Lectiones Scrupulosae
ANCIENT NARRATIVE Supplementum 6 Editorial Board Maaike Zimmerman, University of Groningen Gareth Schmeling, University of Florida, Gainesville Heinz Hofmann, Universität Tübingen Stephen Harrison, Corpus Christi College, Oxford Costas Panayotakis (review editor), University of Glasgow Advisory Board Jean Alvares, Montclair State University Alain Billault, Université Jean Moulin, Lyon III Ewen Bowie, Corpus Christi College, Oxford Jan Bremmer, University of Groningen Ken Dowden, University of Birmingham Ben Hijmans, Emeritus of Classics, University of Groningen Ronald Hock, University of Southern California, Los Angeles Niklas Holzberg, Universität München Irene de Jong, University of Amsterdam Bernhard Kytzler, University of Natal, Durban John Morgan, University of Wales, Swansea Ruurd Nauta, University of Groningen Rudi van der Paardt, University of Leiden Costas Panayotakis, University of Glasgow Stelios Panayotakis, University of Crete Judith Perkins, Saint Joseph College, West Hartford Bryan Reardon, Professor Emeritus of Classics, University of California, Irvine James Tatum, Dartmouth College, Hanover, New Hampshire Alfons Wouters, University of Leuven Subscriptions and ordering Barkhuis Publishing Zuurstukken 37 9761 KP Eelde the Netherlands Tel. +31 50 3080936 Fax +31 50 3080934
[email protected] www.ancientnarrative.com
Lectiones Scrupulosae Essays on the Text and Interpretation of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses in Honour of
Maaike Zimmerman edited by
W.H. Keulen R.R. Nauta S. Panayotakis
BARKHUIS PUBLISHING
& GRONINGEN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GRONINGEN
2006
Book design: Barkhuis Publishing Printed by: Drukkerij Giethoorn ten Brink This book was published with financial support from the Groningen University Library ISSN 1568 3540 ISBN 90 77922 164
Table of Contents
Introduction
IX
BRYAN REARDON From Perry to Groningen
1
JAMES TATUM Marcus Tullius Cicero, Author of the Metamorphoses
4
BEN L. HIJMANS Apollo’s Sn(e)aky Tongue(s)
15
GARETH SCHMELING & SILVIA MONTIGLIO Riding the Waves of Passion: an Exploration of an Image of Appetites in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses
28
KEN DOWDEN A Tale of Two Texts: Apuleius’ sermo Milesius and Plato’s Symposium
42
STEPHEN J. HARRISON Some Textual Problems in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses
59
MARIA PLAZA Nomen omen – Narrative Instantiation of Rhetorical Expressions in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses
68
LUCA GRAVERINI An Old Wife’s Tale
86
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TA B L E O F C O NT E N TS
STELIOS PANAYOTAKIS A Pain in The Ass
111
THOMAS MCCREIGHT Psyche’s Sisters as Medicae? Allusions to Medicine in Cupid and Psyche
123
WYTSE KEULEN Ad amussim congruentia: Measuring the Intellectual in Apuleius
168
ELLEN FINKELPEARL The Language of Animals and the Text of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses
203
ANTON BITEL : Apuleius, Asinus aureus 1,5,3 and the Interpretative Implications of Naming Narrators
222
PAULA JAMES & MAEVE O’BRIEN To Baldly Go: A Last Look at Lucius and his Counter-Humiliation Strategies
234
DANIELLE VAN MAL-MAEDER Lucius descripteur: quelques remarques sur le livre 11 des Métamorphoses d’Apulée
252
VINCENT HUNINK The ‘spurcum additamentum’ (Apul. Met. 10,21) once again
266
REGINE MAY The Prologue to Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Coluccio Salutati: MS Harley 4838 (With an Appendix on Sozomeno of Pistoia and the Nonius Marginalia)
281
TA B L E O F C O NT E N TS
VII
Notes on Contributors
313
Indices General Index Index of Latin Words Index locorum
317 317 321 322
Tabula gratulatoria
337
Introduction
This sixth AN Supplementum, Lectiones Scrupulosae (‘Scrupulous Readings’),1 is a Festschrift in honour of Maaike Zimmerman offered to her by a group of Apuleian scholars on the occasion of her sixty-fifth birthday. Ιt is a volume focused on the text of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses that offers Maaike and all other lectores scrupulosi (‘scrupulous readers’) of Apuleius’ novel a collection of studies that shed new light on certain aspects of text and interpretation. Moreover, since Maaike Zimmerman is currently working on a new critical edition of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses for the Oxford Classical Texts series, an additional motivation for this volume was the presentation of a collection of original papers providing material on a number of passages for Maaike to ponder and take into consideration as she reviews the text. Everything proceeds from the text: a textual issue can open the door to a broader approach, including, for example, discussions of literary interpretation, linguistics, or style. Hence, one of the themes of the volume is to show connections between problems of textual criticism and larger interpretative issues (e.g. Bitel, Finkelpearl, McCreight, Keulen). Maaike herself is expert at this kind of ‘explication du texte’. Within the broad spectrum between ‘text’ and ‘interpretation’, the contributions to this volume present different approaches and choices, varying from a traditional, purely ‘textual’ approach to one that is largely interpretative and seeks to explain the multi-layered texture of Apuleius’ narrative in the light of certain metaphors, images, or expressions. Some articles offer new conjectures and readings of vexed passages (Harrison, Plaza), support unjustly neglected conjectures (McCreight, Schmeling and Montiglio), or propose to banish certain passages or phrases ————— 1
The title of the present volume derives from a famous passage in the Metamorphoses (9,30) in which the ‘scrupulous reader’ of the text is explicitly addressed: sed forsitan lector scrupulosus reprehendens narratum meum sic argumentaberis: ‘unde autem tu, astutule asine, intra terminos pistrini contentus, quid secreto, ut adfirmas, mulieres gesserint, scire potuisti? ‘But perhaps being a reader keen on precision you will object to my tale and argue as follows: “but how could you, you clever ass, while pent up inside the mill’s confines, know what the women had been up to – in private, as you affirm?”’
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once and for all from the center of the text to a peripheral exile in the apparatus criticus, as a footnote in the history of the text’s reception (Bitel, Hunink). Other contributions focus on the ‘authorship’ of the Metamorphoses (Tatum) or the vicissitudes of the Apuleian text in the hands of Medieval and Renaissance readers (Hunink, May). Through their contributions to Lectiones Scrupulosae, the authors of this AN Supplementum not only honour Maaike as a text-editor or commentator, but also pay tribute to her other scholarly output, such as her work on Cupid and Psyche (Hijmans), on Apuleius and Roman Satire or the Greek Ass Tale (e.g. Dowden, Graverini, Plaza, Panayotakis), on the reader’s role in the Prologue and on Apuleian ecphrasis (Keulen, van Mal-Maeder), or on space symbolism in the Metamorphoses (James and O’Brien). But all contributors in this volume also send Maaike the same message of friendship and gratitude that can be summarized as follows: Lector, intende: laetaberis. Maaike’s achievements in furthering research on the Ancient Novel, or, to be more correct, on Ancient Narrative, have a far wider reach than the numerous books and articles she has written and edited. In the volume’s first article, Bryan Reardon, who was the first organiser of an International Conference on the Ancient Novel (Bangor, 1976), testifies to this in detail. In his special tribute to Maaike, who organised the third ICAN in 2000, Reardon places her past, present, and future accomplishments in the larger picture of Ancient Novel Studies, and explains her present important role in this field against the background of the great development of scholarship on Ancient Fiction since Perry published The Ancient Romances in 1967. In the second article, ICAN II (Dartmouth 1989)-organiser James Tatum seizes Maaike’s projected edition of the Metamorphoses as an opportunity to present an entirely new theory about the ‘hidden’ authorship of this work. In this spirited contribution, Tatum enriches our reading of the text by an original application of Pierre Menard’s technique of ‘the deliberate anachronism and the erroneous attribution’. In ‘Apollo’s Sn(e)aky Tongue(s)’, Ben Hijmans offers a series of observations on the passage in Cupid and Psyche where the Milesian god Apollo presents his oracle in the Latin language, being mindful of the Roman author of this Milesian tale (Met. 4,32). His survey comments on the ‘Milesian’ genre (see also Ken Dowden’s contribution) and on oracles in verse form; more generally, he focuses on parallels with other authors who move Greek material into Latin, especially Ovid in his Metamorphoses.
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Gareth Schmeling and Silvia Montiglio (‘Riding the Waves of Passion’) study the image of the wave in the Metamorphoses, focusing on the kind of undulating movements that reflect the original figure, such as waving hair, waving dresses, and waving bodies. Their exploration of the erotic aspects of the image supports the interpretation of a continuity between Lucius’ earlier erotic fascination and his later religious experience, for it draws attention to significant parallels between Lucius’ erotic enjoyment of female beauty and his contemplation of Isis in an initiatory context. Including a textual aspect in their investigation, Schmeling and Montiglio (note 8) champion Lipsius’ inornatus ornatus in the description of Fotis’ hair in Met. 2,9 (where F, the sole authoritative MS, reads inordinatus ornatus). Ken Dowden explores a number of Platonic resonances in the Metamorphoses (a recurring theme in this volume: see also the contributions by Plaza, Graverini, Keulen, James and O’Brien). Dowden focuses on the Platonic background of the dialogue form, which he also connects with Apuleius’ debt to Roman satire (for a comparable approach see Luca Graverini’s contribution). After discussing some structural parallels to Plato’s Symposium, Dowden pays special attention to the role of the feminine in the Metamorphoses against the background of Diotima’s authoritative role in the Symposium. In connection with the recent critical edition of the Metamorphoses (2003) by Martos (also discussed by Hunink in this volume) and Maaike’s projected Oxford edition, Stephen Harrison focuses on some problems and principles of textual criticism. First, Harrison examines the influence of a syntactical feature called ‘asyndeton bimembre’ on the constitution of the text, offering both a list of passages where editors have already supplemented a connective and a number of cases for which Harrison proposes to apply similar easy corrections to the transmitted text. With a conspectus of examples collected to corroborate such corrections, Harrison demonstrates that syndetic pairs are a frequent feature of Apuleian style in the Metamorphoses. The second part of the article proposes a number of conjectures in a variety of passages, some of them first offered here by Harrison himself. Maria Plaza brings to the fore an Apuleian device that forms one of the recurrent topics of this volume (see also Graverini, Panayotakis, McCreight), the device of ‘narrative instantiation’, the ‘turning into flesh’ of words and expressions. Plaza takes us through a number of multi-faceted examples in which the two-dimensional quality of saying something (e.g. proverbial ex-
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pressions, intra- and inter-textual allusions) is turned into the threedimensional quality of showing something in the fictional world of the Metamorphoses. The inflated wineskins (Met. 3,9,9), for example, transform the original image from a traditional proverbial expression for ‘men’ into the actual ‘human beings’ who are slaughtered by Lucius – and then turn out in fact to be real wineskins. Plaza concludes her article with a textual emendation that corresponds with the connective patterns between words and narrative reality discussed in her article. In a similar approach, Luca Graverini focuses on one particular example of ‘narrative instantiation’ where the traditional expression ‘old wives’ tale’ (anilis fabula) is converted into fictional reality. Thus, the robbers’ old maidservant, the narratrix of Cupid and Psyche, ‘concretises’ an expression which has its roots in Platonic dialogues, and is frequently used as a weapon in literary polemic to censure works and genres considered useless and devoid of any ‘higher’ purpose. Moreover, Graverini traces the expression’s recurrence in both satire and narrative prose, where authors adopt it to refer to their own work or its parts. Graverini argues that the expression functions as a sort of trademark that underscores the seriocomic nature of a literary work. Thus, the old maidservant’s tale in Apuleius, though presented as a mere diversion, raises the issue of a deeper meaning that a lector scrupulosus should investigate. The same is true, Graverini argues, of the novel as a whole: in its peculiar blend of comic and serious elements it shows its main ‘satiric’ quality. In a comparative approach to the ‘narrative instantiation’ of figurative speech, Stelios Panayotakis takes us through an intriguing series of erotic and violent connotations found in certain gestures, and also through some Greek and Latin proverbial expressions involving ‘ears’. Thus, he elucidates a passage in the final chapter of the Greek Ass-story (Onos 56), where he proposes an emendation that exemplifies the device of a figurative expression becoming literal. For the literal meaning in the Greek passage, Panayotakis finds an intriguing parallel in Apuleius’ version of the Ass-story, but, significantly, not at its closure. As Panayotakis argues, Apuleius’ possible transposition of narrative material from the conclusion of his Greek source affects the question of the ‘enigma’ of the last book of the Metamorphoses. In a substantial contribution on Apuleius’ use of words and expressions from medical language in Cupid and Psyche, Thomas McCreight offers a richly illustrated exploration of the Apuleian tendency to concretize the
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metaphorical, with particular focus on his narrative adaptation of medical jargon. McCreight’s survey demonstrates not only how allusions to medicine are central to understanding the characterisation of Psyche’s sisters, who behave like lustful, envious, and greedy doctors, but also how they enrich and colour the literary texture of the narrative as a whole, and connect episodes more tightly than had previously been acknowledged. Moreover, against this medical background, McCreight makes a detailed case for accepting the reading deterentes in Met. 5,11. The medical thread in the Metamorphoses also provides a link with Apuleius’ use of another ‘diagnostic’ method, physiognomy, which forms the topic of Keulen’s contribution. Focusing on Byrrhena’s gaze at Lucius’ physiognomy (Met. 2,2), Keulen discusses ancient approaches to physiognomics as a method for detecting a person’s character or destiny and hence as a tool for exercising social control. Two words from Lucius’ portrayal that editors have found problematic guide Keulen’s reading of Lucius’ appearance into an exploration of the notions of the ‘norm’ or ‘rule’ (amussis) and the ‘curse’ (execrabiliter). Placing the passage in the context of the Antonine tendency to ‘measure’ intellectuals and their writings, Keulen concludes with a metaliterary interpretation of ‘reading’ Lucius’ multi-faceted physiognomy. Ellen Finkelpearl explores Apuleius’ tendency to erase traditional boundaries such as those between life and death, human and divine, human and animal. On a linguistic level, she illustrates the Apuleian fluidity and collapse of distinctions and categories with a survey of his creative use of language by and about animals. Connecting her investigation with a number of passages that have raised textual problems, Finkelpearl shows that a careful consideration of Apuleius’ imaginative use of animal language presents important groundwork for the establishing of the text. Anton Bitel takes a different approach in his linking of a textual problem on a micro-level to interpretative topics on a macro-level. He takes Castiglioni’s supplement in 1,5,3 as a starting-point for a discussion of the enigmatic way Apuleian characters introduce themselves throughout the Metamorphoses. Bitel argues that the Apuleian narrative consciously questions and problematises the identities of narrators – especially its chief narrator (quis ille?) – and he views this play with mysterious identities in the context of the hermeneutic ambiguity of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses as a whole. In short, Bitel proposes that any new edition of this work should revert to the
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text of the principal manuscript F, and that Castiglioni’s supplement should be relegated to the apparatus criticus. Two contributions on the Eleventh Book take up discussions that the authors have had in the past with the dedicatee of this book about the interpretation of Apuleius’ text. Paula James and Maeve O’Brien focus on Lucius’ baldness at the end of the novel as a ‘counter-humiliation strategy’ that illustrates his redemption in terms of identity and social status. The starting-point of their interpretation is the ‘textual conundrum’ posed by the word dignitas (cf. Met. 3,11; 11,15). They explore the ramifications and connotations of this word in the story of Lucius’ loss and recovery of his internal and external self. Danielle van Mal-Maeder focuses on a different aspect of Book Eleven, discussing the abundancy of descriptions (e.g. of religious festivals and processions) in relation to their describer. According to Van MalMaeder, the descriptions not only reflect Lucius’ blissful feelings and personal predilection for visual spectacles, but also display his education. After a survey of definitions of ‘description’, Van Mal-Maeder points out that the narrative in the eleventh book reveals the actorial point of view of the young scholasticus Lucius, who brings into practice the device of ‘description’ (ekphrasis) from the preparatory exercises called progymnasmata from his days as a student – one of the traditional topics of such exercises in ekphrasis was religious festivals. The last two articles examine the way in which a lector scrupulosus from the Middle Ages and the Renaissance respectively dealt with the text of the Metamorphoses. Vincent Hunink makes his contribution to the controversy about the so-called spurcum additamentum (‘filthy addition’), a section of 81 words with a pornographic content that is transmitted by the MSS in Met. 10,21, a passage also thoroughly commented upon by Maaike Zimmerman in one of the Appendices of her commentary (GCA 2000). Although she and the communis opinio maintain that this debated section is an addition written not by Apuleius but by a medieval author who was familiar with Apuleian style, the debate has recently been re-opened by Ephraim Lytle (2003). Lytle reaffirms that the passage is genuinely Apuleian, concluding with Winkler (1985, 192–193) that to exlude it from the narrative means to ‘castrate the text at its most graphic moment.’ Hunink counters Lytle’s arguments on textual, stylistic, and thematic grounds, and concludes his article with an appendix offering text and translation of the spurcum additamentum both in Lytle’s and his own version. Regine May concentrates on the marginal notes
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in MS Harley 4838 by Coluccio Salutati, a Renaissance scholar whose work has influenced the reception of the text of the Metamorphoses in the Renaissance and beyond. In these marginalia, written in his own hand, Salutati puts the Metamorphoses’ prologue into iambic senarii. All other editions in which the prologue is rendered in verse go back to Salutati’s marginalia, in which he also describes Apuleius as a comic writer. May concludes that Salutati, an avid collector of ancient manuscripts, should also be included in the list of important literary critics of Apuleius from the Renaissance. Other marginalia in MS Harley 4838 can be traced back to Sozomeno of Pistoia, on whom May adds an appendix. Some of the articles in this volume follow the edition of Helm, quoting standard book and chapter numbers, sometimes followed by Helm’s page and line numbers (e.g. Met. 10,2: 237,1); others follow Robertson’s division of the chapters into paragraphs (e.g. Met. 10,2,1). While this variety of quotation in the articles underlines the need for a new critical edition of the Metamorphoses that combines an excellent quality of the text with a unified method of citation, we ourselves decided for a unity in quotation regarding the Index Locorum, where all Apuleian passages are entered according to Robertson’s paragraph system. The editors thank all authors for offering this joint tribute to Maaike. We offer special thanks to Dr. Atze Keulen for compiling the Index Locorum, and to Dr. Thomas McCreight for revising the English of various sections. We thank both of these ‘fellow-editors’, moreover, for their detailed and critical proofreading and their valuable suggestions. We also thank Dr. Luca Graverini and Dr. Stephen Harrison for additional comments. Kees Zimmerman kindly provided the photograph of Maaike Zimmerman. The publication of this volume was made possible by a grant from the Groningen University Library: warm thanks are due to the Chief Librarian Dr. Alex Klugkist. Finally, this volume could not have been produced without the professional and personal dedication of its publisher, Dr. Roelf Barkhuis, to whom we express our heartfelt gratitude. Wytse Keulen, Ruurd Nauta, and Stelios Panayotakis Groningen, March 2006
From Perry to Groningen B RYAN R EARDON University of California, Irvine
Modern work on ancient fiction, brought to life by Rohde in 1876, was hamstrung by Rohde for almost a hundred years. Good work was done, but there was no broad current running that way. There was, however, a scholar who went his own way: Ben Edwin Perry, who in 1967 published The Ancient Romances, a turning-point in the field. But Perry’s book, like Rohde’s, was at the same time massively right and massively wrong. This is the background to the work of Maaike Zimmerman. In her scholarly life she has played a major part in putting all this to rights, in the most unassuming and practical way imaginable. Perry’s earliest work in ancient fiction, from 1919, was on Apuleius; Maaike’s own work has been largely on the same author. Perry broadened his vision beyond Apuleius; so has Maaike. Her part in Cupid and Psyche, and her magisterial commentary on Metamorphoses X, remain in the mainstream of philological scholarship (as is very fitting for a Dutch scholar), while at the same time taking cognizance of modern approaches to their subject; and these books, together with her contribution to other volumes of GCA over twenty years, and her projected Oxford Classical Text of the Metamorphoses, will remain as her principal visible scholarly work. But she has done more than write commentary on Apuleius. She has been active in the field for many years, and for over a decade has herself been the engine behind a considerable movement in scholarly work on the novel in general, Greek as well as Latin. Not alone – she would be the first to say that; but she has long been, and remains, at the centre of these studies. Perry’s book, like Rohde’s, cast a long shadow; but unlike Der griechische Roman, it stimulated rather than discouraged serious work on the novel. Books and articles began to multiply, to the point where, a quarter of a century later, it could be said (with pardonable exaggeration!) that “the Lectiones Scrupulosae, 1–3
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ancient novel has become one of the hottest properties in town”. Work had begun long before this. The Groningen Apuleius group had already been constituted in 1973, and was to provide the kernel of the very considerable contribution that Groningen has made to the study of the novel. Apuleius spawned offspring, and the first Groningen Colloquium on the Novel – not on Apuleius, but on ‘the novel’ – took place in 1986, by which time Maaike had entered the scene and joined the Apuleius group. The guiding spirit of the GCN meetings was Heinz Hofmann, but after his translation to Tübingen, Maaike took over the organisation in 1994. The GCN grew, as many of us will recall, from a couple of relatively simple one-day meetings per year to one quite elaborate two-day meeting – two-plus, in fact, with latterly a considerable audience; it became in fact the focal point of novel studies. The burden of organisation grew accordingly; and though she had devoted assistance, the responsibility for it fell largely on Maaike’s shoulders. For some years she followed the pattern that had arisen. Until 1998; but by then, given the success of the series of meetings, the idea had established itself in her mind that it was time for another of the series of International Conferences on the Ancient Novel – Bangor 1976, organised by myself, Dartmouth 1989, organised by James Tatum – that had disseminated interest in the genre since Perry’s book had appeared. ICAN 2000 was a jumbo affair, as the group photograph, expertly taken by Maaike’s husband, shows: more than double the number of 1976 papers, many more participants than that. And all of it run by Maaike, without a hitch; at least, no-one noticed any. But that was not the end of it. In a sense, it was rather the beginning. There was by now an evident need for a regular professional journal devoted to the topic of ancient fiction; and Maaike had thought of that too. There had already been, for thirty years, the invaluable Petronian Society Newsletter, an ‘in-house journal’, as it were, run very largely by Gareth Schmeling personally, on a shoestring and with great devotion, from the University of Florida. But by 2000 PSN was bursting its shoestrings. It had long outgrown its apparently restrictive name, and had come to handle the whole novel field, to the considerable assistance of scholars. The series of published Groningen Colloquia on the Novel had also now come to an end, after a decade of enthusiastic support from its publisher, Egbert Forsten. Maaike talked to his equally supportive successor, Roelf Barkhuis; and there was born of this contact Ancient Narrative, of which she is the principal editor, assisted by Gareth, Heinz, and other colleagues. AN and PSN now live amicably, and
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usefully for ‘novelists’, side by side on the web; that is due to all parties involved, but, like so much that has been happening in the field, is assuredly based on the unspectacular, patient work of Maaike. Furthermore, the work of the GCN meetings is being carried on by other regular conferences, notably at Rethymnon; that too is to be set to her credit. The study of ancient fiction has arrived, and Maaike’s dedication to scholarship in the field is recognized in the present volume. No-one better deserves such recognition.
Marcus Tullius Cicero, Author of the Metamorphoses J AMES T ATUM Dartmouth College
Menard (perhaps without wanting to) has enriched, by means of a new technique, the halting and rudimentary art of reading: this new technique is that of the deliberate anachronism and the erroneous attribution. This technique, whose applications are infinite, prompts us to go through the Odyssey as if it were posterior to the Aeneid and the book Le jardin du Centaure of Madame Henri Bachelier as if it were by Madame Henri Bachelier. This technique fills the most placid works with adventure. Jorge Luis Borges It was a close call, that faraway day in 1985. The normally sunny voice on the other end of the line suddenly darkened. Had an unseen cloud skirted across the blue California sky? An inaudible silence emanated from the wire, so palpable that I felt compelled to check the phone to see whether or not we were still connected. The spirit of Edgar Allan Poe was in the air. I had just mentioned to John J. (“Jack”) Winkler, author of the famous narratological study of Apuleius, Auctor & Actor, how happy I was to see references to earlier classical literature throughout his work, as well as throughout the Metamorphoses. At that time this greatest of ancient novels was still regarded by many as anything but classical. A little outreach to the mainstream wouldn’t hurt, especially for those who wanted to get ahead in their careers. “So that’s the key to the Metamorphoses!” I exclaimed. Another tick-tock of silence, then finally Winkler asked, guardedly, “Do you mean Vollgraff’s emendation?” “What?” I said. Without knowing it, I was only one clue away from learning the truth about the author of The Golden Ass! But it was not to be. I was thinking of Plautus and how much the chatty opening of the Metamorphoses sounded like a prologue from that far-from-subtle auctor from SarsiLectiones Scrupulosae, 4–14
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na who was nothing if not an actor. So I merely replied, “I mean Plautus, it all sounds like Plautus: your book, the novel, everything.” If only I had read Elaine Fantham’s paper published in 2002, “Orator and/et Actor.” My failure to do so cannot be excused by the superficial objection that her work did not appear until seventeen years later. The reader might assume that its title is an allusion to Winkler’s Auctor & Actor, or even to Roland Barthes, who reinvented the ancient art of bifocal titles in S/Z. Nothing could be wider from the mark. Fantham’s essay instead begins with a shrewd observation: the words “orator” and “actor” occur in both Latin and English; not only that, they are spelled the same way in both languages. This is not narratology, but what the anthropologist Clifford Geertz would term Thick Description. Not surprisingly, Cicero plays a big role in this account of orators and actors. Nearly twenty years of misguided readings could have been avoided if only I had known as much, but I didn’t. For his part, Winkler mused silently a moment. And then I heard, “Ha!...Aaaahhhh…” The sudden explosion and long sigh of relief on the other end of the line were inaudible, yet unmistakable. At the time I thought he was dismissing the whole exchange, but now I know better. It was a snapping shut of the mousetrap, to be sure, but in front of the mouse, a total relaxation of critical vigilance. A knowing palindromic expletive, the opposite of “Aha!”, the narratologist’s Aha-Erlebnis or “Aha-Experience,” “Ha!…Aaaahhhh…” signals to the second-time thinker that the mystery at the heart of this Roman Roman would stay mysterious. The secret was safe for the time being, and no one would discover it until the time came for a complete reassessment of who or what wrote The Golden Ass. With the prospect of Maaike Zimmerman’s new edition of the Metamorphoses as an Oxford Classical Text, that time has at last arrived. The true authorship of this novel can now be revealed. Let the irreligious see, as the TV Evangelist says in Book 11 of the novel: Let them see and know the error of their ways. As all know who think about such things, the title for Winkler’s book is an ingenious word play on the words auctor and actor, which are related by the addition and/or subtraction of the vowel u in the first syllable of both words. I have always found it helpful to understand this difficult theoretical proposition by expressing it mathematically.
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auctor = actor + u actor = auctor – u Fewer still will know or care that it is not a word-play Winkler himself invented—as he himself acknowledged—but derives from a phrase an anonymous magistrate of the Thessalian city Hypata utters in book 3 of the Metamorphoses, as he tries to console the narrator and character Lucius for being made a fool of at a local festival dedicated to the god Laughter (Risus). As this town father explains, Laughter himself will see to it that no harm comes to the man who has been producer (auctor) and performer (actor) of the farce that the ludicrous Lucius has just lived through. He will never let your mind feel grief, but will constantly make your face smile in cloudless loveliness. And the city has unanimously offered you special honors in gratitude for what you have done. It has inscribed you as its patron and decreed that your likeness be preserved in bronze. At this point no one but Maaike Zimmerman will want to remind us that the phrase auctor & actor does not actually occur in the Laurentian Library’s manuscript of Apuleius’ novel, but only the truncated phrase auctorem et torem. This is why the clue in the 1904 emendation of Vollgraff that Winkler mentioned was so exciting. Vollgraff was duly credited by Rudolf Helm, Rudi van der Paardt and other editors of Apuleius with the authorship of auctor & actor. But was the Latin-writing Batavian really the author of the phrase auctor et actor? Context, the historicist’s truest friend and constant companion, suggests otherwise. The huge first volume of the Thesaurus Linguae Latinae had been published in 1900, some four years before Vollgraff’s emendation appeared. There the industrious Batavian saw, brilliantly, a citation from Cicero’s Oration for Publius Sestius (61) in which the words auctor and actor occur. Recall the circumstances: as part of his defense of Sestius Cicero is bravely praising the intrepid Marcus Cato. This famous humorist supported Cicero in his finest hour and would later provide much-needed comic relief in Lucan’s hysterical epic on Rome’s civil wars. Cicero’s finest hour was, of course, the year 63 B. C. E., when he exposed and attacked the conspiracy of Catiline in such a way that Roman history and intermediate Latin were forever altered.
