing lies, with a story that encompasses three chapters but, paradoxically, constructs the figure of a prudent and clever deceiver that contrasts with that of a valorous and indomitable warrior which he demonstrated until now; not to mention that immediately afterwards, in his zeal as a factotum, he looks more like a comedy character than a bandit with heroic inclinations: uerrit, sternit, coquit, tucceta concinnat, adponit scitule [“He swept the floor, laid the table, cooked the meat, stuffed the sausages. He deftly served out the food...”, trnsl. Walsh (1994), 7.11.3].46 In short, the composition of the character of Tlepolemus is a patchwork, exactly as his clothes are, and, at least in the first section, this is functional in the development of the plot, based on disguise and treachery. Yet, the fact that in the second section such a fine character is destined to vanish rapidly, and in a manner so inconsistent with his first representation (that is to say, without confirming any of his heroic features), cannot help revealing, in my view, the imperfect stitching together of two heterogeneous pieces of narration. A further confirmation of the collage of elements by which Apuleius created his tale is the character of the villain. Thrasyllus (again a speaking name, from the Greek thrasus, ‘rash’, ‘bold’, as Apuleius himself makes sure to clarify this time)47 is from a literary point of view a very standard wicked character. Introduced at the beginning of the story through the opening formula that is typical of tales [erat in proxima ciuitate, “in a nearby town lived...” trnsl. Walsh (1994)],48 the character is generic and 45

Cf. Plautus Epid. 455: proin tu alium quaeras quoi centones sarcias (“look for someone else to make your patchworks for”, trnsl. De Melo [2011a]), with GCA [(1981) 110], referring to various examples in Plautus. On this, and on ‘impersonation’ as a typical feature of theatre, cf. also May (2006). 46 For similar, effective paratactic sequences cf. for example Plautus Aul. 453: coquite, facite, festinate… [“Cook away, work away, scurry around to your hearts’ content now!”, trnsl. Nixon [1966]); or in Merc. 416: molet, coquet, conficiet pensum, pinsetur flagro… [“she will grind meal, cook, do her stint of spinning, be flogged with the lash”, trnsl. De Melo (2011b)]. 47 Cf. 8.8.1: de ipso nomine temerarius (“rash, living up to his name”, trnsl. Walsh [1994]). 48 with the slight variation on the standard formula (cf. 4.28.1: erant in quadam ciuitate, “in a certain city there lived...”): there is less vagueness here, due to the fact that the adventures are presented as really happened and to characters already known. On the other hand, the fact that the character is introduced as completely

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without subtle shades, and his characterisation presents the opposite of the good Roman ciues: in fact, he is presented through something of a reduced version of Sallust’s famous portrait of the young Catiline [nobili genere natus ... sed ingenio malo prauoque, “born of a noble family had ... an evil and depraved nature”, trnsl. Rolfe (2013)].49 Thrasyllus, who belongs to a well-established family, but has a bad character, commits the most shameful actions which brings discredit to the good citizen (hanging out in taverns, frequenting prostitutes, drinking in the daytime, associating with armed gangs, committing acts of violence): they are listed in an ascending order of immorality. Only at the end of this list does the narrator provide us with the villain’s name, and with an internal gloss; he comments on the name with a sentence of problematic translation, but clear enough in its general meaning [id sic erat et fama dicebat, “Rumours circulating about him was matched by the reality”, trnsl. Walsh (1994), 8.1.5]. This brief but effective characterisation alerts the audience and gives a direction to the story.50 The plot will do the rest: Thrasyllus will be characterised by his own actions, together with a special vocabulary where the use of theatrical terminology is especially remarkable (e.g such terms as persona, scaena, simulo, conformo, expressing his deceptive behaviour and the disguising of his intentions), along with the vocabulary of hunting. The sentence nactus fraudium opportunum decipulum ... captiose compellat [“exploited an opportune trick to achieve his treachery. He craftily said...”, trnsl. Walsh (1994), 8.5.2], for instance, neatly employs the most appropriate metaphor (decipulum being the ‘hunting trap’) for the betrayal of Thrasyllus during the boar hunt. The characterisation of the character is followed by the characterisation of his feeling, an odiosus amor (“hateful love”), which is very soon converted into furor: for the description of such a ruinous feeling Apuleius borrows from the language of Latin elegy (a glance at commentaries is sufficient in order to parallel immediately expressions such as nutriens amorem, ruina cupidinis, flamma saeui amoris). Once he has killed his friend, Thrasyllus takes care of consoling his wife and for this reason models himself on Petronius’ soldier, when he tries to interrupt the

new and unknown to the audience of servants is by itself one of the elements of divergence in the narrative cycle, for which we defer to GCA (1985) 3-4. 49 Sall. Cat. 5.1. According to Walsh [(1970) 164], the portrait of Thrasyllus is based on a mixture of features from chapters 5 and 14 of Sallust’s work. 50 Thus, rightly, GCA (1985) 34: “the sub-narrator at once imposes his view on the audience”; they remark how even the implicit judgment of the sub-narrator on this character is always present in the story.

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excesses of the widow’s mourning and fasting with the offer of food,51 but without disdaining Senecan-style philosophical arguments.52 Eventually, even his suicide of expiation after the revenge of Charite seems a way of characterising him: unlike the same choice by women,53 suicide by fasting was a ‘marked’ choice for a man, as it was interpreted as the typical death of cowards, or of feeble and inept males, for instance old men.54 This last element, in striking contrast with the earlier description of Thrasyllus (who, from being an absolutely typical villain is transformed into the sinner overwhelmed by remorse), points out again quite evidently the integration of elements of varied origins in a synthesis which ends up having as its distinctive feature a continuous effect of surprise.

4: The chain of deceptions - the characterisation of a world As we saw above, the key feature of the narrative section of Charite and Tlepolemus is its double structure, joining together a first adventure with a positive ending and a second phase, which takes on the character of tragedy instead. The reversal of destiny of the two youngsters (which also marks the reversal of the ass’s fate)55 should be a surprise in particular for the ancient reader, used to a happy ending in the novel;56 a surprise to which the unexpected changes in the character’s nature should contribute. Therefore, the violation of generic convention itself emphasises Apuleius’ choice to add an unexpected ending – most likely borrowed from a different source – to a story which seemed to have already concluded. This 51

On the resemblances of situation between the tale of the matron of Ephesus and Charite, already pointed out by Walsh [(1970) 31 and 164], cf. also Nicolini [(2000) 285] and the observations by Vannini [(2010) 250] who on the element of the food offering rightly observes how it could be a fossilised tradition. 52 Cf. Nicolini (2000) 282. 53 Actually already attempted by Charite after Tlepolemus’ death at 8.7.4; it is however a motif well exploited by the novel, on which cf. Vannini (2010) 239. 54 See Ov. Fast. 6. 373, Amm. 17.9.4; Grisé (1982) 118-120. 55 Compelled, after the tragedy, to escape and then to change his master again, after the promise of a happy ending. 56 The features of the narrative, although being applied to a secondary narration, should have been easily recognisable by the reader: the first part of Charite’s story replicates, as has been said, a sort of miniature version of the Greek novel (where a pair of beautiful youngsters are separated by force and manage to achieve reunion after many vicissitudes). With good reason, therefore, the reader could expect a precise narrative outcome.

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has obviously given rise to different attempts at interpretation.57 Beyond any definite conclusion about the meaning of this operation, starting from this story, it seems possible to highlight one of the leading threads of the work as a whole, even from a structural point of view: the unexpected reversal of reality, the theme of the continuous ‘overturning’ of fortune which the narrator reveals to us in the proem58 and which has already appeared on several occasions.59 The coordinates describing the world of Apuleius’ novel are in fact ambiguity and contradiction. Consequently, we have surprise, changes of fortune and the consequent change of a judgement that seemed to be taken for granted given the facts. The story of Charite and Tlepolemus is a faithful mirror of this vision of the world. Moreover, both in the first and in the second part of the story of Charite and Tlepolemus (and in the relation between them), the illusion of appearances and the sudden change of reality involve not only the physical world, but relationships between men who deceive and betray each other, in a never-ending game of mirrors which is well summarised by the chain of disguises in the frame story of Tlepolemus-Haemus/Plotina-bandits in the first instance, and finally by the series of deceits which constitute the kernel of the story of Tlepolemus/Thrasyllus/Charite. Fate betrays men, but they make a strong contribution to their destiny themselves. In this second section the deception becomes a veritable narrative (and lexical) resource,60 but it is an ever-present theme in the Metamorphoses, and one of the variations of a more general theme, that is to say the impossibility for humans of achieving knowledge except in retrospect, as a consequence of experience.61 Whether such a vision of the world should be assumed in support of a religious explanation of the novel, or should have a generic philosophical meaning, or function as a key point in the narratological interpretation of the novel, or (even) should not have a specific meaning, are matters which 57 For the more disparate interpretations, not retraceable here for space reasons, we defer to Paratore (19422) 266-272, Merkelbach (1962) 72-73, GCA (1985) 8; Shumate (1996a) 96-98 and 105-110, Finkelpearl (1998) 115-148. 58 1.1.2: figuras fortunasque…in alias imagine conuersas et in se rursus mutuo nexu refectas ut mireris [“I want you to feel wonder at the transformations of ... shapes and destinies into alien forms, and their reversion by a chain of interconnection to their own”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)]. 59 It is sufficient to think about the magic tales of the first three books, or of the sequence of the Festival of Laughter; cf. also Nicolini (2000) 33-36. 60 On the theme of treachery as an expressive resource see Nicolini (2000) 55-57. 61 For the development of this motif, continuously evident in the Metamorphoses, cf. Nicolini (2000) 33-36 and 46-57.

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do not concern us here. What matters to us is that from our tale, and from the particular characterisation of its protagonists, there emerges above all the clear characterisation of a world that, like reality as a whole, appears to Apuleius to be completely unreliable.

CHAPTER EIGHT THE HUMAN CHARACTERS IN THE TALE OF CUPID AND PSYCHE (METAMORPHOSES 4.28-6.24) COSTAS PANAYOTAKIS AND STELIOS PANAYOTAKIS1

1: Introduction This chapter treats the human characters that appear in the most celebrated part of Apuleius’ novel, the inserted tale of Cupid and Psyche (Met. 4.286.24).2 Its lively divine figures, discussed by Danielle van Mal-Maeder in the following chapter, are numerous. On the other hand, the human beings 1

We are grateful to Stephen Harrison for the invitation to contribute to this volume. We distributed the sections as follows: we wrote sections 1 and 2 jointly, Stelios wrote section 3, and Costas sections 4 and 5. Overall, however, this chapter has been a team effort involving mutual exchange of ideas and suggestions for improvement with regard to all sections. 2 The bibliography on Psyche’s tale is vast, but it is appropriate here to single out Walsh (1970) 52-7 and 190-217, Tatum (1979) 49-62, Winkler (1985) 89-93, Finkelpearl (1990), Kenney (1990), Schlam (1992) 82-98, Zimmerman et al. (ed.) (1998), Harrison (2000) 210-59, and GCA (2004) as landmarks in the study of this part of the novel. Our brief account on the portrayal of the human characters of the tale in this volume is hugely indebted to these works. Having finished writing our chapter, we discovered that there was a lengthy PhD (submitted in June 2011) dedicated to the topic of characterisation in the tale of Cupid and Psyche; see Elford (2012). It covers in detail the same characters discussed by us (Psyche’s parents, Psyche’s sisters, Psyche), and also examines the portrayal of Cupid, Venus, Juno, Ceres, Pan, Mercury, as well as floral and faunal minor characters. Having now read this dissertation, we are delighted to see that, although we wrote our chapter without knowing this work, we are broadly in agreement with Elford’s conclusions.

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that are important to the tale’s plot are few: the heroine with the significant name Psyche, ‘Soul’, her parents (the king and the queen of an undefined land), and her two sisters. The other humans mentioned in the story, namely the citizens and the foreigners who admire, worship, and weep over Psyche at the beginning of the tale (4.28-35), are given little attention by the narrator, who always refers to them as a group, never as individuals.3 Likewise, Psyche’s relatives are presented as two groups that act as a foil to the heroine, and are carefully defined through their relations with her. They are given prominence in different parts of the story: the parents at the end of Book 4 (28-35), the sisters in Book 5, and Psyche in Book 6.1-24. Psyche’s sisters think and act as a pair, and this is almost always the case also with her parents (though Psyche’s father is more prominent in the plot than her mother), and the scenes in which the sisters appear include military and comic imagery as well as allusions to epic, drama, philosophy, and elegy. Much more complex and sophisticated, however, is the portrait of Psyche, drawn with loving attention to detail and filled with narrative surprises that create suspense and often cast doubt on the consistency of her behaviour. Our aims in this chapter are to show how Psyche, her parents and her sisters are presented in the tale, to think about the reasons for their presentation, and to identify the narrative strategies of the author and the rhetorical techniques of the narrator. References to Psyche’s portrayal by name, appearance, emotions, actions, and speech (Ɲthopoiia),4 as well as the use of key adjectives such as misella (“poor”), simplex (“naïve”), and curiosa (“curious”), are the means through which Psyche’s character unfolds during her interaction with her family, her mysterious (divine) husband, and her models from myth, literature, and philosophy. Apuleius’ narrative technique in the tale is also of great importance here: the unnamed old hag who narrates this refined and multi-layered tale to Charite, the young prisoner of the robbers whom the old woman serves, is an omniscient narrator; however, she neither shares in advance her knowledge about the human characters appearing in the tale, nor reveals immediately her views on them; in an attention-gripping manner, she chooses to describe events, report people’s speeches, and disclose their 3

This chapter will not deal with the anthropomorphic beings in the tale, such as the merciful ant or the speaking tower or the bird that informs Venus about Cupid’s actions; on this see e.g. Keulen (1998). 4 Most of these techniques are methods of characterisation that were addressed by ancient rhetorical theorists as a group. See the useful discussion of the topic in De Temmerman (2010).

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inner thoughts (in addition to her own opinion on them) only gradually, sparingly, and as the plot moves forward.5

2: Psyche’s parents The opening of the tale presents the reader with all the major human characters (a king, a queen, and their three daughters), and provides essential information about them: they are identified by means of kinship, wealth, and royal status, but none of them is as yet given a name (4.28.1); the narrative focuses subsequently on the presentation of the three sisters, on whom see below. The parents are not young: Psyche’s first words contain a reference to their “unhappy old age” (infelicem senectam, 4.34.3) and “grey hair” (canitiem, 4.34.3), while the narrator later adds that “[they] grew older in tireless mourning and grief” (indefesso luctu atque maerore consenescebant, 5.4.6).6 As typically happens in many Apuleian inserted tales, they remain anonymous throughout the story. Most commonly they are described together as parentes (“parents”, 4.34.2, 4.35.3, 5.4.6, 5.10.7, 5.11.2, 5.14.1, 5.16.5, 5.17.1, 5.27.1) or as genitores (“parents”, 5.10.8) to all three of their daughters. The narrator refers to them by means of either their public or their private role. This alternation is deliberate. When the old hag who narrates the tale wishes to emphasise the emotional connection between Psyche and her father (as opposed to his bonding with his other two daughters) and his share in Psyche’s sufferings, she stresses the paternal element in the king’s personality, and employs symmetrically balanced phrases such as “the greatly wretched father of the most unfortunate daughter” (infortunatissimae filiae miserrimus pater, 4.32.5). But when emphasis needs to be given to the official role of Psyche’s father, or when there is an obvious contrast between his wealth and his unhappiness, he is defined or addressed as rex: see, for example, the first line of Apollo’s oracle “on top of a high mountain, O king, you must place the girl” (montis in excelsi scopulo, rex, siste puellam, 4.33.1), or the narrator’s evaluating remark “the once happy king” (rex olim beatus, 4.33.3). The queen is mentioned individually only once, in her role as spouse (4.33.3: coniugi) rather than mother. She shares her husband’s

5

On the multiple narrative voices and the characterisation of the narrator of the tale of Psyche see van Mal-Maeder and Zimmerman (1998). 6 The English translation of the relevant passages from the tale of Cupid and Psyche is taken from GCA (2004).