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Cato was the leader (dux), adviser (auctor), the main advocate (actor) of those measures—not that he did not see his own danger, but in such a storm as that which was threatening to overwhelm the Republic, he thought that he ought not to think of anything but the dangers of his country. Brilliantly, paying no attention to surface matters like literary style or history, Vollgraff saw the three words dux, auctor, and actor in the Thesaurus entry and pressed on as if he could read Apuleius reading Cicero’s mind. Casting aside unneeded words and asyndeton, Vollgraff reasoned that dux auctor actor – dux + et = auctor et actor. Or, if you like, Apuleius and Winkler’s auctor et actor = Cicero – Cicero + Apuleius. The bias in favor of Apuleius is evident, but Vollgraff was not yet done. He also read further in the Thesaurus and noted that the words auctor and actor often occur elsewhere, and that they were easily confused by scribes because they look so much alike when viewed under Medieval indoor lighting of 60 Watts or less. And then Vollgraff hit Zahltag (North American “pay dirt”) in the Thesaurus’ citation to the third chapter of the Life of Atticus by Cornelius Nepos. For there he saw Apuleius and Winkler’s phrase, as it were, in palindrome: actor auctorque: “in all the management of the state’s business, they treated him as both agent (actorem) and counsel” (et auctorem). Expressed mathematically, this discovery could be stated as auctor et actor = auctor – u + actor + u – et + -que Or, if you like, Apuleius and Winkler’s words = Cicero – Cornelius Nepos – Cicero + Apuleius. This is more complicated than Vollgraff’s philosyndetic response to Cicero, and the bias in favor of Apuleius as author of the Metamorphoses is clearer
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than ever. It is at this point that we can finally part company with the ingenious Batavian to spell out the implications of Nepos’ literary nepotism. Cornelius Nepos’ erudition and literary flair have been familiar themes ever since Catullus immortalized them in his dedicatory poem, “Who Am I Going to Give This To?” (Cui dono…, etc.). The Roman historian Jack Dawe, no ordinarily mean judge of others’ writings, has praised his Life of Atticus as the best thing to have fallen to us out of Cornelius Nepos’ grasping hands. By Nepos’ account, Titus Pomponius Atticus managed to be good friends with everybody on every side of every question. He was close to both Cicero and Nepos, for example, who otherwise seemed to have little use for one another. Atticus also managed to keep his own head during the dynastic rampages of Sulla, Caesar, and Antony, at a time when many others, including Cicero, were losing theirs. And, like so many Romans who had enough slaves—not least, like Apuleius himself—he spent his formative years in Athens and would dine out for many years on his memories of them at banquets back home in Rome. Atticus lived up to his name; he was AllAthenian to all the Athenians. At Athens he so behaved as to seem at one with the humblest and on a level with the mighty. The result was that they bestowed on him all the public honors possible and sought to make him a citizen. Of this kind offer he was unwilling to take advantage. As long as he lived there, he took a stand against the erection of any statue to him, but when absent he could not stop them. So they put up several statues to him in their most hallowed places, for in all the management of the state’s business, they treated him as both agent (actor) and counsel (auctor). There is no need to add emphasis by italicizing these last words. Their implication leaps off the page. But what implication? And once it’s leapt, where does it land? Not, I am thrilled to inform you, in Apuleius’ lap. It is true that he tells us in an oration published separately from the Metamorphoses that several cities had honored him by erecting statues bearing his image (Florida 16). If The Golden Ass were a roman à clef it would be tempting to speculate that its author was having a little joke at the expense of its actor. He really had had statues dedicated to him, and now here these Greeks are proposing to do the same for Lucius. But as Winkler demonstrates, while the Metamorphoses
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may be a roman à clef, it is at the same time a roman à thèse, a roman fleuve, a roman de geste, a roman d’aventure, a roman noir, and last but not least, a roman policier. This very multiplicity of romans should have tipped off readers of Auctor & Actor that the Metamorphoses was anything but novel. It has, more accurately, the flavor of a rhetorical treatise of Cicero gone mad. To pick up the thread of the Metamorphoses’ story once again, in Hypata, notice that Lucius politely refuses the honor of a statue, just like Atticus in Athens. Yours is the most brilliant city in Thessaly; it is unparalleled. I thank you greatly for these great honors. But I urge you to reserve statues and portraits for worthier and greater men than I. This is obviously an allusion to Cornelius Nepos’ Life of Atticus calculated to make Atticus himself squirm and wish he had never heard of Cornelius Nepos. That Nepos himself was incapable of such a reaction says volumes about him; as Catullus observed, volumes are about the only things Cornelius knew (tribus cartis doctis et laboriosis, etc.). Lucius’ words are at once an allusion to Nepos’ presumptuous portrait of the noble and modest Atticus’ conduct in Athens, and a sharp rebuke to Nepos for daring to attempt to write about Cicero’s best friend in such a familiar way. What is even more offensive is this Greek Lucius’ feeble attempt to imitate Cicero’s style. He begins his defense with a puerile confession of the difficulty of his case and a clumsy appeal for good will. I am not unaware how difficult it is, in the full display of the corpses of three citizens, for him who is accused of their murder, even though he speaks the truth and voluntarily admits to the facts themselves, to persuade so large an audience that he is innocent. This would have been laughed out of Cicero’s schoolroom if he had bothered to have one. Periodic sentences jingle and jangle with rhythms and rhymes that exaggerate every flaw an orator could have. The most obvious clue of all that Cicero’s hand is behind this parody of his own work comes when Lucius addresses his audience as Quirites, “Worthy Roman Citizens.” How could a Greek in some backwater in Thessaly possibly have said this and expect to
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be understood? The whole performance justly deserves the uproarious reception the audience gives it. It also prompts a reconsideration of the magistrate’s little speech as well. What the nameless magistrate of the Metamorphoses actually does is correct Cornelius Nepos’ Latinity. Nepos had read the above passage in Cicero’s oration for Sestius and noticed both the words and the word order in “the leader” (dux), “adviser” (auctor), and “ the main advocate” (actor). He resolved to appropriate Cicero’s unmistakable style for his own purposes. He thought he would be able to hide his theft by simply omitting one word, throwing in a conjunction where none had been before, and reversing the order of the words. But by doing so, Nepos destroyed the style and substance of Cicero’s original speech. When the magistrate says that Lucius will be both the producer and the performer (auctor et actor) of Risus the god of Laughter, he at once corrects Nepos’ perversion of Ciceronian style and puts an unmistakable stamp of Ciceronian authorship on both the magistrate’s speech and, indeed, the entire novel. He restores the original order of auctor and actor and firmly corrects Nepos’ feeble actor auctorque. Vollgraff did not restore Apuleius’ text by referring to Cicero. Without realizing it, he restored Cicero’s text by referring to Cicero. Who else but Cicero would have had the genius as well as the confidence to correct the squalid Latin of Cornelius Nepos? Who else would even have noticed or cared? Finally, we must not neglect to ask that most Ciceronian of questions, Cui bono? Who stood to gain the most by this rigorous yet subtle correction, but Cicero himself? Certainly not Apuleius, who constantly reminds us that he is a Platonic philosopher and a loyal citizen of Rome from Africa and a literary star in Carthage and Sabratha. He never says a word about the Metamorphoses. The conclusion is inescapable: Marcus Tullius Cicero is the author of the ‘Metamorphoses’. Somehow, in a way we have yet to understand, he anticipated the future course of Latin literature and was able to project himself two hundred years into the future, to the happier and more prosperous Empire of the Antonine emperors. To give but one example of the way Cicero wrote for the future, consider that moment when Lucius, now transformed into an ass, thinks of escaping some bandits who have abducted him in book 3: I tried amidst those crowds of Greeks to invoke the august name of Caesar in my native tongue. And indeed I shouted the “O” by itself elo-
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quently and vigorously, but I could not pronounce the rest of Caesar’s name. There is nothing exceptional in this, and most readers have been content to be amused at the notion of an ass trying to bray Caesar’s name. Anyone who lived in the second century would know that this was what a Roman citizen should do. When in trouble, call for help in the current Caesar’s name. But consider what meaning this same passage takes on when we realize that it was written some two centuries before the time of Apuleius and the most prosperous years of the Roman Empire. These same words are, suddenly, astounding. I tried amidst those crowds of Greeks to invoke the august name of Caesar in my native tongue. And indeed I shouted the “O” by itself eloquently and vigorously, but I could not pronounce the rest of Caesar’s name. Written in the waning years of the Roman Republic, these words acquire a totally different meaning. Cicero (obit. 43 B. C. E.) could not possibly have known of Apuleius’ contemporary Caesars Antoninus Pius or Marcus Aurelius; still less could he imagine that anyone in his right mind would call for help by naming Caesar. Imagine what the consequences would have been if Cicero had shouted out “O Caesar!” to a gaggle of Pompeians! What a name to conjure with if he had dropped it at a dinner party hosted by Brutus or Cassius! Yet here is Lucius the ass trying to pronounce Julius Caesar’s name in order to be saved. Surely the only Caesar Cicero could have known was the same Caesar Catullus knew, the conqueror of Gaul and the lover of Cleopatra. Nonetheless Cicero anticipates the entire sweep of Roman history, from Caesar and Augustus, down through the Julio-Claudians and Flavians, to the adoptive emperors of the second century. Adding the Metamorphoses to the Ciceronian canon will obviously have important consequences. Perhaps none is more important than what Ciceronian authorship can tell us about the hero of the Metamorphoses. The author of the four orations against Catiline may well have known of certain Greek traditions about a man named Loukios and his transformation into an ass. It seems less likely that he knew Lucian’s Lucius or the Ass, since both that author and his pseudonymous other self (helpfully known as Pseudo-Lucian)
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were not born until well after Cicero had gone to his cosmological Never Never Land with Scipio and his dreams. Nonetheless, Cicero sends us the clearest possible signal of exactly who Lucius is, shortly after his transformation into an ass. Lucius of the ‘Metamorphoses’ is an incarnation of Lucius Sergius Catilina, the arch conspirator of Republican Rome. Shortly after the man Lucius has been accidentally turned into an ass by taking a wrong prescription in Fotis and Pamphile’s magical pharmacy, he struggles to free himself from his asinine destiny by eating some roses decorating a little shrine to Epona, the patron goddess of quadrupeds. At that moment he is done in by the very man who had been his own slave, who jumps up, loyally, and exclaims, “How long, pray, shall we put up with (Quo usque tandem patiemur) this old gelding who attacks first the animals’ food and now even the gods’ statues?” This is a transparent reference to the famous opening of Cicero’s first oration against Catiline, “How long, pray, will you abuse our patience, Catiline?” (Quo usque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra?). It is the surest possible sign that the hero of the Metamorphoses is to be identified with the satanic hero of Cicero’s orations and Sallust’s monograph The Catilinarian Conspiracy. The similarities between Catiline and Lucius are too many to be accidental, above all their curious mixture of respectable lineage, intellect, and the basest kind of appetites. As Sallust sums him up: Lucius Catiline was a man of noble birth and of eminent mental and personal endowments, but of a vicious and depraved disposition. His delight, from his youth, had been in civil commotions, bloodshed, robbery, and sedition; and in such scenes he had spent his early years. His constitution could endure hunger, want of sleep, and cold, to a degree surpassing belief. His mind was daring, subtle, and versatile, capable of pretending or dissembling whatever he wished. He was covetous of other men's property, and prodigal of his own. He had abundance of eloquence, though but little wisdom. His insatiable ambition was always pursuing objects extravagant, romantic, and unattainable. Nothing could better describe the voice of the narrator of the Metamorphoses than these quintessential Catilinarian characteristics: satis eloquentiae, sapientiae parum, “an abundance of eloquence, but little wisdom.” As Lucius himself puts it later in the tale:
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That divine inventor of ancient poetry among the Greeks, desiring to portray a hero of the highest intelligence, was quite right to sing of a man who acquired the highest excellence by visiting many cities and learning to know various peoples. In fact, I now remember the ass that I was with thankful gratitude because, while I was concealed under his cover and schooled in a variety of fortunes, he made me better informed, if less intelligent (etsi minus prudentem, multiscium reddidit). Faced with exile and other reprisals after Catiline and his followers had been exterminated, Cicero could naturally be expected to expand the range of writing to less inflammatory themes. His Catilinarians assured him of a special place in the heart of future Latin teachers, but he must have wanted more—more even than his rhetorical treatises and philosophical dialogues would provide. How better achieve that goal than to create under a pseudonym what looked like a novel, but was not; what seemed to be written by a provincial from Africa two hundred years in the future, but was not; and what sounded like an outlandish Egyptian mystery religion as a solution to all of life’s problems, but was not, than to tell the adventures of Catiline as an ass in such a way that his identity would be as invisible to ordinary readers as Lucius’ human form was to everyone he met? In fashioning all this Cicero became the most successfully hidden author of all time. Since Niall Slater published his 1990 book on Petronius, Reading Petronius, few others have ventured to cross the narratological pons asinorum that Winkler built for them. Given the momentous discovery that his work enabled me to make, this is a cause for personal regret. But scholarly tastes—as opposed to truth—are a fact of life. So perhaps we should not linger any longer at the bottom of Winkler’s bridge, dithering as Lucius and Charite do at the end of book 6, where their dilatory ways cause them to be recaptured by the bandits they thought they had escaped. As Gian Biagio Conte explained in his Sather lectures at Berkeley, published as The Hidden Author: An Interpretation of Petronius’ ‘Satyricon’ (1996), narratology as a critical concept is passé. Narratology has been valuable, and it is essential to assimilate its most important contributions (Genette, and not just Genette; Greimas and his followers, on the other hand, have from the start done more harm than
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good). It has helped us, or rather taught us, to read a narrative text in a more rational way. Now we are facing a single text, and this is just what we want to do: read it rationally, and do this in a manner that is clear and direct. Narratological studies have been valuable to us: let us thank them and move on. Christian Dior himself could not have better expressed the new directions that the haute couture of literary studies should follow. Writing in a slathering or should I say sathering review in Eris und Odium: Zeitschrift für zerrissene Philologie, Professor Hermann Ferkel of Konstanz declared himself totally persuaded by Conte’s views. He was moved most of all by the main argument of The Hidden Author: The character Encolpius and the author Petronius are not the same person, nor do they speak in the same voice. This discovery could not possibly be achieved unless we had indeed moved on, casting aside the once-valuable narratology as so much litter on the academic roadside, not unlike Napoleon abandoning his men to race back from Moscow in time for the next issue of Paris Match. Vibrant concepts like “the hidden author” and other landmarks of theoretical progress will have profound consequences for the reading of the fiction of the future, as well as of the past. Once we realize that Isabel Archer is not the same as Henry James, or that Emma Bovary is not Gustave Flaubert, there will be no end to the revisionist readings we can expect in the ever-spreading puddle of modern literary scholarship devoted to the novel. It is an exciting prospect. For the moment, though, may we not conclude with a modest suspicion that the hidden author of the Satyricon was not Petronius at all, but another author altogether, as yet undetected?
Apollo’s Sn(e)aky Tongue(s) B EN L. H IJMANS Schiermonnikoog …keeping the dragon population under control… J.K. Rowling 2005, 11
When in the grey mists of subrecent antiquity the Apuleius project was started – a cooperative undertaking in accordance with the wishes of the then prevailing managerial thinking – many aspects were less than obvious. One of these was what language was going to be employed; another who was going to participate and what form participation was going to take. I suppose that, having recently returned from Canada and the USA, I was partly responsible for the use of English; but the help of a native speaker was still necessary and we were very fortunate in being able to enlist Philippa ForderGoold who, being a keen classical scholar, actually did a great deal more than ‘mere’ language correction. So there we were, solemnly discussing in Dutch a Latin text of a possibly trilingual author (as Stephen Harrison emphasizes in Ancient Narrative [2002a, 162]) for the sake of a commentary that was to appear eventually in English. A generation earlier the language of choice would have been (philological) Latin. Would we have adopted a Mommsen-, Norden- or Helmlike stance with such a choice? Roughly at the same time I met a lady (in a small amateur orchestra) whom I vaguely remembered from many years before. She, too, had returned from foreign parts; re-acquaintance led to her taking up her classical studies again; and we all know to what pinnacles she has risen since: there is no need to describe them, except to say that without Maaike the Groningen Apuleius project would have foundered.
Lectiones Scrupulosae, 15–27
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When in the tale about Cupid and Psyche the anus narratrix – whose name we never learn – is about to cite Apollo’s oracle, she prefaces the god’s response by saying (4,32: 100,18–20): Sed Apollo, quanquam Graecus et Ionicus, propter Milesiae conditorem sic Latina sorte respondit. ‘Apollo, although a Greek and an Ionic Greek at that, answered with an oracle in Latin to show favour to the author of this Milesian tale’.1 In the previous sentence Apollo is described as deus Milesius. The adjective clearly points at the famous oracle of Apollo at Didyma which had been refurbished in the time of Alexander the Great and would still be consulted by Diocletian. Though there was rivalry with Apollo’s oracle at Claros (cf. Tacitus, Annals 2,54: Germanicus’ visit),2 Didyma was well-known in Apuleius’ time.3 The oracle is referred to as dei Milesii vetustissimum… oraculum, a phrase which may well refer to its mythical origin (cf. Fontenrose 1988, 5), but which surely also underscores the importance of this as against other Apollinic oracles.4 Some difficulties in this passage have long been noted and much discussed. Part of the following discussion will focus on parallels with other writers moving Greek material to Latin, especially Ovid. 1. Greek gods, the anus implies, usually do not speak Latin, and according to Cicero (div. 2,116) Apollo never did. But Cicero does not mention the tradition that Apollo spoke in a barbarous tongue not understood by any Greeks when consulted by Mardonius, as related by Plutarch (de defectu oraculorum 5, Mor. 412A; cf. also the multilingual prophet encountered near the Red Sea, ibidem 21, Mor. 421B). Parke (1972, 105) mentions the fact that Mardonius consulted the oracle, but does not mention the language of the reply. On the other hand, we find a reference to Q. Fabius Pictor who after the battle of Cannae read translations of Delphic oracular utterances to the Ro————— 1
2
3 4
The edition used is Helm 31931, repr. 1992; the translations of the Met. are from Hanson 1989. For the flourishing of the oracle of Claros in the second century see Goodyear on Tac. Ann. 2,54,2 ut Clarii … uteretur. See e.g. Parke 1972, 121 and Fontenrose 1988, 22. Why the expression should be regarded as representing the author’s point of view (cf. Moreschini 1994, 188 on 4,32,5 vetustissimum: “sembra essere più una annotazione di Apuleio che della vecchia che racconta”) is not clear to me.
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mans (Livy, Ab urbe condita, 23,11,1-4), and apparently Apollo spoke no Latin on that occasion. Moreover, among the careful listing in Fontenrose 1988 of Apollo’s utterances at Didyma there is only this Apuleian one in Latin (see also Parke 1972, 131). Of course there are many oracular utterances in Latin poetry, especially in Vergil (e.g. Aeneid 3,94 ff. and the Sibyl as Apollo’s mouthpiece at Aeneid 6,101 ff.) and Ovid (e.g. Met. 15,637 ff.), and it might be worthwhile to list them. The several situations are similar to the one here except for the fact that the anus narratrix stresses so strongly that Apollo is speaking himself in addressing Psyche’s father and also that he does so in Latin, mindful of the conditor Milesiae. 2. The narratrix tells her tale in a Greek setting, her audience being a Greek girl and an ass who presumably will know no Latin until he has been retransformed and has travelled to Rome. Admittedly the old woman, however afraid of, but at the same time attached to,5 the robbers whom she serves, is apparently not only well versed in the interpretation of dreams,6 but also in the management of diverting tales,7 and thus able to divert both listeners and first-time readers from noticing curious inconsistencies. Indeed several scholars have remarked in recent years that this anicula delira et temulenta is a highly accomplished rhetorician whose management of the several voices or personae greatly resembles the accomplishments of the novel’s author, to whom she herself refers – daringly it would seem.8 Nowhere do we learn that she knows no Latin. Of course not, for she is speaking it all the time, propter Milesiae conditorem. But it is only when citing the oracle that it is worth her while to mention the conditor Milesiae. The situation somewhat resembles the scene with the hortulanus at 9,39. He is latini sermonis ignarus and thus irritates the Roman soldier who then is forced to repeat his question in halting (?) Greek. ————— 5
6 7
8
The old woman describes herself as very much attached to her employers (Met. 4,7; 4,25), but one (i.e. the re-reader) gets the strong impression that her attachment is laced with fear and apprehension. Indeed, when she has lost Charite and the ass, she commits suicide (6,30). Cf. 4,27 (96,5-14) and see GCA 1977, 205. Even if the tale of Cupid and Psyche is to be seen as a single whole, the plural in narrationibus lepidis anilibusque fabulis should not be treated as a ‘poetic plural’; see also GCA 1977, 207 on 4,27 (96,14 f.). See Warren S. Smith in AAGA II, 74; Van Mal-Maeder and Zimmerman in AAGA II, 89 f.
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The scene is reported by the narrator who has witnessed it when an ass but who does not report that when an ass he had not yet learnt any Latin.9 3. Scholars are now agreed that the conditor Milesiae is the author of the text we are reading. I leave aside here the still debated distinction between abstract and concrete author (however, see below, section 12).10 In other words, this anus narratrix against all rules of narratological engagement refers back to her creator / manipulator and en passant gives an indication as to the generic habitat of her own tale and of the text as a whole. Fortunately Apuleius was an unruly author – or, rather, one who loved flouting generic rules (or conventions).11 4. Should the word milesia be included in the title of the work as we have it? In the prologue we encounter both sermo Milesius and fabula Graecanica. The generally accepted titles Metamorphoses, though mentioned in F, and Asinus Aureus, mentioned by St. Augustine and paralleled by the title of the Onos, find little support within the text.12 This is not the place for a thorough study of the possible influence on Apuleius of Aristides/Sisenna, the latter being mentioned by Ovid (Tr. 2,413).13 The mention of the Milesiaca, however, points to significant connections with roughly contemporary Greek literature, especially with Plutarch. In addition to the mention of Milesiaca, some recurrent motifs in Apuleius’ novel, especially processions, have parallels in the famous anecdote on Crassus by Lucius’ ancestor. ————— 9
10 11
12
13
See GCA 1995, Introduction, 8 n. 12 with references to the relevant and agonizing literature concerning the relationship between the ego of the prologue and the ego of the actorass. See also Clarke 2001, 106, who points out that the alien nature of the Latin language stressed in the prologue recurs in Met. 4,32 and 9,39. For a different view see in this volume Finkelpearl, n. 29, and van Mal-Maeder, n. 35. Cf. Bitel’s somewhat scathing comment (2003, 190). Cf. 5,27 (124,21) proinde ut merebatur with GCA 2004, 322 ad loc. See also GCA 2000, 349 on 10,28 (259,21 f.) minus quidem quam merebatur, where Maaike Zimmerman conscientiously notes that it is not entirely clear whose opinion is referred to. Cf. Photios, bibl. cod. 129; Macrobius, somn. 1,2,7-8 has no more than the scornful expression ‘argumenta fictis casibus amatorum referta’ with reference to both Arbiter and Apuleius (see Graverini in this volume). For the attested titles of Apuleius’ text see Bitel (2000-2001). Cf. Fronto epist. 4,3,2 (p. 57,3 v.d.H2) Sisennam in lasciuiis. For the influence of Sisenna on Apul. see e.g. Dowden 2001, 126-128 and Dowden in this volume. On the influence of Aristides’ Milesiaca on Petronius’ and Apuleius’ fiction see Harrison 1998; Jensson 2002; Jensson 2004, chapter 3.2 ‘the Hidden Genre’, esp. 3.2.3 ‘Milesian Fiction’.
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In Plutarch’s Life of Crassus (32), with the explicit reference to Aristides’ Milesiaca – ‘highly obscene books’14 – we read about a mocktriumphal procession. In this procession, Crassus’ severed head is carried and displayed like that of Pentheus during a recitation of Euripides’ Bacchae.15 The severed head detail turns up in Apuleius when the sisters urge Psyche to get rid of her bed-fellow and say (5,20: 118,25): nisu quam valido noxii serpentis nodum cervicis et capitis abscinde (‘with as strong a stroke as you can, sever the knot that joins the poisonous serpent’s neck and head’). We may ask whether this scene as rendered by Plutarch is a. related (however remotely) to the myth of Orpheus’ severed head (and hence perhaps prophecy) and b. the Etruscan heads on ancient gemstones discussed in Zazoff (1983, 256) and their connection with the tale of prophetic Tages as related in Cicero’s On Divination.16 The triumphal procession in the life – or rather death – of Crassus may well be compared with the Apuleian procession in the festival of Laughter, the sad procession of Psyche to her rock, but especially the anteludia in Met. 11,8.17 Apart from the general similarity of these three scenes as (playful) processions, they include rather significant elements of ‘romanitas’: in the case of the Risus festival magistrates with lictores (moreover, the insistence that instruments of torture are to be brought in ritu graeciensi appears to be directed at a Roman audience), in the anteludia magistrates with fasces and gladiators in typical armour, and in the case of Psyche’s funereal pompa the Latin oracle of Apollo himself. 5. Apollo gives his oracle not just in Latin, but in elegiac distichs. It should be noted that Cicero (Div. 2,116) is arguing against divination in general and that his point concerning Latin (i.e. Ennius’ rather clever rendering of a Greek phrase) thus serves a rhetorical purpose (see also Pease ad loc.).18 As ————— 14
15
16
17 18
See Jensson 2004, 264, who points out that Plutarch (Crassus 32,3–5) uses the adjective ἀκόλαστος three times in his reference to the work of Aristides (cf. Ps.-Lucian Amores 1, where the phrase ἀκόλαστα διηγήµατα is used in the context of a reference to the Milesiaca; cf. Dowden in this volume, n. 11, who sees no reason to doubt the authenticity of the Amores). Jensson 2004, 298 f. points out that Plutarch’s scandalous and sensational description significantly follows upon his references to the Milesiaca and the Sybaritica. See Cic. Div. 2,50 with Pease extensively ad loc. as well as Ovid Met. 15,553 ff. with Bömer ad loc. For the anteludia see Gwyn Griffiths 1975, 172 f. on 11,8 (272,3) anteludia. See Skutsch (1985, 333 f.) on the ambiguous oracle in Enn. Ann. 167 Aio te, Aeacida, Romanos uincere posse, quoted by Cicero: “Ennius, as Cicero observes, has invented the
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to the metre, it must be admitted that both Didyma and Claros generally gave their responses in hexameter form.19 But here it is perhaps interesting not to confine the comments to a reference to Pease on Cic. Div. 1,81, who notes an oracle in iambics such as the priests of the Dea Syria devised in Met. 9,8,20 but also to consult Lucius’ uncle again: Plutarch notes that the Pythia has stopped giving her oracles in verse (actually not just heroic, but all manner of verse) and now responds in prose (de Pythiae or. 19, Mor. 403A). Mattiacci (AAGA II, 137) has parallels for oracular responses given in elegiac couplets from the Greek novels, but does not mention the inscriptions Fontenrose B 2 and B 5; interesting in this context is Plutarch’s rejection of Euripides’ remark that Eros teaches the poet – elegiac verse being the traditional erotic metre and therefore especially apt for the substance of this oracular utterance.21 6. Apollo is specified here as the deus Milesius, and commentaries quite rightly point out the link with the conditor Milesiae. But in fact there may be another reason for the choice of this particular oracle. The anus narratrix tells her tale in the robbers’ den,22 somewhere in mainland Greece, presumably in Boeotia or thereabouts, and thus Delphic Apollo might have been more reasonably selected here. However, she has introduced the tale with the word avocabo (cf. 4,24: 93,10 avocari and 93,14 f. saxeo carcere): she not only means to distract the girl, but also quite literally calls her away to another country, at first unspecified (in quadam civitate), but now obviously not too far from Miletus, though at the same time the contrast emphasized in GCA between the claustrophobic robbers’ den (cf. saxeo carcere) and the wide universe described in the tale hints at virtual space.23 —————
19 20 21
22 23
oracle himself, presumably imitating the ambiguity of the famous oracle given to Croesus” (cf. Herod. 1,54). Skutsch also points out (with lit.) that Cicero’s statement that in Pyrrhus’ day Apollo had ceased to make responses in verse is wrong. Cf. Parke 1972, 137, and Lucian, Alex. 29, who adds the oracle at Malos. See GCA 1995, 85 on 9,8 (208, 9-11). See Plut. de Pythiae or. 23, Mor. 405E and Eur. F 663 Kannicht ποιητὴν δ’ ἄρα / Ἔρως διδάσκει, κἂν ἄµουσος ᾖ τὸ πρίν (‘Love instructs a poet, then, though he before was songless’). Cf. also Plut. Quaest. Conv. 1,5 (Mor. 622C). See GCA 2004, 13 = Introd. 2.2.1. For the ‘virtual’ dimensions of the world in Cupid and Psyche see Harrison 2002b, 48-52 (section 5 ‘A Fantasy World? Literary Topography in Cupid and Psyche); cf. also Zimmerman 2002, 96.
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7. Is Apollo speaking directly? Fontenrose 1988, 199 remarks that the phrase Θεὸς ἔχρησεν followed by direct quotation in dactylic hexameters is characteristic of Didymaean responses after the revival of the oracle. No mention is made in our text of any priest or priestess of Apollo. In Hellenistic times a prophètès was appointed yearly for the oracle, but his precise role is conjectural; is he the counterpart of the Pythia in Delphi? Der Neue Pauly uses the term ‘Quellorakel’,24 and Strabo 17,1,43 seems to imply that no words were audible, but signs had to be interpreted by a prophet; a prophètis is also mentioned.25 The expression affatu sanctae vaticinationis accepto (4,33: 101,5) seems to leave open the possibility of just such an intermediate agent. At 5,17 (116,19) Psyche’s sisters (nastily exaggerating the oracle’s wording) speak of a sors Pythica and thereby seem to refer to Apollo’s slaying of Python, as GCA (2004, 239) ad loc. rightly remarks, but at the same time may well imply an intermediary Pythia. That seems to be the opinion of Parke 1985, who gives an extensive reconstruction of the ritual in his Appendix II (p. 210–218), partly based on Iamblichus’ De mysteriis. 8. Apollo’s message concerning Cupid seems downright hostile to his young fellow-divinity, at least at first glance; Eros is described as at best a nasty and disruptive character/power (4,33). It is significant that the oracle does not mention a name; the recognition scene is to be delayed, and the description of the malum (Mattiacci in AAGA II 139 n. 41 notes the synonymy with monstrum) is in keeping with the anger of Venus when she calls upon this son: 4,30 uses much the same picture (see below, section 8a.), though not nearly as harsh as the oracle.26 But, more importantly, Psyche, when she has gone to her rock, clearly accepts Apollo’s harsh description of her intended husband, and actually adds to it (4,34: 102,12 f.): quid differo, quid detrecto venientem qui totius orbis exitio natus est? (‘Why should I postpone and shun the coming of him who was born for the whole world’s ruin?’). Psyche has heard (of) the prophecy, but in her reaction she does not mention the snake element. How does she, the victim, understand the meaning of Apollo’s words? In this context it is perhaps useful to remember the scene in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 1,452 ff. when Apollo has just slain monstrous Python and ————— 24 25 26
See DNP s.v. Didyma (∆ίδυµα), 544 (K. Tuchelt). See Fontenrose 1988, 55. GCA 2004, 62 on 4,30 (98,19-23) notes the Hellenistic image; cf. Ovid, Amores 1,1.
22
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subsequently proudly as well as fiercely upbraids Cupid who is busy with his bow and arrows – such weapons aren’t for a boy (Apollo addresses him with the phrase lascive puer), who should be content with his torch. Cupid’s angry revenge (saeva Cupidinis ira) is effective and results in the pursuit and loss of Daphne. Later on, in her bid for universal power, Venus makes use of her armed son whom she addresses in the words (5,365) arma manusque meae, mea, nate, potentia (‘my son, mine only stay, my hand, mine honour and my might’) whereupon even the rex silentum is hit by Cupid’s arrow. Venus’ appeal to her son in Ovid has definite similarities with the appeal in Apuleius Met. 4,31. 8a. The first description of Cupid is given by the anus narratrix (4,30: 98,19 f.): et vocat confestim puerum suum pinnatum illum et satis temerarium, qui malis suis moribus contempta disciplina publica, flammis et sagittis armatus, per alienas domos nocte discurrens et omnium matrimonia corrumpens, impune committit tanta flagitia et nihil prorsus boni facit. ‘She quickly sent for her son, that winged and headstrong boy, who, with his bad character and his disdain for law and order, goes running about at night through other folk’s houses armed with flames and arrows, ruining everyone’s marriages, and commits the most shameful acts with impunity and accomplishes absolutely no good.’ This characterisation rather closely resembles the one given by Apollo in his oracle and one might be inclined to accept the narratrix’ verdict on Cupid’s character except for the fact that later on in the tale his personality turns out to be much more complex. Moreover the anus narratrix is a brilliant rhetorician who does not voice here her own characterisation of Cupid (whose name we have yet to learn), but one she knows Venus needs: 4,30 (98,24 f.) Hunc, quamquam genuina licentia procacem, verbis quoque insuper stimulat (‘even though he was naturally unrestrained and impudent, Venus verbally goaded him on even further’). Apollo – for unstated reasons – adds his own venom in his Latin translation of Venus’ wishes. Psyche on the other hand is prepared to translate Apollo’s oracle into terms she can deal with. With bitter sarcasm she says (4,34: 102,11 f.):
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Festino felices istas nuptias obire, festino generosum illum maritum meum videre. Quid differo, quid detrecto venientem, qui totius orbis exitio natus est? ‘I hasten to enter into this happy marriage, I hasten to see this high-born husband of mine. Why should I postpone and shun the coming of him who was born for the whole world’s ruin?’ Psyche’s reaction is wholly consistent with an acceptance of death. But in her reaction any reference to the element vipereum malum is lacking. Apollo indeed orders Psyche’s father to abandon his daughter on a rock. But at whose bidding does Apollo do so? Clearly he is not taking the terms of Venus’ request literally, nor for that matter Cupid’s. Indeed Venus’ request is addressed to Cupid who interprets it in his own disrespectful way after he has been shown this beautiful girl. 8b. In Apuleius Venus’ boy is winged and provided with fire and arrows;27 in Apollo’s oracle the vipereum malum is equally provided flamma et ferro; the true monsters – the sisters – admonish Psyche to provide herself with a flaming light and a sharp knife (5,20). It is noteworthy that the military metaphor used by the sisters suddenly becomes literally weapons in Psyche’s nervous hands, while her husband lies unarmed and sleeping (Mattiacci in AAGA II, 146). 9. Throughout the tale the reader/listener encounters snakes, serpents, dragons and even a gecko (5,30: 127,12). The contexts are admittedly varied, but the frequency is remarkable. The oracle itself uses the expression vipereum malum – a snakelike evil – which is presently provided with wings so as to be able to fly into the bedrooms of unsuspecting victims. In the sisters’ insistent amplificatio this snakelike evil becomes a huge and fearsome dragon threatening to devour Psyche’s child as soon as it is born. The sisters themselves are actually carriers of the vipereum virus as is pointed out by the anus narratrix and rightly emphasized in GCA (2004, 190 f.) on 5,12 (112,22 f.). Of course in Greek myth and Ovid’s use of its tales, serpents, snakes and dragons are commonplace and though often deadly dangerous, not always harbingers of evil. Thus Cadmus needs to slay a murderous dragon (and he does so in a way which is somewhat similar to the method ————— 27
Met. 4,30 (98,21) flammis et sagittis armatus; cf. 5,30 (127,19 f.).
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Psyche’s sisters advise her to use, see above under point 4.),28 but he himself is finally transformed into one of the non-murderous sort. A similar ambivalence may be noted in Apuleius’ use of the motif. But the anus narratrix has sufficient rhetorical know-how to let the danger or evil aspect depend on the character of the sub-narrator. 9a. In Ovid (Met. 3,8 ff.) Cadmus faces the dragon (a Martian one) as a derivative result of Apollo’s oracle – Apollo himself does not mention any dragon, but when Cadmus contemplates the serpent he has slain he hears a voice saying (3,97 f.) ‘quid, Agenore nate, peremptum /serpentem spectas? Et tu spectabere serpens’ (‘Agenor’s son,/ what gazest thus upon this snake? The time will one day come/ That thou thyself shalt be a snake’).29 Cadmus’ dragon has three tongues (3,34 tres…micant linguae) as have the serpents that guard the waters of Cocytus and Styx in Apuleius at 6,15 (140,5) trisulca vibramina draconum, but also the dragon that is supposed to protect Iason’s golden fleece (Ovid, Met. 7,150). 9b. Psyche is badly frightened by the description her sisters give of the beast ‘as seen by neighbours and passers-by’ (5,17). She does not have the presence of mind to ask: ‘what neighbours?’ and thus the characterisation (5,18: 117,11) ‘utpote simplex et animi tenella’ seems justified, all the more since she has to admit that she has never actually seen her lover/husband and has been warned against curiositas as to his vultus. Utpote …animi tenella in the immediate context means ‘easily taken in’, ‘easily persuaded’. In view of the later development of the tale I would prefer to avoid the term ‘innocent’. She appears less than innocent when she lies to her sisters, thus causing their deaths.30 Nevertheless she is regarded at 6,15 (139,10 f.) as an innocens anima: there it should be remembered that providentia must be interpreted as applicable in a particular situation; not as a general divine force. When the sisters describe the serpent (5,17: 116,16 f.), they paint immanem colubrum multinodis voluminibus serpentem’ (‘a monstrous snake
————— 28 29 30
See next section. Translations of Ovid are by A. Golding (edited by Madeleine Forey, 2001). Psyche tells her sisters of Cupid’s beauty and adds that he has divorced her in order to marry that sister; surely a revenge, but the decision to act on this lie is the responsibility of that sister.
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gliding with many-knotted coils’).31 The sisters continue: veneno noxio colla sanguinantem hiantemque ingluvie profunda (‘its bloody neck oozing noxious poison and its deep maw gaping wide’).32 Thus the sisters underscore the very point Psyche had glossed over in her acceptance of Apollo’s oracle. On the other hand there are some non-dangerous dragons and serpents; Cadmus has been mentioned above, but he plays no part in Apuleius’ tale. The dragons that pull Ceres’ wagon are mentioned in Psyche’s appeal to the goddess at 6,2 (130,9); Jupiter’s disguise in serpentes is referred to at 6,22 (145,13). The reference is elucidated in Arachne’s tapestry at Ovid’s Met. 6,114. In this context the stelio is rather interesting.33 In Ovid (Met. 5,446 ff.) the gecko is the result of a transformation effected by Ceres who is angered because a young boy tauntingly accuses her of greediness.34 The metamorphosis essentially consists in a process of diminution: the gecko is rather like a dragon in miniature. Here in Apuleius Venus sarcastically asks whether she needs the help of Sobrietas – her enemy and in a sense also the opposite of Aviditas.35 If the Ovidian metamorphosis has an echo in Venus’ use of stelio, the huge serpent/dragon described by Psyche’s sisters has suddenly become a very small crook in Venus’ angry outburst. In general: the description or even just the naming of the snakes/serpents/ dragons is entirely dependent on the viewpoint involved or implied. 10. The link with Apollo, the Greek, and indeed Ionian, god who is speaking Latin in Didyma near Miletus lies in the fact that the conditor Milesiae em————— 31
32
33
34
35
Cf. Ovid Met. 3,41 ille volubilibus squamosos nexibus orbes/torquet… (‘the speckled serpent straight/ comes trailing out in waving links and knotty rolls of scales’). Cf. Ovid Met. 3,49 hos necat adflatu funesti tabe veneni (‘and others some again/ he stings and poisons unto death till all at last were slain’). Cf. Venus’ angry complaint in 5,30 (127,12) quibus modis stelionem istum cohibeam? ‘How am I going to repress this gecko?’ (see GCA 2004, 344 f. ad loc. on stelio as a term of abuse). In Ov. Met. 5,460-461, the Muse offers an aetiology of the name stellio: aptumque colori / nomen habet variis stellatus corpora guttis (‘he … took a name to fit the disgrace of a body starred with varied spots’, tr. D.E. Hill); see D.E. Hill 1992, 159-160 ad loc. Cf. Apul. Met. 5,30 (127,12 f.) ‘petamne auxilium ab inimica mea Sobrietate, quam propter huius ipsius luxuriam offendi saepius?’ (‘should I ask for help from my enemy Temperance, whom I have so often offended precisely because of my son’s extravagance?’). See GCA 2004, 345 ad loc. and cf. 6,22 (145,1 f.).
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ploys the same type of metamorphic reflection he ascribes to his anus narratrix.36 11. At 6,14–15 the dragons guarding the Stygian waters are described with phrase trisulca vibramina (cf. 9a) – as in Vergil their tongues are split showing three (thin) trembling prongs:37 they are just as trilingual as the conditor milesiae is said to have been. 12. It is not impossible that the conditor Milesiae, i.e. Apuleius, visited Asia Minor. In De mundo 17 he – the concrete author whatever Bitel’s objections to the term – adds a passage (not in peri kosmou) concerning an oracle near Hierapolis, where fumes of a deadly dangerous type, not unlike those at Delphi, produce the predictions.38 Beaujeu (1973, 326) ad loc. notes that there is no independent confirmation of such a visit. Do we need such confirmation? Bibliography AAGA II = M. Zimmerman et al., Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Volume II: Cupid & Psyche. A collection of original papers, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Beaujeu, J. (ed., tr., comm.). 1973. Apulée. Opuscules philosophiques (Du dieu de Socrate, Platon et sa doctrine, Du monde) et fragments, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Bitel, A. 2000–2001. ‘Quis ille Asinus Aureus? The Metamorphoses of Apuleius’ Title’, AN 1, 208–244. Bitel, A. 2003. Review of Van Mal-Maeder 2001, AN 3, 185–197. Clarke, K. 2001. ‘Prologue and Provenance: Quis ille? Or Unde ille?’, in: Kahane–Laird (edd.), 101–110. Dowden, K. 2001. ‘Prologic, Predecessors, and Prohibitions’, in: Kahane–Laird (edd.), 123– 136. Fontenrose, J.E. 1988. Didyma: Apollo’s Oracle, Cult and Companions, Berkeley: University of California Press.