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sadness and grief for Psyche’s fate, but we hear nothing else about her feelings. The relationship between Psyche and her parents is shown—at least at the start of the tale (4.28-35)—as stronger, deeper, and much more meaningful than the feelings which Psyche’s sisters have for them, revealed as the story progresses (Book 5). When Psyche addresses her parents, the narrator identifies her not by her name but through her family ties (ipsa illa filia, “their own daughter”, 4.34.2); in the same speech Psyche makes remarks which show that, in her own mind, she and her parents share body and soul: “why do you exhaust your breath, which is even more my own, by frequent wailing?” (quid spiritum uestrum, qui magis meus est, crebris eiulatibus fatigatis?, 4.34.3); “why do you ruin my eyes in yours?” (quid laceratis in uestris oculis mea lumina?, 4.34.3). All this is a far cry from the somewhat sadistic way in which Psyche’s sisters treat their parents by withholding information from them regarding Psyche’s new life (see below). The royal status of the parents and their dilemma whether or not to obey the god’s oracle (4.34.2) are features that recall tragedy and serve to establish the opening of the plot as an imitation of a tragic story inspired by Greek myth (for instance, the story of Andromeda; see below, section 4a). Neither of Psyche’s parents understands the narrative significance of (or the literary allusions within) Apollo’s enigmatic oracle (4.33.1), and this makes them feel depressed and older (4.33.3, 5.4.6). We are not told whether the internal audience of the tale (Charite and the eavesdropping Lucius-the-ass) is cleverer than the king in deciphering Apollo’s vague words, but a careful and educated first-time reader of the tale would surely have picked up the literary allusions to Erǀs/Cupid in the description of the monster fated to become Psyche’s husband.7 The parents’ inability to understand Apollo is convenient for the development of the plot but also foreshadows the weaknesses in the characters of all three of their daughters. Importantly, the parents are not mentioned in the opening chapters, in which the narrator describes the growing admiration of the public for the youngest and most beautiful daughter—her name, Psyche, is to be revealed later—and the people’s worship of her as a new Venus; the latter event provokes the wrath of the real Venus and sets the plot in motion. The educated reader is meant to notice how this part of the tale is linked with and also dissociated from the myth of Andromeda.8 Andromeda’s 7 8

See Kenney (1990) 131-2. See Dowden (1982a).

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mother, Cassiopeia, had deemed herself superior to the Nereids in beauty and had consequently caused the wrath of Poseidon and the chaining of Andromeda on the rock. Psyche’s mother does no such thing, and there is no mention of chains in Psyche’s positioning on the rock. The lack of any explicit reference by the narrator to the responsibility of the parents for Psyche’s sad fate is rendered ambiguous and problematic by what Psyche herself claims publicly at her own ‘funeral’: although the king and the queen did not encourage their daughter’s worship as a divinity, they did not discourage it either; rather, they were accepting the people’s adoration and payment of divine honours to all the family: “when the whole world and all peoples were paying divine honours to us, when they were unanimously calling me ‘the New Venus’, then you should have been sad, then you should have mourned me” (cum gentes et populi celebrarent nos diuinis honoribus, cum nouam me Venerem ore consono nuncuparent, tunc dolere, tunc flere ... debuistis, 4.34.5). After Psyche is left on the rock, the parents become shadowy figures, gradually and conveniently removed from the story: “worn out by the immense misfortune, [they] shut themselves away in the darkness of their shuttered palace and abandoned themselves to perpetual night” (tanta clade defessi, clausae domus abstrusi tenebris, perpetuae nocti sese dedidere, 4.35.3). Under the influence of everlasting grief and sorrow, they are constantly manipulated by their elder daughters who make them believe that Psyche is utterly lost (5.10.7, 5.11.2, 5.14.1, 5.16.5, 5.17.1), while Psyche herself never mentions them again in the remaining part of the story. Significantly, news of the parents’ death is mentioned by one of the sisters as a lie by means of which she deceives her husband and runs away from home (e re concinnato mendacio fallens maritum, quasi de morte parentum aliquid comperisset, statim nauem ascendit, 5.27.1). The uncertainty about the parents’ death, which is the final piece of information we have in the text about these characters, emphasises their generally passive role in the tale. They are entirely forgotten when, at the end of the story, Psyche is welcomed into her new, divine family. This makes sense, because by then Psyche has severed all connections with the earthly world.

3: Psyche’s sisters The narrator of the tale introduces Psyche’s two sisters in the text by comparing them with Psyche in age and physical appearance (4.28.1-2): they are older than Psyche (maiores … natu – puellae iunioris, “the older ones” … “of the youngest girl”; cf. also duae maiores, “her two older

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(sisters)”, 4.32.3; sorores illae maiores, “those elder sisters”, 5.4.6; natu maiores sumus, “we … are older”, 5.9.3), and their normal human beauty is confined within the boundaries of human perception and praise (4.28.1, 4.32.3), in contrast to the divine and indescribable beauty of their sister [see below, 4 (a)]. There is no mention of the moral qualities of any of the three sisters at this point. Unlike their younger sister, whose name will be revealed later at a crucial point in the story, Psyche’s sisters remain anonymous throughout the tale. The term that the narrator, Psyche, and her mysterious husband most commonly employ to refer to them is “sisters” (sorores, 4.32.3, 5.4.6, 5.5.3, 5.26.7),9 and it is through their family role that their identity is most frequently defined.10 Their bonding is strong, and they always address each other using the term soror [“sister”, 5.9.5, 5.10.3, 5.16.3, and GCA (2004) ad loc.], but they never call Psyche soror [see 5.14.4, and GCA (2004) 212, 225]. Although all three sisters are portrayed by the narrator as equal in status, the two elder sisters look down on Psyche and regard her as a somewhat less legitimate offspring of their parents [see 5.9.2, 5.9.4, and GCA (2004) ad loc.]. The sisters almost always seem to act and think as a pair [iugum sororium consponsae factionis, “the sisters, yoked in their sworn conspiracy” (5.14.1); see GCA (2004) 207, 256], and the fact that together with Psyche they form a group of three has been explained in terms of Platonist allegory and the tripartite division of the soul.11 The motif of the ‘three daughters of a king’ features also in myth (for example, the daughters of Cecrops and the daughters of Proetus). It is arguable, however, that the structure ‘2+1’, which Apuleius adopts in the tale with regard to Psyche and her sisters, is due neither to Platonist philosophy nor to the influence of myth, but to Apuleius’ fondness for creating groups of three in the novel’s structure and characters (for instance, in Book 3 there are three tales of robbers, and in Book 9 three tales of female adulterers). Psyche’s sisters are otherwise given little attention in Book 4.28-35; in fact, they are away from home when Psyche’s “tragic wedding” takes place. The reader is told that, “long ago” (olim), they achieved “happy/rich 9

At 5.12.6 Psyche’s mysterious husband tells her that she should “neither look upon nor listen to those wicked women, whom you ought not to name sisters after their murderous hatred and trampling the bonds of blood” (nec illas scelestas feminas, quas tibi post interneciuum odium et calcata sanguinis foedera sorores appellare non licet, uel uideas uel audias). 10 Apuleius uses the same technique of name substitution in Book 10 in the inserted tales of the amorous stepmother and of the woman who commits a series of murders. See GCA (2000) 295. 11 For an evaluation of these views see O’Brien (1998) 24-7.

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marriages” (beatas nuptias, 4.32.3).12 Their absence during the events described at the end of Book 4 is also confirmed early in Book 5, when they find out about the family tragedy: “Immediately, sad and downcast, they left home and vied with each other in their haste to see and talk to their parents” (propere … maestae atque lugubres deserto lare certatim ad parentum suorum conspectum adfatumque perrexerant, 5.4.6). The account of their reaction at the sad news presents them as dutiful sisters and caring daughters, but possibly also, in the light of later events, as unhappy wives keen to leave home. From this point onwards Psyche’s sisters emerge as supporting actresses for Psyche’s leading role, and become a major threat to her stable (if not happy) family life. In this role they are the human counterparts of Psyche’s divine arch-enemy, the goddess Venus, whose hatred for Psyche functions as a framework for the sisters’ evil deeds. Venus’ animosity is described at the beginning of the tale (4.28-35), while her actions against Psyche take place in Book 6, after the heroine has been abandoned by Cupid and the sisters have been killed (5.26-27). The harmful character of the sisters is not manifested explicitly in the early stages of the story, but may be gauged through the narrator’s attribution of unbecoming traits to them, such as moving hastily (see 5.4.6, cited above; festinanter, “in great haste”, 5.7.1)13 and behaving excessively (difflebant oculos, “they cried their eyes out”, 5.7.1). However, their feelings of envy for Psyche’s wealth and happy marriage, their greed, lust, and inquisitiveness, and their skill in lying and dissimulation are soon revealed to the reader through the narrator’s comments,14 through Cupid’s 12 GCA [(2004) 81] comments ad loc.: “an ambiguous combination. The adjective can mean either ‘happy’ or ‘rich, wealthy’. … The ambiguity may well reflect the author’s intention. In either case, the assessment seems that of the anus-narratrix. The sisters will later express different views”. On the different perspectives on the sisters’ fortune see van Mal-Maeder and Zimmerman (1998) 96. 13 At 5.14.1 they will “make straight from their ships to that cliff in a headlong rush, and, not even waiting for the presence of the favouring wind, with unbridled rashness jump out into the deep” (recta de nauibus scopulum petunt illum praecipiti cum uelocitate, nec uenti ferentis oppertae praesentiam, licentiosa cum temeritate prosiliunt in altum). 14 sororum pernicioso consilio (“her sisters’ pernicious advice”, 5.6.6); sono penetrabili uocis ululabilis (“the penetrating sound of their howling voice”, 5.7.2); denique altera earum satis scrupulose curioseque percontari non desinit (“and so one of these two did not cease from inquiring meticulously and curiously”, 5.8.3); sorores egregiae domum redeuntes iamque gliscentis inuidiae felle flagrantes multa secum sermonibus mutuis perstrepebant (“the excellent sisters went back home and, already seething with the bitterness of increasing envy, waxed loud in

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repeated warnings to his wife, and through the private conversation of the sisters themselves. The narrator shows her strong dislike for Psyche’s sisters by using irony and/or abusive language, such as “the excellent sisters” (sorores egregiae, 5.9.1); at 5.24.5 Cupid calls them “those excellent advisers of yours” (illae quidem consiliatrices egregiae), “the two bad women” (duabus malis, 5.11.1), “after embracing their prey, pretending in name to be sisters” (complexaeque praedam suam sorores nomine mentientes, 5.14.3), and “the wicked women” (facinerosae mulieres, 5.19.5).15 At two points in the story the narrator even makes it clear that the sisters deserve to suffer; see 5.11.1: comam trahentes et proinde ut merebantur ora lacerantes (“pulling out their hair and, just as they deserved, scratching their faces”) and 5.27.3: nam per saxa cautium membris iactatis atque dissipatis et proinde ut merebatur laceratis uisceribus suis (“for her limbs fell upon the projections of the rocks and were scattered, and she died with her mutilated vitals—just as she deserved”). Thus the narrator manipulates our feelings towards the sisters, and invites us to feel no sympathy for them when they die. On the whole, the characterisation of the sisters is mostly conveyed indirectly and metaphorically to Charite and the reader, and it is heavily indebted to rhetorical invective and the use of imagery from the world of animals, the sphere of mythology, warfare, weaving, and the Vergilian description of the fall of Troy.16 In addition, the sisters’ two long speeches (5.9.2-8, 5.10.1-9), which structurally correspond to Psyche’s consolatory speech to her parents at 4.34.3-6, give the reader the only opportunity to study in detail their antagonistic relation with their younger sister, to understand their greedy and lascivious nature, and to perceive them as two noise in their mutual conversations”, 5.9.1); lacrimisque pressura palpebrarum coactis (“with tears, forced out by squeezing their eyelids”, 5.17.1). See GCA (2004) on all of these passages. 15 See van Mal-Maeder and Zimmerman (1998) 97. 16 “those faithless little whores” (perfidae lupulae, 5.11.4); “those nasty, ravenous monsters” (pessimae lamiae, 5.11.5); “but those infectious diseases, those disgusting furies breathing their snake-like poison and hurrying with sacrilegious speed” (sed iam pestes illae taeterrimae Furiae anhelantes uipereum uirus et festinantes impia celeritate, 5.12.3); relate this passage to 5.21.3: at Psyche relicta sola, nisi quod infestis Furiis agitata sola non est (“as for Psyche, left behind alone, except for the fact that she, driven on by fiendish Furies as she is, is not alone”); “those wicked women” (illas scelestas feminas, 5.12.6); “like the Sirens, leaning out over the cliff they will with their deadly voices make the rocks resound” (in morem Sirenum scopulo prominentes funestis uocibus saxa personabunt, 5.12.6). For a detailed treatment of this imagery see S. Panayotakis (1998) and GCA (2004) ad loc.

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separate individuals that share similar experiences and views (in other respects, they are always presented as a pair; see above). The speeches of the sisters are interesting also from a narratological perspective, because they contain the sisters’ version of their family life and (un)happiness, and through hyperbole they create a comic tone in the tale: their ‘happy’ marriages are presented as imprisonment for one of them and as service in medical care for the other.17 But, although the sisters complain that Fortune has been unfair to them (5.9.2), in reality “they are her instruments”.18 Without their presence in the story and their malicious intervention in Psyche’s life at Cupid’s palace, Psyche might have never been induced to try to see Cupid. The sisters prove to be cleverer than Psyche, when it comes to evaluating the evidence on the identity of the mysterious husband (they guess his divine nature at 5.9.6 and 5.14.5), and (un)surprisingly they persuade Psyche that her husband is a monstrous snake, cunningly reminding her of her “tragic wedding” and the oracle. They themselves will fall victims to “sisterly deceit” (fallacie germanitatis, 5.27.5), because they hurry to the cliff over Cupid’s palace and, without waiting for Zephyrus, jump to their death. Ironically, the first sister dies in an exemplary fashion that alludes to the death of a “faithful wife” (5.27.2): et quamuis alio flante uento, caeca spe tamen inhians, ‘Accipe me,’ dicens ‘Cupido, dignam te coniugem, et tu, Zephyre, suscipe dominam,’ saltu se maximo praecipitem dedit. “And although another wind was blowing, panting with blind hope she said, ‘receive me, Cupid, as a bride worthy of you, and you, Zephyr, support your mistress’, and with an enormous leap she jumped down headlong.”

Her words “receive me”, followed by a name in the vocative case, echo Evadne’s farewell in Ovid, AA 3.21, before she leaps on to the pyre of her dead husband Capaneus [see Finkelpearl (1998) 73]. The death of the sisters, engineered by Psyche, signals the heroine’s removal from her family and from the world of human beings: in her search for Cupid she will meet animals, dead people, and finally gods.

17 18

See GCA (2004) 166-7, 178. Kenney (1990) 151.

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4: Psyche Beautiful, tragic, articulate, naïve, gullible, seductive, vengeful, prone to tears and suicide, dangerously curious, and (eventually) a goddess, the initially unnamed heroine of the tale which is told by a drunken old hag to the captive Charite (and then retold by Lucius, who overhears it) displays a personality that is more complex and unpredictable even than the personality of the novel’s protagonist, Lucius himself, and is meant to be understood at various levels. The primary narrator uses the tale to comfort her immediate audience, the kidnapped bride Charite, who is somehow to identify herself with the princess, her ordeals, and the happy ending of her story.19 Lucius, the ‘Man of Light’, is supposed (but fails) to realise that he and Psyche, ‘Soul’, have a lot in common in terms of behavioural patterns and destiny.20 The readers of the tale are invited to recognise a host of mythical, literary, philosophical, and iconographical allusions, which enrich Psyche’s intertextual portrayal and often account for her otherwise bizarre behaviour. To complicate matters further, the proper understanding of Psyche’s character becomes even more of a challenge to the reader, because the information Charite, Lucius, and we ourselves receive about Psyche is communicated progressively and through different perspectives. The numerous focal points through which diverse (and often inconsistent) comments on Psyche are made at various points in the story by the old hag, who is a sympathetic narrator, Venus, Cupid and his helpers (the ant, the speaking tower, and the eagle), Psyche’s sisters, Pan, Ceres, and ultimately Psyche herself make the longest inserted tale of the Met. a mosaic story not about the ‘real’ Psyche but about ‘Psyche, as they saw her’. However, through the maze of this densely focalised narrative Apuleius also playfully admonishes Lucius and the readers of the Met. to see themselves in Psyche, and implicitly warns them to be careful: what happened to Psyche in her father’s kingdom, in Cupid’s palace, and in the Underworld, or to Lucius in his realistically portrayed world of fiction, may happen to them in a different guise. We too are meant to learn from Psyche’s experiences and to interpret the tale as a message that transcends the boundaries of entertainment and solace: the preliminary promise of the 19 Beside the parallels in the situation of Charite and of Psyche [on which see James (1987)196-9], it is telling that at a lexical level both of these women are called misella, “poor” (for Charite see 7.4.1, 8.1.3; for Psyche see below) and dulcissima, “sweetest” (see 5.5.2 and 7.12.2). 20 See Kenney (1990) 12-17 and GCA (2004) 519.