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37
38
For a link between Apollo and ‘serpent-like’ appearances cf. Met. 1,4, where the snake dance of the contortionist conjures up the symbol of Asclepius (diceres dei medici baculo … serpentem generosum lubricis amplexibus inhaerere [‘you would have said it was the noble serpent clinging in its slippery embrace to the Physician-God’s staff’]), son of Apollo and one of Apuleius’ favourite deities (cf. Flor. 18,37). Notably, Apuleius uses the adjective generosus (‘noble’, ‘high-born’ ) both of the serpens in 1,4 (4,12) and of Cupid in 4,34 (102,12) generosum illum maritum and 5,29 (126,20) te solum generosum (see GCA 2004, 103 on 4,34: 102,12 generosum). See GCA 2004, 483 on Apul. Met. 6,15 (140,5) trisulca uibramina draconum, comparing Verg. Aen. 2,475 and georg. 3,439 linguis micat ore trisulcis. Cf. GCA 2004, 499 on Met. 6,18 (141,19) spiraculum Ditis.
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GCA 1977 = Hijmans, B.L. Jr. et al., Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses. Book IV 1–27. Text, Introduction, and Commentary, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis. GCA 1995 = Hijmans, B.L. Jr. et al., Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses IX. Text, Introduction, and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 2000 = Zimmerman, M., Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses X. Text, Introduction, and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 2004 = Zimmerman, M. et al., Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses. Books IV 28–35, V and VI 1–24: The Tale of Cupid and Psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Golding, A. 2001. Ovid’s Metamorphoses, translated by Arthur Golding. Edited, with an Introduction and Notes by Madeleine Forey, Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Hanson, J.A. (ed., tr.). 1989. Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 2 vols., Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press. Harrison, S.J. 1998. ‘The Milesian Tales and the Roman Novel’, GCN 9, 61–73. Harrison, S.J. 2002a. ‘Constructing Apuleius: The Emergence of a Literary Artist’, AN 2, 143–171. Harrison, S.J. 2002b. ‘Literary Topography in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: Paschalis– Frangoulidis 2002, 40–57. Helm, R. (ed.). 31931. Apulei Platonici Madaurensis Metamorphoseon Libri XI [3rd ed.], Leipzig: Teubner. Hill, D.E. 1992. Ovid, Metamorphoses V–VIII, ed. with transl. and notes by D.E. Hill, London: Aris & Phillips. Jensson, G. 2002. ‘The Satyrica of Petronius as a Roman Palimpsest’, AN 2, 86–122. Jensson, G. 2004. The Recollections of Encolpius. The Satyrica of Petronius as Milesian Fiction, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & the University Library (AN Supplementum, 2). Kahane, A., Laird, A. (edd.). 2001. A Companion to the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, Oxford: OUP. Mattiacci, S. 1998. ‘Neoteric and Elegiac Echoes in the Tale of Cupid and Psyche by Apuleius’, in: AAGA II, 127–150. Moreschini, C. 1994. Il mito di Amore e Psiche in Apuleio. Saggio, testo di Apuleio, traduzione e commento, Napoli: M. D’Auria. Parke, H.W. 1972. Greek Oracles, London: Hutchinson University Library (repr. from 1967). Parke, H.W. 1985. The Oracles of Apollo in Asia Minor, London: Croom Helm. Paschalis, M., Frangoulidis, S. (edd.). 2002. Space in the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & the University Library (AN Supplementum, 1). Rowling, J.K. 2005. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, London: Bloomsbury. Skutsch, O. 1985. The Annals of Q. Ennius, edited with introduction and commentary by Otto Skutsch, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Smith, W.S. 1998. ‘Cupid and Psyche Tale: Mirror of the Novel, in: AAGA II, 69–82. Van Mal-Maeder, D., Zimmerman, M. 1998. ‘The Many Voices in Cupid and Psyche’, in: AAGA II, 83–102. Zazoff, P. 1983. Die antiken Gemmen, München: Beck (Handbuch der Archäologie im Rahmen des Handbuchs der Altertumswissenschaft). Zimmerman, M. 2002. ‘On the road in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: Paschalis–Frangoulidis 2002, 78–97.
Riding the Waves of Passion: an Exploration of an Image of Appetites in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses1 G ARETH S CHMELING University of Florida, Gainesville S ILVIA M ONTIGLIO University of Wisconsin-Madison The interrelation of Lucius’ passions for food, hair, sex, and magic is signposted in the narrative by the recurrence of undulating movements. Moreover, similar images reappear emphatically in the description of Isis in book 11, a construct which bears out the continuity in Lucius’ journey between his passion for magic and his religious initiation. Our analysis of the image of the wave in the Metamorphoses will support the interpretation that Lucius’ initiation in book 11 is an evolvement, rather than an antithetical development, of his metamorphosis from man to ass in book 3. The motif of the wave of emotion has most recently been studied by Stephen Harrison, who analyses Apuleius’ exploitation of the epic metaphors of fluctus and aestus as signifiers of strong and often conflicting emotions.2 We shall focus on a different application of the image, the kind of metaphor which stands closer to the proper use of the word than to the figurative, the literal meaning of the word retaining its original visibility:3 waving hair, waving dresses, waving bodies, and their enticements. ————— 1
2 3
Maaike Zimmerman has for many years stood at the center of studies on the ancient novel. She has been a role-model for, and an avid supporter of, young scholars, and an inspiration to her colleagues all over the world. The combination of a keen mind, a warm heart, and a ready smile has won for her a legion of friends, among which I am delighted to number myself (GS). We wish to thank the editors of this volume for helpful suggestions. Harrison 2005. See also Murgatroyd 1995. On this kind of metaphor, see McLaughlin 1990, 84. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 28–41
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Lucius’ fascination with hair is well known, and it might reflect even Apuleius’ own: his lush hair was a bone of contention in his trial (Apologia 4,11–13), the prosecution allegedly claiming that it was a mark of beauty, and Apuleius that it was shaggy and unkempt.4 Though disparaging the state of his own hair, Apuleius goes to great length and rhetorical effort to describe it and perhaps ‘doth protest too much.’ He also discusses the presentation of male hair at Florida 3,8; 3,10; 15,7.5 Lucius’ own hair catches the reader’s attention via Byrrhena’s brief description of it at Met. 2,2,9: flavum et inadfectatum.6 After drawing a word-picture of Photis’ allurements (2,7), Lucius breaks off to give a long ekphrasis on the beauty and importance of a woman’s hair in general (2,8–9)7 before resuming his description of Photis, this time of her hair. The ekphrasis on hair fits within contemporary rhetorical set-pieces, such as descriptions of women’s hair in the ancient novel. Lucius praises hair as the main adornment for a woman, superior to robes, jewels, and even a perfect body. In this he would agree with St. Paul (1 Corinthians 11,15): ‘But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her.’ Lucius, however, has more sophisticated coiffures before his eyes: the ideal woman’s hair is anointed with perfumes and has deep and warm shades of color (2,8–9). By contrast, of Photis’ hair he does not admire the color. In fact he does not even mention it. In light of his admiration for hair color in the ekphrasis, as well as of a literary stereotype going as far back as Homer (for instance in the epithet in Il. 15,133 xanthos Menelaos; Il. 1,197 Achilles has blond hair and at 2,673–674 is called the most handsome of the Greeks; Od. 13,399 Odysseus has blond hair; surprisingly so has Dido in Aeneid 4,590),8 the lack of any reference to the color of Photis’ hair is intriguing. ————— 4
5
6
7 8
See Walsh 1970, 152; Englert/Long 1972, 236–237; Hunink 1997, vol. 2, ad loc.; Harrison 2000, 53. See the comm. of Hunink 2001, 144 on Florida 15,7 and see Hilton 2001, 155 for a lively translation. That the beauty of hair or the lack thereof on men is discussed with some frequency in the early centuries A.D., see Petronius Sat. 109,8–10 for a poem referred to as a capillorum elegidarion; Suetonius Dom. 18 recalls that Domitian was sensitive about his baldness and wrote a tract de Cura Capillorum; in his Encomium on Baldness, Synesius preserves the short essay of Dio Chrysostom Encomium on Hair. All references to the text of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses follow Robertson (1940–45). For Byrrhena’s description of Lucius’ appearance see Keulen in the present volume. See van Mal-Maeder (2001, 159–180), and her article on ekphraseis in this volume. Lucius’ own hair, as we have seen, is praised at 2,2,9 for being flavum; van Mal-Maeder 2001, 76–77. Celebrating blondness is such a commonplace that it appears even in lower-
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Rather than being taken by its color, Lucius is seduced by its casualness and, in particular by its unkempt waves loosely tied in a simple knot. Again in sharp contrast with the ekphrasis, which ends with the identification of hair and ornament (nisi capillum distinxerit, ornata non possit audire), Photis’ hair derives its grace from an inornatus ornatus.9 Its disorderly exuberance is conveyed by such terms as dependulos and sensimque sinuato patagio residentes. Hair flowing with a natural waviness is considered a token of beauty in Greek and Roman antiquity. Though a how-to manual such as Ovid’s Ars Amatoria realistically suggests that different hairdos suit different faces (3,133–168), and though wealthy Roman women tended to follow the latest fashion,10 idealized pictures of female beauty consistently privilege naturally wavy hair. This preference is manifest in the ancient novels. Both Xenophon of Ephesus and Heliodorus picture their heroines as gifted with flowing locks. Thus Anthia’s hair is ‘golden — a little of it plaited, but most hanging loose and blowing in the wind’ (1,2).11 Likewise Charicleia boasts of hair ‘neither tightly plaited nor yet altogether loose: where it hung long down her neck, it cascaded over her back and shoulders, but on her crown and temples, where it grew in rosebud curls golden as the sun, it was wreathed with soft shoots of bay that held it in place and prevented any unseemly blowing in the breeze’ (Heliod. 3,4).12 ————— 9
10 11 12
class epitaphs, as in the one of Allia Potestas (aurata capillis): CIL 6,37965,17. On this inscription see Horsfall 1985. inornatus ornatus Lipsius in Oudendorp (1786): inordinatus ornatus F, edd. The reading of F mixes the ‘cosmic’ [inordinatus is regularly used for celestial bodies but never applied to hair; Lipsius adduced de Mundo 2 inordinatum … ordinem servant (stellae)] with the ‘cosmetic’ (ornatus). But inornatus ornatus responds perfectly to the Greek expression κόσµος ἄκοσµος: ‘cosmic’ in AP 7,561,5–6, ‘cosmetic’ in AP 9,323,3. Lipsius grasped the parallels in the figura etymologica: inornatus ornatus ~ inordinatum … ordinem. Not only is inornatus used of loosely hanging hair [Ovid Met. 1,497–498; Tibullus 2,3,25–26; see also van Mal-Maeder 2001, 178–179], but together with ornatus reflects Apuleius’ fondness for paronomasia (Met. 5,1,6 domus sine pretio pretiosae; see Zimmerman et al. 2004, 120). Further, inornatus makes a better antithesis with operosus (sed in mea Photide non operosus, sed inornatus ornatus addebat gratiam). Apuleius often sets up an interplay of stylistic notions with concrete notions of ornament (hair-style); see Finkelpearl 1998, 62–63 (who, however, reads inordinatus). Cf. Callebat 1998, 177, who cites inordinatus ornatus as an example of oxymoron combined with antithesis. See Gross 1979. Translations from the Greek novels are those in Reardon 1989. See also Achilles Tatius 1,4: ‘light blond hair — blond and curly;’ 1,19: ‘her hair had more natural curls than spiral ivy.’
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These descriptions, however, share only partial traits with Lucius’: neither Anthia or Charicleia has unkempt hair. Moreover, the natural movement of their hair is only one aspect of its beauty. Color is as important, and tresses replace the simple knot on Photis’ head.13 The description of Charicleia’s hair in particular calls to mind the image of the Grace Pulchritudo in Botticelli’s Primavera. As Edgar Wind has finely noted,14 the three Graces, whom Vasari named (from left to right) Pleasure, Chastity and Beauty, allegorize contemporary Neoplatonic ideals by means of their demeanors, dresses, and hairdos: Pleasure leans forward, wears a richly draped and flowing robe and very luxuriant hair, a part of which is loosely bound in serpentine knots; Chastity stands discreetly and wears a suitably plain dress and neatly plaited hair; Beauty, who Neoplatonically represents the synthesis and the culmination of the triad, wears hair which is neither too loose nor too tight. Photis’ hair seems to resemble Pleasure’s rather than Beauty’s: it is voluptuous, exuberant, and loosely bound. As we shall see, the knot, probably meant to prevent her hair from falling into the pot which she is stirring, also has a clear symbolic meaning, for Photis will ‘bind’ Lucius by erotic and magic charms. Indeed, the spectacle of Photis’ hair has an unbearably erotic effect on Lucius. Unable to endure any longer ‘the excruciating torture of such intense pleasure’ (voluptatis eximiae),15 he plants a kiss on her neck, exactly where her hair rises. Another important difference between the description of the hair of Photis and that of the heroines of other ancient novels is that in the latter case, the beautiful movement of the hair matches the equally beautiful movement of a long dress and jewels (as in the description of life-like serpents encrusted on a gold band around Charicleia’s breast in Heliodorus 3,4), whereas Photis’ undulating hair is complemented not by the flowing movement of an ornate robe but by the undulations of her body. Xenophon and Heliodorus combine hair and clothes into dress. Lucius, on the other hand, in his ekphrasis at 2,8–9 claims that hair is the only true dress for a woman. To be stripped of hair is tantamount to being stripped of clothes (2,8,5: si … caput ————— 13
14 15
Contra: van Mal-Maeder 2001, 182, who sees more similarities between Photis’ and Charicleia’s hair. We find her reference to Horace, Odes 2,11,23–24 more relevant for the description of Photis’ hair: incomptum Lacaena / more comae religata nodum (the subject is a scortum). See the comments of Nisbet/Hubbard 1978. Wind 1968, 113–119. The translations of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses are from Hanson 1989.
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capillo spoliaveris et faciem nativa specie nudaveris). A woman might wish to take off her clothes to show her beauty, but should she remove her hair, not even as Venus would she appeal to Vulcan. Lucius is fantasizing about a naked woman adorned only by her hair. Photis will turn out to be just such a woman. But let us first take up Lucius’ description of Photis immediately prior to his ekphrasis on hair. This description directs the reader both to the enticing smell of food and to the equally enticing movement of Photis’ body in the preparation of it. The dominant note in her movement is again undulation. She is wearing only a tunic, and Lucius, as it were, sees through it. His eye is entirely captured by the sinuous rotations and shaking of her limbs, hips, and spine; undabat, the last word in the description, sums up the scene. The effect on Lucius is so strongly erotic that in the end he imagines Photis stirring the pot no longer with her hands, as at the beginning (2,7,3 vasculum floridis palmulis rotabat in circulum), but with her buttocks: quam pulchre … ollulam istam cum natibus intorques (2,7,5). The ambivalent cum natibus, ‘by means of which’ as well as ‘together with,’ suggests that Lucius has come to identify the preparation of food with the undulation of Photis’ lower body.16 Photis’ undulating body parts are put into a frame of reference of food preparation, the description of which provides a transparent disguise for hors d’oeuvre as sexual foreplay (2,7,3-6): cibarium vasculum floridis palmulis rotabat in circulum … inquam ‘Photis mea, ollulam istam cum natibus intorques … felix et certius beautus, cui permiseris illuc digitum intingere.’ A vasculum is a small vessel (vas) with two handles, which Photis turns with her hands and shakes, but it quickly becomes an ollulam … cum natibus. It seems that the vasculum, ‘with the ansae perhaps suggestive of the testicles,’17 is transferred by Apuleius from its reference to a male sexual organ to the female: the concave shape of the vasculum overrides its usual meaning of a male tool with two testicles, and then further it is transferred to an ollulam = cunnus,18 with two natibus. The playfulness of words is contrived here to allow Lucius to employ a consistent erotic image of body parts ————— 16
17 18
On cum with the ablative of instrument/accompaniment/manner, see Hofmann/Szantyr 1965, 126, 259. The rotating movement of Photis’ buttocks recalls various dance-figures performed by courtesans, which involve the gyration of the lower body; see McClure 2003, 121. See Adams 1982, 41. See Adams 1982, 29.
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and parts of meals leading to his concluding statement that ‘it would be a lucky man to whom you would grant the right to dip his finger there’ — and thus get a taste of your cooking. For now Lucius is not suggesting full-blown sex, but just a little appetizer of the main course which he would taste by dipping his finger into it. Both Photis and Lucius enjoy the foreplay in the vocabulary of hors d’oeuvre, and both are emphatic about extending the duration of that foreplay. Photis says to Lucius (2,7): discede … procul a meo foculo, discede, and Lucius takes to delivering a long ekphrasis on hair (2,8–9), and then goes off to Milo’s table (2,11–15) — where we learn that Photis serves the food (2,11) but not that anyone eats it or what it tastes like. Photis’ comments on the long foreplay and on Lucius’ mounting eagerness at 2,10, when he kisses her hair, dulce et amarum gustulum carpis, indicate even more sexual appetizers. When, however, at 2,15 Lucius finds food and wine in his room, which again he refers to as appetizers before Venus’ gladiatorial games (gladiatoriae Veneris antecenia), the hors d’oeuvre have been stretched as far as possible, and the cena is about to be served. In his lengthy description of foreplay as hors d’oeuvre, which whet the appetite for the banquet to come, Apuleius seems to have Petronius’ Satyrica in mind. Petronius at 24,7 in a pervigilium Priapi describes sex as a meal with many courses: Quartilla employs the word vasculum to describe a youth’s sexual organ and then adds a somewhat dark reference to an asellus: pertracto vasculo tam rudi ‘haec’ inquit ‘belle cras in promulside libidinis nostrae militabit, hodie enim post asellum diaria non sumo’ (Then she slipped her hand into his clothes and felt his immature tool. ‘Tomorrow this will serve nicely as hors d’oeuvre to tempt my appetite,’ she said. ‘For the present, I don’t want any ordinary stuffing after such a nice cod-piece.’19). Apuleius must have smiled at the use of vasculum and courses of food to indicate ever more serious sexual levels but then laughed out loud at post asellum diaria non sumo. To Petronius asellus is a person who like an ass has an uncommonly large sexual appetite: Priapea 52,9–10; Juvenal 9,92. When Quartilla mentions asellus, she is probably referring to a recent coupling with Ascyltus who is described (Petron. 92,9) as having huge sexual equipment. At Met. 10,22,1 Apuleius has a matrona quaedam seek out Lucius the ass, because he has a vastum genitale, after which (post asellum) everyday fare will not measure up. ————— 19
Translated by Sullivan 1986.
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Lucius and Photis have been provisioning the ‘Ship of Venus’ (navigium Veneris, 2,11,3) with food and wine to prepare for their sexual journey. The image of the ‘Ship of Venus,’ which casts sex itself (rather than its appetizers) as a wavy movement, is a variation on the familiar metaphor of ‘the sea of love.’20 An interesting elaboration of this image appears in Achilles Tatius’ novel (5,16,2–8). Clitophon and Melite, who are sailing to Ephesus after their wedding, disagree on the suitability of a ship for sex. The reluctant man claims that a ship is unfit for the consummation of their gamos: ‘Do you wish to have a wedding-bed that moves?’ he asks Melite. We are reminded of Odysseus’ unmovable bed, carved from an olive-tree still rooted in the soil, a bed that stays firm (empedon) unless its base is cut off (Odyssey 23,203–204). The stability of the wedding-bed signifies the stability of marriage. Melite, in contrast, argues that a ship is the ideal setting for sex, because Aphrodite was born from the sea, and she even finds features of the ship to be emblems of marriage. The Ship of Love of Lucius and Photis is about to sail on rolling waves. When the lovers finally meet at night, more undulating movements — this time of both Photis’ body and her hair — animate their erotic encounter (2,16–17). Pained by a penis stretched as tightly as a bow-string about to break, the first favor Lucius asks Photis is not to relieve his tension but to loosen her hair and then to embrace him ‘with your hair rippling like waves’ (capillo fluenter undante). Photis herself is a creature of the sea, a Venus just rising from the waves (quae marinos fluctus subit). Like the woman of his fantasy, she has only her undulating — and still colorless — hair as dress: ‘Having stripped herself of all her clothes and let down her hair …’ The movement of her body in love-making repeats the movement of her hair as it first appeared to Lucius (2,17,4 pendulae Veneris of her body; see dependulos of her hair at 2,9,7; super me sensim residens of her body; see sensimque sinuato patagio residentes of her hair at 2,9,7).21 Photis’ hair waves and sprawls over her shoulders just as her body waves and sprawls over Lucius. The movement of her body in love-making also repeats the sinuous motion ————— 20
21
On the metaphor, see Murgatroyd 1995; Ieranò 2003 develops intriguing parallels between the exploitation of this image in classical literature and in more modern traditions. Elsewhere in the Metamorphoses, pendulus connotes erotic lubricity: it describes Cupid’s curls viewed through the eyes of Psyche (pendulos at 5,13,3, alios antependulos, alios retropendulos at 5,22,5), as well as the hair of the cinaedi priests of the Syrian goddess (8,24,2 and 8,27,5), and of the beautiful widow at 2,23. The adjective itself has an obscene meaning when applied to the membrum virile; see Adams 1982, 57.
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of her limbs, as she is preparing that delicious food (see especially mobilem spinam quatiens at 2,17,4, repeating spinam mobilem quatiens placide decenter undabat at 2,7,3).22 The description of the swinging/undulating motion of Photis’ body, as she begins to make love to Lucius (2,17), super me sensim residens … mobilem spinam quatiens, pendulae Veneris, apparently reproduces a popular representation of sex and is strikingly similar (Apuleius borrows once again from Petronius or from a common source) in spirit and detail to the scene in the Satyrica 140,7–9, where the swinging motion of the coupled bodies of Philomela’s daughter and Eumolpus is referred to as a game called oscillatio: puellam quidem exoravit ut sederet super commendatam bonitatem … sic inter mercennarium amicamque positus senex veluti oscillatione ludebat (‘… he begged the girl to sit on top of the upright nature to which she had been entrusted … Placed in this way between his servant and his lady friend the old man looked as though he was playing on a swing.’). Jacobelli 1995, Tav. II provides photographs from Pompei of just such a pendula Venus or oscillatio.23 The story of Cupid and Psyche emphasizes the allurement of wavy movements of hair and body by attributing opposite qualities to the unappealing husbands of Psyche’s sisters: one is ‘balder than a pumpkin’ (5,9,8), the other, plagued by arthritis, has fingers so duratos (5,10,2) that he could not ‘dip them into any pot,’ as Lucius undoubtedly can (2,7); quite the opposite, that arthritic husband hardly ever pays tribute to his wife’s Venus.24 Photis’ undulating movements, however, cause a very different kind of stiffness on Lucius. P.G. Walsh comments that ‘Photis enchants [our emphasis] the hero with her physical attractions …’.25 The description of Photis’ attractions ends with undabat, and the magic of her charms renders Lucius defixus, stunned by magic, and immobile (obstupui et mirabundus steti) except for his member which ‘stands at attention’ (steterunt et membra, a pun: steti/steterunt). The first words he is able to utter are again a fantasy on the powers of Photis’ gyrating body, and in particular of her buttocks which, as we have seen, to Lucius’ eyes seem to be stirring the pot. The references to ————— 22 23 24
25
For the repetition, see van Mal-Maeder 2001, 151. See also the Appendix II in van Mal-Maeder 2001, 413–415, with further references. Cf. Met. 5,10,1 rarissimo venerem meam recolentem, with Zimmerman et al. 2004, 173 ad loc. See Walsh 1970, 152.
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agitating motion continue when Photis adds in conclusion, connecting food and sex: ‘I know how to shake (quatere) a pot and a bed to equal delight.’ The next woman whom Lucius sees naked is Pamphile (3,21). Like Photis, she is shaking her limbs (3,21,4 membra tremulo succussu quatit) in fluctuating movements (3,21,5 fluctuantibus). This spectacle elicits the same response in Lucius as his viewing of Photis’ undulating body while she cooks (3,22,1 stupore defixus; see 2,7,4 defixus obstupui). This identical response connects Lucius’ erotic passion and his passion for magic. He had already identified these two appetites when he had begged Photis to introduce him into the secret world of magic. He had called himself magiae noscendae ardentissimus cupitor (3,19,4) and acknowledged her role as both lover and magician: Photis is no inexperienced practitioner of magic, since she initiated him into the pleasures of a woman’s embraces, which he had formerly spurned, to the point where he no longer plans to go home (3,19,6). She turns out to be a reincarnation of Homer’s Circe, the only attraction who makes Odysseus forget his journey home.26 The connection between Lucius’ erotic passion and his passion for magic is brought to the forefront again in his reply to Photis’ concern for his possible lack of faithfulness. He swears, quite uncommonly, by her hair, and more precisely per dulcem istum capilli tui nodulum, quo meum vinxisti spiritum (3,23,2; see in summum verticem nodus astrinxerat, 2,9,7).27 The binding is both erotic and magical. The third woman who has the power to render Lucius defixus is Isis: after he recovers human shape, he stands stupore nimio defixus (11,14,1). Lucius’ experience of Isis closely resembles his experience of Photis. In addition to leaving him spellbound, it has the long-lasting effect of alienating him from his home. We have just seen that Photis/Circe makes him forgetful of his journey home. Similarly Lucius finds it very difficult to break the bonds of his longing for the goddess and go back home (11,24) — where he ————— 26
27
Odyssey 10,472. See Montiglio 2005, 58–61. Lucius’ description of Photis’ hair can be read as an expansion of the Homeric epithet kalliplokamoio, which is applied to Circe (Odyssey 10,220). Another feature which Photis shares with Circe is her active role in love-making: just as Circe takes the initiative, Photis sits on top and ‘plays the boy’ to an exhausted Lucius (3,20,4. The meaning of puerile corollarium is not clear, but doubtlessly Photis is the one who takes the initiative). Van der Paardt 1971, 172 lists no other such oaths for nodulum/capilli and comments on the magic power of knots/binding. On the magic power of knots, see also Unnik 1947, 84. Pamphile’s love-charm at 3,18,2 involves the tying of hair in a knot.
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will stay only briefly, the goddess urging him after a few days to leave again, this time for Rome. Like Photis, Isis is characterized by images of waviness. As she appears to Lucius in a dream, the first feature that he admires is her hair: iam primum crines … (11,3,4). As has been noted,28 this obsession for hair and the description of Isis’ hair which follows hark back to the scene in which Lucius is equally taken by Photis’ hair.29 Both descriptions emphasize the flowing of the woman’s hair: Isis’ is loosely spread over her neck in thick curls.30 Her dress waves like her hair — and like Photis’ body. The latter association is suggested by verbal echoes: dependula and especially decoriter confluctuabat, which resonate with decenter undabat describing the movement of Photis’ body stirring the pot at 2,7. Isis’ dress is graced by the same sensuality as Photis’ body (see also perfluebat ambitus at 11,4,1). Griffiths 1975, 54 comments that Isis’ ‘epiphany and image in chs. 3–4 is lusciously sensuous.’ The recurrence of the image of the wave in the description of Isis might be grounded in her cultic connection with the sea. Isis carries a boat-shaped object (11,4), and she herself highlights her function as the protector of sailors when she orders Lucius to join the holy procession which opens the sailing season (11,5–6; see 11,17).31 An untried keel will be dedicated to the goddess ‘as the first fruits of voyaging.’ Among the sacred objects carried by the initiates there is a lamp fashioned like a boat with a large flame at its center (11,10,3).32 The image of the wave, however, because of its sensual connotations in the Metamorphoses, also brings out elements of eroticism in Lucius’ initiation. The initiation stands in a relationship of continuity with, rather than of opposition to, his erotic passion for Photis leading to his discovery of magic. Lucius’ experience of Isis is described in language similar to that of his introduction to magic: then (3,15,5) he is asked to keep (custodias) his knowledge of magic locked in ‘the inner temple of your god-fearing heart (religiosi pectoris tui penetralibus);’ now (11,25,6) he will store the ————— 28 29
30
31 32
See Englert/Long 1972–73; van Mal-Maeder 2001, 21–22; 259. We might look at Delia in Tibullus 1,3, in which she is portrayed as a devotee of Isis who worships the deity (1,3,31) resoluta crines and thus also stirs the emotions of Tibullus, as a general model for the religious follower = erotic partner = woman with unbound hair. Griffiths 1975, 123–124 notes that Isis’ coiffure can show hair that is ‘thickly entwined’ or ‘tresses falling loosely on the shoulders …’ On Isis’ connection with the sea, sailors, and boats, see Griffiths 1975, 31–37. Though it is not specified that the boat belongs to Isis, it is very likely, because the boat is the first cultic object mentioned in a procession celebrating her mysteries.
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ineffable image of the goddess ‘in the secret places of my heart (intra pectoris mei secreta), forever guarding (custodiens) it and picturing it to myself.’ Moreover, as Danielle van Mal-Maeder points out, the parallels between the descriptions of Photis’ and Isis’ hair suggests thematic continuity.33 Lucius’ expression of devotion for Isis at 11,25 can indeed be read, with Carl Schlam, ‘as an ironic echo… of Lucius’ earlier remark on his policy of contemplating the beauty of a woman’s head of hair.’34 Just as he was accustomed first to contemplate a woman’s hair in public, then to enjoy it at home (2,8,2), he will picture the ineffable image of the goddess in the recesses of his heart. Faced with the difficulty of giving voice to an unspeakable spiritual joy, Lucius remembers his private erotic enjoyment of a woman’s most appealing feature. The continuity between Lucius’ erotic passion and his religious experience is enhanced by another implicit connection between Photis and Isis through their shared association with Venus rising from the waters. As we have seen, Photis is compared to Venus at 2,17,1. Isis, like Photis/Venus, also rises from the sea (11,3,2). It is not by chance that Venus makes a glamorous appearance in the pantomime scene at 10,32,3, shortly before Isis appears to Lucius. And we are not surprised to discover that here Venus advances with undulating movement: leniter fluctuante spinula, an unmistakable echo of spinam mobilem quatiens placide decenter undabat and mobilem spinam quatiens, which describe Photis’ swirling body at 2,7 and 2,17. Finally, Photis’ pot and indeed the very stirring of it (2,7,3 vasculum floridis palmulis rotabat in circulum) are reinterpreted as one of Isis’ cult objects, itself a vasculum, and one ‘rounded like a breast’ (11,10,6 in modum papillae rotundatum). Into a cult whose leader is closely connected with images of waves, even transvestites who walk ‘with a swirling gait’ (11,8,2 incessu perfluo) are admitted. So what about the end of the Metamorphoses, where Lucius, the hero gifted with flavum et inaffectatum capillitium (2,2,9) and obsessed with women’s hair and its waves, walks out of the narrative, proud (gaudens) of his baldness, to meet (obvio) his next challenge? Might this scene suggest a radical change in the young man’s and in Apuleius’ values, in keeping with
————— 33 34
See van Mal-Maeder 2001, 22. See Schlam 1980, 133.
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their new-found religion? Probably not.35 As Stephen Harrison has amply demonstrated, Apuleius in the Metamorphoses is not promoting the Isis-cult but displaying his intimate knowledge of it.36 Apuleius’ playfulness in treating the motif of mystical silence emphasizes his unrelenting epideictic exuberance. At 11,23,5 Lucius first refuses to speak of forbidden rites, but then says: ‘Since your suspense, however, is perhaps (forsitan) a matter of religious longing, I will not continue to torture you and keep you in anguish.’ Though he claims that his descriptions are no longer meant to satisfy the reader’s curiosity, he hardly observes the secrecy that the cult requires, and justifies his decision to speak openly by mocking the reader’s truest motives for wanting to be privy to secret knowledge: perhaps you want to hear my story owing to your religious feelings — but perhaps for less elevated reasons. Lucius himself admits to having broken the rule of silence: ‘Behold, I have told you things which perforce you may not know, although you have heard them.’ Within such an interpretive framework Lucius’ display of baldness is simply a feature of the Isis-cult, knowledge of which Apuleius is proud to display. It does not mean that Apuleius has renounced his passion for hair. Instead, we would like to suggest that the emphasis on baldness in the final scene indicates that the Metamorphoses is over. A narrative that has sprawled ivy-like from story to story, as luxuriant and undulating as the hair which Lucius so much admires, is cut off at the same time as his own hair.37 ————— 35
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Contra: Englert and Long 1972, 239, who argue that Lucius’ initiation brings about a ‘total release’ from his earliest vices, the latter being epitomized by his obsession for hair, now cut: ‘freed from sexual bondage, he is freed also from what was the principal feature of his earlier condition: his obsession with hair.’ Hunink 1997, vol. 2, 25 follows this interpretation. Nethercut 1969, 128 thinks along similar lines: ‘That the attractions hair holds for Lucius now belong to Isis underlines the transference of his affections and may be thought to point up his conversion from one manner of living to another, drastically opposed’ (our emphasis). As we have noted, however, the sensuality of Isis’ hair speaks rather in favor of a continuity between Lucius’ erotic drive and his religious experience. Contrary to Nethercut 127, we think that Lucius’ initiation does not even entail a vow of chastity, but only the observance of periods of chastity. Apuleius calls them castimonia (11,6,7; 11,19,3). As Griffiths 1975, 291 indicates, castimonia are periods ‘of abstinence from food and sexual intercourse,’ and castimoniorum abstinentiam at 11,19,3 is translated by him (p. 273) as ‘abstinence consisting of rules of chastity.’ The plural indeed suggests ritual rules, not a permanent condition. See Harrison 2000, 226 and 243. For a different reading of Lucius’ baldness at the end of the Met. see James and O’Brien in this volume.
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Bibliography Adams, J.N. 1982. The Latin Sexual Vocabulary, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Callebat, L. 1998. ‘Formes et modes d’expression dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée’, in: L. Callebat, Langages du roman latin, Hildesheim–Zürich–New York: Olms, 123–180 (originally appeared in ANRW II 34.2, 1616–1664). Englert, J., Long, T. 1972. ‘Functions of Hair in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, CJ 68, 236–239. Finkelpearl, E. 1998. Metamorphosis of Language in Apuleius. A Study of Allusion in the Novel, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Griffiths, J. Gwyn. 1975. Apuleius of Madauros: the Isis-Book (Metamorphoses, Book XI), Edited with an Introduction, Translation and Commentary, Leiden: Brill. Gross, W.H. 1979. ‘Haartracht’, Der Kleine Pauly, Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, coll. 897–899. Hanson, J.A., ed. and trans., 1989. Apuleius Metamorphoses, 2 vols., Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Harrison, S. 2000. Apuleius. A Latin Sophist, Oxford: OUP. Harrison, S. 2005. ‘“Waves of Emotion”: An Epic Metaphor in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: Harrison, S., Paschalis, M., Frangoulidis, S. (eds.), Metaphor in the Ancient Novel (Ancient Narrative, Suppl. 4), Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & The University Library Groningen, 163–176. Hofmann, J., Szantyr, A. 1965. Lateinische Syntax und Stilistik, Munich: Beck. Horsfall, N. 1985. ‘CIL VI 37965 = CLE 1988 (Epitaph of Allia Potestas): a Commentary’, ZPE 61, 251–272. Hunink, V. 1997. Apuleius of Madauros: pro se de Magia (Apologia), Edition and Commentary, 2. vols. Amsterdam: Gieben. Hunink, V. 2001. Apuleius of Madauros. Florida, Edited with a Commentary, Amsterdam: Gieben. Hilton, J.L. 2001. ‘Apuleius, Florida’, in: Stephen Harrison (ed.), Apuleius: Rhetorical Works, Translated and Annotated by Harrison, S., Hilton, J., and Hunink, V. Oxford: OUP, 121–176. Ieranò, G. 2003. ‘Il mare d’amore’, in: Belloni, L. et al. (eds.), L’officina ellenistica: poesia dotta e popolare in Grecia e a Roma, Trento: Università degli studi di Trento, Dipartimento di Scienze filologiche e storiche, 199–238 (Labirinti, 69). Jacobelli, L. 1995. Le pitture erotiche delle Terme Suburbane di Pompei, Roma: L'Erma di Bretschneider. Mal-Maeder, D. van. 2001. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Livre II, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. McClure, L. 2003. Courtesans at Table, New York: Routledge. McLaughlin, T. 1990. ‘Figurative Language’, in: Lentricchia, F., McLaughlin, T. (eds.), Critical Terms for Literary Study, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 80–90. Montiglio, S. 2005. Wandering in Ancient Greek Culture, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Murgatroyd, P. 1995. ‘The Sea of Love’, CQ 45, 9–25. Nethercut, W. 1969. ‘Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: the Journey’, AGON 3, 97–134. Nisbet, R.G.M. and Hubbard, M. 1978. A Commentary on Horace: Odes, Book 2, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
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Paardt, R.T. van der. 1971. L. Apuleius Madaurensis. The Metamorphoses: a Commentary on Book III with Text and Introduction, Amsterdam: Hakkert. Reardon, B.P., ed., 1989. Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley: University of California Press. Robertson, D., ed. 1940–45. Apulée les Métamorphoses, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Schlam, C. 1980. ‘Man and Animal in the Metamorphoses of Apuleius’, in: B.L. Hijmans et al. (eds.), Symposium Apuleianum Groninganum, Groningen: Klassiek Instituut van de Rijksuniversiteit, 115–139. Sullivan, J.P., trans., 1986. Petronius Satyricon, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Unnik, W.C. van 1947. ‘Les cheveux défaits des femmes baptisées: un rite de baptême dans l’ordre ecclésiastique d’Hippolyte’, Vigiliae Christianae 1, 77–100. Walsh, P.G. 1970. The Roman Novel, Cambridge: CUP. Wind, E. 1968. Pagan Mysteries in the Renaissance, New York: W.W. Norton. Zimmerman M., Panayotakis S., Hunink V., Keulen W.H., Harrison S.J., McCreight T.D., Wesseling B., van Mal-Maeder D. 2004. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Books IV,28 – VI,24. Cupid and Psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten.
A Tale of Two Texts: Apuleius’ sermo Milesius and Plato’s Symposium K EN D OWDEN University of Birmingham
Diotimae Groningensi charisterion Writing and speaking, dialogue and satire The man who invented the word ‘philosopher’, the divine Pythagoras, passed on to us the insight that seven was the number most fitting to religious observance (Met. 11,1). He did not, however, write this down, or indeed any other part of his teaching. Nor did Socrates, a man himself more perfect than any other and to whose wisdom the god Apollo himself testified (Soc. 17, Met. 10,33). Once, then, Socrates had left mankind (Plat. 1,3), Plato, a man with the same birthday as Apollo and Diana (Plat. 1,1), turned to writing philosophy and he did so in the form of dialogues, a choice that is – and was – by no means obvious. In the Seventh Letter, Plato (if it is him) is much concerned with the shortcomings of Dionysios. For Dionysios has written down the philosophy he supposes he has learnt from Plato and from others as ‘his own techne’ (341b), which suggests a didactic form, a closed system of information and instruction, in particular a rhetorical treatise. What follows is a statement which, if genuine, must bear on Plato’s choice of the dialogue form (341c– d): οὔκουν ἐµόν γε περὶ αὐτῶν ἔστιν σύγγραµµα οὐδὲ µήποτε γένηται· ῥητὸν γὰρ οὐδαµῶς ἐστιν ὡς ἄλλα µαθήµατα, ἀλλ’ ἐκ πολλῆς συνουσίας γιγνοµένης περὶ τὸ πρᾶγµα αὐτὸ καὶ τοῦ συζῆν ἐξαίφνης, οἷον ἀπὸ πυρὸς πηδήσαντος ἐξαφθὲν φῶς, ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ γενόµενον αὐτὸ ἑαυτὸ ἤδη τρέφει.
Lectiones Scrupulosae, 42–58
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So there is no writing of mine on the subject and there will not ever be, because it cannot just be enunciated like other disciplines. Instead, as a result of long conversation about the particular subject and sharing each other’s company, suddenly – like a spark of light from the leaping of a flame – something arises in the soul and can now make itself grow. It is out of the process of scrutiny and malice-free question-and-answer that the spark of understanding and intuition about each problem arises (344b). And the conclusion would apparently be justified that it is the function of Platonic dialogue, as a form of writing, to represent that ‘anagogic’ process.1 This brings us to a curious fact about the Metamorphoses observed by Irene de Jong. The opening of the novel may be regarded as being in dialogue form: she highlights the use of at to begin apparently in midconversation, the use of the second person pronoun in the phrase ego tibi and of the second-person demonstrative isto, and the apparent intrusion of a dialogue partner with quis ille (de Jong 2001, 202–203). She then considers how Platonic dialogues sometimes begin in mid-conversation and how the Symposium in particular provides a model for the repetition of a story already told, just as Aristomenes will repeat a tale for Lucius (1,2) and, we may add, Lucius is rehearsing his own story, the previously existing story of the Ass, for the Apuleian reader. The link to the Symposium for de Jong is a case of intertextuality and a ‘literary model’ (204). It is maybe a larger matter, however, that the Metamorphoses is initially marked as dialogue. The dialogue form, as was observed long ago by Leo (see de Jong 2001, 202) and in modern times by Jim Tatum (1979, 26), is reminiscent of the manner of some Roman satire, which in turn has its own links to the seriocomic communication strategy of some Hellenistic philosophers, notably Menippos. So, Horatian sermo, and Persius and Juvenal’s satiric manner, can hover tantalisingly between apostrophe and dialogue.2 To Menippos of course we owe prosimetric Menippean Satire, constantly leaping from one horse to another; and this in turn leads to the challenging, provocative and destabilising environment of Petronius’ Satyricon, as well as to the remark————— 1
2
anagogique, Thibau 1965, 94; the epanodos (95) is indifferently that of Psyche, Lucius, or the reader. For the characteristics that Apuleius’ narrator shares with the pose of the Roman satirist, such as a sermo with an imaginary audience or an apostrophe of the indignant moralist, see Zimmerman 2006, especially 99–100.
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able mirage half a century ago of Petronius as moralist and satirist.3 In different hands, a satiric method, much concerned with issues of moral and cultural authority, led to the never less than instructive disquisitions of Lucian. He too challenges the reader by bringing a world to life, registering its words and conflicts, sometimes expressly in dialogue form and always with an awareness of other, discordant, voices. Culture and values, whether moral or aesthetic, philosophical or rhetorical, attract dialogic presentation. Narrative structure and prologue It is not only the dialogic opening of the Metamorphoses but its whole structure that leads us back to Plato and to the Symposium. The method of frame and insertion4 in Apuleius has elicited comment over the years, whether on the basis of meaningfulness or of entertaining episodicity. However, on the middle ground, perhaps few would have difficulty with the idea that there is sufficient unity for the novel to function well for readers and there is a sense of theme and variations. In Merkelbach language,5 we might say, Den irdischen Erlebnissen des Lucius und der Charite entsprechen die mythischen der Psyche. Es ist ein einziges Grundthema, das uns in verschiedenen Variationen entgegentritt.6 But, whatever the precise way in which you join Lucius, Charite and Psyche, there is a clear sense of theme and variation, something which is fundamental to Apuleius’ metamorphic method throughout this novel.7 A remarkable precedent for this structure, with an authority all its own, is of course the presentation of the theme of eros through a varied sequence of discourses in the Symposium. What other texts suggested this structure? The origins of the Metamorphoses lie in the lost Metamorphoses of Loukios of Patrai, the Vorlage for both Apuleius’s novel and the Onos. The ————— 3 4
5 6 7
See Arrowsmith 1966. There is only the tale of Socrates to Aristomenes that is at one further level of depth in the hierarchy. Cf. Dowden 2005. Merkelbach 1962, 3, cited in the context of his discussion by Thibau 1965, 91 n. 5. Dowden 1993, esp. 96–107.
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Onos, however, lacks the inserted tales – unless §34 counts, with its brief report of the cataclysm that overwhelms the unnamed Charite and Tlepolemos. As for the Vorlage, we may argue over the extent to which it possessed inserted tales. It is possible that it had none and that it is Apuleius’ conception to introduce them. But the likeliest position is that the Vorlage, though it had some, had far, far fewer than Apuleius and it is a major part of Apuleius’ method to introduce new, thematically appropriate, stories into the frame.8 Thus the immediate origins of his text do not resolve the structural issue. Perhaps he was aware of some Greek novels, depending on how you date the Metamorphoses and the novels, but it is unlikely they provided him with this method. He could have known Antonius Diogenes’ Wonders beyond Thule9 – and Photios certainly thought that Antonius Diogenes influenced the Vorlage (Photios, Bibl. 111b fin.). However, though there are many instances of subordinate narration in Antonius Diogenes, they seem to result from re-ordering the plot, telling what is not yet known, rather than from insertion of separate stories. The Odyssey lies in the background of Apuleius’s text, as of the other novels. But Odysseus’ lying stories, Nestor’s cattle-raiding, the story of Meleager are not specially close. The nearest is the sequence of adventures that Odysseus tells to Alkinoös, a sequence influential on Hellenistic and Roman thinkers, who perceived in them a unity that perhaps Homer did not. The clearest and most sustained precedent in the immediate literary tradition is the Milesiae of Sisenna (or the Greek original of Aristeides). Apuleius’ own prologue pays curious homage to this text, with its avowal of ‘Milesian discourse’ (sermone isto Milesio) and its promise to enchant the ears (aures … permulceam), both surely drawn from the preface of the Milesiae,10 to judge by the well-known reference to Aristeides in Lucian, Amores 1:
————— 8
9
10
See Mason 1994, 1693–1695; Schlam 1992, 22–23. The corollary of Graham Anderson’s argument, there cited, that some inserted stories must have been cut out in order to reduce 2 books of Loukios to 1 book of the Onos, is that a good deal more must have been added to make the 11 books of Apuleius. Early date for Apuleius (150s): Dowden 1994; very early date for Antonius Diogenes (100–130): Bowie 2002, 58–61. Dowden 2001, 127.
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πάνυ δή µε ὑπὸ τὸν ὄρθρον ἡ τῶν ἀκολάστων σου διηγηµάτων αἱµύλη καὶ γλυκεῖα πειθὼ κατεύφραγκεν, ὥστ’ ὀλίγου δεῖν Ἀριστείδης ἐνόµιζον εἶναι τοῖς Μιλησιακοῖς λόγοις ὑπερκηλούµενος. As first light approached, the enticing and lovely persuasion of your unrestrained narratives utterly gladdened me, with the result that I almost thought I was Aristeides being enchanted by the Milesian stories (logoi). This work of Lucian’s11 is interesting in its own right too. This is a discussion of two varieties of love, male and female, perhaps somehow connected with the similar discussion at the end of Book 2 of the novel of Achilles Tatius, maybe an older contemporary of Apuleius.12 The reference indicates that the Milesiaka were current and well known at the time, something which also must be true in some sense of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (either the Sisenna text is current, or Aristeides’ original was). Both the Apuleian Metamorphoses and the Amores verbally echo Aristeides’ preface, and there is some similarity in the narrative strategy of the two texts. The Amores is characterised by the device of beginning in the middle of a conversation, the method as we have seen of the Symposium and the stance struck by Apuleius with his ‘inceptive’ at ego. And both present a sense of dialogue, together with the internal narration of stories. The Amores also displays striking intertextuality with Platonic dialogues and above all with the Symposium. Thematically the Amores is united by its discussion of the theme of eros and it reflects Plato throughout, constantly mentioning Socrates quite apart from anything else. It also engages with the model provided by the Symposium of a sequence of logoi trying to cast light on the nature of eros. The novel of Apuleius, philosophus Platonicus, belongs in the same network – dialogue, internal narration, Milesiaka, certain works of Plato. He has picked up the Vorlage, and increased its scale and ambition with considerably more inserted stories, in the manner of Aristeides-Sisenna. We cannot know how the Milesian Tales were organised, but Apuleius has certainly used them to produce a sequence of related stories, many of them on the theme of love or passion, many of them I-narrated. And in so doing his structure takes on overtones of the Symposium. It would make sense if he had seen the Amores first. He did after all write a Latin ————— 11
12
I see no reason to doubt its authenticity or believe the style to be obviously that of an ‘imitator’. Cf. Bowie 2002, 60–61, though I continue to doubt the late dating of the Metamorphoses.
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Amatorius or a Latin or Greek Erotikos,13 which must have been in this sort of area, perhaps following either these Amores or the Erotikos of Plutarch. Apuleius’ prologue may also point to Platonic method with the words varias fabulas conseram. The verb conseram must primarily be from consero ‘join together’, not just because of our concern to have Apuleius tell us his method of construction but also because it evidently reflects a use of συνυφαίνειν (‘weave together’) in the Vorlage.14 In the whole of the Companion to the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, only Paula James entertained the idea that we should in part think of the other consero, ‘sow plentifully’.15 In this case, as Thibau suggested (1965, 94), the sentence ‘I shall sow plentifully all sorts of stories’, as though we were scattering the seeds of every variety of plant or crop over the ground, forms an arresting metaphor, arresting enough to send us back to Plato (Phaedrus 276c): ἐν ὕδατι γράψει µέλανι σπείρων διὰ καλάµου µετὰ λόγων … Thus the writer is, remarkably, depicted in the language of the farmer, sowing with logoi (fabulae) and the calamus of the prologue is already present in this favourite Platonic text. But the discourse, logos or sermo, will be in a particular register – the Milesius, not the satiric or the Menippeus. This is, structurally, the Symposium metamorphosed into the manner of Sisenna-Aristeides. This sermo not only invites the reader into dialogue but requires challenge by the reader. As de Jong has observed (2001, 204), the opening of the Symposium plunges us into the prospect of repeating a story in the same way as Met. 1,2 with its two travellers encountered by Lucius – vigorously arguing as we meet them, just like the lead characters of Amores 5 (was there a model in Aristeides-Sisenna?).16 The two travellers of the Onos, it seems, have been given a more substantial agenda. Part of this agenda, as Winkler so powerfully demonstrated (1985, 27–37), is to raise the whole issue of the credibility of stories and, with it, the credibility of the Apuleian, or rather Lucius’s, narrative. This question of narrative adequacy is already present at the beginning of the Symposium, where the narrator, Apollodoros, tells how an acquaintance of his regarded the account given by Phoinix of the discussion of love at Agathon’s banquet as unsatisfactory (172b): οὐδὲν εἶχε σαφὲς ————— 13 14 15 16
Adapting Harrison 2000, 28. Photios Bibliotheca 129, with Scobie 1975, 65, 67–68. James 2001, 258. The connection of the Aristomenes story to the structural principles of the Symposium was made long ago by van der Paardt 1978, 82.
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λέγειν (‘he had nothing clear to say’). Apollodoros, then, is to give a better account, the one in front of the reader. It is however, itself, an indirect account. The narratology of this opening of the Symposium poses as many questions about the authenticity and reliability of a narration as does Met. 1,2. It is not enough for Lucius to reproduce entertaining stories, any more than it is in a Platonic dialogue: the reader must be alert, and aid in the reconstruction of the ‘true’ narrative. After Winkler it has been harder to believe in true narratives (1985, 200), but on the other hand Plato probably believed there was something beyond aporia, though he preferred to suggest rather than dictate, as we have seen. A Platonic Metamorphoses would not be a techne, but a dialogue to help the reader towards their own insights – not a huge distance from the world of Jack Winkler. Socrates and symposium The Socrates of the Symposium is in a sense present at the outset of our novel. Aristomenes’ story is about a Socrates. We find this one at evening in the baths (vespera oriente ad balneas processeram. ecce Socraten contubernalem meum conspicio, ‘as evening began I had gone to the baths. Lo and behold, I caught sight of my companion Socrates!’, 1,5–6). This beginning has strange echoes of the ending of the Symposium (223d). There Aristodemos (cf ‘Aristomenes’) is concluding his tale and Socrates goes off to wash at the Lykeion; Aristodemus, ‘as he usually did’, followed him – because in effect he is a hetairos of Socrates (a contubernalis, ‘companion’). Socrates spends the rest of the day there and then in the evening returns home, the key return that Apuleius’ Socrates cannot make. And if we now look at the early part of the Symposium (174a)17 we find Socrates once again having washed (i.e. bathed), extremely spruce and in good spirits, the diametric opposite of Apuleius’s Socrates, whose presence in the baths is a bit of a mystery given his filthy state (Aristomenes must himself wash him at 1,7). This Socrates too, unlike Plato’s who can outdrink and outlast all his companions at the Symposium, is not used to wine (insolita vinolentia, 1,11) and falls asleep readily. Echoes are of course not exclusively of the Symposium: he bathes at Phaedo 116a, and he covers his face – 1,6 faciem suam ————— 17
Fick 1991, 127.
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prae pudore obtexit – at Phaedo 118a, Phaedrus 237a.18 The references to the real Socrates add up and make Thibau’s suggestion very tempting, that this is the dead Socrates who actually did abandon his home and run away to Thessaly, as Crito recommended (Crito 45c, 53e).19 Thessaly is after all a land of disorder and immorality where Socrates will have to change his appearance (Crito 53d), as Apuleius’ Socrates, paene alius (‘almost someone else’), clearly has.20 We discover Socrates’ story in 1,7 in interesting circumstances. Aristomenes bathes him and takes him to a hotel, where he sleeps a while. Then: cibo satio, poculo mitigo, fabulis permulceo (‘I fill him with food, calm him with drink, enchant him with stories’). This is a sort of symposium where the narrative action of the novel – stories and enchanting the ears, as announced in the opening two lines of the novel – takes place in microcosm. This symposium is the occasion for Socrates’ own fabula. Not all Apuleian stories are set at dinner-parties, but some are, particularly in the earlier part of the novel, which we shall see is the more Symposium-based. 2,11 sees a bath and a banquet, if rather a limited one, given by Milo. This is the setting for the story about the Chaldaean astrologer Diophanes. At 2,19 Lucius is at the banquet of Byrrhena, the scene for the story of Thelyphron. At 4,7–8, the robbers bathe and preen themselves, when suddenly there is the arrival of further brigands who also bathe, join the banquet and then tell their stories. ‘Arrival of newcomers at banquet, narration renewed’, is a motif we recognise from Alcibiades’s arrival at the Symposium (212d). Stephen Harrison has identified other possible echoes of the Symposium too in 4,8–21.21 The motif may also be recalled when Tlepolemus arrives unexpectedly as ‘Haemus the Thracian’ and, thanks to his story, is integrated into the banqueting community (in summo pulvinari locatus cena poculisque magnis inauguratur, 7,9). The same motif is of course more visibly reprised in the arrival of Habinnas the monumental mason in the Cena Trimalchionis, a text which is modelled relatively closely on the Symposium.22 Nor is this the only instance in the ancient novel. A fragment of the Metiochos and Parthenope novel, ————— 18 19 20 21 22
Thibau 1965, 106; van der Paardt 1978, 82; Fick 1991, 127. Thibau 1965, 106–107, and cf. van der Paardt 1978, 82. Fick 1991, 127. Harrison 2000, 224–225; Cucchiarelli was too sceptical in his review, JRS 91 (2001) 256. Bodel 1999, 40, observing a sequence of five speakers leading to a climactic sixth. See also Cameron 1969.
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which could antedate the Metamorphoses, presents a symposium apparently chaired by the presocratic philosopher Anaximenes at which the topic for discussion is Eros, plainly based on Plato’s Symposium,23 which after all invented the form of symposium-literature.24 The novels display a number of verbal and situational references to this dialogue too, as one might expect in a genre centred on Eros.25 A tale of two sequences The stories of Apuleius, inserted or not, form a sequence of episodes, or rather two sequences, as we shall see. The episodes embrace a number of issues, of which love or lust, the subject of the narratives in the Symposium, is an important one; even tales of magic are made to revolve around love. There are more themes, obviously, than just love in these books: witchcraft, religion, the pursuit of wealth and fame as goals, failed individuals and failed societies, individual choice and social compulsion, and an overall theme of direction and loss of direction, seen as a dependency on the untrustworthiness of Fortune (1,6; 11,15). But there remains a particular investment in love/lust throughout the novel. Sequence I The first sequence stretches from the false Socrates’ dalliance with the witches to the robbers’ camp and Cupid and Psyche, leading through sequential entertainments with maybe some hints at a truth – just as Agathon and above all Pausanias, with his doctrine of the two loves, Uranian and Pandemic, had done in the Symposium.26 The inserted narratives, with the excep————— 23 24 25
26
Holzberg 1995, 49, linking in Petronius at 66. Holzberg 1995, 66; Bodel 1999, 40. Achilles Tatius 1,2,2, see Whitmarsh 2003, 194 n. 15; Longus 1,15,1, see Morgan 2003, 182; 2004, 163; Longus Prologue 3–4, see Morgan 2004, 149–150, cf. also 179 (on 2,4, the description of Eros), 181 (2,5), 234–235 (4,17, Gnathon). Thibau 1965, 133 is illuminating on the nature of the contributions before Socrates’, though he maybe overdoes the progressive nature of those contributions: ‘Les discours de Phèdre, de Pausanias, d’Eryximaque, d’Aristophanes et d’Agathon évoquent successivement les diverses prises de conscience, les différents niveaux conscientiels qui mènent vers cette sublimation. Ce sont les premiers échelons à gravir’. Apuleius is certainly less progressive: clearly failed individuals and societies precede, but do not progressively
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tion of Cupid and Psyche itself, are presented by named characters and are told in the first person (see below). This is the situation also in the Symposium, where Socrates’ story too is exceptional in its narratology, being attributed to Diotime. Cupid and Psyche, like the discourse of Diotime in the Symposium is set in a different, more mythic, register and they both deal with the Soul and Love. In literary terms, it can be seen by its reception to form a sort of climax in the novel, though a first reading may be deceptive while we have not seen Book 11: it seems for a while, like Aeneid 6, to be a ‘central imbedded narrative’ (Schlam 1992, 98), a unique place where light is cast on the novel’s themes through a mise-en-abyme. Meanwhile, Plato’s and Apuleius’ stories are enunciated by strangely comparable old women, as is sometimes observed by writers of quite different persuasions: the old woman at the robbers’ camp is a jarring variant on the Mantinean Diotime (‘God-honoured from Prophetville’).27 Their subject is the god Eros/Cupid, and he is a ‘great god’ in both, in the account of Agathon (178a, 201d), and in the account of the old woman narrator and Pan (magni dei propitia tela, 5,22 fin.; Cupidinem deorum maximum, 5,25 fin.).28 Sequence II After Cupid and Psyche, the stories are somehow more coloured and more disturbing, beginning now to find a place for religious themes: here we find Syrian priests, the wicked monotheistic miller’s wife, and the pandemic glitter of the Judgment of Paris show. The story of Charite and Tlepolemus, the link between the two halves of the book culminates in a barbarism that the wild and uncontrolled behaviour of Charite (4,24–27), little remarked upon, has foreshadowed. There is a metamorphosis not only of the tone of the narrative, but also of its structure. The Symposium model, of a sequence of personalised ‘I’ narrators, mutates. Now we do not learn even the names of those who tell these stories in authorial mode. This happens quite abruptly from the end of —————
27 28
lead up to, the aspirations of the Cupid and Psyche story. This also relates to attempts (cf. Riefstahl 1938, 95–125) to convert the Metamorphoses into an Entwicklungsroman. For Venus Vulgaria and Caeles, see Apuleius, Apol. 12. Harrison 2000, 225; Thibau 1965, 110. Zimmerman et al. 2004, 282 on 5,22 magni dei propitia tela also refer to 6,10 contubernalis magni dei.
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the robber community, effectively at the beginning of book 8, as Ben Hijmans incisively showed (1978, 115). In terms of lust, from a minor tale of servile adultery at 8,22, we continue with the debased lusts of the Syrian priests (8,29), and go on to the tale of the adulterer and the storage jar (9,5– 7), the adulterer who left his shoes behind (9,16), the adultery of the miller’s neighbour’s wife (9,23) and indeed of his own wife (9,26), the stepmother maddened by Cupido or Amor (10,2), the copulation of the ass with a noblewoman (10,19) and the climactic prospect, against the backdrop of the Judgment of Paris, of the exhibition of a newly debased form even of bestiality, namely with a criminal. Maaike Zimmerman has drawn attention to the key (and disproportionate) role of Venus at this turning point in the narrative, commenting – with her customary mixture of conciseness, acuity and energy – on 10,31 as follows:29 In this passage, there are some verbal references back to Fotis and Psyche as impersonations of Venus, and to Venus herself in the Amor and Psyche episode … It is significant that this last Venus figure, who kaleidoscopically combines all earlier Venus figures in the Met., disappears in ch. 34 into a chasm at the bottom of the theatre, together with the illusionary mountain. She captures well the way in which threads are being pulled together and the figure of Venus, assembled from the preceding parts of the novel and evidently pandemic, is collapsed. Cupid and Psyche itself is beginning to look imperfect and limited: it is reaching the end of its shelf-life. The novel is now ready for the ass to escape, presently to reach a higher and purer relationship with the feminine, that with Isis in the eleventh book. Once again we reach a different register from the main body of the narrative, one that is in some way ‘higher’. The second sequence has reached a new climax, its own equivalent to the Cupid and Psyche story.
————— 29
Zimmerman 2000, 375; 1993, 150–153.
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Cupid & Psyche Bk 1
Bk 4
Bk 8
Bk 11
Charite & Tlepolemus SEQUENCE 1 (Symposium, I-stories) SEQUENCE 2 (distanced, he/she-stories)
Triads, or the penalty for selecting the wrong Diotime The Symposium is remarkable for giving the authoritative voice to Diotime, a religious woman able to delay the great plague at Athens (201d). From this point of view, it is tempting to regard the role of the feminine in the Metamorphoses, whose richness and intricacy Judith Krabbe showed, as in part a rhapsody occasioned by *Diotime (cf. Krabbe 1989, 95). The first witch we hear of, Meroe, looks particularly like Diotime, she is a femina divina, she is saga and has multiple powers over nature and the elements (1,8), which compares with a woman called Diotime who has an authority recognised by the real Socrates, who can postpone a plague because she has multiple skills (ἣ ταῦτά τε σοφὴ ἦν καὶ ἄλλα πολλά), and who is an expert in erotika.30 Apuleius’s is the wrong Socrates with the wrong Diotime and the wrong Aristodemos to report his story. Ultimately a triadic relationship, which Peirce would have recognised, is at issue. The first member of the triad is the interpreter, the fictional person who is seeking to enter into the relationship. The third member of the triad is the object, that to which the subject is seeking to relate. Between the two is a second member, the mediator that represents the object, and must be used by the interpreter to form an accessible and faithful idea of the object (this idea is Peirce’s ‘interpretant’). The real Socrates of the Symposium seeks to understand Eros; Diotime is the authentic mediator against whom others should be tested, is this one a Diotime, or this one? But she is concerned in turn to interpret Eros as a mediator. All the other discourses of the Symposium are, ————— 30
Beginnings of this in Thibau 1965, 110, remarking also how Eros is (Symposium 202e) a δεινὸς γόης καὶ φαρµακεύς.
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however entertaining and however suggestive, in some way flawed in comparison. But one of the participants, Pausanias, does reveal that there is a particular danger of transmuting the object into something ‘pandemic’, lustful and sexual rather than divine, an important conception for the Apuleian text. Beyond these players lie the internal and external audiences, emphasising the fact and nature of ‘readership’: the text is not absolute, but is designed to have an ‘anagogic’ effect on a reader envisaged almost as a philosopher’s apprentice. The reader is the first term, the interpreter, in a new triad, for whom the mediator is the text. Divine
Eros
Socrates Reader
Diotime Text
The false Socrates, dead and in Thessaly, selects a false Diotime, whose objects are lust and a power that can only be demonstrated by overturning of the natural order (1,8). The reader, Aristomenes, who chooses that story is drawn into it and destroyed by it – just as Lucius will become a fabula incredunda, and Thelyphron will turn out to be a player not just a watcher. The same borderline is threatened by Lucius’ role in the otherwise mystifying Risus festival and the earlier part of the Metamorphoses overall tells us that the reader is in danger through the act of reading. In the light of this triadic structure, we can also begin to see an important difference between Cupid and Psyche and the Eleventh Book. It has never been wholly clear how these two sit together if they are seriously meant. Cupid and Psyche is obviously Platonic and philosophical, whereas Book 11 is obviously religious. A similar problem was discussed by Moreschini (1978, 28–32), who was concerned with the apparent gap between Apuleius in his philosophica and
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the novel which gave the initiation into the Isis religion pride of place. If you date the Metamorphoses early, as Rohde did (and I do), then you might hold that the religious mentality of the Metamorphoses was juvenile and the philosophica reveal a mature Apuleius. Rohde believed this and it is of a piece with 19th-century rationalism. Alternatively, you might follow the theory that Moreschini sketched, with a late Metamorphoses and an implicit recognition that philosophy was no longer enough for the later Apuleius. Both theories, however, come to grief when one sees in the Metamorphoses that both views, platonic and religious, are presented, though if we follow Moreschini (1978, 30), the address of the priest (11,15) amounts to a statement that philosophy (doctrina?) is not sufficient. Yet Middle Platonists were not obliged to follow Plato au pied de la lettre when he claimed that ‘god with man does not mix’ (Symp. 203a). It is difficult in any case to see how this squares with the ὁµοίωσις θεῷ (‘assimilation to god’) of Theaitetos 176b unless Plato was resting a lot on the ‘as far as possible’ that follows the words ‘assimilation to god’. Plutarch, for one, in the closing paragraph of his ‘discourse befitting the gods’ in the Isis and Osiris,31 remarks how Osiris represents the one god, in whom we cannot share except by conceiving a faint dream through philosophy (Mor. 382e–f). This would in the end become the ‘First and yonder God’ with whom Plotinos achieved union frequently and Porphyry once (Porphyry, Life of Plotinos 23). Interestingly, Porphyry says Plotinos achieved this following the paths laid down by Plato in the Symposium (κατὰ τὰς ἐν τῷ Συµποσίῳ ὑφηγηµένας ὁδοὺς τῷ Πλάτωνι). Apuleius’s Metamorphoses is somewhere on this trajectory, finding a way across the Platonic gulf. Cupid and Psyche, it seems, was an interim stage in the novel. Psyche’s success is qualified because it is still at the stage of God with man does not mix and Eros is, when all is said and done, an intermediary daimon. Nam, ut idem Plato ait, nullus deus miscetur hominibus (Apuleius, Soc. 4,3) and so transactions with men are actually carried on by daimones, ut Plato in Symposio autumat (Soc. 6,2). Amongst these are Sleep and Love with their diverse powers, Amor vigilandi, Somnus soporandi (Soc. 16,2).32 It follows that though Cupid and Psyche establishes the right mediator, it does nothing ————— 31 32
Mor. 383a–384c is a sort of appendix, cf. Froidefond 1988, 251 n. 3. Notably Cupid must awaken Psyche from her deep sleep at Met. 6,21, on sleep and on these passages, see Dowden 1998, 12–13; cf. Zimmerman et al. 2004, 522 on 6,21 infernus somnus, with further references.
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to establish the object of the triadic relationship, which is the divine itself. Jupiter does not play that role and Venus is a hostile and predominantly pandemic force,33 not yet metamorphosed into Isis. It is this limitation of Cupid and Psyche that demands the problematisation of Venus at the end of Book 10. Only then can the next story at our banquet be told, the story of another divine woman, Isis. Book 11 is the myth that closes the novel, though it is unclear how it should be nuanced and whether it can be completely understood. Lucius achieves breakthrough to divinity itself and a number of the themes of the novel (e.g, adoration, love, hair, public ceremony, priesthood) metamorphose into perhaps more satisfactory forms. Isis somehow offers direct contact with divinity, a metamorphosis of Cupid’s appearance to Psyche in her deathsleep into a transcendent, waking vision. At the same time, the preludes continue, as the novel finds difficulty in ending:34 is Isis herself an intermediary to something further? Thus the novel, in terms of its two sequences, is dynamic, even progressive. Its first, Symposium, sequence reaches whatever statement is inherent in Cupid and Psyche, but that statement, though modelled on the Symposium itself, has only reached the intermediary, demonic, level. It is the second sequence that leads to a new statement, maybe in turn only provisional, of the divine. For at 11,30 Osiris himself, the ultimate god according to Lucius and according to Plutarch, appears in a dream to Lucius, in surprisingly little detail but detail that may matter. He is greatest and more important than great gods (deum magnorum potior – such as Cupid?). He does not metamorphose into another person (unlike Lucius) and therefore specifically exhibits the stability of the Platonic god who does not appear sometimes in one form, sometimes in another (Republic 380d). We should perhaps take Osiris more seriously: he does allow the novel to close, and to close on a note of success. At the end, we leave the novel in the same way as we entered it, in midstream, as we see a Lucius going about his business timelessly (in the imperfect tense), but now with shaven head (reproducing the baldness of Socrates?).35 The Symposium does not end decisively either and the report of Aristodemos does not explicitly close. Our last picture is of Aristodemos accompanying Socrates as he always does, and of Socrates going to the Ly————— 33 34 35
See the detailed discussion of Keulen (1998, esp. 179–186). See Finkelpearl 2004. For this idea see James and O’Brien in this volume, n. 20.
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keion and washing and, as he always did, spending the rest of the day there and going home in the evening. Life goes on, whatever we have learnt. Bibliography Arrowsmith, W. 1966. ‘Luxury and Death in the Satyricon’, Arion 5, 304–331. Bodel, J. 1999. ‘The Cena Trimalchionis’, in H. Hofmann (ed.), Latin Fiction, the Latin novel in context, London: Routledge, 38–51. Bowie, E. 2002. ‘The chronology of the earlier Greek novels since B.E. Perry, revisions and precisions’, AN 2, 47–63. Cameron, A. 1969. ‘Petronius and Plato’, CQ n.s. 19, 367–370. Dowden, K. 1993. ‘The Unity of Apuleius’ Eighth Book & the Danger of Beasts’, in H. Hofmann (ed.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel, vol. 5, Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 91– 109. — 1994. ‘The Roman Audience of the Golden Ass’, in J. Tatum (ed.), The Search for the Ancient Novel, Baltimore – London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 419–434. — 1998. ‘Cupid & Psyche, a question of the vision of Apuleius’, in Zimmerman et al., 1–22. — 2001. ‘Prologic, Predecessors and Prohibitions’, in Kahane & Laird, 123–136. — 2005. ‘Greek novel and the ritual of life, an exercise in taxonomy’, in S. Harrison, M. Paschalis & S. Frangoulidis (edd.), Metaphor and the Ancient Novel [AN Supplementum 4], Groningen, 23–35. Fick, N. 1991. ‘Les histoires d’empoisonnement dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée’, in H. Hofmann (ed.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel, vol. 4, Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 121–133. Finkelpearl, E. 2004. ‘The Ends of the Metamorphoses, Apuleius Met. 11.26.4–11.30’, in M. Zimmerman & R.Th. van der Paardt (edd.), Metamorphic Reflections, essays presented to Ben Hijmans at his 75th birthday, Leuven: Peeters, 319–340. Froidefond, C. 1988. Plutarque, Oeuvres morales, t. V, 2e partie, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Harrison, S.J. 2000. Apuleius, a Latin sophist, Oxford. Hijmans, B.L. Jr. 1978. ‘Significant Names and their Function in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in Hijmans & van der Paardt, 107–122. Hijmans, B.L. Jr. & van der Paardt, R.Th. (edd.) 1978. Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis. Holzberg, N. 1995. The Ancient Novel, An Introduction, Engl. transl., London: Routledge. Jong, I.J.F. de 2001. ‘The Prologue as a Pseudo-Dialogue’, in Kahane & Laird, 137–151. Kahane, A. & Laird, A. (edd.) 2001. A Companion to the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Oxford: OUP. Keulen, W.H. 1998. ‘A Bird’s Chatter, Form and Meaning in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses 5,28’, in Zimmerman et al., 165–188. Krabbe, J.K. 1989. The Metamorphoses of Apuleius, New York – Bern – Frankfurt – Paris: Lang. Mason, H.J. 1994. ‘Greek and Latin Versions of the Ass-Story’, in W. Haase (ed.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.34.1, Berlin – New York: De Gruyter, 1665– 1707. Merkelbach, R. 1962. Roman und Mysterium in der Antike, München – Berlin: Beck’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung.