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old hag to Charite (“but I will immediately distract you with pretty stories and old wives’ tales”, sed ego te narrationibus lepidis anilibusque fabulis protinus auocabo, 4.27.8) is misleading, because it conceals the truth that there is more to Psyche than meets the eye. In what follows I will discuss Psyche’s portrayal in three sections. The first deals with the experience of Psyche before she is taken to the palace of her mysterious husband (4.28-35), the second treats the adventures of Psyche in Books 5 and 6.1-21, and the third discusses briefly her apotheosis in Book 6.22-24.

4a: Psyche uirgo uidua We do not learn Psyche’s name immediately: she is explicitly named by the narrator for the first time at 4.30.5, when ‘Love’ sets eyes on her, and it is only then that we should suspect that there is a reason for her name, ‘Soul’.21 The delay in naming her is typical of the inserted tales of the novel, in which characters often remain anonymous, and also reflects the focus of the tale on its two protagonists and its (other) divine characters.22 While the general population regards Psyche as the substitute of Venus on earth, the old hag refers to her as filia (“daughter”, 4.28.1), puella (“girl”, 4.28.2, 4.29.4, 4.29.5), and uirgo [“virgin”, 4.29.4; cf. also the narrator’s oxymoronic description of Psyche as “husbandless young girl” (uirgo uidua, 4.32.4)], thus stressing Psyche’s family relationship and her unmarried social status. References to Psyche’s mortal condition occur twice and in a climactic manner also in Venus’ speech (puella mortali, 4.30.1) and puella moritura, 4.30.2), but in the mouth of the goddess the adjective “mortal” and the participle “destined to die”, referring to the princess, become menacing threats against her. Even Psyche’s sisters will exploit the obvious fact that Psyche is human (no reason for them to suspect anything about her eventual apotheosis), and they promise her a better future if she kills her mysterious husband: “we will in the marriage of your wishes join

21

Likewise, Petronius plays with the meaning of the same name in his novel when he introduces (for entirely different reasons to Apuleius) a disreputable ancilla by the name of Psyche in the orgiastic episode of the priestess Quartilla (Sat. 20.2, 21.1, 25.1, 26.1). 22 This becomes evident from 4.32.1 onwards, when the narrator starts focussing the narrative on Psyche’s experiences by using introductory statements such as interea Psyche, “meanwhile, Psyche”, at the beginning of syntactical clauses which coincide with the beginning of narrative units. See also 5.1.1.

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you, a human being, to another human being” (uotiuis nuptiis hominem te iungemus homini, 5.20.6). Together with her human condition comes another feature of Psyche’s character mentioned early on in the tale, her remarkable beauty: for instance, the narrator comments that “the youngest girl’s beauty was so outstanding, so radiant” (puellae iunioris tam praecipua tam praeclara pulchritudo, 4.28.2), and speaks of “her inaccessible beauty” (inaccessae formonsitatis, 4.28.3). Pan calls her “pretty child” (puella scitula, 5.25.5) and the ant that comes to her aid ‘pretty girl’ (puella lepida, 6.10.6); even Jupiter himself may allude to her splendid looks, when he talks about outstandingly beautiful mortal girls [see 6.22.5 and GCA (2004) 535-6]. The beauty of the heroine is a topos in the ancient Greek novel, but Psyche’s beauty is also an important feature in her character-portrayal, because it sets the plot in motion through the motif of the wrath of Venus, who talks about Psyche’s “illicit beauty” (inlicitae formonsitatis, 4.30.3), thus suggesting that only she, Venus, has by custom and law the right to be beautiful; even after Psyche surrenders to Venus, the goddess still resents the mortal girl’s natural beauty and refers to her as “such a hideous slave” (tam deformis ancilla, 6.10.2). The motif of Psyche’s attractiveness also allows the narrator to play with the notion that beauty, royalty, and wealth do not bring happiness: at 4.32.5 she calls Psyche “most unfortunate” (infortunatissimae), while her favourite adjective for Psyche throughout the tale is the affectionate diminutive misella, “poor” (4.34.1, 5.5.4, 5.18.4, 6.9.3), a term applied to Psyche also by Cupid (6.21.4), the speaking tower (6.17.3), and Psyche herself (5.26.3), who cunningly uses it as a stock feature of her personality in her attempt to cause her sister’s death. Psyche is painfully aware of her troublesome beauty (the narrator says that Psyche “hates her own beauty”, odit in se suam formonsitatem, 4.32.4). To heighten the effect of Psyche’s sufferings, the old hag who narrates the tale is presented as erudite and familiar with Ennius’ tragedies and Vergil’s epic, for she employs vocabulary that had been used to describe Medea’s and Dido’s pitiful mental state (aegra corporis, animi saucia, “ill in body and wounded in spirit”, 4.32.4);23 we are meant to recognise the references as well as their implications for Psyche’s fate: neither Medea’s nor Dido’s love life was unproblematic. Tragic intertextuality contributes to the atmosphere of fear and gloom in which Psyche was living, and which Charite too must have felt intensely in the cave of the robbers. 23

See Ennius Trag. 216 (Jocelyn) and Vergil Aen. 4.1, with GCA (2004) 81-2. Psyche continues to be aegra (“ill”) even after the revelation of the identity of her husband: the narrator calls her Psychen aegerrimam (“miserable Psyche”) at 6.13.1.

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Psyche’s irritating tendency to despair and cry too easily,24 and the narrator’s comparison of her to a “statue that is skilfully polished” (simulacrum fabre politum, 4.32.2),25 reinforced by the passive-voice clauses “she is looked at by all, praised by all” (spectatur ab omnibus, laudatur ab omnibus, 4.32.1), support the view that, at least at the beginning of the story, Psyche is presented as a typical Roman uirgo (“virgin”) who is acted upon rather than acting. In stark contrast to later points in the story, where Psyche suffers for disobeying her husband’s instructions, there is nothing here to suggest that she is to blame for what is happening around her (what is wrong, after all, with being beautiful?). Therefore, the innocence and the blamelessness of Psyche, who, obeying the instructions of Apollo’s oracle (4.33.1-2), is silently led as a sacrificial victim to the rock, are aptly emphasised through the parallelisms with well-known myths and through her representation, as it has frequently been noted, as another Andromeda, Ariadne, Hesione, or Iphigeneia.26 But the picture of the timid, tearful, and passive girl is then cleverly turned on its head, when Psyche addresses her parents in a decisive, selfconscious, and dynamic fashion (4.34.3-6). The highly rhetorical nature of her words, some of which have been cited in section 2, and the allusions in her speech to the presentation of tragic heroines in Euripidean tragedy and Ovidian epic and to funeral orations in Roman historiography have been discussed in detail:27 Psyche, like a capable student at a school of rhetoric, re-invents herself intertextually as a courageous Iphigeneia, Polyxena, or Macaria, and expresses for the first time her ‘eagerness to see’ (festino generosum illum maritum meum uidere, “I hasten to see that noble husband of mine”, 4.34.6); only the omniscient narrator and the secondtime reader can fully appreciate the mystical significance of her desire to see.28 Apuleius thus paves the way for the grander comparison of his heroine, in Book 5, with characters from epic (including Dido in Aen. 4.327 ff., whose words are to be read next to Psyche’s own words “in this little thing at least let me come to know your appearance”, sic in hoc saltem paruulo cognoscam faciem tuam, 5.13.3), but also for the development of Platonist 24

See 4.32.4, 4.33.4, and 4.34.1. Cf. also 5.5.4, 5.6.1, 5.13.1, 5.25.1, and 6.3.1; but at 6.14.6, owing to fear and exhaustion, she is unable to cry any more. 25 See GCA (2004) 51, 80. 26 See Dowden (1998) 19-22, and GCA (2004) 82-3, 86, 105, with earlier bibliography. 27 Kenney (1990) 134; Smith (1998) 73-5, and GCA (2004) 98-9, 107 (citing further bibliography). 28 See C. Panayotakis (2001).

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themes that are essential for the proper understanding of Psyche’s character and the purpose of the whole tale. Scholars have drawn attention to the implausibility and inconsistency of Psyche’s character-portrayal here:29 how can a shy and frightened girl, who had so far been silent, deliver such an articulate speech? The narrator has not prepared us for this. Even after the speech she continues to be “anxious and trembling” (pauentem ac trepidantem, 4.35.4). Although it is arguable that Apuleius does this because he wishes to surprise rather than confuse us, or that the old hag plays with Charite’s (and our) expectations, it cannot be denied that Psyche’s first speech does not fully square with her previous tearful behaviour. Nonetheless, it is revealing, because it demonstrates Psyche’s ability to be eloquent and persuasive when she is most desperate. This impression is reinforced at a later point in the story, when Psyche, “trembling and pallid—the blood had drained from her face—muttered with half-open mouth stammering words”30 to her evil sisters: and yet her speech is long and highly articulate [5.19.1-4; see GCA (2000) ad loc.]. There is then a tension in the narrative between the weak exterior Psyche projects (or the narrator projects on her behalf) and the powerful and confident person she turns out to be, when she actually speaks in direct speech. Psyche will use this power, together with seductive kisses and compelling embraces, to manipulate her husband (5.6.4-5, 5.6.9, 5.6.10, 5.13.6)31 and cause her sisters’ deaths [5.26.3-7; see the relevant note in GCA (2004) 313].

4b: Psyche errans The tragically presented experience of Psyche in the earthly and gloomy kingdom of her father is followed by calmness (“with her mind at ease” (placido … animo, 5.1.1) and what (at least initially) seems to be a period of bliss inside the radiant and divine palace of her mysterious husband: the connection between Psyche’s new residence and a divinity is made early 29

See above (note 27). tremensque et exsangui colore lurida, tertiata uerba semihianti uoce substrepens (5.18.5). 31 The point is well made by van Mal-Maeder and Zimmerman (1998) 102. GCA [(2004) 150] compares Psyche’s behaviour here with the behaviour of the Homeric Hera and the Vergilian Venus, but, in seducing Cupid, Psyche also comes close to the Apuleian Venus, who had kissed her son Cupid passionately (4.31.4) after she had begged him to punish Psyche. At the beginning of the story Psyche was worshipped by the people as a Venus on earth (4.28.3); now she proves she can act like Venus. 30

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on in Psyche’s mind (5.1.5, 5.3.1), but the narrator keeps quiet about the identity of the owner of the palace. Psyche has not forgotten the words of the oracle, and she is still presented as greatly fearful of the bridegroom who will make love to her (5.4.2). Psyche’s fear is rational and human. The narrator’s description of Psyche here shows her not as an artificially created literary entity but as a real human being. Three are the main characteristics of Psyche’s personality during this stage in the narrative: her yearning to see, her simplicitas (“naivety”), and her curiositas (“curiosity”), a feature that (as many commentators have noted) she shares with the protagonist of the novel, Lucius. These characteristics are inter-related and presented as character-flaws with a philosophical dimension, not only as literary borrowings from myth, epic, and tragedy. The multitude of nouns and verbal forms of seeing in the account of Psyche’s arrival at the enchanted valley32 indicates that her attraction to Cupid’s shining palace and to all bright items connected with him should be regarded as not merely the amazement of a simple young girl, who is speechless at the sight of a beautiful building situated in a most charming landscape, but as a soul’s ardent desire for the divine light. But is Psyche ready for a union with true Love and the divine? The narrator tells us that she is impressed, even dazzled, by the radiance of the palace and the items in it, but her ability to understand or question the origin and significance of it all stops at the stage of mere observation, admiration, and astonishment: quid obstupescis? (“why… are you so astounded?”) the disembodied voice asks Psyche (5.2.3). Bewilderment before unknown surroundings and difficult situations is a typical characteristic of Psyche: see her reaction at the first and the third tasks Venus sets her (6.10.4 and 6.14.6). In his treatise De Platone (2.11 and 2.15 = 193 and 200 Moreschini), Apuleius speaks of the function of mortal eyes and the eyes of the mind, and of the dual nature of the world; the material world is perceived by the mortal eyes and can be even felt by means of the hands; however, the other aspect of nature, the permanent and everlasting one, can only be understood after careful thinking by means of the sharp vision of the mind. Psyche perceives everything that happens around her with haste and 32 uidet lucum ... uidet fontem (“she sees a grove … she sees a spring”, 5.1.2); uidere te diuersorium (“that you are looking at the residence”, 5.1.3); prolectante studio pulcherrimae uisionis rimatur singula (“seduced by her eagerness for the beautiful spectacle she examines all the details”, 5.2.1); conspicit (“she discovers”, 5.2.1); haec ei summa cum uoluptate uisenti (“as she looked at all this with the greatest pleasure”, 5.2.3); see C. Panayotakis (2001), to which this section is indebted, and GCA (2004) 114 and 124.

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through her mortal eyes rather than with careful consideration and through her mind and the eyes of her soul; for this reason she errs. When Cupid calls her “Psyche, my sweetest, my dear wife” (Psyche dulcissima et cara uxor, 5.5.2), we have no inkling of the events to come which will turn Psyche almost into a serial killer, and so we accept Psyche’s portrayal as “sweetest” at face value. The narrator, who is favourably disposed towards Psyche, and knows that she will cause her sisters’ death at a later stage, adds no ironical comment of her own here to undermine Cupid’s perception of his new bride; at a later stage she will even call Psyche “an innocent soul” (innocentis animae, 6.15.1), although by then she and Charite and we know how the heroine treated her husband and what she did to her sisters.33 In Cupid’s eyes Psyche may be dulcissima and cara uxor, but if she is told to do something she would not like to do, she reacts with tears and melodramatic threats to kill herself.34 She enjoys the passion, the embrace, and the physical dimension of the relationship with her mysterious husband (5.4.5, 5.6.7, 5.13.6), and there is no indication in the text that she is willing to take the partnership to a higher level, or that she will be capable of recognising the true nature of love.35 Psyche’s sisters and even Venus suggest as much (see 5.18.3 and 5.29.3), and Cupid himself is aware of Psyche’s shortcomings. It is Cupid, who (in indirect speech reported by the narrator) first identifies sacrilega curiositas (“sacrilegious curiosity”, 5.6.6),36 as well as (in direct speech) simplicitas “naïveté” (OLD s.v. 4a) and teneritudo “tenderness of disposition” (OLD s.v.) as weaknesses in Psyche’s 33

See van Mal-Maeder and Zimmerman (1998) 87 with n. 13, and GCA (2004) 477. 34 Both of these reactions are typical of Psyche’s behaviour almost throughout the whole tale; for her inclination to shed tears see above, n. 24. For her suicidal threats and actual attempts to kill herself see 5.6.4, 5.6.7, 5.22.3, 5.25.1, 6.12.1, 6.14.1, 6.17.2; and GCA (2004) 275, 454. 35 uultus, quos, ut tibi saepe praedixi, non uidebis si uideris (“[my] features which, as I have often foretold to you, you will not see, if once you do see them”, 5.11.4). See James (1987) 129, 150. 36 neue se sacrilega curiositate de tanto fortunarum suggestu pessum deiciat nec suum postea contingat amplexum (“or lest by her sacrilegious curiosity she hurl herself down from such a height of fortune, and never feel his embrace again”, 5.6.6). On the theme of curiositas with reference to Psyche, Lucius, and other characters in this novel, see Hijmans, ‘CURIOSITAS’, in GCA (1995) 362-79, with references to earlier bibliography on this celebrated topic, DeFilippo’s reply to Hijmans’ views in Harrison (ed.) (1999) 288-9, and GCA (2004) 148 and 284, with an overview of earlier bibliography on the subject.