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Moreschini, C. 1978. Apuleio e il platonismo, Firenze: Olschi. Morgan, J. 2003. ‘Nymphs, Neighbours and Narrators: A Narratological Approach to Longus’, in Panayotakis, Zimmerman, Keulen (edd.), 171-189. — 2004. Longus: Daphnis and Chloe, Translated with an Introduction and Commentary, Warminster: Aris & Phillips. Paardt, R.Th. van der 1978. ‘Various Aspects of Narrative Technique in Apuleius Metamorphoses’, in Hijmans & van der Paardt, 75–94. Panayotakis, S., Zimmerman, M., Keulen, W. (edd.) 2003. The Ancient Novel and Beyond [Mnemosyne Supplementum, 241], Leiden: Brill. Riefstahl, H. 1938. Der Roman des Apuleius, Beitrag zur Romantheorie [Frankfurter Studien zur Religion und Kultur der Antike, 15], Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann. Schlam, C.C. 1992. The Metamorphoses of Apuleius, London: Duckworth. Scobie, A. 1975. Apuleius Metamorphoses (Asinus Aureus) I, a commentary, Meisenheim am Glan: Hain. Tatum, J. 1979. Apuleius and the Golden Ass, Ithaca, NY – London: Cornell University Press. Thibau, R. 1965. ‘Les Métamorphoses d’Apulée et la théorie Platonicienne de l’Erôs’, Studia Philosophica Gandensia 3, 89–144. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor & Actor. A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Berkeley: University of California Press. Whitmarsh, T. 2003. ‘Reading for Pleasure: Narrative, Irony, and Erotics in Achilles Tatius’, in Panayotakis, Zimmerman, Keulen (edd.), 191-205. Zimmerman, M. 1993. ‘Narrative Judgment and Reader Response in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses 10,29–34, The Pantomime of the Judgment of Paris’, in H. Hofmann (ed.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel, vol. 5, Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 144–161. — 2000. Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses, Book X, Text, Introduction, and Commentary [Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius], Groningen: Egbert Forsten. — 2006. ‘Echoes of Roman Satire in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in R.R. Nauta (ed.), Genre in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Related Texts, Leuven: Peeters, 87–104. Zimmerman, M. et al. (edd.) 1998. Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Volume II, Cupid and Psyche, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Zimmerman M. et al. 2004. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Books IV,28 – VI,24. Cupid and Psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten.
Some Textual Problems in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses S TEPHEN J. H ARRISON Corpus Christi College, Oxford
It gives me especial pleasure to write this piece in honour of Maaike Zimmerman, for it will I hope serve not only as an offering to a dear friend, collaborator and colleague but also as an encouragement to her in her latest project, a new critical edition of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses for the Oxford Classical Texts series. She and I are both agreed that the most recent critical edition of the Metamorphoses (Martos 2003), though admirable in many ways, follows the text of the chief eleventh-century manuscript F too closely;1 in this piece I want to present a number of conjectural solutions to the problems clearly presented by the readings of F. Though F is good for its time, it has plenty of the minor flaws which medieval copyists import into classical texts, and there is often a case for improving its readings by conjecture. This issue has been complicated for Apuleius by a general belief that as a ‘late’ and even ‘decadent’ author he is not subject to the regular rules of classical Latin syntax and morphology, a belief which scholars are increasingly questioning.2 In what follows I begin from an examination of a particular syntactical feature and its influence on the constitution of the text of Apuleius, and then conclude by a series of miscellaneous conjectures on further passages (my own conjectures will be marked with an asterisk).3
————— 1
2 3
See Harrison forthcoming, where I make in summary form some of the points explored in more detail here, and Zimmerman 2005. My thanks to the editors for helpful comments. See Harrison 2005. I here use the convenient sub-section numbers in Robertson’s edition in citation as well as the conventional book and chapter numbers. I am most grateful to Michael Winterbottom for helpful discussion of the textual issues in this paper. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 59–67
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1
Asyndeton bimembre
The text of F presents a number of examples of this phenomenon, in which two syntactically equivalent words, usually closely related or opposite in sense, are juxtaposed without the intervening connective word normally expected in classical Latin.4 This type of expression is well documented in archaic Latin, especially in certain kinds of formulaic expressions, but the assumption that it is therefore usually satisfactory in non-formulaic expressions in Apuleius could be argued to be based on a misunderstanding of how Apuleius’ Kunstprosa is generated. Though Apuleius’ debt to archaic Latin in terms of his lexicon has been extensively demonstrated by Callebat and others,5 there is little evidence that Apuleius’ complex and elaborate syntax owes much to archaic Latin models.6 It is true that asyndeton bimembre is found in a range of Latin prose texts of the classical and post-classical periods, especially for example in the Minor Declamations attributed to Quintilian;7 but normally this mode of expression occurs in established archaising formulas or emotionally intense locutions, and/or is placed in an emphatic location at the beginning or end of a sentence.8 In Apuleius, by contrast, almost all the transmitted examples of asyndeton bimembre seem to be unformulaic, relatively unemphatic and in mid-sentence. In a number of places a transmitted mid-sentence asyndeton bimembre has been supplemented by an easily-generated connective in at least one of the major modern editions9 (in what follows ς indicates a humanistic conjecture): 1,18,1 et ego curiose sedulo arbitrabar iugulum comitis F, Robertson; curiose et sedulo Helm. 4,8,2 nam et ipsi praedas aureorum argentiariorum nummorum ac uasculorum uestisque sericae et intextae filis aureis inuehebant F, argentiariorumque ς, Helm, Robertson. ————— 4 5 6 7 8 9
For further literature see Hofmann/Szantyr/Traina 2002, 241–243. Callebat 1968. Bernhard 1927 remains the best account of the complexities of Apuleian syntax. See Winterbottom 1984, 322–323. So Winterbottom 1984, 322. This means Helm 1931 and Robertson 1940–1945.
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6,1,5 rata scilicet nullius dei fana caerimonias neglegere se debere F,10 fana <et> caerimonias ς, Helm, fana caeremoniasue coni. Robertson. 6,28,6 sinu serico progestans nucleos edulia mitiora F; nucleos <et> edulia Salmasius, Helm, Robertson. 9,41,4 tunc magistratus et damno praesidis nomine cognito F, <et> praesidis Pricaeus, Helm, Robertson: et is clearly needed for co-ordination here. 10,2,1 iuuenem filium probe litteratum et ob id consequenter pietate modestia praecipuum F, Helm, Robertson; pietate et modestia Scriverius, ‘fort.recte’ Robertson in app.crit. In all these cases I would agree with the supplement. In the remaining places where this construction is apparently found in the Metamorphoses equally simple corrections or re-interpretations can be supplied:11 4,2,5 iam enim loco proximus non illas rosas teneras et amoenas, madidas diuini roris et nectaris, quas rubi felices beatae spinae generant F; rubi felices <et> beatae spinae ς. The humanistic conjecture here duly puts in the connective, but interpreting the phrase as asyndeton bimembre can be avoided without change, by considering beatae spinae as in apposition with rubi felices – ‘fortunate brambles, blessed thorns’. 5,31,2 Psychen illam fugitiuam uolaticam mihi requirite F, Helm, Robertson. This is one of the few passages where emotional intensity might justify the asyndeton bimembre (Venus is clearly passionate here), but it is worth thinking about fugitiuam uolaticam, or viewing fugitiuam as nominalised here (for this substantive use of fugitiua see TLL 6,1,1496,71–73). 9,17,4 mortem denique uiolentam defamem comminatus F, Helm. GCA 1995 ad loc. defend the transmitted asyndeton, but it has often been questioned. Robertson conjectured mortem denique illam lentam de fame, but violence seems appropriate here; Hildebrand read mortem uiolentam ac nefantem; ————— 10 11
F in fact has neclegese, rightly corrected by most later MSS and all editors. These are the remaining passages noted by Bernhard 1927, 55–56.
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nefantem is questionable morphology, defamem is fine (see GCA ad loc.) and denique is appropriate at the end of this list of threats and should stay, but a simple connective could be supplied here – mortem denique uiolentam defamem. 9,36,4 canes pastoricios uillaticos feros atque immanes F, Helm, Robertson. The first pair of adjectives surely needs a connection like that in the second: read pastoricios villaticos. GCA 1995 ad loc. compares 8,15,6 lupos enim numerosos grandes et uastis corporibus sarcinosos ac nimia ferocitate saeuientes, but in that passage there is clearly a syntactical pause after numerosos, with grandes then forming the first element of a tricolon. Finally, for an element of control we may compare the large number of similar phrases where the connective in such pairings is indubitably transmitted, which show that such syndetic pairs (especially alliterative or assonant ones) are a frequent feature of Apuleian style in the Metamorphoses: cf. e.g. 1,1,5 exotici ac forensis, 1,4,4 eneruam et exossam, 1,6,2 defletus et conclamatus, 1,15,4 marcidus et semisopitus, 2,8,5 eximiae pulcherrimaeque, 2,22,6 decerptum deminutumque, 2,26,3 multumque ac diu, 3,24,2 amplexus ac deosculatus, 3,26,2 nequissimam facinerosissimamque, 3,28,3 obsaeptum obseratumque, 4,4,5 exanimatum ac debilem, 4,7,4 fortissimi fidelissimique, 4,9,6 solus ac solitarius, 4,12,8 perfracta diffissaque, 4,20,5 miserum funestumque, 4,21,1 procerus et ualidus [again 9,37,7], 4,24,5 innata atque innutrita, 4,26,4 nutritus et adultus, 4,26,4 cubiculi torique, 4,27,6 lucrosum prosperumque, 4,31,4 diu ac pressule, 5,1,2 proceris et uastis, 5,1,3 luculentum et amoenum, 5,1,6 longe lateque [again 10,27,3], 5,8,3 scrupulose curioseque, 5,10,1 complicatum curuatumque, 5,22,2 mitissimam dulcissimamque, 6,2,1 sollicite seduloque, 6,3,2 retenta custoditaque, 6,9,1 inductam oblatamque, 6,10,3 dispositis atque seiugatis, 6,10,7 distributis dissitisque, 7,10,3 spurci sordidique, 7,13,6 prolatis erutisque, 7,20,3 deterrimus ac temerarius, 7,21,1 pigrum tardissimumque, 7,21,2 illicitas atque incognitas, 7,21,4 abiecto dispersoque, 7,21,5 ploratu questuque, 7,21,5 erepta liberataque, 7,21,5 compauita atque dirupta, 7,25,1 solitarium uagumque, 7,28,2 uictis fessisque, 8,1,2 mira ac nefanda, 8,11,3 auide ac secure, 8,11,4 exposito ac supinato, 8,20,1 ualidi laetique, 8,20,4 aetatis et roboris, 8,25,3 surdum et mutum, 9,2,1 mobili ac trepida, 9,2,6 clausis obseratisque, 9,2,6 possessus ac peresus, 9,7,3 moratus ac suspicatus, 9,18,1 instinctus atque
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inflammatus, 9,18,3 statutam decretamque, 9,18,3 contectus atque absconditus, 9,21,6 nequissimum et periurum, 10,5,6 incestum parricidiumque, 10,27,1 fictas mentitasque, 10,27,2 prolixe adcumulateque, 10,28,3 delicata ac tenera, 11,7,4 apricus ac placidus, 11,16,2 notus ac conspicuus, 11,18,3 aequi bonique, 11,27,1 nouum mirumque. 2
Miscellaneous examples
3,2,1 cum magna inruptione patefactis aedibus magistratibus eorumque ministris et turbae miscellaneae cuncta completa F. The genitive of turbae miscellaneae is strange, as many have remarked; Van der Paardt defends the apparent change of case from ablative (ministris) to genitive (turbae) after completa by citing 8,1,5 sed luxuriae popinalis scortisque et diurnis potationibus exercitatus, but Hildebrand’s luxurie popinali, ignored by modern editors, is the easiest of corrections there (for the Apuleian luxuries cf. e.g. 8,22,5). The same kind of confusion of a/ae/e seems to have taken place at 3,2,1: Vulcanius’ turba miscellanea is thus more economical than inserting another noun in the ablative as complement after miscellaneae (frequentia Helm, coetu Brakman). 3,2,2 statim ciuitas omnis in populum effusa mira densitate nos insequitur F. populum is dubious, giving both the wrong sense and a strange construction (and may be corrupted by populi a few lines later): read *plateam, found several times in Apuleius and better than publicum (Gruterus). The crowd bursts out of the house not into ‘public space’ but into the street which it completely fills – hence mira densitate. 3,10,1 hi gaudii nimietate gratulari, illi dolorem uentris manuum compressione sedare F. gratulari seems unsatisfactory here; something more dramatic than ‘rejoice’ is needed to match the suppressed belly-laugh of the following phrase. graculari (Armini) is a hapax legomenon (and therefore dubious as a conjecture) but is along the right lines in sense, referring to the cackling of the jackdaw (graculus). I suggest *cachinnare (cf. 3,7,4 insuper exitium meum cachinnat), which then provides an Apuleian-type inter-colon rhyme for the parallel infinitive sedare and an appropriate outbreak of laughter at this point in the narrative, after the immediately preceding words tunc ille quorundam astu paulisper cohibitus risus libere iam exarsit in plebem.
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3,22,6 ‘Ain?’ inquit ‘uulpinaris, amasio, meque sponte asceam cruribus meis illidere compellis? sic inermem uix a lupulis conseruo Thessalis; hunc alitem factum ubi quaeram, uidebo quando?’ F. Hunc (as Van der Paardt rightly notes) presents an unwanted switch into the third person for Photis, who is clearly addressing Lucius here: read Thomas’ nunc, unmentioned by either Helm or Robertson here, and better than Beyte’s tunc (supported by Van der Paardt) and pointing to the conditionality of the participle: ‘now, if you are made a bird, where shall I seek you?’. The contrast with the preceding sic, which Van der Paardt rightly identifies as important here, is also better expressed by nunc than tunc. 3,24,3 iamque alternis conatibus libratis bracchiis in auem similem gestiebam F. in auem similem is very dubious syntactically (see Van der Paardt’s discussion, which clearly establishes that gestio here means ‘gesture’ not ‘desire’, but does not solve the syntactical problem). In context the phrase ought to mean ‘like a bird’ (Lucius is flapping his arms in mock flight). Similem might derive from an abbreviation of similitudinem: read *in auis similitudinem (for the noun cf. 8,31,4 ad similitudinem perditi, for the preposition Pliny Ep. 8,20,4 lacus est in similitudinem iacentis ripae circumscriptus). 4,1,6 deuius et protectus absconditus F. protectus is clearly corrupt, and what is needed here is an ablative going with absconditus (cf. 8,7,5 tenebris imis abscondita, 8,29,6 praedam absconditam latibulis aedium). Philomathes’ frutectis supplies a word found in Gellius (19,12,9) and is probably rightly accepted by editors, though the Apuleian *fruticibus (cf. 8,20,2 fruticibus imis) is also worth consideration (though its prose-rhythm is relatively unattractive). 4,12,5 quo sermone callido deceptus astu et uera quae dicta sunt credens Alcimus F; Nolte’s conjecture sermonis recognises the problem of the asyndetic juxtaposition of the two ablative phrases quo sermone and callido astu, but quo still remains a problem then. Read *actutumque for astu et, ‘deceived by this cunning speech and at once believing that what she said was true’: for actutum cf. 5,24,5; 6,8,7; 7,23,4; 9,7,2.
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4,25,1 somno recussa; cf. 5,26,5 somno recussus. Only in these two passages can I find recutio used of rousing from sleep, not a natural interpretation of its prefix (the verb elsewhere means ‘strike so as to reverberate’). 1,17,3 somno excussit and 4,27,4 somno funesto pauens excussa sum at least suggest that excussa/excussus is worth proposing for these two passages given the similarity of the letter-sequences rec- and exc-. 6,18,2 Inibi spiraculum Ditis et per portas hiantes monstratur iter inuium, cui te limine transmeato simul commiseris iam canale directo perges ad ipsam Orci regiam F. The reading iter inuium is defended by GCA 2004 ad loc., but the idea that the way is pathless or cannot be traversed (perhaps a memory of Verg. Aen. 6,154 regna inuia uiuis, from a book clearly imitated in Psyche’s katabasis, may have led to corruption here?) seems out of place in these supposedly encouraging instructions from the tower, and *iter infernum is worth entertaining; cf. 6,20,1 infernum decurrit meatum. 7,6,1 praetereuntem me orato fueram aggressus F; praetereuntem eo fato Helm, praetereuntem Ioue irato Robertson. F’s text is clearly corrupt, and emendation is required. Helm’s apparatus points to Cicero Font. 45 and Mil. 30 as parallels for the use of eo fato, but in both those cases eo fato is followed by an explanatory grammatical complement which elucidates is: Font. 45 quod ea condicione atque eo fato se in eis terris conlocatam esse arbitratur ne quid nostris hominibus istae gentes nocere possint, Mil. 30 qui hoc fato natus est ut ne se quidem seruare potuerit quin una rem publicam uosque seruaret. Robertson’s conjecture is ingenious, but it is also worth considering *malo fato (the point is that the attack was unfortunate); the ablative phrase is unparalleled as such, but malum fatum is common (cf. TLL 6,1,368,67ff.). 7,12,4 sed prorsus omnes uino sepulti iacebant, omnes partim mortui F. partim is plainly nonsense; Helm’s omnes pariter mortui is accepted by Robertson, but ‘all equally dead’ seems an overstrong metaphor for drunkenness. φ’s omnes parati morti might suggest that we here have an attempt to explain the metaphorical sepulti, especially as the anaphora of omnes is rather lame here and there is no isocolon or the like; omnes partim mortui could thus be excluded as a corruption of an interpolated gloss.
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9,39,7 ‘Nam et hic ipse’ aiebat ‘iners asellus et nihilo minus morboque detestabili caducus …’ F. nihilo minus is problematic (see GCA 1995 ad loc.); editors have usually supposed that an adjective has dropped out after nihilo minus (Helm reads Luetjohann’s ferox, Robertson Plasberg’s mordax there), but this still leaves the problem of what nihilo minus means in this context: read *inominalis, ‘accursed’, found in the contemporary Gellius (5,17,3), a suitable insult, jingling in Apuleian manner with detestabili and perhaps an unwitting reference to the cursed status of the ass for Isis as the form of the Egyptian god Seth/Typhon – cf. 11,6,2 (Isis speaks to Lucius/ass) pessimae mihique iamdudum detestabilis beluae corio te protinus exue. 10,7,10 haec eximia enim ad ueritatis imaginem illo uerberone simulatum trepidatione perferente finitum est iudicium F. Editors rightly accept Oudendorp’s simulata cum for simulatum, but enim must be corrupt and the syntax needs further attention. Read Koch’s examussim for eximia enim: this provides an Apuleian adverb which would easily be corrupted through unfamiliarity; cf. e.g. 11,27,7 examussim nocturnae imagini congruentem, where the same rare adverb is used in a similar context of similarity or affinity.12 10,21,1 de stagneo uasculo multo sese perungit oleo balsamino meque indidem largissime perfricat, sed multo tanta impensius cura etiam nares perfundit meas F. Cura is problematic here (see GCA 2000 ad loc.), and why should the lady soak the ass’s nostrils in unguent in preparation for sex (nates (Lipsius) for nares is enjoyable but equally unlikely)? One could either read *latera for nares, introducing a body-area conventionally exercised in sex and perhaps needing pre-coital attention13 (cf. 8,26,6 meis defectis iam lateribus), or (since nares is supported by the mention of the ass’s nostrils in the parallel scene at Onos 51) read *aura for cura (for aura for an odour cf. Apol. 57,6 uini aura, Martial 3,65,2 quod de Corycio quae uenit aura croco), with perfundo used of a vaporous substance as at 6,21,1 crassaque soporis nebula cunctis eius membris perfunditur. This would provide a neat change of grammatical subject (‘but much more intensely were my nostrils soaked by such a mighty fragrance’) and a witty point: the ass with his large nose naturally especially appreciates the perfume of the balsamic oil more than its ————— 12
13
For the original image behind the adverb examussim see Keulen in this volume, especially note 38. Adams 1982, 49.
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qualities as an unguent for his thick and less sensitive hide. For a similar phrase cf. 8,9,6 adhuc odor cinnameus ambrosei corporis per nares meas percurrit. Bibliography Adams, J.N. 1982. The Latin Sexual Vocabulary, London: Duckworth. Bernhard, M. 1927. Der Stil des Apuleius von Madaura, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer (Tübinger Beiträge zur Altertumswissenschaft, 2). Callebat, L. 1968. Sermo Cotidianus dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée, Caen: Association des Publications de la Faculté des Lettres et Sciences Humaines de l’Université de Caen (Publications de la Faculté des Lettres et Sciences Humaines de l’Université de Caen, 13). GCA 1995 = Hijmans, B.L. Jr. et al., Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses IX. Introduction, Text, Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 2000 = Zimmerman, M., Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses X. Introduction, Text, Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 2004 = Zimmerman, M. et al., Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses. Books IV 28–35, V and VI 1–24: The Tale of Cupid and Psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Harrison, S.J. forthcoming. Review of J. Martós, Apuleyo. Las Metamorfosis o El Asno de Oro, Gnomon. Harrison, S.J. 2005. ‘The Poetics of Fiction: Poetic Influence on the Language of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’ in: Reinhardt et al., 273–86. Helm, R. 1931. Apulei Platonici Madaurensis Metamorphoseon Libri XI [3rd ed.], Leipzig: Teubner. Hofman, J.B., Szantyr, A. and Traina, A. 2002. Stilistica Latina, Bologna: Pàtron. Martos, Juan. 2003. Apuleyo de Madauros, Las metamorfosis o El Asno de Oro, introducción, texto latino, traducción y notas, volumen I (libros 1–3); II (libros 4-11), Madrid: Consejo superior de investigaciones científicas. Paardt, van der, R. 1971. L. Apuleius Madaurensis. The Metamorphoses: a Commentary on Book III with Text and Introduction, Amsterdam: Hakkert. Reinhardt, T., Lapidge, M. and Adams, J.N. eds. 2005. Aspects of the Language of Latin Prose, Oxford: OUP. Robertson, D.S. 1940–1945. Apulée : Les Métamorphoses [3 vols], Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Winterbottom, M. 1984. The Minor Declamations Ascribed to Quintilian, Berlin: De Gruyter. Zimmerman, M. 2005. Review of J.Martos, Apuleyo. Las Metamorfosis o El Asno de Oro, AN 4 (2005), 208–222.
Nomen omen – Narrative Instantiation of Rhetorical Expressions in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses M ARIA P LAZA Gothenburg University
In Apuleius’ Metamorphoses words are turned into flesh. By “words” I here understand various verbal expressions, such as metaphors, similes, proverbs, or even ceremonial formulae. By “flesh” I understand the reality of the novel’s universe: its characters, scenes, and themes. Thus when the proverbial utres inflati, mentioned by a Petronian freedman, metamorphose into actual participants in Apuleius’ plot in Books 2–3, this is an example of the transformation I have in mind. To a certain extent, turning words into flesh is a feature of all fiction; if strictly formalized, it becomes a description of allegory. However, I wish to argue that in the Metamorphoses, the move is sufficiently specialized to become a distinct narrative device, while being broader and more varied than mere allegory.1 In what follows, I will discuss some examples of this recurrent device, relate it to the overarching motif of metamorphosis, and suggest a couple of consequences of the device: a textual emendation and a thematic hint for the novel as a whole. A very special instance of this kind of narrative instantiation is the story about how Lucius got his white horse back, because there the device itself is explicitly described and the description made part of the tale. The episode takes place in the mysterious eleventh book, after the narrator and protagonist Lucius has already changed his asinine shape back to a human one and become a devotee of the goddess Isis. Learning from a prophetic dream that ————— 1
A reading informed by much the same spirit as the present paper is Panayotakis 1997. There, Panayotakis argues that the three dangerous encounters awaiting Psyche in the underworld – a lame ass with his lame driver, a dead man, and some old crones – function as abstract notions (of Old Age, and of Mortality) turned into flesh. Since the likeness between that article and the present one lies in the overall conception rather than in any details, I generally state my sympathetic outlook here. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 68–85
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a slave of his named Candidus will be sent to him, he wonders about that message, since he has never had a slave by that name, and the enigma is not solved until his dazzlingly white horse (equus candidus) arrives, as follows: 1
Nocte quadam plenum gremium suum uisus est mihi summus sacerdos offerre ac requirenti, quid utique istud, respondisse partes illas de Thessalia mihi missas, seruum etiam meum indidem superuenisse nomine Candidum. 2Hanc experrectus imaginem diu diuque apud cogitationes meas reuoluebam, quid rei portenderet, praesertim cum nullum umquam habuisse me seruum isto nomine nuncupatum certus essem. 3Utut tamen sese praesagium somni porrigeret, lucrum certum modis omnibus significare partium oblatione credebam. Sic anxius et in prouentum prosperiorem attonitus templi matutinas apertiones opperiebar. 4Ac dum, uelis candentibus reductis in diuersum, deae uenerabilem conspectum adprecamur, et per dispositas aras circumiens sacerdos, rem diuinam procurans supplicamentis sollemnibus, de penetrali fontem petitum spondeo libat: 5rebus iam rite consummatis inchoatae lucis salutationibus religiosi primam nuntiantes horam perstrepunt. 6Et ecce superueniunt Hypata quos ibi reliqueram famulos, cum me Photis malis incapistrasset erroribus, cognitis scilicet fabulis meis, nec non et equum quoque illum meum reducentes, quem diuerse distractum notae dorsualis agnitione recuperauerant. 7Quare sollertiam somni tum mirabar uel maxime, quod praeter congruentiam lucrosae pollicitationis argumento serui Candidi equum mihi reddidisset colore candidum.2 (Met. 11,20,1–7) One night the chief priest appeared to me in a dream, offering me an armful of gifts. When I asked the meaning of this, he replied that they had been sent to me as my belongings from Thessaly, and that there had also arrived from the same region a slave of mine by the name of Candidus. On awakening I pondered this vision long and repeatedly, wondering what it meant, especially as I was convinced that I had never had a slave of that name. But whatever the prophetic dream portended, I thought that in any case this offering of belongings gave promise of undoubted gain. So I was on tenterhooks, beguiled by this prospect of greater profit as I awaited the morning opening of the temple. The ————— 2
All references to the text of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses are to Robertson’s second edition, 1956.
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gleaming curtains were parted, and we addressed our prayers to the august image of the goddess. The priest made his rounds of the altars positioned there, performing the liturgy with the customary prayers, and pouring from a sacred vessel the libation-water obtained from the sanctuary of the goddess. With the ceremony duly completed, the initiates greeted the dawning of the day, and loudly proclaimed the hour of Prime. Then suddenly the slaves whom I had left at Hypata, when Photis had involved me in those notorious wanderings, appeared on the scene. I suppose that they had heard the stories about me; they also brought back that horse of mine which had been sold to various owners, but which they had recovered after recognizing the mark on its back. This caused me to marvel more than anything else at the perspicacity of my dream, for quite apart from getting confirmation of its promise of profit, by its mention of a slave Candidus it had restored to me my white horse.3 (emphasis mine) Lucius expects his dream to be prophetic, because in his experience this is a way for Isis and Osiris to communicate with people (ever since his prayers were first heard in 11,3), and especially because this dream features a high priest of the cult. The new believer eagerly interprets the gifts offered as a promise of gain, but is at a loss when it comes to understanding the words about Candidus, since on the straightforward reading they have no referent. The move from words to novelistic reality here takes the form of a riddle. It is only after Lucius has understood that “candidus” is to be taken as an adjective and “servus” in a transferred sense, that the prophecy springs into a meaningful figure. As ancient prophecies go, this is certainly nothing unusual, and what is important for the present argument is rather the narrative pattern: the words arrive on the scene first, and the thing is made to follow – as Lucius puts it, the cleverness of the dream (sollertia somni) has given him his horse back (reddidisset). While it is common for form to imitate theme in a literary work, what we have here seems to be an inversion of that phenomenon. A remarkable trait about this particular instance is that both ingredients – the verbal expression and its thematic materialization – are spelled out, and so is the riddle-like relation between them: argumento serui Candidi equum mihi reddidisset ————— 3
Unless otherwise stated, all English translations of the Metamorphoses are from Walsh 1994.
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colore candidum. In this connection, it is perhaps significant that the gift in the riddle is the noble white horse, on which Lucius set out on his journey at the beginning of the first book, in equo indigena peralbo uehens (“riding on my home-bred horse, which is pure white in colour”, 1,2,2), and which is again mentioned at 7,2,1, equum namque illum suum candidum uectorem (“that white horse of his to carry him”, my trans.). It has been suggested that this horse is an allusion to the white thoroughbred that constitutes the better half of the two-horse carriage in Plato’s myth of the soul (Phaedrus 246a–b, 247b, 253d–255a),4 and this seems persuasive, though the compositional and thematic importance of Lucius’ stallion is not dependent on this allusion. The horse still stands for a way of travelling (and by extension of living) comfortably and in style, a privilege which the protagonist does not appreciate until he loses it and has to walk on his own feet, as that ignoble parallel to the horse, an ass.5 When redeemed to humanity at the end of the novel, he is given back his horse by Isis/Osiris and thus fully equipped to start a new glorious life of spiritual candour. It is surely important that the time between his prophetic dream and the (re)appearance of the equus candidus (11,20,3– 5) is filled with the description of a new dawn as well as the stately Isiac celebration of it – and the incipient day is even greeted with the opening of gleaming white curtains, uelis candentibus! The white colour, further highlighted by the riddle, symbolizes the spiritual purity and nobility of the protagonist’s new state. In fact, just after his transformation into a man, he had himself been clad in a white robe and admonished to be as white on the inside as on the outside: Sume iam uultum laetiorem candido isto habitu tuo congruentem (“Show now a happier face in keeping with your white garment”, 11,15,4). With this dawn Lucius, born anew as an Isiac,6 learns how to interpret signs in Isis’ religious universe.
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Drake 1968; Fick-Michel 1991, 266–267. The latter believes that the motif of “candidus” does have a serious, spiritual significance, but stops short of fully accepting the thesis of its Platonic reference. Contra Sandy 1978, 127, but without much argument. See Keulen 2003, 94, for further details and literature. For an analysis of Lucius’ actual and metaphorical journey, see Zimmerman 2002. When Lucius’ horse is mentioned in Book 7, its absence stresses the contrast between the hero’s dreary ass-existence and what could have been. When Lucius was transformed into a man again, he had been hailed as “renatus” by the devout crowd (11,16,4). See Frangoulidis 2005 for a pertinent discussion of images of death and rebirth in the Metamorphoses, including Lucius renatus.
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In other cases, the instantiation emerges only when matters outside Apuleius’ text are considered. For instance, a curious fish-trampling scene in the first book (1,24–5) gains meaning when regarded as a veiled allusion to the Egyptian religious ceremony which entailed a priest ritually trampling fishes in a public sacred place. In the ritual the fish symbolizes the enemy (in one variety specifically the enemy of the local king), who is thus rendered powerless and extinguished. Scholarship first pointed out the connection between the ritual and the Apuleian passage in 1958, and the interpretation has since been further developed.7 The episode in the Metamorphoses occurs after Lucius, recently arrived in Hypata and suffering from his host Milo’s misery, has bought himself some fish for supper, whereupon he encounters an old acquaintance, Pythias, now a town magistrate. Pythias asks Lucius where he got his poor-looking fish, and upon hearing that he bought it for twenty denarii from an old fisherman selling his goods right there on the market, Pythias goes up to the fish-vendor and loudly scolds him in his best magistrate’s tone, rounding off with: ‘…Sed non impune. Iam enim faxo scias quem ad modum sub meo magisterio mali debeant coerceri’, et profusa in medium sportula iubet officialem suum insuper pisces inscendere ac pedibus suis totos obterere. (Met. 1,25,4) ‘…But you won’t get away with it. I’ll make you realize how unscrupulous traders are to be kept in check while I’m in charge.’ With that he threw the parcel of fish on the ground in front of us, and ordered his attendant to jump on the fish, and crush them all underfoot. At a pragmatic level, the magistrate’s fatuous “punishment” hurts no one but Lucius, as he wryly comments (et nummis simul priuatus et cena, “robbed of both my money and my supper”, 1,25,6), but at the symbolic level, the fish-
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Derchain – Hubaux 1958; the thesis was developed by Pierre Grimal (1971). Winkler 1985, p. 318 n.25, mentions the thesis and also points to a passage in Hölbl 1978 (52) where the more general importance of fish in the cult of Isis (exemplified by the presence of a fisherman in the procession seen by Lucius in Met. 11,8) is connected to the Egyptian hieroglyph for “secret”, written with the images of a foot and a fish.
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erman is annihilated.8 It has also been suggested that, since the Egyptian rite commemorated the Sun-god’s victory over a human rebellion, in Apuleius the allusion to the rite may foreshadow the larger scenario to be: that Lucius will rebel through the hubristic curiosity of his all-too-human self, and that this part of him will be annihilated by the rays of divine illumination. As that part of his self is thus never warmed by the sun of the divine principle of the universe, it remains cold as the fish in the allegorical scene in the marketplace. This reading is strengthened by the magistrate’s name, Pythias – fitting for one who offers prophetic warnings about the future.9 Although the Egyptian ritual that Apuleius uses as his matrix in this case is not, strictly speaking, a verbal expression, it still resembles one in being a pure concatenation of signs which can be iterated at different times in different places, but with the same meaning. In the Metamorphoses, this signformation has been turned into a unique, “rounded” scene of fictional life, verisimilar and fitted to the progress of Lucius’ adventures. It may well be read without knowledge of the religious rite behind it – and yet the event narrated has that strange, dream-like quality which invites the reader to interpret it as Lucius will later try to interpret his actual dream about Candidus.10 If the fish-trampling is the transformation of a religious practice, other passages are created by means of the transformation of a literary intertext, yet still in the same manner of turning a two-dimensional expression saying something into the three-dimensional showing of much the same thing. So it has been noticed, for instance, that a metaphorical expression in the PseudoLucianic Onos11 is revitalized by being converted into a narrative event in ————— 8
9 10
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Derchain – Hubaux 1958, 104. This is especially so since in the logic of magic, what is done to an object is also done to the person to whom that object belongs or with whom it is otherwise associated. Grimal 1971, 344–345. See Kenaan 2004, for the outlining of a dream “grammar” in Apuleius’ novel, with the market episode as a major instance (discussed on pp. 270–273). She further discerns both a parallelism and a significant juxtaposition between the psychological dream quality encountered in the first ten books and the revelatory dreams in the eleventh book: “The Metamorphoses … constitutes a narrative in which the highly elevated dream revelations of its final book and the psychological dimension of dreams characteristic of the rest of the novel can meet” (280). This work is probably an epitome of a Greek Metamorphoses serving as the Vorlage to Apuleius’ novel. A lucid summary of this issue, and the scholarly controversies around it, is found in Harrison 2003, 500–502.