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character.37 The narrator herself will call Psyche curiosa when she disobeys Cupid’s instructions and looks at him for the first time (5.23.1; see below). Psyche is fully responsible for her uncontrolled curiositas, because, in addition to the warnings she receives about it from Cupid (5.6.6) and the speaking tower (6.19.7), she admits to her sisters that the potential consequences of her curiosity about her unknown husband’s face are catastrophic (5.19.3). Even after she loses Cupid, Psyche does not learn from her mistakes, and her rash actions may be said to be motivated by earthly concerns: she calls herself inepta (“stupid”, 6.20.6) for not using some of the beauty from the box she had been asked to deliver unopened to Venus as part of her fourth task. Psyche is truly inepta but not for the reasons she says she is. The concept of simplicitas (“naivety”, or perhaps “excessive naivety”) is also applied to Psyche three times by the sympathetic narrator,38 once by Cupid in his rebuking farewell speech to his wife (“my too trusting Psyche”, simplicissima Psyche, 5.24.3), and once by the eagle who helps her to complete the third task (“you then, naïve as you generally are and unconnected with such matters”, at tu, simplex alioquin et expers rerum talium, 6.15.3). The origin of the notion of simplicitas regarding an easily impressionable girl may well be an Ovidian invention,39 but Apuleius has clearly turned erotic innocence into vulnerability of the soul. All of this suggests that Cupid knows that his wife is not yet ready to be spiritually united with him. He is right, for Psyche is easily confused by the presence of her sisters (“out of her senses with fright”, amens et trepida, 5.7.2), and fails to understand what pregnancy is and how it can apply to her: “due to this first experience with an unknown burden she marvels at such a big little increase of her rich womb from such a short pinprick” (sarcinae nesciae rudimento miratur de breui punctulo tantum 37 neque omnino sermonem conferas, et si id tolerare pro genuina simplicitate proque animi tui teneritudine non potueris, certe de marito nil quicquam uel audias uel respondeas (“either don’t converse with them at all or, if you can’t tolerate that owing to your inborn guilessness and owing to the tenderness of your own heart, certainly don’t listen to or say anything at all about your husband”, 5.11.5). 38 simplicitate nimia (“owing to her excessive naïveté”, 5.15.4); tunc Psyche misella, utpote simplex et animi tenella (“then poor little Psyche, innocent and tender-minded as she was”, 5.18.4); and destrictis gladiis fraudium simplicis puellae pauentes cogitationes inuadunt (“with their swords of guile unsheathed they invade the gullible girl’s fearful thoughts”, 5.19.5). 39 On simplicitas in the tale of Psyche see the excellent notes in GCA (2004) 184, 221, 244, 480: “simplex has, besides the meaning ‘defenseless against deceit’, also the less positive connotation ‘naïve, gullible’” (244).

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incrementulum locupletis uteri, 5.12.2). Furthermore, she readily and without thinking accepts the conflicting pieces of advice her husband and her sisters give her, and, although she has felt Cupid’s locks and cheeks (5.13.3), she believes her sisters’ lie that her husband is a snake.40 The old hag who narrates the tale, and favours Psyche as a character, provides an explanation for this behaviour, when she says that Psyche has been “driven beyond the limits of her own mind” (extra terminum mentis suae posita, 5.18.4). Psyche is no longer of a sound mind and cannot decide what to do (5.21.4). Festinat differt, audet trepidat, diffidit irascitur; et, quod est ultimum, in eodem corpore odit bestiam diligit maritum. “She is impatient, she procrastinates, she is courageous, she panics, she has no confidence, she becomes angry, and, what is the worst, in one and the same body she hates the beast, she loves the husband.”

Psyche’s inner conflict is expressed in literary terms.41 She is made to resemble Medea in Euripides and Seneca, Byblis or Myrrha in Ovid. But the literary allusions are not mere embellishment for the educated readers of Apuleius’ novel; they foreshadow the boldness of Psyche’s intentions and her ‘transformation’ into a more decisive person: “then Psyche, usually weak of body as well of mind, … in her boldness changes sex” (tunc Psyche, et corporis et animi alioquin infirma, … sexum audacia mutauit, 5.22.1). However, from the moment of the divine revelation, when Psyche sees Cupid sleeping, the narrative is flavoured mainly by language and images associated with love elegy and with Plato’s works, especially the Phaedrus (for example, 248c, 252a) and the Symposium.42 Consequently, from this point onwards Psyche as a character is depicted even more clearly as a ‘Soul’, whose bad habit of being curious is combined with a need to find (and a yearning to see) true ‘Love’: “while Psyche with insatiable spirit, and, being very curious, scrutinises and handles [her husband’s weapons]” (quae dum insatiabili animo Psyche, satis et curiosa, rimatur atque pertrectat et mariti sui miratur arma, 5.23.1). This is the first time that Psyche is called curiosa by the anus-narratrix herself. Before, the concept of curiosity in relation to Psyche was 40

GCA (2004) 236-7 has an illuminating note on this paradox. See Walsh (1970) 206, Kenney (1990) 166-7, and GCA (2004) 265, 266-7. 42 See Kenney (1990) 168-70, 172, Harrison (2000) 252-9, and GCA (2004) 276, 294 (citing earlier bibliography), and 399. 41

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mentioned only in other characters’ direct discourse; her husband warned her of the consequences of curiositas (5.6.3, 5.19.3) and her sisters reproached her of being incuriosa (5.17.2). From here on, curiositas appears to be a characteristic of Psyche (cf. 6.20.5: mentem capitur temeraria curiositate); in 6.21.4 Cupid awakes her with rursum perieras, misella, simili curiositate.43

But how can we reconcile the image of a weak Psyche with the coldblooded manner in which she engineers her sisters’ killing?44 After Psyche has lost Cupid, there is nothing in the narrative to suggest that she will take her revenge on her sisters by leading them to their death. This is a new dimension in Psyche’s personality, which may best be explained in terms of narrative justice: the readers, Charite, and the old hag are glad to see the evil sisters go (5.27.3); the parallel with Charite does not end here, of course, for, after the tale ends and Charite is freed from the robbers’ cave, she, too, will punish the person who causes her to be (eternally) separated from her husband. Furthermore, the sisters’ death may be seen as justified because of the heroine’s need to gradually sever her ties with the earthly world. Nonetheless, the way in which the sisters die proves that Psyche (like her sisters) can be cunning when she wants to. The sisters are better liars than she is (at least to begin with), but her repeated attempts to deceive them (and her eventual success in achieving their demise) shows that Psyche too is not an angel. During the search for Cupid, Psyche, by now a future mother and a desperate wanderer hounded by a jealous goddess and driven by necessity, behaves somewhat more decisively and resourcefully than before (at 6.5.3 she says to herself “why do you not, therefore, at last take on the courage of a man?” quin igitur masculum tandem sumis animum?; cf. also 6.5.4 and 6.13.3),45 and is portrayed in literary terms and by means of elaborate allusions to grand and high genres:46 now that she needs to act (as opposed 43

GCA (2004) 284. On this topic see Cameron (2010) with earlier bibliography. 45 Shortly before she issues her third task to Psyche, Venus tells her menacingly: sed iam nunc ego sedulo periclitabor an oppido forti animo singularique prudentia sis praedita, “but now I will carefully try and find out whether you are really endowed with a strong mind and an exceptional intelligence” (6.13.3). GCA (2004) 463 comment: “for the coming task, Psyche will need exceptional courage and prudence, much like a Stoic hero … The required qualities are not exactly typical of Psyche, who has been acting, on the whole, in a rather pusillanimous and silly way.” 46 See Walsh (1970) 52 ff., Harrison (1998) 51-68, and GCA (2004) 363-4, 396, 450. 44

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to be acted upon), she takes initiatives, and it is through her sophisticated characterisation as a tragic Io or Andromache, or as an heroic Hercules or Jason, or as an epic Aeneas, that the narrator makes sure that we sympathise with her ordeals. Psyche elicits precisely this kind of reaction from the gods she meets: for example, Ceres calls her “pitiable” (miseranda, 6.2.1), and Psyche herself plays with this notion and her significant name: “come to the aid of the pitiable soul of Psyche, your suppliant” (miserandae Psyches animae, supplicis tuae, subsiste, 6.2.5). Psyche’s fourth and final task, her journey to the underworld, presents an original combination of elements from myth, literature, and creative imagination. … For Psyche’s katabasis Apuleius borrows heavily from (Vergilian) epic and comedy, introduces unknown characters along traditional ones, and links Psyche to epic figures such as Hercules, Aeneas and Pandora. … Among Apuleius’ innovations is that Psyche is the first female (mortal) literary character who travels to the Underworld (against her will) to fetch a beauty cream, her predecessors being famous men such as Odysseus, Hercules, Theseus, Orpheus, and Aeneas, who willingly and for a noble cause undertook the same task.47

But Psyche combines different aspects of the behaviour of these heroes: although she resembles Hercules, Odysseus, and Aeneas in that she returns alive from the Underworld, she differs from all of them, because, like Orpheus (and Pandora), she cannot resist looking at what she should not have looked at. It is, therefore, difficult to argue that Psyche is wiser or less curious by the end of the tale.

4c: Psyche diua And yet the ending of Psyche’s story is happy. The old hag could not have finished the tale sadly; otherwise she would not have pleased and comforted Charite. Like a puella of New Comedy, Psyche in the end gets to marry the man she loves, despite serious problems and external obstacles presenting themselves throughout their relationship.48 But the narrator, who, once again, proves to be thoroughly familiar with the epic and satirical literary traditions of the Republic and the early Empire, has in store yet another surprise with regard to Psyche: following a Council of the Olympians, Cupid’s pregnant wife becomes a goddess. Cupid had told Psyche that, if she obeyed him and kept her sisters away from their family 47 48

GCA (2004) 488; see also GCA (2004) 520, and Kenney (1990) 212. See GCA (2004) 542 and May (2006) 208-46.

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life, she would give birth to a divine child (5.11.6); but he had said nothing whatsoever about Psyche herself being deified. The formality of the procedure and its happy outcome regarding Psyche’s apotheosis recall similar divine assemblies in Ennius, Lucilius, Horace, Ovid, Seneca the Younger, and Lucian, and put Psyche on a par with Romulus, Aeneas, Julius Caesar, and Augustus himself.49 But, in contrast to all of them, Psyche is a woman and she is still alive when she is deified. What has she done to deserve this?

5: Conclusion The tale the old hag narrates to Charite is a tale about the heroine Psyche, the ‘Soul’, not about her parents, her sisters, her mysterious husband, or Venus. They are characters that exist in the tale to illustrate different aspects of Psyche’s soul and to enable Apuleius to transform scenes drawn from literature, myth, and iconography into a philosophical allegory, the significance of which should not be confined to the misfortunes of Charite or the ordeals of Lucius. The theme of Platonic philosophy runs throughout the tale: Psyche’s name and the numerous puns involving it,50 Venus’ spiteful figure, the plot of the sisters, Cupid’s mysterious warning to Psyche that she will not see him even if she looks at him (5.11.4), Psyche’s fall from grace like a soul sinking through the weight of its sin (5.24.1),51 her wanderings and anxious efforts to be reunited with the god of Love, all this and much more indicate that earthly pleasures and slavish desires may distract a human soul and lead it away from the right path. It is possible to view Psyche as a comically flawed human representation of the Platonic Soul desiring to be united with real Love. But it is also possible to see a serious and optimistic message at the end of the story: souls who acknowledge their need and desperately strive for a union with the divine and with true Love will eventually be saved, even if they do not earn or deserve this privilege.

49

See Kenney (1990) 220, GCA (2004) 537, and Harrison (2006). See 5.6.7, 5.6.9, 5.7.6, 5.13.4, and 5.22.4. 51 Cf. Plato’s Phaedrus 248c: “When [the soul] is unable to follow [God] and fails to see, and through some misfortune grows heavy, being filled with forgetfulness and wickedness, it loses its wings and falls to earth” (Kenney’s translation). 50

CHAPTER NINE AND THERE WERE WORDS: THE CHARACTERISATION OF THE GODS IN THE METAMORPHOSES DANIELLE VAN MAL-MAEDER1

1. Introduction The Metamorphoses is populated by a host of colourful characters. Among them are the gods, key figures in two major episodes of the novel: the tale of Cupid and Psyche and that of Lucius’ conversion to the cult of Isis and Osiris in Book 11. These two episodes are unusual in the sense that the gods do not appear as mere extras, but actually intervene in the plot. Well, the least one might say is that these gods have personality: they add new shades to the rich palette of fictional characters. In this chapter, I intend to analyse the way in which these divine figures are characterised, proceeding from the following observation: the portrayal of a character is a matter of discourse; it can be either direct or indirect. It is direct when a character (A) is represented talking; his or her nature is revealed through speech, choice of words, tone of voice and gesture. This is what happens for example on stage, when a character unveils his or her personality in dialogue or monologue. In ancient rhetoric, this mode of enunciation was found in the exercises of ethopoeia, suasoria, and controuersia, where the apprentice orator practiced playing a variety of roles and characters.2 The portrayal of a character (A) is indirect when talked about by another speaker (B); it is subject to B’s good or bad disposition toward (A), B’s

 1

I want to thank Stephen Harrison, Wytse Keulen and Peter van Mal for their careful reading of this paper and for their valuable comments. 2 On ethopoeia in antiquity, see the volume edited by Amato and Schamp (2005) and the article by De Temmerman (2010); on the notion of ethos, see also Guérin (2009).

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terminology and temperament. It is conceivable that (as in real life) a character (A) presents a completely different personality in the words of one speaker (B) from that found in those of another (C). In other words, in order to analyse the characterisation of gods in the Metamorphoses, it is crucial to pay attention to who is speaking, as well as to the fact that the story unfolds in an alternation of narrative and dialogue.

2: The gods in the tale of Cupid and Psyche: a biased and subjective characterisation The tale of Cupid and Psyche is told by the maidservant of a gang of bandits in order to comfort their captive, Charite. This embedded narrative features human beings (Psyche, her parents and sisters), things or animals endowed with speech (a seagull, an ant, a reed, a tower), as well as several gods from the Graeco-Roman pantheon. The anus-narratrix is defined as an old drunkard by the bandits who employ her, in a line that assimilates her to a character from comedy: 3 Diebus ac noctibus nil quicquam rei quam merum saeuienti uentri tuo soles auiditer ingurgitare! (4.7.3) “You don’t do a single thing, day or night, but guzzle strong drink down into that ravening belly of yours.”

At the end of the tale, Lucius describes the character whose tale he has just heard as delira et temulenta … anicula (“a raving and drunken old woman”, 6.25.1), words that evoke the universe of comedy and direct the reception of the embedded narrative at the same time.4 The link with the world of comedy appears again, for instance, in the military vocabulary the anus-narratrix uses and for which multiple parallels can be found in Plautus’ plays. 5 These characteristics leave their mark on the way the events and actors in the tale of Cupid and Psyche are presented: the personality of the anus-narratrix determines the tone of her tale and contributes to the debunking of divine figures before turning them too into



3 See GCA (1977) 64-66, and May (2006) 260-262 for references to the character of the drunken old woman in Greek and Roman comedy. The translations in this chapter are those of GCA, including Book 11, which is to be published in 2015. 4 For temulenta, cf. Ter. Andr. 229; Shipp [(1979) 142, ad loc.] observes that the adj. is attested in early Latin only; for anicula, cf. Ter. Andr. 231; Phorm. 98. 5 S. Panayotakis (1998) 157-158; see May [(2006) 215-246] for more parallels with comedy.

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characters of comedy. Thus the taste of the old maidservant for undiluted wine explains why she presents Venus as a reveller.6 This character trait of Venus is a recurring comic device used by Apuleius, the realisation (or ‘concretisation’) of metaphors. 7 The association of the goddess of love with wine is, indeed, a topos encountered particularly in metaphorical images in comic literature.8 Here, the state of Venus is, in a sense, the consequence of a commonplace: as a result of receiving libations, and indulging in nectar, she is tipsy. 9 Similarly, the fact that Venus is so concerned about her own age can be related to the age of the speaker.10 But it is also a particularity of gods in the tale of Cupid and Psyche to be, like humans, subject to the passing of time. Venus, in her first broadside, actually calls herself rerum naturae prisca parens (“the ancient parent of nature”, 4.30.1), a formula that finds its fulfilment to some extent in the story of the anus-narratrix: Venus not only appears as an ageing goddess, she is even an old hag whom Regine May compares to the figure of the senex iratus in New Comedy.11 From the first apparition of the goddess, the anus-narratrix draws attention to this trait in a very visual and theatrical manner: Et inpatiens indignationis capite quassanti fremens altius sic secum disserit. (4.29.5) “And impatient of her resentment, tossing her head, loudly muttering, she speaks to herself like this.”