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Apuleius’ Metamorphoses.12 In the Onos, the maid Palaestra, a veritable man-eater, informs the protagonist that she knows how to cook a man, and particularly relishes getting her hands on his heart: οὐ γὰρ µόνα ταῦτα φαῦλα ἐδώδιµα σκευάζω, ἀλλ’ ἤδη τὸ µέγα τοῦτο καὶ καλόν, τὸν ἄνθρωπον, οἶδα ἔγωγε καὶ σφάττειν καὶ δέρειν καὶ κατακόπτειν, ἥδιστα δὲ τῶν σπλάγχνων αὐτῶν καὶ τῆς καρδίας ἅπτοµαι. (Onos 6) …it’s not only these common dishes I prepare, but now this great lovely dish called man. I know how to butcher him, skin him, and chop him, and the sweetest part is getting hold of his very innards and heart.13 Now Apuleius makes his witch Meroe, a femme fatale of a much more direct and deadly kind, actually insert her hand into the wound of her victim Socrates and poke around among his innards until she hauls out his heart: Nam etiam, ne quid demutaret, credo, a uictimae religione, immissa dextera per uulnus illud ad uiscera penitus cor miseri contubernalis mei Meroe bona scrutata protulit (Met. 1,13,6) Then the good lady stuck her right hand deep into the wound, probed around for my poor friend’s heart, and drew it out. No doubt she wished to observe the proprieties of a sacrifice. Not only is the metaphor of holding a man’s heart in one’s hand revived here, but the words from the Onos (and quite possibly from the longer Greek novel before that) grow into virtual reality, in a move that parallels the magic of the witches who tear out Socrates’ heart. This literary magic is even more explicit in the example of the inflated wineskins, mentioned above. Utres inflati ambulamus (“we walk around like wineskins with wind in them”), was a proverbial expression used in a pessi————— 12
13
Richard Hunter has put forward this suggestion in an oral paper given at the Rethymnon International Conference on the Ancient Novel (RICAN) in 2005. I am grateful for his permission to quote it. Translation by J.P. Sullivan, printed in B.P. Reardon (ed.), Collected Ancient Greek Novels, 1989.
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mistic statement by one of the freedmen at Trimalchio’s dinner party in Petronius’ Satyrica (42,4). It seems probable that Apuleius’ treatment of the phrase was a direct allusion to the work of his fellow novelist,14 especially since the scene where Lucius fights off the wineskins recalls another passage in the Satyrica, namely the protagonist Encolpius’ fight against the sacred geese (Sat. 136,4–6).15 Like Lucius’ battle, Encolpius’ battle against the geese is one that he will soon regret. In the Metamorphoses, the windy wineskins are actually made human through a piece of misfiring magic, and this stunning transmogrification, of some importance to the plot, is only gradually revealed to the hero, as well as to the reader. In the second book the protagonist spends an evening at his relative Byrrhena’s, and when it is almost time to go home, she mentions that tomorrow is the festival of the god Laughter, Risus, and asks Lucius to honour the god by some merry exhibition of his wit. Lucius promises to do his best (2,31). Returning to the house where he is staying, he sees what he takes to be three robbers shamelessly trying to break in through the front door, draws his sword, and kills all of them (2,32). The next day he is unexpectedly arrested and taken to stand trial for murder in front of all the people in Hypata – at first the trial is due in the forum, then, in order to accommodate the big audience, removed to the theatre. The accused, who of course believes that he has killed three citizens (as does the first-time reader), is made to listen to the accuser’s speech and then allowed to speak in his defence, before the opposing side insists that the corpses be shown to the public (3,9). Despite his protests, Lucius is made to uncover the evidence, and – they turn out to be sacks instead of men: Nam cadauera illa iugulatorum hominum erant tres utres inflati uariisque secti foraminibus et, ut uespertinum proelium meum recordabar, his locis hiantes quibus latrones illos uulneraueram. (Met. 3,9,9)
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Ciaffi (1960, 106–108) and Grimal (1972, 457–458) have both seen this as a direct allusion to Petronius, although Grimal adduces other examples of the proverbial use of the expression: see Epicharmus fr. 166 Kassel-Austin and Sophron fr. 4,43 Kassel-Austin (PCG vol. I) with the commentary of Hordern 2004, 141 ad loc. Cf. also M.S. Smith 1975, 100, and Brancaleone – Stramaglia (2003), who argue that Apuleius indulges in a kind of intertextual game with several antecedent expressions about “inflated sacks” as a metaphor for men. Ciaffi 1960, 104–105.
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those corpses of the slain turned out to be three inflated wineskins which had been slit open in various places. The gaping holes appeared where, as I cast my mind back to the battle of the previous night, I recalled having wounded those brigands. Instead of a homicida (manslayer) the poor man has been an utricida (slayer of wineskins), as it is put somewhat later on (3,18,7). The tragic court process is sharply reversed as, at this point, everyone except Lucius bursts out in violent laughter. The whole false trial turns out to have been a practical joke, played out as a celebration of deus Risus on his festive day. In the evening Lucius’ lover, the maid Photis, explains how the wineskins became alive in the first place: unable to carry out the order of her magic-wielding mistress to fetch her some hair from a certain young man, Photis had taken some goat hair instead. As the mistress worked her magic on the hair, its owners, the sacks made of the goat skins, came to her door (3,15–18). Thus the metaphor, utres inflati ambulamus, had, as metaphors do, stated an equation that was not literally true – “wineskins = human beings” – and the magic wielded by a character in the Metamorphoses made it literally true. It should not be considered too fanciful, I believe, to say that what the witch does as a character is paralleled by Apuleius at a higher level, as the creator of a fictional universe. The world of the Metamorphoses is, albeit temporarily, altered to mimic a rhetorical figure. We can take a further step and say that reality is accommodated to underline the idea of the metaphor. A metaphorical term, by its nature, offers cognitive elucidation of that to which it is applied,16 and here the elucidation is lived. The wineskins actually come walking (ambulant) up to Lucius’ door, and he could well learn a lesson about the vanity of human endeavour – but he cannot read the sign behind the event. Unlike the case of the dream of Candidus discussed above, where both the sign and its enactment are spelled out in the text, here, before the Isiac conversion, only the enactment is. Here, where the magic involved is human not divine, and bad not good,
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For an excellent discussion of the nature of metaphor, from a classicist’s point of view, see Crowther 2003. On page 86 he claims that a central issue of metaphor is “how it is possible for a metaphorical term to offer cognitive elucidation of that to which it is applied.”
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the sign behind the action is hidden, at least to Lucius. Yet the “principle” of a verbal expression being converted into fictional reality is much the same.17 While the transformation of the wineskins aims at a moral lesson, the whole of the mock trial in honour of Laughter contains an allusion of another kind, where the main consequence is literary-generic. As I have argued elsewhere, the end of the Risus episode in the Metamorphoses may be seen as an allusion to the final joke of Horace’s programme satire, S. 2,1.18 There, just as in Apuleius, an accusation in court is dissolved in laughter, and the protagonist, in that case the satirical persona of Horace, is allowed to leave a free man. The whole action is hypothesized in the persona’s conversation with the jurist Trebatius, and it is he who speaks first in the quotation: si mala condiderit in quem quis carmina, ius est iudiciumque.’ ‘Esto, siquis mala; sed bona si quis iudice condiderit laudatus Caesare? si quis opprobriis dignum latrauerit integer ipse?’ ‘Soluentur risu tabulae, tu missus abibis.’ (Horace, S. 2,1,82–6) If someone composes foul verses against another man, he will be tried in a court of law.’ ‘Very well, for foul verses, but what if someone composes fine verses, and is praised by Caesar? If someone, himself blameless, barks at one who deserves censure?’ ‘Then the document will be dissolved in laughter, and you will be free to go.’ (my trans.) There are a number of similarities between the court episodes in Horace and Apuleius respectively. In both cases we see the following sequence of ————— 17
18
It has repeatedly been pointed out that the magic wielded by witches, which leads to Lucius’ transformation into an ass and his suffering, is in many respects parallel to the beneficent magic of Isis, which redeems Lucius and promises him eternal bliss; see e.g. Gwyn Griffiths 1975, 47–51; Frangoulidis 2005, esp. 203. Plaza 2003. Now there is a discussion of satiric echoes in the Metamorphoses in general by Maaike Zimmerman, “Echoes of Roman satire in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses”, 2006. Her statement on the relationship between Juvenal’s sixth satire and the Metamorphoses is very much in line with my present thesis: “In fact, it would be rewarding to investigate how many of the adulterous and murderous women of Juvenal’s sixth satire feature as ‘real’ characters in the tales of books 9 and 10 of the Metamorphoses.” (p. 93). Cf. also, on a lesser scale, Smith-Werner 1996. For a discussion of the importance of the Risus episode to the whole novel, see Frangoulidis 2002.
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events: an accusation of offence against the law – court procedure (iudicium Hor., S. 2,1,83; iudicia Met. 2,1) – a verbal defence by the main character – a sudden turn of the accusation by means of a joke – laughter – dismissal of court and freedom for the defendant. As they defend themselves, both heroes object that they have only attacked those who deserved it (Hor., S. 2,1,85; Met. 3,6). The characters who undergo this sequence are important, and close, to their respective authors: the satirical persona in one case, the narrator-protagonist in the other. The actual laughter is described as very violent by both authors, dissolving the laughers and the whole situation. In Horace we read Soluentur risu tabulae, tu missus abibis; Apuleius says that the people of Hypata risu cachinnabili diffluebant, and Milo is depicted as risu maximo dissolutum, Met. 3,7.19 The main difference between them, on the other hand, is that while Horace’s satirical persona steers clear of being laughed at, the novelistic hero Lucius is made the butt of the joke. Laughter, a token of the humour that is one of the main ingredients in the Metamorphoses, is made a deity after the pattern of Eros or Aphrodite in the Greek novel of love and adventure.20 Lucius’ double function, as both the unfortunate hero and the brilliant narrator in the novel, is alluded to in the formula with which Deus Risus promises to protect him:21 Iste deus auctorem et actorem suum propitius ubique comitabitur amanter nec umquam patietur ut ex animo doleas sed frontem tuam serena uenustate laetabit adsidue. (Met. 3,11,4) ————— 19
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“splitting its sides with laughter”, “Milo…was laughing loudest of all.” It is interesting to note that these formulations are quite in line with Cicero’s suggestion that humour can be used to resolve difficult situations in a process: …est plane oratoris mouere risum, uel quod ipsa hilaritas beneuolentiam conciliat ei, per quem excitata est…maximeque quod tristitiam ac seueritatem mitigat ac relaxat odiosasque res saepe, quas argumentis dilui non facile est, ioco risuque dissoluit (de Orat. 2,236) (“surely it is the orator’s business to make people laugh, because the merriment itself creates goodwill towards him who has caused it,…especially, however, because it alleviates and relaxes strict severity, and often dissolves in humour and laughter difficult points, which cannot easily be refuted with argumentation,” my trans.). Although other references to a god of Laughter (Risus, Γέλως) do exist, it is highly unlikely that Apuleius’ creation had anything to do with them; see van der Paardt 1971, 2–3. Winkler 1985 bases his narratological reading on this formula, see esp. 13, 109; some caveats may be found in Harrison 2000, 220 n.47, 226–235. A more mystical interpretation is offered in Fick-Michel 1991, 418–420.
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This deity will favourably and affectionately accompany everywhere the person who arouses and enacts his laughter, and he will never allow you to grieve in mind, but will implant continual joy on your countenance with his sunny elegance. As becomes his genre, Apuleius has turned the Horatian passage into a threedimensional episode, with laughter not only an indication of a positive audience reaction (this he inherited from Horace), but also a full-blown deity acting in his novelistic universe. Deus Risus accompanies Lucius – and the reader – through the first ten books of the Metamorphoses, until they are handed over to grander, serious gods in the eleventh. To stay with the theme of laughter and humour, let us turn to a tonguein-cheek version of the kind of narrative instantiation under discussion: the inverted proverb(s) in 9,42. The scene occurs when Lucius the ass and the gardener who is his master at the moment are in hiding. The background is that upon a conflict with a soldier encountered on the road, the gardener has beaten the soldier, escaped, and hidden from retribution in a friend’s house: himself in a chest, the ass on the upper floor. In the meantime, the soldier has brought along some fellow soldiers, as well as the magistrates, and circled in on the house in question. Here the soldiers and magistrates are, for a spell, unable to find their antagonist, and the quarrel between them and the owner of the house is growing violent. At this point Lucius, true to his fatal curiosity, sticks out his neck to see what is happening: Qua contentione et clamoso strepitu cognito, curiosus alioquin et inquieti procacitate praeditus asinus, dum obliquata ceruice per quandam fenestrulam quidnam sibi uellet tumultus ille prospicere gestio, unus e commilitonibus casu fortuito conlimatis oculis ad umbram meam cunctos testatur incoram. (Met. 9,42,2) This argument conducted with noisy altercations reached my ears, and being a naturally inquisitive ass imbued with restless impulses, I craned my neck and tried to peer out through the small window to see what all the noise was about. It so chanced that one of the soldiers caught a glimpse of my shadow, and called all of them to witness it on the spot.
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Both he and the gardener are found and brought out, and the finders cannot stop laughing. This, the narrator tells us, is the birth of that common proverb about the ass’ snooping and his shadow: …summoque risu meum prospectum cauillari non desinunt. Unde etiam de prospectu et umbra asini natum est frequens prouerbium. (Met. 9,42,4) They could not stop laughing and joking at my peering out; this is the origin of the much-quoted proverb about the peeping ass and its shadow. As commentators have noticed,22 this is a combination of two proverbial expressions, one about an ass’ snooping, and a different one about an ass’ shadow. The first of these is already present in the Onos: πάντες δὲ ἄσβεστον ἐγέλων ἐπὶ τῷ µηνύσαντι ἐκ τῶν ὑπερῴων καὶ προδόντι τὸν ἑαυτοῦ δεσπότην˙ κἀκ τότε ἐξ ἐµοῦ πρώτου ἦλθεν εἰς ἀνθρώπους ὁ λόγος οὗτος, Ἐξ ὄνου παρακύψεως. (Onos 45) They all laughed uncontrollably at the informer from upstairs, who had turned in his own master. Therefore, because of me, there originated that common saying among people “from the snooping of an ass”. (Trans. Sullivan) Thus the twist of staging an already existing expression, and then, backwards as it were, claiming to have presented its origin, was already there in the Vorlage.23 Apuleius, however, goes one better in adding the well-established proverb of the ass’ shadow, which, unlike the snooping, has a meaning rather different from the situation of Lucius.24 Instead of going from an expression ————— 22 23
24
E.g. Robertson’s edition of Apuleius, 19562, 101. Sullivan 1989, ad loc., points out that this tag is found in Menander’s comedy The Priestess (see fr. 189 Kassel-Austin, PCG vol. VI,2), where it refers to lawsuits brought on ridiculous grounds. Van Thiel (vol.1, 179–184; the snooping ass on p.181) gives some comments about Apuleius’ way with proverbs in general, which he relates to the rhetorical exercise of providing an existing maxim with an aetiological story. See Otto 1962, 41–42. The origin of the proverb is the tale of a man who had bought an ass and wanted to rest in its shade; he was told that he had bought the ass, but not its shadow. See Hijmans et alii 1995, 353–355, for fuller references and some pertinent re-
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to a novelistic moulding of it, here the author merely pretends to do so, and, in spelling out the proverbs, provides the reader with the key to the game played on him. On the evidence of these examples, I would like to suggest that the narrative instantiation of verbal expressions (or in the case of the fish-trampling, of a ritual sign formula) is a conscious literary device on the part of Apuleius, repeated with variations throughout the novel. The device is profoundly akin to the main theme of Apuleius’ novel in being a kind of metamorphosis. It also provides an emblematic illustration of what literature in general is about – shaping words into (fictional) reality.25 In conclusion, I would like to make two points. The first point is textual. In the eleventh book, when, after the initiation to the rites of Isis, Lucius learns that he must undergo a second initiation into the cult of Osiris, he is forewarned in a dream about the priest he is about to meet. The dream soon comes true, and here, at 11,27,7, the text adopted by Robertson reads as follows: Nam de pastophoris unum conspexi statim praeter indicium pedis cetero etiam statu atque habitu examussim nocturnae imagini congruentem, quem Asinium Marcellum uocitari cognoui postea, reformationis meae <minime> alienum nomen. (non-italic characters represent editor’s emendations) Confirmation was forthcoming, for I at once set eyes on one of the pastophori who coincided exactly with the vision of the night, not only by the evidence of his foot, but also by the rest of his build and by his dress. I later discovered that he was called Asinius Marcellus, a name quite relevant to my transformation. The best and earliest MS, F (a Beneventan MS of the 11th century), has “asinum Marcellum” and then “reformationis meae aljnû”, where, according to Robertson’s apparatus, another hand seems to have added an ‘e’ above the ‘j’. In φ, a MS copied from F in s. xii/ xiii, a more recent hand has according —————
25
marks on the contrast between the frivolous point of the ass’ “revelation” and the frame situation of the innocent hortulanus about to be condemned to death. For Apuleius’ associative technique of allusion, cf. Brancaleone – Stramaglia 1993, 40. So James 1987, 2–3 and passim.
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to Giarratano (1929) changed “asinum” to “asinium”; in the second passage φ has “alinum”, which, given the variation of ‘i/j’ and the abbreviation of nasals, is the same reading as in F. The easily established reading “reformationis meae alienum” has bothered editors, since the priest’s name, Asinius, is relevant, i.e. the opposite to being “alien to my transformation”. Thus Beroaldus (1500) emended to “non alienum”, and Robertson to the ingenious “minime alienum”, where “minime”, abbreviated “me” with a dash over it, can easily have fallen out after the medieval spelling of the possessive pronoun, “mee”. I propose reading quem Asinium Marcellum uocitari cognoui postea – reformationis meae asinum nomen (“I later learned that he was called Asinius Marcellus – the very word for my transformation into an ass”), for the following reasons. (1) Orthographically this is an easy emendation, since ‘s’ and ‘l’ are very similar in several scripts, and ‘in’, written as ‘i’ with a dash, often falls out. “Asinum Marcellum” may perhaps have been a mistake occasioned by the nearby “asinum”. (2) It solves the difficulty that Apuleius usually constructs alienus with the dative, not the genitive.26 (3) It establishes for this passage the same pattern of connection between words (Asinius, nomen) and novelistic reality (reformationis meae in asinum) as we have seen in the example with Candidus, a pattern which is based on the device analysed in this paper. Although “in asinum” is not strictly necessary for the meaning, its presence would have been justified by its function to emphatically underline the priest’s connection to this central transformation/ metamorphosis. The parallelism with the dream of Candidus, where the connection is likewise explicit, is worth noting: seruum … nomine Candidum – argumento serui Candidi equum … colore candidum, 11,20,2 – 11,20,7. My second point is thematic. There is, I think, in this device a hint as to the world-view of the Metamorphoses. The pure concatenation of verbal ————— 26
A form of alienus is constructed with the dative at Met. 8,8,9 and 8,13,4, as well as a couple of times in Apuleius’ other works (Fl. 18; Soc. 18; Pl. 2,8); occasionally it is constructed with ab + the ablative. The reconstruction of the passage at Met. 9,27,7 would seem to be the only example of construction with the genitive in this author. While it is, of course, not impossible to imagine this (existing Latin) construction being used only once by Apuleius in this admittedly unique passage, I still find that when viewed together with the other arguments, the grammatical point does carry some weight. Parallels for the construction aliquem reformare in + acc are found at: Met. 2,5,7: …in saxa et in pecua et quoduis animal … reformat; 4,22,5: in Lemures reformati; 6,22,4: in serpentes in ignes in feras in aues et gregalia pecua … reformando. (I am grateful to Stelios Panayotakis for drawing my attention to these.)
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signs, which is always primary in this novel,27 may be seen as parallel to the Platonist notion of ideas, and the secondary embodiment of the signs into novelistic theme is then parallel to the world of the senses, likewise secondary in Platonist thought.28 In its small way, the device discussed here points to an artistic universe where the ideal is primary to the material. The novelist then lets his readers unearth the ideas behind the themes, whether playfully as with the proverbs in 9,42 or seriously as in the dream of Candidus.29 Bibliography Brancaleone, F., Stramaglia, A. 1993. ‘Otri e proverbi in Apuleio, Met. II,32–III,18’, ZPE 99: 37–40, reprinted in: O. Pecere, A. Stramaglia (edd.). 2003. Studi apuleiani. Note di aggiornamento di Luca Graverini, Cassino: Edizioni dell’Università degli Studi di Cassino, 113–117. Ciaffi, V. 1960. Petronio in Apuleio, Torino: G. Giappichelli. Crowther, P. 2003. ‘Literary Metaphor and Philosophical Insight: The Significance of Archilochus,’ in: G.R. Boys-Stones (ed.), Metaphor, Allegory, and the Classical Tradition. Ancient Thought and Modern Revisions, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 83–100. Derchain, Ph., Hubaux, J. 1958. ‘L’affaire du marché d’Hypata dans la ‘Métamorphose’ d’Apulée’, AC 27, 100–104. Drake, G.C. 1968. ‘Candidus: A Unifying Theme in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, CJ 64, 102– 109. Fick-Michel, N. 1991. Art et mystique dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Frangoulidis, S. 2002. ‘The Laughter Festival as a Community Integration Rite in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses,’ in: Paschalis and Frangoulidis (edd.), 177–188.
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Even in the inverted last example, where it has to be primary in order for the inversion to work its joke. Apuleius was called a philosophus Platonicus (Apol. 10,6; Augustine Civ. 8,19), and it seems probable that he was familiar with Plato’s theory of Forms. The presence of Platonic influence in the texture of the Metamorphoses is well established, unlike the controversial issue of whether the author means this seriously or not (see Harrison 2003, esp. 491–492, 512–513). It will be clear that I – cautiously – side with those who believe in Apuleius’ seriousness as regards Plato and the Platonist interpretation of Isis, which he could have taken over from Plutarch, De Iside et Osiride (for this, see Walsh 19952, 182– 185). I am grateful to the editors of this volume for letting me be part of this enterprise, and for all their help along the way. I would especially like to thank Drs. Stavros Frangoulidis and Stelios Panayotakis for reading previous versions of this paper and offering valuable advice. Thanks are due to Jon van Leuven for checking my English. Any remaining infelicities are my own.
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— 2005. ‘A Pivotal Metaphor in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: Aristomenes’ and Lucius’ Death and Rebirth’, in: S. Harrison, M. Paschalis and S. Frangoulidis (edd.), AN Supplementum 4: Metaphor and the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & The University Library Groningen, 197–209. Grimal, P. 1971. ‘Le calame égyptien d’Apulée’, REA 73, 343–355. — 1972. ‘La fête de rire dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée’, in Studi classici in onore di Quintino Cataudella, Catania: Università di Catania. Vol. 3, 457–465. Gwyn Griffiths, J. 1975. Apuleius of Madauros, The Isis-book (Metamorphoses, Book XI), Leiden: Brill. Harrison, S.J. 2000. Apuleius: A Latin Sophist, Oxford: Oxford University Press. — 2003. ‘Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, Rev. ed., Boston – Leiden: Brill, 491–516. Hijmans Jr, B.L., van der Paardt, R.Th., Schmidt, V., Wesseling, B., Zimmerman, M. 1995. Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses. Book IX: Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Hölbl, G. 1978. Zeugnisse ägyptischer Religionsvorstellungen für Ephesus, Leiden: Brill. Hordern, J.H. (ed., tr., comm.). 2004. Sophron’s Mimes. Text, Translation, and Commentary, Oxford: Oxford University Press. James, P. 1987. Unity in Diversity. A Study of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses with Particular Reference to the Narrator’s Art of Transformation and the Metamorphosis in the Tale of Cupid and Psyche, Hildesheim: Olms. Kassel, R. – Austin, C. (edd.). 1983–2001. Poetae Comici Graeci (PCG). Vol. I–VIII, Berlin – New York: de Gruyter. Keulen, W. 2003. Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses Book 1,1–20. Introduction, text, commentary, PhD Diss. Groningen. Kenaan, V.L. 2004. ‘Delusion and Dream in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, CA 23, 247–284. Otto, A. 1962 [1890]. Die Sprichwörter und sprichwörtliche Redensarten der Römer. Repr. from the original edition, Leipzig 1890, Hildesheim: Olms. Paardt, van der, R.Th. 1971. L. Apuleius Madaurensis, The Metamorphoses. A Commentary on book III with Text and Introduction, Amsterdam: A.M. Hakkert. Panayotakis, S. 1997. ‘Insidiae Veneris: Lameness, Old Age and Deception in the Underworld (Apul. Met. 6,18–19)’, GCN vol. 8: 23–39. Paschalis, M., Frangoulidis, S. (edd.), AN Supplementum 1: Space in the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & The University Library Groningen. Plaza, M. 2003. ‘Solventur risu tabulae: Saved by Laughter in Horace (S. II.1.80–6) and Apuleius (Met. III.1–11)’, C&M 54, 353–358. Robertson, D.S. 19562. Apulée, Les Métamorphoses. 3 vols. Texte établi par D.S. Robertson et traduit par P. Vallette, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Sandy, G.N. 1978. ‘Book 11: Ballast or Anchor?’, in: B.L. Hijmans and R.Th. van der Paardt (edd.), Aspects of the Golden Ass, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis, 123–140. Smith, M.S. (ed.) 1975. Petronii Arbitri Cena Trimalchionis, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Smith-Werner, W.S. 1996. ‘The Satiric Voice in the Roman Novelistic Tradition’, in: J. Knuf (ed.), Unity and Diversity. Proceedings of the Fourth International Conference on Narrative, Lexington, Kentucky: College of Communications and Information Studies of the University of Kentucky for the Narrative Studies Group, 309–317.
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Sullivan, J.P. 1989. Pseudo-Lucian, The Ass. Trans. by J.P. Sullivan, in: B.P. Reardon (ed.), Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London: University of California Press, 589–618. Thiel, van, H. 1971–1972. Der Eselsroman, 2 vols. München: C.H. Beck. Walsh, P.G. 1994. Apuleius, The Golden Ass. Trans. with an intro. and explanatory notes by P.G. Walsh, Oxford: Oxford University Press. — 21995. The Roman Novel, Bristol: Bristol Classical Press. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor & Actor. A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Berkeley – Los Angeles: University of California Press. Zimmerman, M. 2002. ‘On the Road in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses,’ in: Paschalis and Frangoulidis (edd.), 78–97. — 2006. ‘Echoes of Roman Satire in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: R.R. Nauta (ed.), Genre in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Related Texts, Leuven: Peeters, 87–104.
An Old Wife’s Tale* L UCA G RAVERINI University of Siena-Arezzo
The mixture of serious and comic elements is a major feature that the novel, as Mikhail Bakhtin has long since shown,1 shares with other literary genres, like satire. The connections between the Metamorphoses and satire are a rather new frontier of Apuleian scholarship; from this point of view this paper owes much to one of Maaike Zimmerman’s latest contribution to our understanding of Apuleius’ novel. Specifically, my contribution springs from a reflection on her discussion of the ‘satirical’ qualities of the Metamorphoses.2 As is well known, as author and editor of a Groningen Commentary and of a collection of essays devoted to the central tale of the novel, she has also offered an outstanding contribution to the interpretation of Cupid and Psyche.3 This tale, it could be said, poses the same problem as the novel as a whole: How should we read it? Is it simply a sophisticated literary entertainment or does it contain some sort of philosophical or religious lesson that Lucius and/or the reader should be able to recognize?
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This contribution is a revised version of a chapter from Graverini 2006, which will be published in Italian later this year. I am happy to anticipate this part in this collection in honour of Maaike Zimmerman. On Bakhtin’s views on the ancient novel, see now the collection of essays edited by Branham 2005. Zimmerman 2006. Other recent contributions on the connections of the Metamorphoses with Roman Satire are e.g. Plaza 2003 and Keulen 2004 (esp. 262–264; 269–270); see also the first section of Ken Dowden’s article in this volume on the dialogic form of Apuleius’ prologue. This kind of research is of course much more developed with regard to Petronius’ Satyrica, on which see now Rimell 2005. See also Wytse Keulen’s chapter on the Roman novel in Graverini–Keulen–Barchiesi 2006. Zimmerman et al. 2004; Zimmerman et al. (edd.) 1998; van Mal-Maeder–Zimmerman 1998. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 86–110
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My first answer is very straightforward: we should read this tale and this novel however we wish. This stance is substantially a vulgarization of John Winkler’s assessment of the Metamorphoses as a ‘non-authorized text’ that has no predefined interpretative key built into itself.4 Winkler defends this view with a complex and original reading based on a narratological and literary interpretation of the novel. In my view, however, a vulgarization of his sophisticated assessment like the one I offer here is not altogether unwarranted. The interpretation of any text is ultimately both a responsibility and a right of the reader; this is particularly true of narrative texts, which are usually much less straightforward than, for example, historical or philosophical treatises in trying to impose a particular way of reading on the reader. Of course we all like to think that we can somehow convince other readers of the correctness of our own reading of a text, and thus our interpretations (even the aporetic ones, like Winkler’s) are all grounded on particular features of the text itself, and/or on broader literary and cultural contexts related to it. Here, my own way of extracting meaning (or, better, of exploring the possible existence of a meaning) will not be to analyse directly those passages that allow a religious/philosophical interpretation. Neither will I emphasize other passages that could suggest the author/narrator’s detachment from, or even critical view of, religious and/or philosophical systems.5 Rather, I will linger on the narrative boundaries of the tale of Cupid and Psyche, hoping that those boundaries can offer a favourable vantage point from which to consider the tale (and the novel) as a whole, and to make at least a few inferences about its nature. Ambiguity, we will see, will not be completely ruled out; but the resulting picture will prove to be remarkably different from what Winkler and others have suggested.
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Winkler 1985. This is his conclusion: ‘…if I am right in my contention that the Golden Ass deliberately lacks key elements of authorization and that it resembles a set of games for readers to play, provoking them to decide… then the last word belongs neither to Apuleius nor to me but to you.’ (p. 321). For a survey of the religious and philosophic ideas reverberating in Cupid and Psyche see especially Dowden 1998, with further bibliography, and his paper in this volume. After Winkler 1985, the ‘seriousness’ of the Metamorphoses as a whole has been more directly challenged in various studies by Danielle van Mal-Maeder and Stephen Harrison: cf. e.g. van Mal-Maeder 1997 and 2001 (esp. pp. 14–16 and 409–411); Harrison 1996, 510–516; 2000, 235–259; 2000–2001. See Graverini 2006 for a discussion on these points.
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Aniles fabulae: literary and philosophical polemics
An old woman tells the tale of Cupid and Psyche to the young and desperate Charite; at 4,27,8 she introduces it with the words Sed ego te narrationibus lepidis anilibusque fabulis protinus avocabo (‘But right now I shall divert you with a pretty story and an old wife’s tale’).6 Here, anilis fabula could be understood as a simple declaration of literal truth, since Cupid and Psyche is actually a story told by an old woman. However, we must not forget that expressions like anilis fabula have a quite remarkable literary history as generic designations, a history that could induce us to consider these words as a rather derogatory definition of the central tale of the novel. This history was thoroughly examined years ago by Matteo Massaro7 in an extremely interesting paper that – perhaps because of its focus on Horace – has almost always escaped Apuleian scholarship. I will now discuss just a few of the passages he has carefully collected, adding a few others and finally shifting the focus from Horace and satire to narrative literature and, more specifically, to Apuleius. It will be, I think, a useful exercise in helping us to understand Apuleian self-irony, and most of all to see how he constructs his novel as a compromise between, or better a blend of, seriousness and frivolity. The best starting point is offered by two texts that eluded Massaro’s attentive eye, but are well-known to Apuleianists. The first is a passage from a letter addressed to the Senate by Septimius Severus, quoted in the Historia Augusta (Clod. Alb. 12,12): maior fuit dolor, quod illum [i.e. Clodium Albinum] pro litterato laudandum plerique duxistis, cum ille neniis quibusdam anilibus occupatus inter Milesias Punicas Apulei sui et ludicra litteraria consenesceret. It is even a greater source of chagrin, that some of you thought he should be praised for his knowledge of letters, when in fact he is busied with old wives’ songs, and grows senile amid the Milesian stories from Carthage that his friend Apuleius wrote and such other learned nonsense.8
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Here and elsewhere, translations from Apuleius’ Metamorphoses are by Hanson 1989. Massaro 1977. See his n. 1 at p. 205 for an extensive survey of the preceding literature. Trans. Magie 1921.
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A similarly prejudiced view of most kinds of fiction is expressed by Macrobius in his commentary on Cicero’s Somnium Scipionis (1,2,8): Fabulae, quarum nomen indicat falsi professionem, aut tantum conciliandae auribus voluptatis aut adhortationis quoque in bonam frugem gratia repertae sunt. Auditum mulcent vel comoediae, quales Menander eiusve imitatores agendas dederunt, vel argumenta fictis casibus amatorum referta, quibus vel multum se Arbiter exercuit vel Apuleium non numquam lusisse miramur. Hoc totum fabularum genus quod solas aurium delicias profitetur e sacrario suo in nutricum cunas sapientiae tractatus eliminat: Fables – this very name acknowledges their falsity – serve either merely to gratify the ear or to encourage good works. Our ears are charmed by the comedies of Menander and his imitators, or by the narratives full of imaginary vicissitudes of lovers in which Petronius Arbiter so freely indulged and with which Apuleius, astonishingly, often amused himself. A philosophical treatise expels this whole category of fables that promises only to gratify the ear from its shrine and relegates it to nurses’ cradles. The Historia Augusta and Macrobius passages9 are two late examples of an age-old literary tradition that uses (or alludes to) the definition of ‘old wives’ tales’10 as a weapon in literary polemic: it identifies a lower and contemptible kind of narrative, sheer fiction that has noting to teach to superior minds in search of superior truths. To our knowledge, the first author who frequently adopted expressions like anilis fabula, granting them literary dignity, was Plato11 – who of course was also indisputably a model for our philosophus Platonicus. In the Athenian philosopher’s works, an old wife’s tale is often a false myth, a story that ————— 9
10
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On which see e.g. Harrison 2002, 144 f.; Graverini 2005, 193. Here, and in the rest of this paper, I will be assuming that there is no difference between old women, nurses and midwives, at least as regards their narrative skills. Their tales, as the various passages quoted in the text show, are almost always dismissively considered as children’s talk. Massaro 1977, 106–108 (see p. 106, n. 1, for the possibility that the poetess Corinna wrote some books of Γεροῖα = aniles fabulae). He quotes Theaetetus 176b, Lysis 205d, Republic 1,350e, Gorgias 527a and Hippias maior 285e–286a, to which add Laws 10,887c–e, Republic 2,377a and Timaeus 26b–c.