6 Cf. Apul. Met. 6.10.4; 6.11.1: e conuiuio nuptiali uino madens et fraglans balsama Venus, with GCA (2004) 444; 6.16.5. 7 Compare Plaza (2006), who discusses examples of “narrative instantiation” in the Met., or, as she puts it, of “words turned into flesh”. 8 Cf. Plaut. Curc. 123-124, in which Laena, a drunken old maid, speaks to Venus: nam tibi amantes propinantes uinum potantes dant omnes; Ter. Eun. 732: sine Cerere et Libero friget Venus; Varro, Men. 154: ego autem qui essem pleno uini et Veneris, with Krenkel (2002) ad loc.; Lucianus, Amores 17. 9 Plato [PCG 188.10-20] equally seems to introduce an Aphrodite under the influence of alcohol: see Pirrotta (2009) 343, ad loc. 10 This point is developed by S. Panayotakis (1997) 32-33 and 36; cf. e.g. Apul. Met. 5.29.4; 6. 14. 4. 11 Apul. Met. 4.30.1; see May (2006) 236-237; Keulen [(2000) 57 and passim], who also stresses the links with tragedy.

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If these words remind us of the powerful character Juno in the Aeneid, they also evoke the world of comedy.12 The epic motif of divine wrath is repeated, amplified and multiplied, following the technique of comic repetition – and in doing so deteriorates: each apparition of the goddess is accompanied by screams and gesticulations, the climax being reached when she hears that her son has disobeyed her and secretly married Psyche: Haec quiritans properiter emergit e mari suumque protinus aureum thalamum petit, et reperto sicut audierat aegroto puero, iam inde a foribus quam maxime boans ... (5.29.1) “Shouting out these clamorous complaints, she swiftly emerges from the sea and makes straight for her own golden bedchamber. She finds her boy ailing, just as she had heard. And right from the entrance she bellows as loud as she could saying: …”13

Venus then gives her son a very vocal piece of her mind concerning his behaviour in an assault the anus-narratrix concludes by making wrath the emblem of this divinity: Sic effata foras sese proripit infesta et stomachata biles Venerias. (5.31.1) “With these words she dashed out furiously and boiling with truly Venereal rage”.14

The anus-narratrix does not omit to mention the physical consequences of this destructive passion, thus putting the finishing touch on the desecration of the goddess of beauty:

 12

GCA (2004) 56; cf. Plaut. Asin. 403: quassanti capite incedit (“he’s walking along, shaking his head”); Bacch. 303 (in the plural); Verg. Aen. 7.295; Caecil. Com. 266W. The expression appears several times in the Met. before a direct speech: e.g. 2.24.6; 3.26. 4; 8.19.2. 13 GCA [(2004) 333-334] and Keulen [(1997) 206-207] notice the legal and onomatopoeic aspect of the verbs quiritare et boare and their mock-epic application in this passage; see also Keulen (2000) 61-63. For the physical effects of anger, cf. Sen. Dial. 3.2, who mentions in particular the gemitus mugitusque (“groaning and roaring”); the parallel with Seneca is developed in Keulen (2000) 63-64. 14 GCA [(2004) 349-350] stresses the mixture of formal and informal elements in this sentence.

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Sed eam protinus Ceres et Iuno continantur uisamque uultu tumido quaesiere cur truci supercilio tantam uenustatem micantium oculorum coerceret. (5.31.1) “But immediately Ceres and Juno ran into her, and as they saw her with swollen countenance they asked her why she was holding back with a grim frown such loveliness of her flashing eyes.”

Equally, the caustic observations made by the anus-narratrix do not spare these two goddesses, whom Regine May compares to the indulgent elders of comedy.15 The discourse in which they try to reason with Venus by arguing that Cupid is no longer a child, concludes with another remark immediately betraying their flattery: Sic illae metu sagittarum patrocinio gratioso Cupidini quamuis absenti blandiebantur. (5.31.7) “Thus, out of fear for his arrows, they flattered Cupid with an obliging plea although he was not there.”16

With Venus we have seen how her characterisation is affected by the personality of the anus-narratrix. In Cupid’s case, his representation is carried out by several different voices, and this explains why he shows several different faces in the tale.17 The discussion between Venus, Ceres and Juno about the god of love shows indeed in a particularly striking manner that a characterisation is something rather relative; it depends on the subjective vision that one person or another may have, his or her mood, or intentions. According to Ceres and Juno, who desire to obtain the god’s good grace, Cupid has turned into a handsome young man, whom Venus has not seen grow up; to Venus, who herself declines to age, he remains an immature child.18 This discussion transposes to a domestic and prosaic key the philosophical and religious issue of the age of Eros, the

 15

May (2006) 239; GCA (2004) 350. In 4.31.1-4, Venus also tries to cajole Cupid into obedience. 17 This point has been previously developed by van Mal-Maeder & Zimmerman (1998) 99-100. 18 Apul. Met. 5.31.4 and 5.29.3. Compare Apol. Rhod. 3.83-110, in which Aphrodite complains about the behaviour of her son to Hera and Athena. The two goddesses (who want Eros to make Medea fall in love with Jason) excuse the god on account of his youth. Lucian (Ddeor 12 and 19) imagines an encounter between Venus and her son whom she reproaches for the same faults. 16

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oldest god according to a tradition transmitted (among others) by Plato.19 As Regine May has shown, these representations also turn Cupid into the typical adulescens amans character from comedy, secretly in love with a girl of a lower status.20 The first mention of the god in the narrative already depicts him as a rascal armed with arrows, flitting here and there in order to wreak havoc in households. This portrayal, much indebted to Hellenistic poetry, is that given by the anus-narratrix at the beginning of her tale; it also reflects Venus’ point of view when she resolves to call on him to punish her rival. 21 The goddess later adds to this image by addressing violent reproaches to her son, presenting him as a depraved and perverted scoundrel, in a passage notable for “the ambiguous identity of Cupid as both an emotion and a character personifying this emotion:”22 Sed male prima tu a pueritia inductus es et acutas manus habes et maiores tuos irreuerenter pulsasti totiens, et ipsam matrem tuam, me inquam ipsam, parricida denudas cotidie et percussisti saepius et quasi uiduam utique contemnis, nec uitricum tuum fortissimum illum maximumque bellatorem metuis - quidni?- cui saepius in angorem mei paelicatus puellas propinare consuesti. (5.30.1) “But you were deceived by the errant impulses of early youth and have sharp hands, and you’ve insolently battered your elders so many times, and every day you strip bare your very own mother, my very self, you criminal, and you’ve struck me too often and you scorn me all the times as if I were a widow, and you do not even fear your stepfather, the strongest and greatest of warriors. Why should you? You have made a habit of incessantly handing out girls to him as complimentary gifts, to afflict me with anguish about my rivals.”23

This negative vision deeply differs from Psyche’s own when, defying proscription, she illumines her mysterious husband: what she sees is not a monster, but a divine being, peacefully asleep at her side:

 19

This point is developed by S. Panayotakis (1998) 34. For a similar joke, see Lucian, Ddeor. 2, where Eros uses his age as an excuse for his blunders; Zeus rejects this excuse on the grounds that Cupid is the oldest god. 20 May (2006) 221-222. 21 Apul. Met. 4.30.4, with GCA (2004) 62; Mattiacci (1998) 140-141. 22 GCA (2004) 340. 23 See GCA [(2004) 341-343] for the ambiguous and humorous use of denudare and for the representation of Mars as a womaniser. In 6.22.3-4, it is Jupiter’s turn to accuse Cupid of compromising his reputation.

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videt omnium ferarum mitissimam dulcissimamque bestiam, ipsum illum Cupidinem formonsum deum formonse cubantem. (5.22.2) “She sees of all wild beasts the meekest and sweetest animal, none other than Cupid himself, the beautiful god, beautifully sleeping.”24

The superlative accumulation of positive terms (mitissimam, dulcissimam, formonsum, formonse) reflects the wholly subjective emotion of Psyche upon discovering the real identity of her husband. One might suspect appearances of being misleading, or love of being blind. But this positive vision is confirmed by the words he addresses to her, and which reveal, in a direct manner this time, a thoughtful, concerned, and responsible husband and future father, bearing little resemblance to the portrait drawn by his mother or the other gods and, as Wytse Keulen notes, rather the opposite of his traditional role.25

2a: Somewhat anthropomorphic and Roman divinities It is evident from the preceding that the anus-narratrix appears to ignore Plato’s recommendations concerning discourses on the gods completely. Her story illustrates to some extent the flaws criticised by the philosopher.26 The gods are staged as if in some sort of tragicomedy,27 a burlesque misrepresentation, in which anthropomorphic deities care about their age, hygiene, wallet and love life, and are subject to human passions – anger, pride, jealousy, or hypocrisy.28 Julia Dyson Hejduk’s observation concerning the gods in Ovid’s Metamorphoses also applies to the divinities of those of Apuleius’:29 “we must wonder whether admission to the celestial club, given the obvious defects of its membership, is really desirable”: an especially relevant remark, since Psyche, at the end of her adventures, becomes a member of this far from high-class group.

 24

This description (in which the word fera refers to Apollo’s oracle in 4.33.1) is developed in 5.22.5-7: see GCA [(2004) 276-28] on the philosophical, religious, and intertextual dimension of this passage; on its poetical dimension, see in particular Mattiacci (1998) 143-148. 25 Cf. Apul. Met. 5.5.1-3; 5.11.3-6; 5.12.4-6; 5.24.3-5; see Keulen (1998) 176. 26 Plato Rep. 2. 377-383. 27 The links with drama are highlighted by Keulen (2000), who discusses the dramatic character of Venus, and by May (2006) 208-248. 28 On the satirical tradition of representing the gods of the pantheon in an anthropomorphic manner, see Branham (1989) 123-177. 29 Hejduk (2009) 52.

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In this vaudeville show, Venus acts as a catalyst through her divine wrath, outraged by the fact that her cult is neglected, enraged against her rival, hurt by Mars’ infidelities. As the narrative unfolds, she appears in an increasingly darker light: haughty, cruel and violent, she shows the true temper of a wicked stepmother. She is not above mistreating Psyche personally, after handing her to her servants, Anxiety (Sollicitudo) and Sadness (Tristities), to be tortured, in a scene where allegorical figures truly and physically practice their pitiful functions on poor Psyche.30 This dark side of Venus’ personality is counterbalanced by her lines, the informal style and often colloquial lexical register of which result in the loss of her epic divinity status. This is the case, for example, in the passage where she addresses her son in terms that turn her into an old-fashioned Roman matron, an image corresponding to her putative age: Velim ergo scias … aliquem de meis adoptaturam uernulis eique donaturam istas pinnas et flammas et arcum et ipsas sagittas et omnem meam suppelectilem, quam tibi non ad hos usus dederam. (5.29.5) “Well, I want you to know that … I will adopt one of my domestic servants and bestow on him those wings and flames and bow and the arrows themselves and all my paraphernalia, which I did not give to you to use this way.” 31

Further on, the lines of her divine relatives contribute to turning her into the maternal figure of a human comedy, doubling as a purveyor of carnal pleasures: Mater autem tu et praeterea cordata mulier filii tui lusus semper explorabis curiose, … et tuas artes tuasque delicias in formonso filio reprehendes? Quis autem te deum, quis hominum patietur passim cupidines populis disseminantem, cum … uitiorum muliebrium publicam praecludas officinam? (5.31.5) “But you, as a mother, and, moreover, a sensible woman, will you always fussily pry into the games of your son, … and censure your own arts and your own delights in your beautiful boy? But who of the gods, who of mankind will tolerate your disseminating passions everywhere among the



30 Apul. Met. 6.9.1-3; 6.10.1. On personified emotions in the tale of Cupid and Psyche and their connection with comedy, see May (2006) 230-235. 31 GCA [(2004) 338] notices the archaic character of this sort of adoption “that a Roman reader probably considered peculiar and old-fashioned”. For examples of colloquialisms, cf. e.g. 5.30.2-4; 6.9.2, with GCA (2004) 425-426.

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people, when you (…) shut down your public workshop of woman’s wantonness?”32

And further on again, it is Mercury’s turn to depict Venus as a venal goddess, operating in the disreputable districts of Rome: Si quis a fuga retrahere uel occultam demonstrare poterit fugitiuam regis filiam, Veneris ancillam, nomine Psychen, conueniat retro metas Murtias Mercurium praedicatorem, accepturus indiciuae nomine ab ipsa Venere septem sauia suauia et unum blandientis adpulsu linguae longe mellitum. (6.8.2-3) “If anyone can arrest the flight or reveal the hiding-place of a runaway king’s daughter, the slave-girl of Venus, by name Psyche, let him approach the herald Mercury behind the Murcian turning-posts, and he will receive as a reward for his information from Venus herself seven sweet kisses, and one more, super-honeyed by the touch of her caressing tongue.”33

The humanisation of the gods goes hand in hand with a proximity to men and women, whose living space and social codes they share. Thus, Ceres refuses to help Psyche, for fear of undermining her relations with the other gods – relations defined, somewhat oxymoronically, as ancestral and Roman at the same time: Cognatae meae, cum qua etiam foedus antiquum amicitiae colo, bonae praeterea feminae, malam gratiam subire nequeo. (6.3.1) “I cannot afford to incur the disfavour of my relative, a decent woman too, with whom I, moreover, maintain a long-standing bond of friendship.” 34

In a similar way, Juno dismisses Psyche’s petitions on grounds based on Roman legislation concerning runaway slaves. 35 The use of legal



32 See GCA [(2004) 357-359] on this representation of Venus as “madam of a brothel”; cf. already 5.28.9, in which Venus says about herself: lenam me putauit (scil. Cupido) cuius monstratu puellam illam cognosceret [“that son of mine must surely have regarded me as a procuress, when I pointed out the girl to him so that he could win her acquaintanceship”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)]; see also S. Panayotakis (1997) 33-34; Keulen (2000) 67; May (2006) 237-240. 33 The metae Murciae were situated close to the Circus Maximus, a place of ill repute and hunting-ground of the meretrices: see GCA [(2004) 417] with references. 34 GCA [(2004) 380-381] explains the informal tone of this line and the reference to the Roman principle of amicitia which “humorously brings gods down to the human level”.

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terminology is a comic device, allowing a presentation of Jupiter as a Roman magistrate, passing judgement on the validity of Cupid and Psyche’s marriage, during the assembly of the gods that concludes the tale:36 like other prosaic elements of the story, this device has the effect of demystifying the divinities of the pantheon and the setting in which they operate to make them more familiar.

2b: Stereotypes The process of degrading the pantheon’s divinities is even more efficient for being based on traditional representations and commonplaces. At times this imagery is serious, as in the prayers that Psyche addresses to Ceres and Juno, which evoke the major mythological episodes linked to these goddesses and lists their offices.37 These prayers, quoted in direct speech, show them in a dignified and noble light, completely contradicting how they have revealed themselves through words and actions. More often, however, references to these commonplaces serve to provoke laughter. The divinities are like actors in a play staging their own qualities, playing their proper part (or detaching themselves from it: see note 25) in scenes from everyday life and facing material concerns. This comic device, which we also encounter in Lucian’s Icaromenippus and Dialogues of the Gods, has the effect of debunking deities by turning them into burlesque figures. The final wedding banquet offers myriads of such clichés in which the god of wine serves drinks (Liber ministrebat), the god of fire cooks (Vulcanus cenam coquebat), and the god of music performs (Apollo cantauit ad citharam), while the Muses do the backing vocals (ut Musae… chorum canerent).38 In this tale, Mercury is, obviously, the messenger who calls the gods together when Jupiter orders him to do so.39 His resounding voice makes Venus ask her father to lend him to her:

 35

Apul. Met. 6.4.2. Apul. Met. 6.23, with GCA (2004) 539-544. This comic procedure can also be observed in Lucian’s Assembly of the Gods, where the use of legal terms transposes the celestial settings to Athens. 37 Apul. Met. 6.2.3-6; 6.4.1-3. 38 Apul. Met. 6.24.2-3. For an analysis of the final act and of the mock-epic motif of the divine assembly, see GCA [(2004) 537-552], comparing it to Lucian’s works in particular. 39 Apul. Met. 6.23.1. 36

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Petitu superbo Mercuri, dei uocalis, operae necessariam usuram postulat. (6.7.1) “In a haughty appeal she demanded the indispensable use of the services of Mercury, the god of the clear voice.”

The pompous formulation stresses Venus’ arrogant attitude, while emphasising the vocal organs of the god whom she then prosaically hires as town crier (praedicator).40 In the remainder of the episode, Mercury also features in his role of cunning diplomat or “deceiver through words”,41 as attested by the terms used in his proclamation (6.8.2-3, cited above, p. 155): his speech differs notably from the ominous message that the goddess had asked him to convey, and contains other persuasive qualities, since it arouses enthusiasm in all mortals. 42 As usual, Jupiter grants his daughter’s wish, raising an eyebrow in accordance with iconic tradition.43 Jupiter’s noble and calm attitude in this passage contrasts with the much more mundane behaviour he adopts when he tenderly reprimands Cupid, like the lenient father of New Comedy.44 In this scene, the king of the gods appears as the traditional inveterate seducer, claiming a beautiful girl from his son. On several occasions the tale of Cupid and Psyche ‘updates’ set images, as if instilling them with new life. Flirtatious Venus applies ointments before going to the theatre 45 and takes care of her looks. When the chatty seagull comes to inform her about her son’s misadventures, she finds her at the bottom of the Ocean, taking a bath:

 40

The adj. uocalis is used to indicate the words of Orpheus in Hor. carm. 1.12.7, and of Arion in Ov. Fast. 2.91; in Stat. Silv. 2.7.6, it designates the lyre, which Mercury invented: see GCA (2004) 409. 41 Plat. Crat. 407e; for the eloquence of Mercury in relation to his intelligence, see also Diod. 1.16, who, like Plato, establishes a connection with the Greek word hermeneia; Anth. Plan. 321; Nonnos 5.575 makes Peitho the spouse of Mercury. 42 Apul. Met. 6.8.4: ad hunc modum pronuntiante Mercurio tanti praemii cupido certatim omnium mortalium studium adrexerat [“longing for this great reward aroused eager competition between men everywhere, when Mercury made the proclamation on these lines”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)]. For Venus’ words, cf. 6.7.3-4. 43 Apul. Met. 6.7.2: nec rennuit Iouis caerulum supercilium [“Jupiter’s lowering brow did not refuse her”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)]: the epic flavour of this sentence is noted by GCA (2004) 409. 44 Apul. Met. 6.22.5; cf. also 6. 23. 1, with GCA (2004) 539. 45 Apul. Met. 6.16.4-5.

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Chapter Nine Ibi commodum Venerem lauantem natantemque propter assistens, indicat adustum filium eius … dubium salutis iacere. (5.28.3) “She sat down next to Venus, who was just bathing and swimming there, and reported that her son, scorched by fire … was languishing in bed without certainty of recovery.”

Wytse Keulen notes that this passage refers to the visual representations of bathing Venus and the poetical motif of the “Sea of Venus”, a metaphor representing “the agonies of love, in which the lover is ‘shipwrecked’”.46 We are faced, once again, with a realisation of metaphor and a setting in motion of a still frame (like a picture coming to life), to which the use of two present tenses (lauantem natantemque) lends a somewhat prosaic aspect. 47 Similarly, Venus’ travels between earth, sea and sky are mentioned in a way to allow an adaptation in a vividly ecphrastic form which brings to life traditional ‘fixed’ images of Venus and her escort. 48 This is also the case with the description of the sleeping god of love that was discussed above: here too the Apuleian scene corresponds to a traditional representation. Silvia Mattiacci stresses its ecphrastic and rhetorical components, comparing it to epigrams from the Greek Anthology.49 This topical image takes the shape of an inverted epiphany: the sleeping god, his attributes at his side, appears to an awakened Psyche. Moreover, this passage may provide a reference to the ‘Mysteries of Eros’, a notion that frequently appears in Greek literature and takes concrete form here: “By having Psyche ‘actually’ undergo an ‘initiation’ into the ‘mysteries of Cupid’ (…), Apuleius may be alluding to such texts.” 50 The influence of epigrammatic literature can also be felt in the scene where Psyche meets Pan. The god is called hircuosus deus by the anusnarratrix, as well as deus pastor; he defines himself as rusticanus and

 46

Keulen (1998) 176-178. Similarly, the fact that Cupid suffers from a burn injury sets in motion the image of burning love: cf. Apul. Met. 5.23.3, with GCA (2004) 291. Compare also the passage in which Psyche pricks herself with one of her husband’s arrows, 5.23.3: sic ignara Psyche sponte in Amoris incidit amorem. Tunc magis magisque cupidine flagrans Cupidinis, prona in eum efflictim inhians… [“So all unknowing and without prompting Psyche fell in love with Love, being fired more and more with desire for the god of desire”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)]. 48 Cf. Apul. Met. 4.31.6-7, with GCA (2004) 74-77; 6.6.1-4, with GCA (2004) 401407. 49 Mattiacci (1998) 144. 50 For a summary of the discussion, see GCA (2004) 276. 47

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upilio.51 The advice he lends Psyche sets “his role as an adviser and helper of those who are unfortunate in love (as he himself has often been)” in motion.52 In this scene, the god is represented in a bucolic tableau vivant, embracing the nymph Echo, while also teaching her to sing: 53 Tunc forte Pan deus rusticus iuxta supercilium amnis sedebat complexus Echo montanam deam eamque uoculas omnimodas edocens reccinere. Proxime ripam uago pastu lasciuiunt comam fluuii tondentes capellae. (5.25.3) “Just then Pan, the god of the countryside, was sitting beside the edge of the river, with Echo, the mountain-dwelling goddess in his arms, and teaching her to reply in song to various pretty sounds; close to the riverbank little goats darted about, in random feeding cropping the river’s hair.”

Embedded in the action of Cupid and Psyche’s tale, these traditional representations contribute in turn to the humanisation of the gods and the familiarisation of their image.

3: Isis and Osiris: a subjective and grandiloquent characterisation Unlike the tale of Cupid and Psyche, the gods in Book 11 are not shown in action: they are not active characters of a storyline about their comings and goings. They intervene in the principal storyline only through dreams and epiphanies, in answer to Lucius’ prayers, and to turn him into a devotee. Book 11 actually relates the encounter of Lucius-ass with Isis on the beach of Cenchreae, his retro-metamorphosis and his conversion to the cult of Isis and Osiris. Like the rest of the novel, the account is told from the limited point of view of Lucius-actor, following the order of events and without anticipation. The narration remains nonetheless that of Luciusauctor, priest of Isis and Osiris, who has become an accomplished orator towards the end of his adventures:54 the picture he draws of the divinities to whom he owes his salvation is therefore eminently positive and emphatic.

 51

Apul. Met. 5.25.4; 5.26.1. GCA (2004) 306; S. Panayotakis [(1997) 32] stresses his role of senex sapiens (“wise old man”). 53 Regarding Pan flirting with Echo, see e.g. Lucian, Ddeorum 22. 54 Cf. Apul. Met. 11.30.2; see Keulen, Chapter 3 above. 52

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When Lucius addresses the moon to beg for mercy, he does not yet know the true identity of the goddess. To ensure her support, he employs treasures of inspired eloquence, opening his invocation with a flattering regina caeli, followed by the successive invocation of the four deities of the pantheon who took a part in his adventures.55 Except for Diana, who is designated by a periphrasis (Phoebi soror), all the goddesses are mentioned and their names are accompanied by an epithet (Ceres alma, caelestis Venus, horrenda Proserpina); relative clauses, ablative absolutes and participial evoke, in laudatory fashion, the deeds and properties of these deities as well as their principal places of worship. However, unlike the divinities from the tale of Cupid and Psyche who, if not openly hostile, refuse Psyche their succour, Isis allows herself to be moved by Lucius’ prayer. Asserting herself in her traditional role of goddess of mercy and salvation, she responds to his call and reveals the means to regain his human form in a dream. Henceforth, whether in Lucius’ discourse or that of the priest in charge of his initiation, Isis always appears unchallenged as the supreme divinity, providential and perceptive, watching over mankind with truly maternal tenderness: Tu quidem, sancta et humani generis sospitatrix perpetua, semper fouendis mortalibus munifica, dulcem matris adfectionem miserorum casibus tribuis. (11.25.1) “You are indeed the holy and eternal saviour of the human race, ever generous in taking care of mortals, you offer a mother’s tender love to the sufferings of the wretched.”56



55 Apul. Met. 11.2.1-2: Diana-Hecate appears in Book 2.4 as a statue; Ceres, Venus and Proserpina play a part in the tale of Cupid and Psyche; see Harrison (2012) 7778. 56 Cf. also Apul. Met. 11.7.1: numen inuictum (“invincible deity”); 11.9.1: sospitatricis deae … pompa (“the special procession in honour of the saving goddess”); 11.12.1: praesentissimi numinis … beneficia (“the blessings promised by that most supportive deity”); 11.15.3: in tutelam iam receptus es Fortunae, sed uidentis, quae suae lucis splendore ceteros etiam deos illuminat (“you have now been taken under the protection of Fortune with eyes, who with the brilliance of her light lends lustre even to the other gods”); on this passage, Finkelpearl [(1998) 200] notes the opposition with the Juno of Verg. Aen. 7.302-304; 11.16.3: omnipotentis … deae numen (“the venerable power of the almighty goddess”); 11.25.1: sancta et humani generis sospitatrix perpetua (“O holy, perennial saviour of the human race”); 11.26.3: supplicare summo numini reginae Isidis (“prayers addressed to the supreme goddess of Queen Isis”) [all Apuleius translations here from Walsh (1994)]; Nicolini [(2005) 49] notes the connection between Isis’ benevolence and her own sufferings; cf. Plut. De Is. 27, Mor. 361e; Ov. Met.

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The maternal tenderness that Lucius attributes to the goddess in this extract differentiates her markedly from the Venus from the tale of Cupid and Psyche, portrayed, as we have seen, as an irascible and inflexible mother. The connection to Venus also appears in Isis’ self-revelation, which takes the form of an emphatic speech contributing to the direct characterisation of the goddess: En adsum tuis commota, Luci, precibus, rerum naturae parens, elementorum omnium domina, saeculorum progenies initialis, summa numinum, regina manium, prima caelitum, deorum dearumque facies uniformis … cuius numen unicum multiformi specie, ritu uario, nomine multiiugo totus ueneratur orbis. (11.5.1) “Lo, I am at hand, moved, Lucius, by your prayers, I the mother of the universe, the mistress of all elements, the original ancestry of the ages, the highest of deities, the queen of the dead, foremost of heavenly denizens, the single manifestation of all gods and goddesses… all the world worships my single godhead under many forms, in differing rites and by manifold names.”57

In this declaration resonant with Lucretian overtones, Isis underlines, not without conceit, her primordial nature, the way Venus did in the tale of Cupid and Psyche. 58 It is worth noticing en passant that, contrary to Lucretius’ theory, both Isis and Venus willingly mingle in the affairs of humans, to whom they are physically very close. Isis’ speech, however, unlike Venus’, neither yields to comic tones nor loses its dignity. Isis proudly proclaims her omnipotence over humans, over gods, over the world – a prerogative, it should be said, alternatively shared by other divinities in this novel. After Venus and Isis, it will indeed be Osiris’ turn

 9.699-700: dea sum auxiliaris opemque exorata fero (“I am the helping goddess, and bring aid when beseeched”). 57 Cf. also Apul. Met. 11.5.4: adsum tuos miserata casus, adsum fauens et propitia [“I am here out of pity for your misfortunes; I am here to lend you kindly support”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)]. 58 Apul. Met. 4.30.1: en rerum naturae prisca parens, en elementorum origo initialis, en orbis totius alma Venus [“Here am I, the ancient mother of the universe, the founding creator of the elements, the Venus that tends the entire world”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)]: see GCA (2004) 57-58. On this parallel, several interpretations have been put forward, e.g. Dowden (1998) 8; Finkelpearl [(1998) 200-202], who insists on the importance of the reference to Lucretius; Tilg [(2012) 148-149] speaks of “Isis’ oppositio in imitando” and observes that “Apuleius at least to some extent developed Isis out of Venus and as a superior form of that goddess”.

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to hold the title of supreme deity (11.30.3, below). Divine supremacy is in fact a matter of discourse: either some divinity claims it personally (as Venus and Isis do talking about themselves), or a third party, hoping to get on their good side, does it for them (as Psyche and Lucius do in their petitions).59 In the last chapters of Book 11 (27-30), Osiris supplants Isis in Lucius’ enthusiastic discourse. Compared to his sister, the god is never vividly described; nevertheless, he reveals himself to encourage Lucius, firmly, in climbing the steps of initiation,60 and to set him on the path to lucrative eloquence.61 Osiris inspires his devotee thus with the following eulogy, in which anaphora and polyptoton multiply the emphatic rhetoric by a factor of four: Deus deum magnorum potior et maiorum summus et summorum maximus et maximorum regnator, Osiris… (11.30.3) “The god that is mightier than the great gods, the highest of the great, the greatest of the highest, and the sovereign of the greatest, Osiris.”

If the gods of Book 11 are benevolent and merciful, they are also very demanding. In compensation for her help, Isis asks unconditional submission from Lucius (and other followers), as attested by the imperious tone of her instructions and the lexical field of authority and obedience.62

 59

In 6.4.1-3, Psyche attributes universal supremacy to Juno whom she solicits for help in a prayer that shares many striking correspondences with that of Lucius at the beginning of Book 11: see GCA (2004) 387. In the Apologia 63-64, Apuleius praises the pre-eminence of Mercury who, as an eloquent god (cf. note 41), plays an important part in his trial as well as in his defence; see on this point Tilg (2012) 135-136. 60 Apul. Met. 11.27.2: deae quidem me tantum sacris inbutum, at magni dei deumque summi parentis, inuicti Osiris, necdum sacris inlustratum [“I had been initiated merely into the rites of the goddess, but had not as yet been enlightened by the sacred mysteries of that great god and highest father of the gods, the unconquered Osiris”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)]; in 11.28.4, the god addresses Lucius directly to reproach his hesitations before the expenses of a new initiation. On Osiris’ self-revelation to Lucius, which contrasts with the epiphany of Isis in the sense that it is paradoxically concealed, see Egelhaaf-Gaiser (2012) 55-58. 61 See note 54 above. 62 Cf. Apul. Met. 11.6.4: meo iussu (“at my command”); 11.15.5: da nomen sanctae huic militiae … teque iam nunc obsequio religionis nostrae dedica et ministerii iugum subi uoluntarium (“enrol in this sacred army … consecrate yourself from this moment to the obedience of our religion, and of your own accord submit to the yoke of service”); 11.22.4: ceteris beniuolis praeceptis

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In regaining his human appearance, Lucius has become the goddess’ debtor, a position expressed through the Roman vocabulary of duties and benefits: Plane memineris … mihi reliqua uitae tuae curricula adusque terminos ultimi spiritus uadata. Nec iniurium, cuius beneficio redieris ad homines, ei totum debere, quod uiues (11.6.5). “You will clearly remember and keep forever stored deep in your heart that it is to me that the remaining course of your life, until the end of your last breath, is pledged. Nor is it unjust that you owe all the time you have to live to her, by whose benefit you will return to men.”63

Defining the relation between Isis and Lucius according to the Roman system of duties and benefits, or even the Roman system of patronage, tallies with the Romanised character of the goddess who presents herself to Lucius using the names Minerua, Venus, Diana, Proserpina when stating her identity.64 We have observed in the tale of Cupid and Psyche how the Romanisation and humanisation of the pantheon’s gods leads to their debunking. Such is not the case here. But from a narratological viewpoint, the fact that a Corinthian Isis employs a perfectly Roman idiom to talk to the Greek Lucius evokes a procedure typical of Latin comedy, where Greek plots are adapted to a Roman universe. The potentially comical effect is, however, drowned in the flood of Lucius’ exalted phrases. The latter’s tale, mainly consisting of descriptions, tends to glorify the Egyptian gods and religion. At times, however, the emphasis is such that it risks raising a smile from an irreverent reader, inclined to not

 summatis deae imperiis (“by … the other kindly commands of the supreme goddess”); 11.22.6, etc. [all translations from Walsh (1994)]. 63 See also 11.12.1: praesentissimi numinis … accedunt beneficia (“the blessings promised by that most supportive deity came near”); 11.16.4: felix … qui … meruerit tam praeclarum de caelo patrocinium [“How happy … he is [who] has deserved such sovereign protection from heaven”, again trnsl. from Walsh (1994)]; 11.23.3; 11.24.5. On the use of the legal term uadimonium (the summons to appear in court at an appointed time) and of its derivations, see Keulen (1997) 208-213. The expression iniurium (est) has an archaic and legal flavour: see ThLL s.v. iniurius, a, um, 1685, 1, which signals its use in Plaut. Cist. 103, Aul. 699; Ter. Ad. 106; 205; Hec. 71 ff.; cf. also Cic. Off. 3. 89; Liv. 43.5.5 and Fronto p. 120. 1 N. 64 Cf. Apul. Met. 11.5.2-3, which responds to 11.2.1-2 (note 55 above). For Egelhaaf-Gaiser (2000), the Met. present an exotic representation of Isiac religion; Tilg [(2012) 151-155] rather suggests an interpretation of Book 11 against the background of Rome literary history (“Roman contexts and Apuleius’ Roman literary goals”).