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has no rational ground and that should have no place in the philosopher’s utopia. At Republic 2,377a – 378d Socrates explains that all the myths that mothers, nurses, and elderly people tell children should be carefully evaluated and selected, to rule out all those (the greatest part) that could have deleterious effects on their education. At Theaetetus 176b Socrates has nothing good to say about pursuing virtue merely in order to enjoy a good reputation: to him, this is nothing more than a γραῶν ὕθλος. There are, however, also some examples of at least partially good and useful old wives’ stories in Plato. At Laws 10,887c–e the Athenian speaks very harshly against those who do not believe in the existence of the gods, in spite of all the myths that they have heard from their mothers and almost took in along with the milk of their nurses; and at Timaeus 26b–c Critias refers to an instructive tale he has heard from his old father. Indeed, Plato’s view of myths and tales fluctuates, and for good reasons: he sees that the stories narrated by poets can confuse and mislead those who hear them, but he is also aware of a good story’s potential to transmit useful ideas. Socrates himself explicitly points out this ambivalence at the end of the Gorgias. He tells Callicles a µάλα καλὸς λόγος, a ‘very beautiful story’, about the judgement that awaits the soul after a man’s death (523a–526d); he is afraid that Callicles might consider this tale merely a µῦθος… γραός, an ‘old wife’s tale’ (527a), and therefore he insists that the story is both true and useful. He concludes: Let us therefore take as our guide the doctrine now disclosed, which indicates to us that this way of life is best – to live and die in the practice alike of justice and of all other virtue. This then let us follow, and to this invite every one else; not that to which you trust yourself and invite me, for it is nothing worth, Callicles (527e).12 So, at the end of the Gorgias, a tale that is truthful and is (or should be) of the greatest importance for its audience is concealed as a µῦθος… γραός: it is up to the reader to grasp its true meaning, and not only to appreciate (or despise) it for its ‘mythical’ qualities. Nevertheless, this same text confirms for us that an old wife’s tale is, strictly speaking, useless; and when Plato points out some positive value of myths, as in the above mentioned passages from the Laws and the Timaeus, he normally avoids expressions like µῦθος γραός and adopts wider turns of ————— 12
Trans. Lamb 1925.
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phrases like ‘the tales which they have heard as babes and sucklings from their mothers and nurses’ (Laws 10,887d), as if to avoid the contempt that was probably normally connected to such definitions. This contempt has a long literary history after Plato. Closer to Apuleius’ times we find it, for example, in Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii 5,14,1, where Menippus dismissively defines the Aesopic tales as ‘frogs,… donkeys, and nonsense for old women and children to chew on’.13 Nurses could clearly have also a more sophisticated repertoire, since at Eikones 1,15 Philostratus considers the possibility that his reader could know from his nurses’ tales the story of Ariadne abandoned by Theseus on the shore of Naxos. But, whether sophisticated or not, nurses’ tales are always false, or at least need careful consideration before being believed; their main quality is well pointed out by the Phoenician at Heroikos 7,10: When I was still a child I believed such things, and my nurse cleverly amused me with these tales, singing and even weeping over some of them.14 Of course, the musicality and the seductive charm that make such tales agreeable and believable to children are off-putting to many adults, especially when serious education is in question. An essential step on the path toward moral and intellectual improvement, it seems, was jettisoning childlike narrative illusions – at least the worst of them. Quintilian, for example, uses ‘old wives’ tales’ referring to the idle pedantry of excessive and superfluous commentary on the poets. Enarratio historiarum (‘the explanation of stories’)15 is, for him, a part of the grammaticus’ job. However, a grammaticus (‘teacher of literature’) should not treat minute details or obscure authors: whoever concerns himself with these
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Trans. Jones 2005. Apollonius does not agree with Menippus: see infra, section 3. Trans. Berenson Maclean–Bradshaw Aitken 2001. I prefer to change Russell’s 2001 translation of historiae as ‘historical allusion’, which seems to me too limited (even though he refers to his note at 1,4,4 where it is pointed out that ‘historiae covers historical, geographical, mythological, or even scientific information’). Colson 1924, 114 ad loc. explains that ‘Q. of course uses the word in its wider sense. As the grammatical school dealt exclusively or almost exclusively with poetry, the “mythical” element naturally preponderated’.
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things, he says, could just as well devote himself to aniles fabulae.16 In this passage, the difference between historiae and fabulae is not the same as between historiography and fiction.17 Historiography, according to inst. 2,4,2, is the exclusive competence of the rhetor and not of the grammaticus, who should treat only poetic fabulae. In his treatment of the grammaticus’ task, Quintilian is therefore tracing a boundary that is completely inside the realm of fiction (‘fabulae’): what should remain outside the classroom are only those fabulae that are trivial, ludicrous or morally repugnant, and that are not part of the normally agreed-upon corpus of myths treated by renowned authors.18 Cicero, in De natura deorum 3,12, is not as much interested in tracing boundaries, but it is clear that aniles fabellas are for him those myths that convey a too ‘human’ and base image of the gods.19 Seneca20 is more harsh and drastic – and, for our purposes, more interesting. In the De beneficiis the philosopher maintains that, for the subject he has chosen, it would be pointless to discuss the three Graces and their iconography:21 these topics are typically adopted by Chrysippus and more generally by the Greeks (1,3,8), but they are detrimental to expository clarity. Seneca thinks it is better to come directly to the point: ————— 16
17
18
19 20 21
Cf. Quint. inst. 1,8,19 nam qui omnis etiam indignas lectione scidas excutit, anilibus quoque fabulis accommodare operam potest (‘for anyone who goes carefully through every page, whether worth reading or not, may just as well deploy his energy on old wives’ tales’, trans. Russell 2001). Pace Massaro 1977, 122, who catalogues this passage by Quintilian under the heading of ‘polemica storiografica’. 1,8,21 Quod evenit praecipue in fabulosis usque ad deridicula quaedam, quaedam etiam pudenda, unde improbissimo cuique pleraque fingendi licentia est, adeo ut de libris totis et auctoribus, ut succurrit, mentiantur tuto, quia inveniri qui numquam fuere non possunt (‘This happens especially in mythology, and sometimes reaches ludicrous or even scandalous extremes, so that the most unscrupulous writer has plenty of scope for invention, and can even lie in any way that occurs to him about whole books or authorities – all quite safely, because those which never existed cannot be found.’; trans. Russell 2001). Other relevant passages by Cicero are listed by Massaro 1977, 108–109. Cf. Massaro 1977, 114. But this is only a praeteritio, and Seneca actually offers a short essay in allegoresis: ‘Their faces are cheerful, as are ordinarily the faces of those who bestow or receive benefits. They are young because the memory of benefits ought not to grow old. They are maidens because benefits are pure and undefiled and holy in the eyes of all; and it is fitting that there should be nothing to bind or restrict them, and so the maidens wear flowing robes, and these, too are transparent because benefits desire to be seen’ (1,3,5; trans. Basore 1935). Even for Seneca, it seems, old wives’ tales are not totally meaningless.
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As for those absurdities, let them be left to the poets, whose purpose it is to charm the ear and to weave a pleasing tale (aures oblectare… et dulcem fabulam nectere). But those who wish to heal the human soul, to maintain faith in the dealings of men, and to engrave upon their minds the memory of services – let these speak with earnestness and plead with all their power; unless, perchance, you think that by light talk and fables and old wives’ reasonings (levi ac fabuloso sermone et anilibus argumentis) it is possible to prevent a most disastrous thing – the abolishment of benefits (Sen. Ben. 1,4,5–6).22 Here we are well beyond Plato’s stern caution: what is at stake in this passage is the very notion that a myth or a story could possibly be useful in support of moral and philosophical reasoning. All the fabulae are relegated to the realm of poetry, of what is dulce and not utile, and of what is merely devoted to aures oblectare: all of this inevitably reminds us of Apuleius’ prologue and its promise to aures permulcere.23 All fiction is ‘useless’ literature, just entertainment lacking any moral or philosophical value; sweetness and an ear-soothing musicality (cf. also the Phoenician’s words in Philostratus’ Heroikos, quoted above) are its trademark. 2. Apuleius’ prologues and the satiric tradition If we read Apuleius’ prologues in the Met. with the eyes of a Seneca – both the prologue to the novel as a whole, voiced by the ego, and the prologue to Cupid and Psyche, voiced by the sub-narrator, the anus24 –, we are forced to consider whether these narrators are consciously adopting the discredited persona of a brilliant entertainer who addresses his public merely to amuse and divert it without any ‘higher’ purpose. However, I think that we have not yet obtained the final answer to the fundamental question, outlined in the first two paragraphs of this paper, about the ‘seriousness’ of the Metamorphoses and its central tale. Not all ancient authors shared Seneca’s harsh judgement about the complete uselessness of mythoi and aniles fabulae. Even Plato, as we have seen, advised the rulers of his utopian city to care————— 22 23
24
Trans. Basore 1935. On this metaphor and the ear-soothing rhetoric it implies see Keulen 2003, 8–19 and ad loc.; Graverini 2005 and 2006. See below, section 4, on the parallelism between the two passages.
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fully select them and to purge them of anything that could be dangerous to the good health of the State and of its citizens, but he did not recommend their complete elimination; and, in his dialogues, Socrates frequently employs myths in his philosophical discussions. As a matter of fact, sometimes expressions like anilis fabula are not polemical; this is especially true when the author applies this definition to his own work (either directly or, as it is often the case in narrative texts, through the voice of a fictional character), with fairly evident self-irony. Socrates, as we have seen, almost adopts such a self-ironic pose at the end of the Gorgias; Horace’s Satire 2,6 takes a step further. Here are the verses that introduce the well-known Aesopic story of the two mice: Amid this talk my neighbour Cervius prattles away telling old wives’ tales that are to the point (garrit anilis / ex re fabellas). For if anyone praises Arellius’ wealth, unaware of the troubles it brings, he begins like this…25 The story is told during a country banquet where the food is simple but the table-talk is worthy of the platonic Symposium (‘we discuss what has more relevance to us and not to know is an evil’: 72 f.),26 and it serves as a narrative counterpart to a discussion about happiness, friendship, and the nature of the Good (73–76). Of course it contains a moral teaching – do not all Aesopic fables have a moral? – but we have to take into account the destabilisation provoked both by an introduction that uses a deprecatory terminology (garrit; anilis… fabella) and more generally by some peculiarities of the ————— 25
26
Satires 2,6,77–79; trans. Muecke 1993. This passage is the main focus of Massaro 1977: he links Horace’s verses especially with Plato’s usage of self-ironic expressions like γραῶν µῦθος in the Gorgias, and states that ‘l’atteggiamento in cui lo spirito socratico sembra più fedelmente rivivere in Orazio molto più che in Cicerone è quel gusto indefinibile dell’ironia pensosa che li conduce entrambi a presentare formalmente e sostanzialmente la loro verità più sentita come una anilis fabella’ (p. 110). At p. 112 he points out a similar attitude in Apuleius. Bond 1985, 85 even sees this fable as the equivalent of a Platonic myth. On the connection between Horace’s country dinner and Plato’s Symposium see e.g. Muecke 1993, 205 ad 2,6,67 ff. and passim. According to West 1974, 74, the Town Mouse’s dislike for the country is similar to the feelings Socrates expresses at Phaedrus 230d; and ‘the Town Mouse is a philosopher, not however a Myo-Platonist, but a fashionable PseudoEpicurean’. More generally, on the relationship between Greek philosophy and Roman satire, see Mayer 2005.
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satiric genre itself. As a result, the reader feels compelled to draw a moral teaching from this fabula, but his task turns out to be more difficult than it appears at first blush. It is also difficult to decide to what extent Horace himself supports this teaching, and to whom it is addressed. These interpretative pitfalls are well described by Susanna Morton Braund: It seems as if the moral of the fable – that a simple, safe and independent life is preferable to a luxurious and dangerous life of dependency – is designed to stand as the moral for the satire as a whole. But, we might ask, who is actually responsible for the telling of this fable – and, by extension, endorsing its moral? Horace the author? ‘Horace’ the character within the poem? The neighbour Cervius? Or even Aesop? And which of the audiences is the target of the fable? The original group of neighbours, including ‘Horace’, at the dinner-party in the country? The implied audience in the poem as a whole, that is those inside Maecenas’ coterie and those outside who envy those inside? Or the original Roman audience when Horace the poet first produced this poem? Or any audience since then? Us? This small example highlights the wide range of potential relationships between author and audience in the genre of satire. Satire is always a tricky and slippery type of discourse to interpret. The author tends to play games with us by creating a mask or voice, a satirist who is persuasively and seductively authoritative, and then by undermining that authority. This he does by writing into the mask some equivocation, inconsistency or ambivalence which creates uncertainty for us about the relationship between author and mask, between poet and persona.27 Both Platonic dialogue and satire are dialogic-narrative literary genres in which the author does not (necessarily) speak directly to his audience, but he can let his characters do that in his stead – in fact, he can even be part of the audience, as is the case in Horace’s Satire 2,6. Dialogue and narrative are, in so many ancient authors, a privileged means for conveying moral and philosophical ideas, but they are also a hindrance to those readers who, like modern scholars, try to reconstruct with some degree of accuracy the thought of an ancient author. Socrates narrates the final myth of the Gorgias, and the text offers no explicit hint about Plato’s attitude towards Socrates’ words. Of course we can make reasonable hypotheses, but ultimately the exact degree ————— 27
Braund 1996, 59.
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of correspondence between Plato’s thought and Socrates’ words is a matter of speculation,28 as well as the degree of historicity in Plato’s portrait of Socrates. Dialogue and mythos, in short, are useful tools for transmitting moral and philosophical ideas in an agreeable form, but they are also an obstacle that prevents us from directly accessing Socrates’ or Plato’s thought, and from effectively distinguishing them. Something similar is afoot in Horace’s Satire 2,6. The tale of the two mice indeed tells us something, namely that wealth has its drawbacks (cf. the sollicitas opes of l. 79: in Horace, the introductory verses in a way play the role of Aesop’s ὁ µύθος δηλοῖ ὅτι, ‘the story shows that’, in a less intrusive and pedantic form); but if we want to gather more information or more definite teachings from this text, all we can do is to try to read between the lines, and to make some educated guesses. To what extent did Horace really yearn for a poor and rustic life? How many hardships must one suffer to be tutus ab insidiis?29 My chief concern here is the deprecatory terminology adopted in the introductory verses. Despite all the hermeneutic uncertainty that surrounds this text, I think it is fairly clear that the irony conveyed by the words garrit anilis… fabellas is directed not against any moral teaching that the story may convey (however indirectly), but against its being merely a tale and tabletalk: morally relevant, perhaps, but certainly not the highest possible exercise in literary or philosophical discourse. More exactly, what we have here is self-irony, since in these verses Horace himself is explicitly placing his own Satire at a literary level that is well below that of an inescapable model for any serious dinner conversation, Plato’s Symposium. That he does so by adopting terminology that is probably rooted in the works of the same Plato also adds to the irony of the passage. This kind of self-irony seems to be ————— 28
29
The ‘division of roles’ between the author Plato and his character Socrates is exploited by David Sedley in his recent interpretation of the Theaetetus: ‘The Theaetetus does indeed contain a Platonic message, but that message is not articulated by the speaker Socrates. Socrates fails to see the Platonic implications, and instead it is we, as seasoned readers of Plato, who are expected to recognize and exploit them’ (Sedley 2004, 8). Oliensis 1998, for example, states that ‘the “country mouse” costume does not quite suit the poet of the Sabine farm’ (p. 50, with further bibliographical references at n. 38). Satire 2,2 – and, in broader terms, the satiric genre as a whole – pose a similar problem. Freudenburg 2001 points out that at 2,2,1, Horace promises to teach us quae virtus et quanta… sit vivere parvo, but it is the peasant Ofellus who is entrusted with this teaching: and ‘the relationship of Horace to his invented (or really remembered?) Ofellus is every bit as problematic and inscrutable as that of Socrates to the Wise Diotima, or of Plato to Socrates’ (p. 112).
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particularly well suited to satire, since this literary genre often encourages the author to meditate upon himself, his own work and its features, to assert its merits but also to underscore its lower status as compared to ‘higher’ poetry.30 It is not by chance, I think, that this self-irony concerns a tale. A tale can be, after all, a perfect tool for the satirist: it allows him to hint at serious ideas in an intermediate register and without pedantry,31 and as we have seen it also serves to keep a safe distance between the poet and his satiric persona (a useful feature especially for a satirist like Horace in his second Book). I would furthermore suggest that it is also a good way to obtain the blend of utile and dulce that Horace recommends at Ars Poetica 333 ff.,32 since such a blend, as we will see shortly, was often advertised as a quality of tales and fables. But first it is useful (and, I hope, also pleasant…) to take a long leap forward in time, to follow the history of aniles fabulae within the genre of Latin Satura. Martianus Capella’s De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii, while much later than Apuleius’ novel, is nevertheless an ideal bridge from satire33 to what mainly concerns us here, narrative. Martianus indeed is highly indebted, as regards both style and subject matter, to his renowned fellow-countryman Apuleius, and it is actually unclear, at least to me, whether the model for the passage we are going to read is Horace, Apuleius, or both of them. The De nuptiis ends with a dialogic sphragis that we can consider as a dramatisation of the uncertain relationship between the satiric poet, his work, and the personae that populate it: in these final verses ‘Marziano si rivolge al figlio omonimo e scarica la responsabilità di questo lavoro farraginoso e scadente ————— 30
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At Satires 1,4,34 ff., for example, Horace reports some critical statements made by those who do not like the poetic genre he practices (quos genus hoc minime iuvat, 24): in their words, his verses are something very similar to old wives’ tales (et quodcumque semel chartis illeverit, omnis / gestiet a furno redeuntis scire lacuque, / et pueros et anus). He replies by confessing that he does not even consider himself a poet (primum ego me illorum dederim quibus esse poetas / excerpam numero). The first poem in Horace’s collection contains sketches of as much as four different tales: the fable of the ant (1,1,33 ff.), the anecdote of the Athenian (64 ff.), Tantalus’ myth (68 f.), Ummidius’ fabula (95 ff.). A passage that is also concerned with fiction: cf. l. 338 ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris. The correct mix of utile and dulce was of course the subject of a wider debate in ancient literary criticism; at epist. 1,16,14 f., describing the nice landscape of his country-place (infirmo capiti fluit utilis, utilis alvo. / hae latebrae dulces…), Horace even seems to make a joke of it. On the satiric and Menippean qualities of the De nuptiis see Cristante 1978, 685 and n. 14, with further references. See also Pabst 1994, 105–133; Kenaan 2000, 373–378.
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su Satura, l’ispiratrice e autrice del racconto. A sua volta il genere letterario ribatte le accuse e le ritorce in tono sprezzante e scommatico contro Marziano’.34 The first verse of this sphragis defines Martianus’ work in the very same terms already adopted both by Horace and Apuleius: habes anilem, Martiane, fabulam… (‘here you have, Martianus, an old wife’s tale’: 9,997,1). Here, the author himself again attaches the definition to a work that, though bizarre, can certainly not be considered void of any didactic aim nor resistant to allegorical interpretation. It should be noted that in this passage anilem is the text offered by James Willis35 and based on a varia lectio in the codex E; D1 and R1 have sanile, C1 sinilem, all the others senilem. I think that Lucio Cristante36 is right in recommending senilem, which is both better attested and – given the very frequent occurrence of the iunctura ‘anilis fabula’, ‘senilis fabula’ being on the other hand virtually unheard of37 – clearly a lectio difficilior. In other words, Martianus is humorously elaborating on a well-known topos, adapting to himself, an old man, a definition commonly used in literary and philosophical polemic. However, in my opinion, the debate about whether the adjective applies to Satura or Martianus (a subject discussed at some length by Cristante) has no effect on rejecting anilis: a tale can be anilis even though its narrator is not an anus like the old housekeeper in the brigands’ lair. Neither Socrates nor Cervius were old women, of course,38 and a similar example is offered by another late text that was probably influenced by both Apuleius and Martianus. Fulgentius, ‘Martiani simia’ in Willis’ words, defines his own Mitologiae as a rugosa sulcis anilibus fabula (myth. 1, p. 3,13 ff. Helm: ‘a story furrowed with an old woman’s wrinkles’); just like Martianus’ anilis fabella it has been conceived at night by the light of a lamp (nocturna praesule lucerna in Fulgentius; lucernis flamine in Martianus).39 Fulgentius places himself not far from the realm of satura: he says that his master, to whom the ————— 34 35 36 37
38
39
Cristante 1987, 19. On ‘Martianus und Satura’ see also Grebe 1999, 848–857. Willis 1983; cf. Willis 1975, 133. Cristante 1978, 689 f. Sometimes old men tell tales, as does Critias’ father in Plato’s Timaeus 26b–c (and indeed, except Cupid and Psyche, it seems that old wives’ tales are not normally told by women: see below, section 4), but I know of no occurrences of iuncturae like senilis fabula or πρεσβύτου µῦθος. Even though, as is well known, in the Theaetetus Socrates repeatedly defines himself as an old midwife (149a ff. and passim). On Fulgentius’ passage and its relationship with Martianus and Apuleius, see Pabst 1994, 137; Kenaan 2000, 384–387; Mattiacci 2003, 232–234.
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work is dedicated, always appreciates his cachinnantes… nenias lepore satyrico litas, ‘ridiculous lullabies peppered with satiric charm’. He also styles his work as different from that of a poeta furens, and puts it on a lower level: he is just an interpreter of dream-like and trivial stories, onirocreta soporis nugas ariolans.40 His witty lullabies and old wives’ stories, however, are meant to be taken seriously, and Fulgentius stresses this point with some literary and mythological examples: he is not curious like Psyche nor shameless like Sulpicia, he is not interested in Phaedra’s turbid passions nor unsteady like Hero, who let her torch die out and allowed her beloved Leander to drown in the sea without its guidance. His model will rather be Cicero, the Platonic rhetor, and his philosophical use of myth in the Somnium Scipionis (1,3–5, p. 3,16–4,7 Helm). Fulgentius’ perspective is rather different from Macrobius’ in the passage I quoted at the beginning (Somn. 1,2,8), even though a serious interpretation of fictional tales is the focus of both writers. Macrobius’ aim was to differentiate the Somnium Scipionis from those fabulae that are only intended to titillate the ears of their audience and offer no philosophical teaching, while Fulgentius instead implies that all, or at least most myths can be read so as to obtain philosophical instruction. Fulgentius condemns Psyche’s curiosity and Phaedra’s passions, but he will not refrain from telling their stories and extracting a meaning from them (quid sibi illorum falsitas sentire voluerit: 3,117, p. 69,3–4 Helm): so, while Macrobius rejects Apuleius’ novel and all similar fabulae, confining them in nutricum cunas, Fulgentius can exploit a wider tradition of myths and tales and bend them to his philosophical purposes. His attitude is less stern than Macrobius’, and he can even indulge in some self-irony about his own work, defined as a rugosa sulcis anilibus fabula.41 ————— 40
41
Note that (h)ariolor means ‘to speak by divine inspiration or with second sight, prophesy’, but it can also be used (esp. in comedy) in facetious or pejorative sense (see OLD s.v.); the ThLL (VI 2534,7) offers a meaning of ‘absurda loqui, nugari’. Kenaan 2000, 384 ff. is right in emphasizing that, in his allegorical reading of Cupid and Psyche, Fulgentius banishes from his own text Apuleius’ original, long, detailed and ingenious story and concentrates instead on a censored and paraphrased version that provides a skeleton which is convertible into allegory. Most of all, Fulgentius obliterates the narrative situation that provides the context for the tale in Apuleius, and ‘completely disregards the story’s female narrator and female audience’ (387): in so doing, he eliminates its anilis fabula qualities, and somehow makes it similar to the fabulae that Macrobius too considered acceptable. Nevertheless, both in his prologue and in the discussion proper, Fulgentius is clearly less censorious than Macrobius in his selection of myths that allow a serious interpretation.
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3
More tales: Phaedrus and Aesop
A certain disposition to cross the frontiers of pure and childish entertainment towards the realm of education and teaching was, after all, nearly a requirement of the narrative genre. Phaedrus is very well aware that he is working within a minor literary genre, but nevertheless he repeatedly points out that his stories contain useful moral precepts. See for example the verses with which he introduces a tale de mustela et muribus: I seem to you to be fooling, and I do indeed wield the pen lightheartedly, so long as I have no very important theme. But take a careful look into these trifles (neniae): what a lot of practical instruction (utilitas) you will find in tiny affairs! They are not always just what they seem to be. Many people are deceived by the façade of a structure; it is the unusual mind that perceives what the artist took pains to tuck away in some inner nook.42 Phaedrus’ stories are, in the author’s words, only a literary lusus, and nothing more than neniae, trivial tales43 – a definition not unlike anilis fabula that, as we have seen, Septimius Severus attached to Apuleius’ ‘Milesian’ production in his letter to the Senate. These neniae, however, if carefully interpreted, will offer their reader great utilitas. We are therefore in a literary space that is between dulce and utile and that includes them both. The name σπουδογέλοιον, already in ancient times a definition of this ambiguous literary space,44 is implicitly referred to in Phaedrus’ prologue: A double dowry comes with this, my little book: it moves to laughter, and by wise counsels guides the conduct of life (duplex libelli dos est: quod risum movet / et quod prudenti vitam consilio monet: 1, prol. 3–4). But the coexistence of utile and dulce is a typical feature of fabulistic literature from its beginnings, and Phaedrus is most probably following a tradition already established by Aesop. Gellius says about the latter: ————— 42 43 44
4,2,1–7; trans. Perry 1965. Cf. also 3 prol. 10 legesne quaeso potius viles nenias. The σπουδογέλοιον is of course a complex subject; for a broader discussion and bibliographic references see Graverini 2006.
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Aesop, the well-known fabulist from Phrygia, has justly been regarded as a wise man (sapiens), since he taught what it was salutary (utilia) to call to mind and to recommend, not in an austere and dictatorial manner, as is the way of philosophers, but by inventing witty and entertaining fables (festivos delectabilesque apologos) he put into men’s minds and hearts ideas that were wholesome and carefully considered, while at the same time he enticed their attention.45 As we have seen, in Philostratus, Vita Apollonii 5,14,1 Menippus claims that Aesop’s tales are nothing more than ‘frogs,… donkeys, and nonsense (λῆροι) for old women and children to chew on’. Apollonius however replies that he considers Aesop’s tales ‘more conducive to philosophy’ than the myths told by poets. One of the reasons he adduces is that Aesop ‘uses humble subjects to teach great lessons’ (ἀπὸ σµικρῶν πραγµάτων διδάσκει µεγάλα: 5,14,2). Another reason is the tales’ different attitude towards truth: the poets tell their myths pretending they are real, but Aesop, by promising a story that everyone knows to be untrue, tells the truth precisely in not undertaking to tell the truth… someone who tells an untrue tale while adding instruction, as Aesop does, makes plain that he uses falsehood for the benefit of the listener. It is also a charming trait to make dumb animals nicer and deserving respect from humans. (5,14,3). As we see in this passage, Aesopic fables in Philostratus’ Life are tantalizingly close to the novel. Apollonius’ claim that Aesop ‘tells the truth precisely in not undertaking to tell the truth’ inevitably reminds us of Lucian’s programmatic statement in True Histories 1,4;46 and Menippus’ dismissive definition has the same tone and almost the same words as the passages from the Historia Augusta and Macrobius quoted at the beginning of this paper. But even though a novel can very well be an old wife’s story about a donkey, there is also a great difference between novel and Aesopic fable: apart from any consideration about the greater extent and complexity of the novel narra————— 45
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2,29,1; trans. Rolfe 19462. ‘…as I had nothing true to tell, not having had any adventures of significance, I took on lying. But my lying is far more honest than theirs [i.e. lying historians and philosophers], for though I tell the truth in nothing else, I shall at least be truthful in saying that I am a liar’ (trans. Harmon 1913).
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tive structure, an explicit moral, something like Aesop’s usual ὁ λόγος δηλοῖ ὅτι, ‘the tale shows that’, is not a typical novelistic ending.47 Even more clearly, the novel is also remarkably different from satire, be it after the manner of Menippus, Horace or Martianus Capella, and from philosophical dialogue. However, all these genres share an inclination to understatement and self-irony48 that hints at their ‘lower’ position in comparison with nobler genres (moral and philosophical treatises, poetic treatment of myths in epic and drama).49 In a quasi-paradoxical way, through this very understatement these texts reassert their ambition to achieve the same edifying goals as those genres, though by means of a different and lower literary form, open to entertainment and narrative illusion as well as teaching and truth. Neniae and aniles fabulae are often used as keywords in literary polemic; but when an author adopts such definitions for his own work, he is actually applying to it a sort of trademark that discloses its seriocomic nature. 4
Back to Apuleius
In my opinion, this is exactly the case in Apuleius. There is no doubt that the old maidservant of the robbers, defining her tale as an anilis fabula, underscores its being a mere diversion, a means of soothing the young Charite’s desperate grief. This anilis fabula is actually told by an old woman.50 To my ————— 47
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Mithras’ and Sisimithres’ speeches in Apuleius 11,15 and Heliodorus 10,39 are closest to what could be called an explicit moral in ancient novels; however, they are views expressed by characters inside the narrative, not direct authorial interventions. Even though it is true that only in the novel can self-irony develop into actual laughter and mockery at the expense of the narrator: see Maria Plaza’s lucid analysis of the Risus episode (2003, 356). This feature, I think, could figure among the ‘Systemreferenzen’ discussed by Zimmerman 2006, and can be considered as a consequence of the ‘Menippean’ character of Apuleius’ novel (on which see Zimmerman 2006, 88–90). Again, I think that Kenaan 2000 is right in emphasizing that both the old narrator and her intended audience, Charite, are female: this underscores even more the ‘feminine’ qualities of this particular anilis fabula. However, I cannot see how Lucius’ definition of bella fabella at 6,25,1 can strip Cupid and Psyche of its fabula anilis qualities and be ‘a first step in transforming this text into… a philosophical allegory’ (Kenaan 2000, 383). While I clearly agree that philosophy and allegory play a role in Cupid and Psyche, and that the tale has different ‘layers of meaning’ (384), Lucius’ words at 6,25,1 are to me on the very same level as the old narrator’s introduction at 4,27,8. Both passages can be read as plain statements made by ingenuous characters in the tale and as forms of self-ironic winking
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knowledge, this is the only example, while all the other major aniles fabulae are told by men (Socrates, Cervius, Martianus Capella, Fulgentius and so on). It could even be said that this is a case of ‘a verbal expression being converted into fictional reality’, similar to those discussed by Maria Plaza and by Thomas McCreight in this volume.51 At the end of the tale (6,25,1), the ass defines the old woman as a delira et temulenta… anicula, and his words indeed contribute to the negative characterization of the narrator. However, as I have argued elsewhere,52 Lucius’ comment should be read also as a subtle way of showing that the tale is a sort of degraded epic.53 While the words delira et temulenta categorize the narrator, the expression anilis fabula (contained in what we can rightly consider a prologue) labels the narrative, and both designations are useful hints (aptly located immediately before the beginning and after the end of Cupid and Psyche) as to how the tale should be received. In both cases, an implicit reference to a ‘superior’ kind of literary discourse is embedded in a contemptuous expression that reflects both the ‘lower’ status and the ‘higher’ models of Cupid and Psyche as a literary product. But, besides such considerations about the tale’s position in the ancient literary panorama, its being an anilis fabula also raises a question about its meaning: if I am right in what I have pointed out so far, through the old maidservant’s words Apuleius is preparing the reader for an agreeable and diverting tale that conceals some kind of teaching. What kind of teaching? Unfortunately, this problem is too complex to receive here even a cursory treatment. I will discuss it elsewhere,54 but I wish to point out right now that I do not think that it is possible to offer a completely precise and rationally demonstrable answer to such a question. In other words, it would be difficult ————— 51
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by a skilled author that skilled readers can recognize; as such, they allude to the different kinds of reception allowed by this tale. For a comparable instance of narrative concretisation of a metaphor for ‘entertaining rhetoric/fiction’ see Keulen 2003b, 167 f. (on juggler imagery in the sword-swallowerscene, Met. 1,4); see Graverini 2003, 211 with n. 10 for similar developments of poetic similes. Graverini 2003, 214 f. Even though, as Danielle van Mal-Maeder and Maaike Zimmerman rightly point out (1998, 86), her being an alcoholic explains the fact that wine-drinking is repeatedly highlighted in the tale. The old and drunken woman is also a typical comic character: cf. Plautus, Cistellaria 149 et multiloqua et multibiba est anus; Curculio 76–77 anus… multibiba atque merobiba. Graverini 2006.
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to apply to the details of Apuleius’ novel the same hermeneutical method that, according to Iamblichus, transformed Pythagoras’ ‘teaching by symbols’ (διὰ συµβόλων διδασκαλία) from old wives’ talks into philosophical teachings: Unless one can interpret the symbols, and understand them by careful exposition, what they say would strike the chance observer as absurd – old wives’ tales, full of nonsense and idle talk (γελοῖα ἂν καὶ γραώδη δόξειε τοῖς ἐντυγχάνουσι τὰ λεγόµενα, λήρου µεστὰ καὶ ἀδολεσχίας). But once they are deciphered, as symbols should be, and become clear and transparent instead of obscure to outsiders, they impress us like utterances of the gods or Delphic oracles, revealing an astounding intellect and having a supernatural influence on those lovers of learning who have understood them.55 In a way, a minutely and scrupulously applied allegorical interpretation would really transform Apuleius’ Metamorphoses into a Delphic oracle: namely, an obscure riddle open to wild misinterpretations, just like Apollo’s oracle at 4,33,1–2.56 Narrative, indeed, can be a much more agreeable “read” than a moral or philosophical treatise, but it inevitably has some shortcomings as regards the communication of well-defined ideas: more than in any other literary genre, the construction of meaning is the result of a cooperation between text and reader. What should be noted in any case is that the old maidservant’s words prepare us for a tale that has both serious and comic aspects. That the ‘serious’ side is both highlighted and blurred by the narra————— 55
56
The Pythagorean Life 23,105 (cf. also 32,227); trans. Clark 1989. See Massaro 1977, 112 f., who is more optimistic than I about the possibility of applying Iamblichus’ allegorical method to Apuleius’ novel. See Hijmans in the present volume. From Iamblichus’ words we understand that such method is to be applied, more than to narrative proper, to maxims like ‘One should not enter a shrine, or worship at all, while on the way to somewhere else; not even on finding oneself outside the temple doors. Sacrifice and worship barefoot. Leave the highway and use the footpaths’ (23,105); or ‘don’t poke the fire with a knife’ (32,227). Symbolic and allegorical interpretation of both Platonic and biblical myths, that otherwise could appear to be παραπλήσιοι τοῖς παραδιδοµένοις ταῖς γραυσίν, is instead a point in Origen’s Against Celsus 4,36 ff.; see Massaro 1977, 115 ff., who shows that, after St. Paul’s first Epistle to Timothy 4,7, old wives’ tales frequently appear in Christian polemic against pagans, Jews, and heretics.