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take the religious dimension of Book 11 literally.65 Thus the terms used by Lucius in order to declare the majesty of the gods parading in the procession of the nauigium Isidis, and their patronising proximity to humans, are so pompous that they might tip the scale towards the prosaic: Nec mora cum dei dignati pedibus humanis incedere prodeunt … (11.11.1) “Soon afterwards the gods came forth, deeming it worthy to walk on human feet …”66

The rest of the description lingers on the animal appearance of the dogheaded Anubis followed by the cow representing Isis, reminding us that this is the fascinated vision of a man who is (still) trotting along on his donkey’s hooves.67

4: Conclusion We have seen that the characterisation of the gods and, in a more general sense, their representation is a matter of discourse. And while the divinities of the pantheon are debunked in the tale of Cupid and Psyche, the Egyptian gods are for their part elevated in Book 11. In both episodes, however, we observe common features. Gods are sticklers for status and adore to be venerated. Close to humans, they mingle in their affairs and share their social codes, revealing themselves as quite Romanised. This is particularly manifest in the gods of the pantheon who, since they actually take part in the secondary plotline of the Cupid and Psyche tale, present a more pronounced characterisation. The differences between the two episodes should be linked to the narrators’ personality and agenda. When relating the romance of Cupid and Psyche like a comedy, the robbers’ old maidservant tries to distract their prisoner and to appease her anxieties with a picturesque tale. The text does not specify if she succeeds, but the

 65

On this much disputed issue, see Harrison (2012), with previous secondary literature, and the whole of AAGA III, dealing with the Book of Isis. 66 The GCA (2015) commentary (ad loc.) notes that “the Egyptian gods’ dignatio is a recurrent theme in Book 11”: cf. 11.4.3; 11.21.8; 11.22.5; 11.29.4; 11.30.3. Conversely, in the tale of Cupid and Psyche, Venus constantly appears indignata: cf. 5.31.7, with GCA (2004) 360. 67 This interpretation is the result of my (subjective) reading of Book 11; compare Finkelpearl [(2012) 189-190] who rather notes “a sense of mystery, aided by a characteristic ambiguity” in this passage. The animal representation of Isis, even when symbolic, contrasts with the anthropomorphic vision the same Lucius saw earlier.

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ass Lucius is in any case delighted.68 The irreverent tone of this episode may also reflect the subjective perspective of Lucius-auctor, Lucius the initiate, who controls the whole story, and acknowledges only Isis as the true Venus, the true universal goddess, the true regina of all the gods. Regarding the final episode of the Metamorphoses, it expresses the bedazzlement of Lucius-actor and the acknowledgement of Lucius-auctor of those who have granted him their protection and whose client he somehow has become.

 68

Apul. Met. 6.25.1: sed astans ego non procul dolebam mehercules quod pugillares et stilum non habebam qui tam bellam fabellam praenotarem [“I was standing close by, and God only knows how sorry I was not to have writing-tablets and a stilus to set down such a pretty story”, trnsl. Walsh (1994)].

BIBLIOGRAPHY

GCA (Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius) In the footnotes to this book the various volumes of the series Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius are cited simply as GCA with the relevant year and page number. Their full bibliographical details are as follows (in chronological order):

GCA (1977) Hijmans, B.L., Jr, Van der Paardt, R.T., Smits, E.R., Westendorp Boerma, R.E.H., Westerbrink, A.G. (1977) Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses Books IV, 1-27, Groningen, Bouma’s Bockhuis. GCA (1981) Hijmans, B.L., Jr, Van der Paardt, R.T., Schmidt, V., Westendorp Boerma, R.E.H., Westerbrink, A.G. (1981) Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses Books VI.25-32 and VII, Groningen, Bouma’s Bockhuis. GCA (1985) Hijmans, B.L., Jr, Van der Paardt, R.T., Schmidt, V., Settels, C.B.J., Wesseling, B. Westendorp Boerma, R.E.H., (1985) Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses Book VIII, Groningen, Bouma’s Bockhuis. GCA (1995) Hijmans, B.L., Jr, van der Paardt, R., Schmidt, V., Wesseling, B., Zimmerman, M. (1995) Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Book IX, Groningen, Egbert Forsten. GCA (2000) Zimmerman, M. (2000) Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses Book X, Groningen, Egbert Forsten. GCA (2001) van Mal-Maeder, D. (2001) Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses Livre II, Groningen, Egbert Forsten. GCA (2004) Zimmerman, M., Panayotakis, S., Hunink, V., Keulen, W.H., Harrison, S.J., McGreight, T.D., Wesseling, B., Van Mal-Maader, D. (2004) Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Books IV.28-VI.24. The Tale of Cupid and Psyche, Groningen, Egbert Forsten.

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GENERAL INDEX

Achilles, 98 Aeneas, 13, 14, 78, 119, 144, 145 Bakhtin, M.M., 24 Byrrhaena / characterisation of, xii, 4, 5, 10, 11, 48, 64, 68, 75-88 Charite / characterisation of, xvii, 4, 6, 19, 21, 71, 72, 89, 96, 100, 101, 103, ch. 7 passim, 126, 128, 132, 134, 135, 136, 138, 140, 143, 144, 145, 148 and Dido,112-115 comedy, xv, 19, 22, 41, 66, 67, 79, 91, 103, 110, 117, 120, 144, 148-154, 163 comic, 18, 19, 20, 23, 26, 28, 33, 53, 61, 67, 83, 89, 94, 96, 97, 98, 100, 103, 104, 107, 109, 119, 126, 133, 149, 150, 156, 161, 163 Cupid / characterisation of, 125-128, 151-153 Dido, 76, 136, 137 see also Charite and Dido drama/dramatic, xv, 30, 45, 47, 126, 153 elegy/elegiac, xv, 27, 34, 66, 67, 79, 81, 97, 98, 109, 116, 121, 126, 142 epic, xiv, xv, 10, 13, 14, 26, 90, 91100, 103, 109, 110, 111, 112, 114, 118, 119, 126, 136, 137, 139, 144, 150, 154, 156, 157 Festival of Laughter, 5, 7, 37, 48, 54, 62, 68, 76, 83-86, 91, 123 genres, literary, in characterisation, xiv-xvi

gods anthropomorphism of in Met., 153-156 stereotypical presentation of in Met., 156-159 Haemus, 93, 96, 97, 98, 100, 117, 118, 119, 123 Hercules, 6, 13, 144 Historiography, xv, 91, 92, 103, 137 irony, dramatic/tragic, 9, 119 Isis /characterisation of, 159-164 and passim see also Photis and Isis Jason, 14, 151 Lucius Apuleius, similarities to, 6-7 as ass, ch. 2 passim chastity of, 32-35 eloquence of, 45-49 epic heroes, links to, 10-14 and food, 18-19 gullibility of, 8-9 hesitation of, 39-42 impatience of, 35-39 as initiate, ch. 3 passim learning of, 6 as listener, 24-26 poverty of, 45-47 pride of, as devotee, 49-52 religious fervour of, 42-45 and sex, 19-20 and slavery, 27-28 voice of, 22-24 Macedonia, 5 Magna Mater, 21, 22 Medea, 136, 142, 151

184

General Index

militia amoris, 63, 66, 67 nauigium Isidis, 70, 164 New Comedy, 144, 149, 157 Odysseus, 11, 12, 13, 14, 26, 28, 80, 91, 93, 94, 95, 98, 99, 119, 144 Osiris / characterisation of, 28, 31, 34, 37, 48, 49, 87, 111, 147, 159, 161-162 Pamphile, 16, 62, 65, 68-71, 75, 7883, 86-88 parody/parodic, xv, 94-98, 99, 119 Perry, B.E., xiii Photis, emotions of, 64-65 and Isis, 69-71 and magic, 68-69 and Palaistra in Onos, 60-64, 66, 67 seductiveness of, 61-64 as Venus, 65-67 Plutarch, 4, 5, 7, 52, 111 Psyche characterisation of, 134-145

parents of, 127-129 sisters of , 129-133 rhetoric / rhetorical, xv, 6, 7, 30, 4549, 52, 55, 90, 110, 115, 126, 132, 137, 147, 158, 162 Risus-Festival: see Festival of Laughter robbers, 89-100 Salvia, 4, 5, 10, 11, 76 Telemachus, 10, 11, 14, 76 Thelyphron, 24, 68, 76, 81-85, 88 Thrasyleon, 93, 95 Thrasyllus, 98, 107, 116-122, 123 Tlepolemus, , 96, 97, 100, 107, 110, 111, 112, 113, 115, 116-122, 123 tragedy, xv, 90, 93, 96, 103, 107, 109, 111, 116, 122, 128, 137, 139, 149 tragic, xv, 93, 94, 97, 107, 108, 110, 111, 115, 128, 136, 137, 144 Venus / characterisation of, 149-152 Winkler, J.J., xiv, xvi, 15

INDEX LOCORUM

ACHILLES TATIUS 2.18.3: 98; 4.11-18: 92; 6.1.1-3: 98 AELIUS ARISTIDES Hieroi Logoi 4.17-18: 46; 4.22: 46 AESOP ROMANCE 100: 50 AMMIANUS 17.9.4: 122 ANTHOLOGY OF PLANUDES 321: 157 APOLLONIUS RHODIUS 3.83-110: 151 APULEIUS Apol. 5.3: 55; 10.6: 7; 11.6: 55; 1718: 47; 24: 55; 55.8: 7; 63: 97; 63-64: 162; 73.2-3: 45 De Deo Socratis 17 [157]: 53 De Plat. 1.1 [180-182]: 53; 2.3: 39; 2.20 [247]: 37 Flor. 3: 52; 3.8: 47; 9.1: 54; 9.7: 54; 14.3: 33; 15.8: 50; 15.24-27: 54; 16.36-7: 7; 17.4: 55; 18.14-15: 54; 18.42-43: 45,46 Met.: 1: 71; 1-2: 90; 1-3: 3, 5, 6, chapter 4: 59-74; 94; 1-10: 71, 91; 1.1: 52, 102; 1.1.2: 123; 1.1.4: 48; 1.1.4-5: 54; 1.2: 4; 1.2.1: 3, 4, 36, 42; 1.2.2: 52; 1.2.5-6: 7-8; 1.6.4: 33; 1.7.6: 89; 1.7.8: 79; 1.8.2: 80; 1.8.4: 79; 1.9.1-4: 79; 1.15.2: 89; 1.15-19: 24; 1.19: 79; 1.19.2: 40; 1.20.35: 8-9; 1.20.5: 26-27; 1.21: 61;

1.21.8: 52; 1.22.1-5: 77; 1.22.25: 80; 1.22.4: 52; 1.22.8: 4, 52; 1.23: 33; 1.23.2: 89; 1.23.4-6: 13; 1.23.6: 4; 1.24: 61, 71; 1.24.1: 54; 1.24.2: 80; 1.24.5: 52; 1.24.6: 4; 1.26: 61; 1.26.2: 42; 1.26.7: 81; 2: 43; 2-3: chapter 5; 2.1.1: 75; 2.2.3: 76; 2.2.5-9: 10-11; 2.2.7: 11; 2.2.8: 4; 2.2.8-9: 76; 2.3.1: 42, 77, 82; 2.3.2: 5; 2.3.5: 77; 2.4: 77-78, 160; 2.4.3: 43-4; 2.4.10: 78; 2.5.1: 10, 44, 78; 2.5.4: 78-79; 2.5.5-6: 79; 2.5.6: 79; 2.5.7: 78; 2.6: 61, 63, 64, 69; 2.6.3: 37; 2.6.6: 79; 2.6.7: 80; 2.7: 60, 63, 64, 67, 70, 71; 2.7-8: 80; 2.7.4-6: 12; 2.7.7: 81; 2.8: 81; 2.8-9: 67, 69; 2.10: 64; 2.10.2: 81; 2.11: 69; 2.12.3: 4; 2.15.3: 89; 2.16: 65; 2.16-17: 32-33, 63; 2.16.4: 33; 2.17: 32, 33, 34, 63, 65-66, 69, 81; 2.18: 64; 2.18.1: 81; 2.18.3: 89-90; 2.18.3-4: 81; 2.19.5-6: 81; 2.19.6: 42; 2.20.1-3: 81; 2.20.45: 83; 2.20.5: 81; 2.20.6: 81; 2.20.7: 81; 2.20-30: 83; 2.21-30: 24; 2.24.6: 150; 2.27.5: 82; 2.28.1: 82; 2.29.5: 82; 2.29-30: 86; 2.30.6: 85-86; 2.30.7: 83, 85; 2.31: 85; 2.31.2: 85; 2.31.23: 48-49, 83, 84; 2.32.3: 89; 2.32.7: 6; 3: 7, 16, 37, 130; 3.1-9: 90; 3.1-10: 85; 3.4.3-6.5: 90; 3.4.3-7.3: 5, 6; 3.5.2: 90; 3.5.3-5: 91; 3.5.6: 90; 3.5.8: 90; 3.6.1: 91; 3.8.3: 90; 3.9.4: 90; 3.9.9: 91; 3.10.3: 42;

186

Index Locorum

3.11: 82-83, 84; 3.11.1: 5; 3.11.5: 5, 7, 82, 84, 85; 3.11.6: 82-83, 84, 85; 3.12.2: 82-83, 85; 3.12.5: 42; 3.13-14: 64, 65; 3.13-18: 86; 3.15: 64, 70, 71; 3.15.3: 86; 3.15.4: 6, 7; 3.16: 64; 3.17: 68; 3.19: 64; 3.19.3-4: 35; 3.19.5: 87; 3.19.5-6: 27; 3.19.6: 95; 3.20: 64; 3.22: 64, 65, 66, 68; 3.22.5: 27, 86; 3.22.6: 86; 3.23: 64, 68; 3.23.1: 86; 3.23.3-4: 86; 3.24: 3, 61, 65; 3.24.4-6: 87; 3.24.4-25.1: 1617; 3.24.6: 19; 3.24-29: 1618;3.25.3: 17; 3.26: 64; 3.26.1: 17-18; 3.26.4-8: 10; 3.26.4: 150; 3.26.8: 18, 27; 3.27.1: 18; 3.28.1: 91; 3.28.1-2: 91; 3.28.3: 92; 3.28-7.12: chapter 6; 3.29.23: 18, 22; 3.29.7: 18; 3.29.8: 18; 4: 99-100; 131; 4-8: chapter 7; 4.6: 92; 4.6.1-2: 23; 4.7.1: 100; 4.7.2-3: 100; 4.7.3: 103, 148; 4.8: 71; 4.8.5: 93; 4.8.6: 93; 4.8.9: 93; 4.12: 94; 4.12-21: 95; 4.22.2-7: 19; 4.22.7: 16, 19; 4.23: 108; 4.23-27: 106; 4.24.2: 100; 4.24.4: 110; 4.25.3: 110; 4.26.2: 116; 4.26.8: 115; 4.27.2: 109; 4.27.4: 109; 4.27.8: 101, 135; 4.28.1: 120, 127, 130, 135; 4.28.1-2: 129; 4.28.2: 135-136; 4.28.3: 136, 138; 4.28-35: 126, 128, 130-131, 135; 4.28-6.24: 4, 26, 106, chapter 8; 4.28.16.24.4: 4, 101; 4.29.4: 135; 4.29.5: 135, 149; 4.30.1: 135, 149, 161; 4.30.2: 135; 4.30.3: 136; 4.30.4: 152; 4.30.5: 135; 4.31: 66; 4.31.1-4: 151; 4.31.4: 138; 4.31.6-7: 158; 4.32.1: 135, 137; 4.32.2: 137; 4.32.3: 129130, 131; 4.32.4: 135-137; 4.32.5: 127, 136; 4.32.6: 53; 4.33.1: 127-128, 153; 4.33.1-2: 137; 4.33.3: 127-128; 4.33.4:

137; 4.34.1: 136-137; 4.34.2: 127-128; 4.34.3: 127-128; 4.34.3-6: 132, 137; 4.34.5: 129; 4.34.6: 137; 4.35.3: 127, 129; 4.35.4: 138; 5: 126, 128, 131, 135; 5.1.1: 135, 138; 5.1.2: 139; 5.1.3: 139; 5.1.5: 139; 5.2.1: 139; 5.2.3: 139; 5.3.1: 139; 5.4.2: 139; 5.4.5: 140; 5.4.6: 127-128, 130, 131; 5.5.1-3: 153; 5.5.2: 134, 140; 5.5.3: 109, 130; 5.5.4: 136137; 5.6: 143; 5.6.1: 137; 5.6.3: 143; 5.6.4: 140; 5.6.4-5: 138; 5.6.6: 38, 131, 140-141; 5.6.7: 140, 145; 5.6.9: 138, 145; 5.6.10: 138; 5.7.1: 131; 5.7.2: 131, 141; 5.7.6: 145; 5.8.3: 131; 5.8.4: 97; 5.9.1: 131-132; 5.9.2: 130, 132-133; 5.9.2-8: 132; 5.9.3: 130; 5.9.4: 130; 5.9.5: 130; 5.9.6: 133; 5.10.1-9: 132; 5.10.3: 130; 5.10.7: 127, 129; 5.10.8: 127; 5.11.1: 132; 5.11.2: 127, 129; 5.11.3-6: 153; 5.11.4: 132, 140, 145; 5.11.5: 132, 141; 5.11.6: 145; 5.12.2: 141-142; 5.12.3: 132; 5.12.4-6: 153; 5.12.6: 130, 132; 5.13.1: 137; 5.13.3: 137, 142; 5.13.4: 145; 5.13.6: 138, 140; 5.14.1: 127, 129-131; 5.14.3: 132; 5.14.4: 130; 5.14.5: 133; 5.15.4: 141; 5.16.3: 130; 5.16.5: 127, 129; 5.17: 143; 5.17.1: 127, 129, 132; 5.17.2: 143; 5.18.3: 140; 5.18.4: 136, 141-142; 5.18.5: 138; 5.19: 143; 5.19.1-4: 138; 5.19.3: 141, 143; 5.19.5: 132, 141; 5.20.6: 136; 5.21.3: 132; 5.21.4: 142; 5.22.1: 142,153; 5.22.2: 153; 5.22.3: 140; 5.22.4: 145; 5.22.5-7: 153; 5.23.1: 141, 142-143; 5.23.3: 158; 5.24.1: 145; 5.24.3: 141; 5.24.3-5: 153; 5.24.5: 132;5.25.1: 137,

Characterisation in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: Nine Studies 140;5.25.3: 159; 5.25.4: 159; 5.25.5: 136; 5.25.9: 159; 5.26.1: 159; 5.26.3: 136; 5.26.3-7: 138; 5.26.7: 130; 5.26-27: 131;5.27.1: 127, 129; 5.27.2: 133; 5.27.3: 132, 143; 5.27.5: 133; 5.28.3: 158; 5.28.9: 155; 5.29.1: 150; 5.29.3: 140, 151; 5.29.4: 149; 5.29.5: 154; 5.30.1: 152; 5.30.2-4: 154; 5.31.1: 150, 151; 5.31.4: 151; 5.31.5: 154155; 5.31.7: 151, 164; 6: 131; 6.1-21: 135; 6.1-24: 126; 6.2.1: 144; 6.2.3-6: 156; 6.2.5: 144; 6.3.1: 137, 155; 6.4.1-3: 156, 162; 6.4.2: 156; 6.5.3: 143; 6.5.4: 143; 6.6.1-4: 158; 6.7.1: 157; 6.7.2: 157; 6.7.3-4: 157; 6.8.2-3: 155, 157; 6.8.4: 157; 6.9.1-3: 154; 6.9.2: 154; 6.9.3: 136; 6.10.1: 154; 6.10.2: 136; 6.10.4: 139, 149; 6.10.6: 136; 6.11.1: 149; 6.12.1: 140; 6.13.1: 136; 6.13.3: 143; 6.14.1: 140; 6.14.4: 149; 6.14.6: 137, 139; 6.15.1: 140; 6.15.3: 141; 6.16.45: 157; 6.16.5: 149; 6.17.2: 140; 6.17.3: 136; 6.19.7: 141; 6.20: 143; 6.20.5: 38; 6.20.6: 141; 6.21: 143; 6.21.1: 38; 6.21.4: 38, 136, 143; 6.22.3-4: 152; 6.22.5: 136, 157; 6.22-24: 135; 6.23: 156; 6.23.1: 156,157; 6.24.2-3: 156; 6.25: 107; 6.25.1: 22, 23, 26, 103, 148, 165; 6.27.1-5: 100; 6.27.4-5: 100; 6.27.5: 6, 117; 6.28: 109; 6.29.5: 16; 6.30.6: 100; 7.1: 71, 72; 7.1.5-6: 54; 7.2.4: 16; 7.3.3-4: 22; 7.3.5: 27; 7.4: 118; 7.4.1: 134; 7.4.22: 118; 7.5: 118; 7.5.2-3: 96; 7.5.3: 119; 7.5.4: 97; 7.5.5: 119; 7.5.6: 93, 117, 119; 7.5.7: 118; 7.5.8: 118; 7.6.3: 39; 7.8.1: 97; 7.10: 109; 7.10.4: 21; 7.10.5: 118; 7.10-11:

187

21; 7.11.3: 98, 120; 7.12.2: 4, 134; 7.14: 72, 107; 7.14.5: 20; 7.14-16: 19-20; 7.15.2: 16; 7.16.2: 20; 7.21: 20; 7.23.424.1: 20; 7.25.8: 22; 7.26.2: 22; 7.26.3: 6; 7.27.3: 18-19, 27; 7.27.5: 22; 8: 108; 8.1.3: 134; 8.1.5: 121; 8.114: 107; 8.4-5: 98; 8.5.2: 121; 8.6.4-5: 112; 8.7.4: 122; 8.8.1: 120; 8.11.4: 117; 8.13: 113; 8.13.4-5: 110; 8.14 : 113; 8.14.2: 117; 8.19.2: 150; 8.29: 21; 8.29.5: 22; 9: 130; 9.13: 12; 9.13.3-5: 16, 25; 9.13.4-5: 6, 95; 9.14: 21, 39; 9.14.1: 26; 9.14.5: 37; 9.15: 72, 73; 9.15.6: 24; 9.23: 21; 9.30.1: 104; 9.32.4: 19; 10: 20-21, 37, 59, 72, 130; 10.2-12: 106; 10.3.1: 42; 10.13-17: 19; 10.18.1: 5; 10.19: 61; 10.19.3: 20, 21; 10.19-22: 20; 10.21.4: 20; 10.22: 61; 10.23-28: 106; 10.26.5: 37; 10.29.2: 16; 10.29.3: 19, 21; 10.31: 66;10.31.1-2: 43; 10.32.1-2: 43; 10.33.1: 21; 10.33.4: 21; 10.34: 21; 10.35.5: 23; 10.35-38: 106; 11: 3,7, 15, 20, chapter 3, 29, 30, 31, 34, 37, 39, 43, 45, 53, 59, 71, 72, 88, 95,147, 148, 162, 164; 11.1.1: 23; 11.2: 23, 45, 87; 11.2.1: 23; 11.2.1-2: 160, 163; 11.2.4: 16; 11.2-4: 45; 11.3: 4546, 69, 70; 11.3.1: 23, 24, 48; 11.3-4: 42; 11.4.3: 164; 11.5.1: 161; 11.5.2-3: 163; 11.5.4: 48, 161; 11.5-6: 87; 11.6: 70; 11.6.1: 42; 11.6.2: 27-28, 41, 42; 11.6.4: 162; 11.6.5: 48, 163; 11.6.5-7: 27; 11.6.6: 48; 11.6.7: 87; 11.7.1: 160; 11.8-11: 105; 11.9.1: 160; 11.11.1: 164; 11.12.1: 160, 163; 11.12.2: 41; 11.13: 31, 87; 11.13.2-5: 17;

188

Index Locorum 11.14.2: 22-23, 45-46; 11.14.4: 32; 11.15: 27, 70, 91; 11.15.1: 6, 25; 11.15.3: 89, 160; 11.15.4: 49-50; 11.15.5: 162; 11.16: 31,33, 70; 11.16.2: 34, 55; 11.16.2-3: 51; 11.16.3: 160; 11.16.4: 163; 11.16.5: 16; 11.17.4: 48; 11.17.5: 44; 11.19: 33; 11.19.1: 44, 45; 11.19.3: 37, 39, 40; 11.20: 73; 11.20.3: 36; 11.20.4: 43-44; 11.20.7: 36; 11.21: 37, 41; 11.21.1: 36; 11.21.2: 35-36, 43; 11.21.3: 34, 36, 37, 39, 40, 41; 11.21.5: 37, 38, 40, 44; 11.21.5-6: 37; 11.21.6: 38; 11.21.7: 48; 11.21.8: 164; 11.21.9: 37, 39; 11.22: 45; 11.22.1: 32, 37, 41; 11.22.2: 36; 11.22.3: 36, 37; 11.22.4: 162-3; 11.22.5: 41, 164; 11.22.6: 36, 41, 163; 11.22.7: 42; 11.22.8: 38; 11.23: 69, 70; 11.23.1: 46; 11.23.2: 19, 21, 39; 11.23.3: 163; 11.23.4: 42; 11.23.5: 25, 51, 104; 11.23.5-6: 53; 11.24: 47, 50-51, 52; 11.24.1: 51; 11.24.2: 50; 11.24.4: 50; 11.24.5: 41, 42-43, 44, 46, 163; 11.24.6: 45, 46; 11.24.7: 48; 11.25: 45-47; 11.25.1: 160; 11.25.5-6: 47, 53; 11.25.6: 46; 11.25.7: 36, 46; 11.26.1: 41; 11.26.3: 54, 160; 11.26.4: 39; 11.27.2: 162; 11.27.9: 6, 48; 11.27-30: 162; 11.28: 70; 11.28.1: 39; 11.28.4: 39, 162; 11.28.5: 19, 21; 11.28.6: 5, 6; 11.29.3: 40; 11.29.4: 49, 164; 11.29.5: 49; 11.30: 70; 11.30.1: 19, 21, 34; 11.30.2: 159; 11.30.3: 162, 164; 11.30.4: 6, 48-49, 54; 11.30.5: 35, 50

ARISTOTLE Poetics 1450a: xv AUGUSTINE Civ.18.18: 7 Conf. 8.7.17-18: 40; 10.30.41-47: 40 CAECILIUS Com. 266W: 150 CALPURNIUS SICULUS 2.87: 97 CHARITON 1.7: 92; 1.11.1-2: 102; 3.3.17-18: 98; 3.3.18: 98; 3.4.8-9: 98; 8.1.17: 99 CICERO Off. 3.89: 163 CYPRIAN Epist. 19.1: 37 DIO CHRYSOSTOM Or. 2.1-2: 49 DIODORUS 1.16: 157 ENNIUS Trag. 216 Jocelyn: 136 EURIPIDES Hypsipyle 148: 91 FRONTO p. 120. 1 N: 163 HERODIAN 1.3.1: 29 HERODOTUS 1.34-5: 115

Characterisation in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: Nine Studies

189

HISTORIA ALEXANDRI Rec. E 38.7: 100

NONNUS 5.575: 157

HOMER Iliad: 2.631: 98; 3.226-227: 97, 118; 10: 94; 24.348: 97 Odyssey: 4.141-50: 11, 76; 4.15567: 11; 6.158-61: 12; 6.158-68: 80; 9.19-20: 119; 11.307-320: 97; 13.256 ff.: 98; 14.199 ff.: 98; 19.165 ff.: 98; 23.203: 99; 23.296: 99; 24.355: 98

OVID AA 3.21: 133; 3.135-148: 67; 3.15358: 67 Am. 1.14.23: 97 Fast. 2.91: 157; 6. 373: 122 Her. 15.85: 97 Met. 9.398: 97; 9.699-700: 160-161; 13.754: 97

HORACE Carm. 1.12.7: 157 Epist. 1.19.3-8: 103 Sat. 2.6.77-78: 102 LIVY 43.5.5: 163; 45.28.5: 43 LUCAN 5.609: 110; 9.106-107: 110 LUCIAN Amores 17: 149 Ddeor 2: 152; 12: 151; 19: 151; 22: 159 Necyomanteia 16: 30 Onos 2: 61, 63; 3: 61; 5: 60, 62; 6: 62; 6-10: 60; 8-10: 62; 9: 66;11: 62; 13: 63; 15: 63; 20-24: 100; 21.3: 99-100; 22.1: 101; 27: 72; 34.1-2: 106; 45: 25; 54: 34, 72; 56: 25-6, 34 VH 1.3: 99

OXYRYNCHUS PAPYRI 4762: 20-21 PAUL. FEST. 98: 50 PERSIUS Sat. 1.121: 23 PETRONIUS Sat. 20.2: 135; 21.1: 135; 25.1: 135; 26.1: 135 PLATO COMICUS PCG 188.10-20: 149 PLATO Crat. 407e: 157 Phd. 81e: 28 Phdr. 248c: 142, 145; 252a: 142; 258d–e: 28 Rep. 2.377-383: 153; 9.587c: 28

MARTIAL 1.31.5: 97; 1.53.3: 39; 2.61.1: 97; 9.36.5: 97; 10.42.1: 97

PLAUTUS Asin. 403: 150 Aul. 453: 120; 699: 163 Bacch. 303: 150 Cist. 103: 163 Curc. 123-124: 149 Epid. 455: 120 Merc. 416: 120 Miles Gloriosus 1254ff.: 67

MINUCIUS FELIX Oct. 22.1: 43

PLINY Nat. 36.21: 43

LUCRETIUS 4.1069: 43; 5.1218: 40

190

Index Locorum

PLUTARCH Mor. 49d: 54 Mor. 52b: 54 Mor. 257f: 111 Mor. 361e: 160 Mor. 362e–363d: 28 Mor. 768b: 111 Mor. 788e: 49 Mor. 791c: 29, 49 Mor. 796a: 49

TERENCE Ad. 106: 163; 205: 163 Andr. 229: 148; 231: 148 Eun. 732: 149 Hec. 71ff: 163 Phorm. 98: 148 THEOCRITUS 6.3: 97; 11.9: 97; 15.85: 97

Priapea 3: 65

TIBULLUS 1.3.26: 34; 4.13.17 f.: 116

PROPERTIUS 2.19.13 ff.: 116; 4.5.34: 34

VALERIUS FLACCUS 4.232-35: 97

QUINTILIAN 6.3.97: 96; 8.6.74: 96

VARRO Men. 154: 149

SALLUST Cat. 5.1: 121; 14: 121; 25: 63

VERGIL Aeneid: 1.99: 118; 1.119: 92; 1.45393: 78; 2.763: 92; 4: 113; 4.1: 136; 4.136-139: 76; 4.196: 112; 4.300-301: 112; 4.327ff: 137; 4.651-662: 113; 4.654: 113; 4.656: 113; 4.663-665: 113; 6.413: 118; 7.295: 150; 7.302304: 160; 7.783-784: 97; 7.784: 118; 8.362-5: 13; 8.367: 118; 9.473-75: 112; 9.477-479: 112; 10.324: 118; 10.324-325: 97; 10.651-652: 92; 10.842: 118; 11: 113; 11.683: 118

SENECA (the Elder) Controv. 1.2.22: 65 SENECA (the Younger) Dial. 3.2: 150 Nat. 6.29.3: 40 Phaedr. 258-260: 110 SILIUS ITALICUS Pun. 2.242: 92; 17.458: 92 STATIUS Silv. 2.7.6: 157 Theb. 1.614: 92; 6.586: 118; 9.542: 92; 10.774: 92

ZENOBIUS 5.39: 25