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tive development is, in my view, an essential feature that Apuleius’ novel shares with other seriocomic literary genres, especially with satire. It is, actually, a feature of the Metamorphoses as a whole, and not only of Cupid and Psyche. Again, this is a statement that obviously needs to be demonstrated with a wider scope and in more detail. Within the scope of this paper, I only point out the strong and well-known parallelism between the Metamorphoses and the inserted tale of Cupid and Psyche. Not only can we view Psyche as a mythic counterpart to Lucius,57 but there are also striking similarities between the two introductions: 1,1,1 At ego tibi sermone isto Milesio varias fabulas conseram auresque tuas benivolas lepido susurro permulceam (‘But I would like to tie together different sorts of tales for you in that Milesian style of yours, and to caress your ears into approval with a pretty whisper’) and 4,27,8 Sed ego te narrationibus lepidis anilibusque fabulis protinus avocabo (‘But right now I shall divert you with a pretty story and an old wife’s tale’).58 Both texts are prologues, to the whole novel and to the embedded tale respectively; if the novel and the tale have similar prologues, it is an obvious assumption that they share the same literary features – for example, they are both explicitly linked with the ‘Milesian’ genre.59 In other words, not only Cupid and Psyche but the novel as a whole could be defined as an anilis fabula: after all, this is exactly what Septimius Severus and Macrobius do in the passages quoted at the beginning of this paper. My point is that Septimius Severus and Macrobius, for the sake of their more or less polemical arguments, miss or deliberately obscure the seriocomic character of Apuleius’ novel, and choose to take the definition of ani————— 57 58
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On the many thematic correspondences see e.g. Smith 1998. On the similarities between the two passages cf. Scobie 1975, 66; Winkler 1985, 53; Kenney 1990, 13 and 22 f. But they were already clear to ancient readers: Fulgentius, in the prologue to his Mitologiae, blends allusions to both of them: additur quia et mihi nuper imperasse dinosceris ut feriatas affatim tuarum aurium sedes lepido quolibet susurro permulceam: parumper ergo ausculta dum tibi rugosam sulcis anilibus ordior fabulam (‘add that, as you know, you have just ordered me to caress your ears, while they are resting from work, with some pleasant whisper: so, listen for a little while, as I spin a tale furrowed with an old woman’s wrinkles’). See Mattiacci 2003, 232 ff. Cf. 4,32,6 propter Milesiae conditorem, with Zimmerman et al. 2004, 84 s. ad loc. My statement consciously breaks Ken Dowden’s ‘PROHIBITION I: No one shall refer to a genre of “Milesian Tales”’ (Dowden 2001, 126); however, Keulen 2003, 61 shows that ‘the adjective Milesius and the substantive Milesia… are both attested in expressions for ‘fiction’, or ‘novels’.’ See also Hijmans in this volume, n. 13.
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lis fabula at face value and to apply it to the whole Metamorphoses: pointless literature, without any edifying value and acceptable only as a pastime for women and children. It is, after all, a charge that the novel had to face often throughout its history: but it is also a typical claim of many novels that their ‘low’ form and their foolish contents actually suggest something valuable.60 Peter Walsh aptly quotes, as an epigraph to his chapter on Apuleius, the prologue of Rabelais’ Gargantua and Pantagruel: Therefore is it that you must open the book, and seriously consider of the matter treated in it, then you shall find that it containeth things of far higher value than the box did promise; that is to say, that the subject thereof is not so foolish as by the title, at the first sight, it would appear to be. And put the case that in the literal sense you meet with matters that are light and ludicrous, and suitable enough to their inscriptions; yet must you not stop there, as at the melody of the charming syrens; but endeavour to interpret that in a sublimer sense, which, possibly, you might think was spoken in the jollity of heart… for in the perusal of this treatise, you shall find another kind of taste, and a doctrine of a more profound and abstruse consideration, which will disclose unto you the most glorious and dreadful mysteries.61 The Metamorphoses, of course, contains no such explicit statement. However, Apuleius’ use of the common generic descriptor anilis fabula (as well as other features of his novel that cannot be discussed here) underscores exactly this kind of ‘menippean’ ambiguity, and sets the novel in a vaguely delimited space between ‘low’ and ‘high’, comic and serious.62 This kind of ambiguity is, in my opinion, one of the main ‘satiric’63 qualities of the Meta————— 60 61 62
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On this topic in modern novels, see e.g. Celati 1975, 5–49. I reproduce the English translation offered by Walsh 1970, 141. According to Ken Dowden (in this volume, subsection ‘Sequence I’), ‘the old woman at the robbers’ camp is a jarring variant of the Mantinean Diotima (“God-honoured from Prophetville”)’. On the seriocomic nature of the Met. cf. also Keulen 2003b, focussing on Lucius’ satirical characterisation as a pseudo-philosopher. In satire, the adoption of a satiric persona and self-parody clearly affect the selfrepresentation of the poet as a superior and authoritative model of life, but they do not obliterate the protreptic aim of his poetry. See e.g. Freudenburg 1993, 21: ‘Horace understands that the scoffer cannot exempt himself from the degradation he metes out, for his own humiliation is central to his mission of leveling and exposure, a festival mission that concerns the dying nature of all men, the instability of their beliefs and their institutions.
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morphoses. This cannot be fully appreciated if we accept the Winklerian and post-Winklerian hermeneutical trend according to which the reader has to choose between a serious and a comic interpretation of the novel: in both cases, there is inevitably something that gets lost. Neither am I inclined to accept an aporetic stance as the final result of a lectio scrupulosa of Apuleius’ novel: the peculiar blend of serious and comic elements inevitably results in some perplexity on the reader’s part but, especially in a tradition influenced by Platonic dialogue, such an aporia is only a first stage towards philosophical knowledge. With the caveat that a novel is not a philosophical dialogue, and that the ideas it suggests are inevitably more vague and blurred, I think that what Charles Kahn asserts about aporia in Platonic dialogues could be easily accepted also as regards Apuleius’ novel: … the aporetic dialogue… is his [i.e. Plato’s] literary device for reinterpreting the Socratic elenchus as the preparation for constructive philosophy. The reader is to accompany the interlocutor in the recognition of a problem. But the more astute reader will also recognize some hints of a solution. Hence the tension between the surface conclusion in aporia and the implicit hints of positive doctrine. These dialogues embody in their literary form the notion of creative perplexity that is Plato’s reinterpretation of the Socratic elenchus.64 Bibliography Basore, J.W. 1935. Seneca. Moral Essays, vol. III, Cambridge (Mass.) – London: Harvard University Press. Berenson Maclean, J.K. – Bradshaw Aitken, E. 2001. Flavius Philostratus: Heroikos, Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature.
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Anything that has pretensions to stability in a world where the wheels of life and death are constantly in motion the satirist unsettles, his own self included. In so doing he teaches the pretentious fool how to live, how to join the larger party of the dying, helpless fools who know that wealth is to be spent, wine is to be drunk, and authority mocked because tomorrow brings death. His mockery, despite all appearances, is deeply felt and moral in nature. He preaches the one true, unalterable fact of human behavior, that all must die, and in so doing he teaches us how to live’. Kahn 1996, 100. I am grateful to Sandro Barchiesi, Wytse Keulen and Thomas McCreight (who also kindly agreed to revise my English) for their helpful advice.
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Bond, R.P. 1985. ‘Dialectic, Eclectic and Myth (?) in Horace, Satires 2.6’, Antichthon 19, 68– 86. Branham, R.B. (ed.) 2005. The Bakhtin Circle and Ancient Narrative, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & Groningen University Library (Ancient Narrative, Supplementum 3). Braund, S.M. 1996. The Roman Satirists and Their Masks, Bristol: Bristol Classical Press. Celati, G. 1975. Finzioni occidentali: fabulazione, comicità e scrittura, Torino: Giulio Einaudi. Clark, G. 1989. Iamblichus: On the Pythagorean Life, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Colson, F.H. 1924. M. Fabii Quintiliani Institutionis Oratoriae liber I, Cambridge. Cristante, L. 1978. ‘La sphragis di Marziano Capella (spoudogeloion: autobiografia e autoironia)’, Latomus 37, 679–704. — 1987. Martiani Capellae De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii liber IX, Padova: Editrice Antenore. Dowden, K. 1998. ‘Cupid & Psyche. A Question of the Vision of Apuleius’, in: Zimmerman et al. (edd.), 1–22. — 2001. ‘Prologic, Predecessors, and Prohibitions’, in: A. Kahane – A. Laird (edd.), A Companion to the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Oxford–New York: OUP, 123–136. Freudenburg, K. 1993. The Walking Muse. Horace on the Theory of Satire, Princeton (NJ): Princeton University Press. — 2001. Satires of Rome: Threatening Poses from Lucilius to Juvenal, Cambridge: CUP. — (ed.) 2005. The Cambridge Companion to Roman Satire, Cambridge: CUP. Graverini, L. 2003. ‘The Winged Ass. Intertextuality and Narration in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: Panayotakis – Zimmerman – Keulen (edd.), 207–218. — 2005. ‘Sweet and Dangerous? A Literary Metaphor (aures permulcere) in Apuleius’ Prologue’, in: S. Harrison – M. Paschalis – S. Frangoulidis (edd.), Metaphor and the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & Groningen University Library (Ancient Narrative, Supplementum 4), 177–196. — 2006. Le Metamorfosi di Apuleio. Letteratura e identità, Firenze: Le Monnier (forthcoming). Graverini, L. – Keulen, W. – Barchiesi, A. 2006. Il romanzo antico. Forme, testi, problemi, Roma: Carocci. Grebe, S. 1999. Martianus Capella. ‘De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii’. Darstellung der sieben freien Künste und ihrer Beziehungen zueinander, Stuttgart–Leipzig: Teubner. Hanson, J.A. 1989. Apuleius. Metamorphoses, Cambridge (Mass.) – London: Harvard University Press. Harmon, A.M. 1913. Lucian, vol. 1, Cambridge (Mass.) – London: Harvard University Press. Harrison, S.J. 1996. ‘Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, Leiden–New York–Boston: Brill, 491–516. — 1998. ‘The Milesian Tales and the Roman Novel’, in: H. Hofmann, M. Zimmerman (edd.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel 9, 63–73. — 2000. Apuleius. A Latin Sophist, Oxford: OUP. — 2000–2001. ‘Apuleius, Aelius Aristides and Religious Autobiography’, Ancient Narrative 1, 245–259. — 2002. ‘Constructing Apuleius. The Emergence of a Literary Artist’, Ancient Narrative 2, 143–171. Jones, C.P. 2005. Philostratus. The Life of Apollonius of Tyana (2 vols.), Cambridge (Mass.) – London: Harvard University Press.
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Kahn, Ch. H. 1996, Plato and the Socratic Dialogue. The Philosophical Use of a Literary Form, Cambridge: CUP. Kenaan, V.L. 2000. ‘“Fabula anilis”: the literal as a feminine sense’, in: C. Deroux (ed.), Studies in Latin literature and Roman history, vol. 10, Bruxelles: Latomus, 370–391. Kenney, E.J. 1990. Apuleius. Cupid & Psyche, Cambridge: CUP. Keulen, W.H. 2003. Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses Book 1,1–20. Introduction, text, commentary. PhD Diss., Groningen. — 2003b. ‘Swordplay-Wordplay: Phraseology of fiction in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: Panayotakis – Zimmerman – Keulen (edd.), 161–170. — 2004. ‘Lucius’ Kinship Diplomacy: Plutarchan Reflections in an Apuleian Character’, in: L. De Blois et al. (edd.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s Works. Proceedings of the sixth International Conference of the International Plutarch Society, Nijmegen – Castle Hernen, May 1–5, 2002, Leiden: Brill, 261–273. Lamb, W.R.M. 1925. Plato. III: Lysis, Symposium, Gorgias, Cambridge (Mass.)–London: Harvard University Press. Magie, D. 1921. The Scriptores Historiae Augustae, vol. 1, London – Cambridge (Mass.): Harvard University Press. Mal-Maeder, D., van. 1997. ‘Lector, intende: laetaberis. The enigma of the last book of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: H. Hofmann, M. Zimmerman (edd.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel 8, 87–118. — 2001. Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses. Livre II, Texte, Introduction, et Commentaire, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Mal-Maeder, D., van – Zimmerman, M. 1998. ‘The Many Voices in Cupid and Psyche’, in: Zimmerman et al. (edd.), 83–102. Massaro, M. 1977. ‘ “Aniles fabellae” ’, SIFC 49, 104–135. Mattiacci, S. 2003. ‘Apuleio in Fulgenzio’, SIFC 96, 229–256. Mayer, R. 2005. ‘Sleeping with the enemy: satire and philosophy’, in: Freudenburg (ed.) 2005, 146–159. Muecke, F. 1993. Horace. Satires II, Warminster: Aris & Phillips. Oliensis, E. 1998. Horace and the Rhetoric of Authority, Cambridge: CUP. Pabst, B. 1994. Prosimetrum. Tradition und Wandel einer Literaturform zwischen Spätantike und Spätmittelalter, Köln–Weimar–Wien: Böhlau. Panayotakis, S. – Zimmerman, M. – Keulen, W. (edd.) 2003. The Ancient Novel and Beyond, Leiden: Brill Perry, B.E. 1965. Babrius and Phaedrus, Cambridge (Mass.)–London: Harvard University Press. Plaza, M. 2003. ‘Solventur risu tabulae: Saved by Laughter in Horace (S. II.1.80–6) and Apuleius (Met. III.1–11)’, C&M 54, 353–358. Rimell, V. 2005. ‘The Satiric Maze: Petronius, Satire, and the Novel’, in: Freudenburg (ed.) 2005, 160–173. Rolfe, J.C. 19462. The Attic Nights of Aulus Gellius, Cambridge (Mass.)–London: Harvard University Press. Russell, D.A. 2001. Quintilian, The Orator’s Education, 5 vols., Cambridge (Mass.)–London: Harvard University Press. Scobie, A. 1975. Apuleius. Metamorphoses (Asinus Aureus) I. A Commentary, Meisenheim am Glan: Hain. Sedley, D. 2004. The Midwife of Platonism. Text and Subtext in Plato’s Theaetetus, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
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Smith, W.S. 1998. ‘Cupid and Psyche Tale: Mirror of the Novel’, in: Zimmerman et al. (edd.), 69–82. Walsh, P.G. 1970. The Roman Novel, Cambridge: CUP. West, D. 1974. ‘Of Mice and Men. Horace, Satires 2.6.77–117’, in: T. Woodman – D. West (edd.), Quality and Pleasure in Latin Poetry, Cambridge: CUP, 67–80. Willis, J. 1975. ‘Martianea V’, Mnemosyne 28, 126–134. — 1983. Martianus Capella, Leipzig: Teubner. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor & Actor. A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’s The Golden Ass, Berkeley et al.: University of California Press. Zimmerman, M. 2006. ‘Echoes of Roman Satire in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: R.R. Nauta (ed.), Genre in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Related Texts, Leuven: Peeters, 87– 104. Zimmerman, M. et al. (edd.) 1998. Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass. Volume II. Cupid and Psyche, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Zimmerman M. et al. 2004. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Books IV,28 – VI,24. Cupid and Psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten.
A Pain in The Ass S TELIOS P ANAYOTAKIS University of Crete
This article is but a small token of gratitude to Maaike for her inspiring work on Apuleius from which I greatly profited, for her continuous support and unfailing guidance, and for her inexhaustible humour, which has always made our co-operation at Groningen a great pleasure. Scholars currently agree that Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, or The Golden Ass, is based on a lost Greek work attributed by the patriarch Photius (Bibl. 129) to a certain Lucius of Patras; a story that survives in the corpus of Lucian, entitled Lucius, or The Ass, is probably both an epitome of the lost Metamorphoseis and a work falsely attributed to Lucian. The complex relationship among these three versions of the ass-story has received considerable discussion, and the shorter Greek version (hereafter, The Ass) has been a useful tool in comparative analysis of the longer Latin text (hereafter, The Golden Ass).1 In the words of the leading critic in this field, “the presence in the ‘Golden Ass’ of passages both of close translation and of varying degrees of free adaptation suggests that Apuleius composed his adaptation of the ‘Metamorphoseis’ incident by incident, reading the Greek version of an episode before composing his own, retaining typical phrases of the Greek in his memory as he wrote, but not actually “translating” at a word-by-word level”.2 This article focuses on the textual interpretation of a passage from The Ass, not The Golden Ass; it aims at demonstrating that the mere ‘parallel’ reading of the Greek and the Latin Ass stories, for all its usefulness, may ————— 1
2
See, notably, Junghanns 1932; Van Thiel 1971, 1972. An account of recent criticism on the relation between Apuleius’ novel and the Greek versions is conveniently found in Schlam and Finkelpearl 2000, 36–41; on the Greek tale of The Ass see Hall 1981, 354– 367, who argues against Lucianic authorship; MacLeod 1994, 1384–1385; Hansen 1998, 76–79. Mason 1994, 1696–1700 (quotation from p. 1698); cf. Mason 1978 (= 1999). Very useful discussions also in Hijmans 1987, 399–406; Zimmerman 1995. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 111–122
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not be the best means of our appreciation of either Apuleius’ or Ps.-Lucian’s originality. In the final chapter of The Ass (56), the hero Lucius, having regained his human shape by means of eating roses, returns to the wealthy matron with whom he, in the form of an ass with an enormous member, had spent a night of passionate sex (chs. 50–51). But as soon as he stands in front of her, wearing nothing but rose garlands and perfumes, the lady realizes that, after the transformation into a human, Lucius had lost the quality she valued most in him, his asinine member; enraged, she asks the servants to throw the man out of the house, where he spends the whole night as an ‘exclusus amator’3: κα‹ καλε› εÈθÁς ≥δη τοÁς οfiκέτας ka‹ κελεύει µε τ«ν νώτων µετέωρον κοµισθ∞ναι ¶ξω τ∞ς οfiκ¤ας. The description is given in simple, straightforward language, and the meaning of the sentence is clear. But what exactly are we to imagine is happening here? How is Lucius being thrown out of the house, and what is the syntactic function of the genitive τ«ν νώτων? MacLeod’s Loeb translation gives a precise and clear answer to this question: “she immediately called her servants and had me carried out of the house aloft on their backs”;4 similarly, J.P. Sullivan (in Reardon 1998) renders: “she immediately summoned her servants and ordered me carried from the house stretched high on their backs.” Other translations of this passage at my disposal are less explicit about the notion of Lucius being carried on the servants’ backs. Nonetheless, they suggest that Lucius is portrayed as a piece of burden; thus, E. Brandt and W. Ehlers (in Kytzler 1983) “mit diesen Worten rief sie einige Bediente und befahl ihnen, mich, wie ich war, aufzupacken, zum Hause hinauszutragen und mir die Tür vor die Nase zuzuschließen”; A. Angelini (in Cataudella 1992) “indi chiama i servitori, e di peso mi fa metter fuori della porta”.5 ————— 3
4
5
For the elegiac motifs in this episode see Bernsdorff 1997. The text of The Ass is given from McLeod’s OCT edition of Lucian, vol. II (1974). The text in the passage under discussion does not differ in MacLeod’s Loeb edition (1967), Van Thiel’s synoptic edition (1972), or Jakobitz’s Teubner edition (1873). Unless otherwise indicated, all subsequent translations of Greek and Latin passages are from the Loeb Classical Library. P. Turner’s translation (in Hansen 1998) clearly omits the detail: “She then called her servants and told them to throw me out of the house.”
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However, a difficulty arises when one tries to explain the plain genitive τ«ν νώτων with a verb denoting carrying; the construction is both hard to paralell (cf. LSJ s.v. κοµίζω II.4), and at odds with standard linguistic usage as attested not only in The Ass (chs. 29 ξύλα το›ς µοις §κόµιζον “[I was often sent up to the mountain] to fetch wood”; 37 and 41 τØν §π’ §µο‹ κοµιζοµένην θεόν “the goddess who rode on my back … the goddess whom I had carried”; 48 κοµίζειν τÚν δεσπότην §π‹ τοË νώτου “to walk with my master on my back”, tr. M.D. MacLeod), but also elsewhere in Imperial Greek: see Philo On rewards and punishments 8 Τριπτόλεµον ... éρθέντα µετέωρον §π‹ πτην«ν δρακόντων “Triptolemus borne aloft on winged dragons” (tr. F.M. Colson); Dio Chrys. Disc. 64,14 ε‡ µέ τις ÍψηλÚν êρας êγοι µετέωρον §πί τινων µ Πηγάσου νώτων µ Πέλοπος πτην«ν èρµάτων “if some one should raise me aloft and transport me through the sky, either, as it were, on the back of some Pegasus or in some winged car of Pelops” (tr. H. Lamar Crosby); Dio Roman History 44,17,1 ı Κα›σαρ §π‹ ... τ«ν νεφ«ν µετέωρος αfiωρε›σθαι “Caesar (dreamed) he was raised aloft upon the clouds” (tr. E. Cary). Moreover, the very use of the term τå ν«τα seems enigmatic, and indeed pointless, especially in view of the term µετέωρον. The phrase µετέωρον κοµίζεσθαι (or similar verbs) commonly refers to carrying a person aloft, but the specific detail of one’s arms or shoulders, on which that person is being carried, is hardly ever mentioned in the texts, although translators tend to include it. Lucian, Anacharsis, or Athletics 28, provides a good parallel for our passage, since both texts describe the carrying away of a person by force: “and as for picking up a man who is muddy, sweaty, and oily while he does his best to break away and squirm out of your hands, do not think it a trifle! All this, as I said before, is of use in war, in case one should need to pick up a wounded friend and carry him out of the fight with ease, or to snatch up an enemy and come back with him in one’s arms” (πολέµιον συναρπάσαντα ¥κειν µετέωρον κοµίζοντα) (tr. A.M. Harmon); see also Achilles Tatius 3,12,2 éράµενοι οÔν αÈτØν (Leukippe) µετέωρον éπάγουσιν “(the guards) took her up and carried her off on their shoulders” (tr. S. Gaselee); Apollod. 2,5,11 τούτƒ (Antaeus) παλαίειν éναγκαζόµενος ÑΗρακλ∞ς éράµενος ëµµασι µετέωρον κλάσας éπέκτεινε “Hercules hugged him, lifted him aloft with hugs, broke and killed him” (tr. J.G. Frazer).6 On the other hand, when ————— 6
Similarly, Ps. Plutarch, The Education of Children 17 (Moralia 13B) κρονόληρος κα‹ σοροδαίµων §στί, κα‹ µετέωρον αÈτÚν éράµενοι τØν ταχίστην §ξοίσοµεν “(your father)
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Herodotus describes a deadly ritual among the Thracian Getae, in which a man is raised high and thrown on to spear-points, he mentions the body parts of the victim, not his executors: Herod. 4,94 êλλοι δ¢ διαλαβόντες τοË éποπεµποµένου παρå τÚν Σάλµοξιν τåς χε›ρας κα‹ τοÁς πόδας, éνακινήσαντες αÈτÚν µετέωρον =ίπτουσι §ς τåς λόγχας “others seize the messenger to Salmoxis by his hands and feet, and swing and hurl him aloft on to the spearpoints” (tr. A.D. Godley). Other literary accounts of similar episodes offer little help. Anderson 1976, 58 and 100–101 remarks that Lucius’ fate at the end of The Ass, when the rich woman’s servants throw him out naked on the street, is paralleled both in Apuleius’ Tale of Thelyphron, when Thelyphron is attacked by a widow’s servants and thrown out for making an inopportune remark (Met. 2,27,6–8), and in Petronius’ Satyrica 132, when Encolpius fails to satisfy Circe sexually, and is thrown out of doors (uerberibus sputisque extra ianuam eiectus sum “[I] was beaten and spat upon and thrown out of doors”). Petronius’ account, like our passage, involves the corporal punishment and humiliation of a young man by a group of slaves following the order of a sexually dissatisfied woman: 132,2 manifestis matrona contumeliis uerberata tandem ad ultionem decurrit uocatque cubicularios et me iubet catomizari “my open taunts lashed the lady; at last she ran to avenge herself, and called the chamber-grooms, and ordered me to be hoisted on their shoulders for flogging” (tr. M. Heseltine and G.H. Warmington). The rare verb used to describe this ceremony of humiliation is catomizari, a conjecture by Salmasius, which appears to be a Grecism and is probably related to katvm¤zv, “frustare qualcuno appeso alle spalle (κατ’ µον o κατ’ µους) di un altro.”7 —————
7
is an old twaddler with one foot already in the grave, and before long we’ll take his coffin on our shoulders and carry him out” (tr. F.C. Babbitt); Aelian, On the Characteristics of Animals 5,1 τÚν νεκρÚν ... ÍπÚ τ∞ς µητρÚς κοµισθέντα µετέωρον “the actual dead body (of Memnon) was borne through the air by his mother” (tr. A.F. Scholfield). Cavalca 2001, 58. For this passage compare Apul. met. 9,28,2 uocatis duobus e familia ualidissimis, quam altissime sublato puero, ferula nates eius obuerberans… “he called two of his sturdiest slaves and had them raise the boy as high as possible, and thrashing his buttocks with a rod…” (tr. Hijmans et al. 1995, 244). According to the Groningen commentary ad loc. the scene is paralleled on Pompeian frescoes and may be visualized as follows: “one slave has pulled the boy over his shoulders, holding him by the arms, while the other holds the boy’s legs, keeping them off the ground” (Hijmans et al. ibid. 245).
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We have thus far seen that literary descriptions of violence like the one we read at the end of The Ass are not uncommon, especially in the realm of ancient fiction. However, the linguistic usage in the passage under discussion is unusual and, although The Ass is known for its inconsistency of style and diction,8 it seems to me that translators attempt to make sense by adding what is not included in the Greek text. The translation τ«ν νώτων “on their backs” is unsatisfactory; I would expect τ«ν νώτων; the supplement §π‹ is, I should have thought, necessary, because it would produce a syntactically sound text; the author would then suggest that the hero, who has been a beast of burden for most of the story, becomes the burden itself at the end of the story. However, I would also like to propose another emendation for this passage. I am inclined to think that the author wrote not τ«ν νώτων, but τ«ν των, “by the ears” (κελεύει µε τ«ν των µετέωρον κοµισθ∞ναι ¶ξω τ∞ς οfiκ¤ας). This is palaeographically plausible (τ«ν των became τ«ν νώτων because of dittography), and syntactically easier to explain than τ«ν νώτων µετέωρον κοµισθ∞ναι. Moreover, it has the advantage of introducing in the final episode of the story a significant gesture, namely to hold a person by the ears. In what follows, I will explain both the function of the genitive and the significance of the gesture. Verbs denoting touching or holding regularly take not only an accusative designating a person as the object of the verb, but also a genitive which denotes the bodily part of the person that is being touched or held (one might expect éπό or §κ with the gen.); this construction occurs mainly in poetry and rarely in prose, and is also found with verbs that indicate dragging or fastening (cf. in our passage the term µετέωρος “raised off from the ground, hanging”), since a verb meaning ‘to hold’, ‘to touch’ may be understood from the context. Examples of this construction are attested from Homer onwards: e.g. Il. 14,477 Ïφελκε ποδο›ιν; Arist. Pl. 312 (σέ ... λαβόντες) τ«ν ˆρχεων κρ嵫µεν; Xenoph. eq. rat. 6,9 êγειν τ∞ς ≤νίας τÚν ·ππον.9
————— 8 9
See Van Thiel 1971, 211–222; Hall 1981, 360–363. Kühner and Gerth 18983, 348 § 416 Anmerk. 5; Schwyzer and Debrunner 1950, 129– 130.
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It is undoubtedly significant that the hero Lucius, who, if my conjecture is correct, is led out of the house by the ears, has been transformed into an animal that is famous in both literature and real life for its long ears; The Ass 19 illustrates how the long ears of an ass can be used as the crude means by which this animal may be raised when it has fallen down: λαβόντες αÈτÚν οfl µ¢ν τ«ν των, οfl δ¢ τ∞ς οÈρçς éνεγείρειν §πειρ«ντο “some of them seized it by the ears and others by the tail and tried to get it on its feet” (tr. M.D. MacLeod).10 The gesture of holding or taking a person by the ears certainly indicates a firm hold upon that person, minimizes that person’s resistance, and has acquired the symbolic meaning of exercising control or violence upon someone.11 Ancient wisdom preserves a wealth of figurative expressions in which people, animals, or objects are held, carried away, or even appear to be hanging “by the ears”; such expressions reflect in one way or another the meanings outlined above. Plutarch, for instance, conveniently cites two proverbial expressions in a single sentence: Precepts of Statecraft 5 (Moralia 802D) τÚν µ¢ν οÔν λύκον οÎ φασι τ«ν των κρατε›ν, δ∞µον δ¢ κα‹ πόλιν §κ τ«ν των êγειν δØ µάλιστα “the wolf, they say, cannot be held by the ears; but one must lead a people or a State chiefly by the ears” (tr. H.N. Fowler).12 In another treatise the same author reports that the philosopher Bion the Borysthenite compares people who are persuaded by flatterers to undertake quarrels and prosecutions “to pitchers carried easily away by the ears” (éµφορεËσιν éπÚ τ«ν των =&δίως µεταφεροµένοις) (On compliancy 18 = Moralia 536A, tr. P.H. De Lacy and B. Einarson; cf. Table Talks 7,5 = ————— 10
11
12
Apuleius renders this event as follows: Met. 4,5,2 non fustibus, non stimulis ac ne cauda et auribus cruribusque undique uersum eleuatis temptauit exsurgere “no cudgels, no goads, not even being pulled on all sides by tail, ears and legs could make him try to get up” (tr. Hijmans et al. 1977, 51). See Oxford English Dictionary s.v. Ear1 I.1.c: “to have, hold, take by the ears: to keep or obtain a secure hold upon (a person); so also, to pull or drag by the ears, i.e. violently, roughly; to lead by the ears: to keep in abject dependence.” The proverbial phrase ‘to hold the wolf by the ears’ applies to people who find themselves in a dangerous situation, from which they are unable to escape; cf. Ter. Phorm. 506–507 immo, id quod aiunt, auribus teneo lupum; / nam neque quo pacto a me amittam neque uti retineam, scio “On the contrary, I’m holding the proverbial wolf by the ears. I don’t know how to let go or how to hold on to her” (transl. J. Barsby) (with Donatus ad loc.: Graecum proverbium τ«ν των ¶χω τÚν λύκον, οÎτ’ ¶χειν οÎτ’ éφε›ναι δύναµαι). For more examples see Otto 1890, 199 s.v. lupus 9; and add Polyb. 30,20,9; Aristaen. epist. 2,3.
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Moralia 705 D-E).13 In Lucian’s Icaromenippus or The Sky-Man 3–4 Menippus’ interlocutor illustrates by means of the following double metaphor his eagerness to listen to the end of Menippus’ story: “here I am in suspense, thanks to what you have said (µετέωρός εfiµι ÍπÚ τ«ν λόγων), and already waiting with open mouth for the end of your tale. In the name of friendship, don’t leave me hanging by the ears (§κ τ«ν των éπηρτηµένον) somewhere in the midst of the story”. In his reply Menippus both repeats and comments upon the imagery: “Listen then, for a friend left in the lurch with his mouth open would be anything but a pretty spectacle (οÈ γåρ éστε›όν γε τÚ θέαµα), especially if he were hanging by the ears (§κ τ«ν των éπηρτηµένον), as you say you are” (tr. A.M. Harmon).14 However, the association of this gesture with a desire to cause pain or to exert control is not the only interpretation that may be put forward; for the gesture of holding a person by the ears also occurs (perhaps surprisingly) within the context of kissing and implies affection. Plutarch and other writers inform us of a specific type of kiss, the so-called χύτρα- or ‘jug’-kiss (for its origins see Eunicus’ Anteia frg. 1 = PCG V, 278 K–A λαβοËσα τ«ν των φίλησον τØν χÊτραν “take the jug by the ears and kiss it”), which is a favourite between little children and adult people,15 yet occurs also between lovers.16 Latin authors use both auris and auricula in this context (Tibullus 2,5,92 natusque parenti / oscula comprensis auribus eripiet “and the child [shall] take hold of his father’s ears to snatch the kiss”, tr. J.P. Postgate),17 ————— 13 14
15
16
17
See Teodorsson 1996, 77 ad loc. Similarly in the Scythian or The Consul 11 a person’s charming tongue is said to enchain the listener’s ears “and let him but speak and he will leave you with your ears enchained” (οfiχήσεταί σε éπÚ τ«ν των éναδησάµενος) (tr. K. Kilburn). Compare the imagery that relates storytelling to travelling “by means of the ears” in Apuleius’ novel: 1,20,6 quod beneficium etiam illum uectorem meum credo laetari, sine fatigatione sui me usque ad istam ciuitatis portam non dorso illius, sed meis auribus peruecto “and in this favour my conveyor rejoices too, I believe: without tiring him I have ridden all the way to this city gate here, not on his back, but with my own ears” (tr. W.H. Keulen 2003, 337). “Most people in bestowing an affectionate kiss on little children not only take hold of the children by the ears (τ«ν των ëπτονται) but bid the children to do the same by them, thus insinuating in a playful way that they must love most those who confer benefit through the ears (τοÁς διå τ«ν των »φελοËντας)” (Plutarch, On listening to lectures 2 = Moralia 38C, tr. F.C. Babbitt). See Hillyard 1981, 55 ad loc. See e.g. Lucian, Dialogues of the Courtesans 3,2 “he laid hold of the tip of Thais’ ear (τοË »τÚς êκρου §φαψάµενος), bent her neck, and kissed her so hard, that she could scarcely get her lips free” (tr. M.D. MacLeod). See Murgatroyd 1994, 222–223 ad loc.
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and the diminutive, which denotes not ‘a small ear’, but ‘the ear-lobe’,18 occurs especially in passages from Roman Comedy and in scenes of flirtation between adults; thus, Plautus in the Asinaria 666–668 stages the slave Leonida addressing the courtesan Philaenium with the following affectionate words: dic me igitur tuom passerculum, gallinam, coturnicem, / agnellum, haedillum me tuom dic esse uel uitellum, / prehende auriculis, compara labella cum labellis “well then, call me your little sparrow, hen, quail, call me your little lambkin, kidlet, or calfyboy, if you prefer: take hold of me by the earlaps and match my little lips to your little lips” (tr. P. Nixon).19 The fact that Lucius may be thrown out of the house by the ears, on the orders of his lady-lover, enhances the subversive comedy of the scene; the gesture that stands as the prelude to a passionate kiss would signify both an ejection and a rejection by a lover. We have seen that holding, carrying away or even hanging someone by the ears describe painful situations that are common in figurative phrases; it would then seem that, if we read “by the ears” in chapter 56 of The Ass, Ps. Lucian exploits literally in the story an image usually employed in figurative speech.20 It is fair to ask whether or not there are any literary parallels for the literal, not figurative action of taking a person away by the ears. I have been able to find only a few passages, the earliest of which is the most intriguing, for it is found in Apuleius’ The Golden Ass. The ninth book of this novel contains, next to the main story, a series of adultery tales and the tale concerning the death of three sons, which was foreshadowed by dire omens; this inserted material is notably absent from The Ass, and it is impossible to determine with any certainty whether or not the latter tale, a family tragedy, was already in the lost Vorlage.21 In this inserted tale a greedy and arrogant landowner threatens the life and fortune of his poor neighbour, in spite of his fellow-citizens’ attempts to restore peace between the men. sed illis clementer expostulantibus feruidosque eius mores blanditiis permulcentibus, repente suam suorumque carorum salutem quam sanctissime adiurans asseuerat parui se pendere tot mediatorum praesentiam; ————— 18 19
20 21
See Langslow 2000, 329–330. Also Poenulus 375 (the slave Milphio to the young Adelphasium) sine te exorem, sine prehendam auriculis, sine dem sauium “let me prevail upon you, let me take you by the ear-laps, let me give you a nice long kiss” (tr. P. Nixon); with Maurach 1988, 101 ad loc. On this topic in Apuleius see in this volume the contributions by Plaza and McCreight. See Van Thiel 1971, 145–146; Hijmans et al. 1995, 6; Zimmerman 1995, 107.
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denique uicinum illum auriculis per suos seruulos sublatum de casula longissime statimque proiectum iri (Met. 9,36,1) But when the others mildly expostulated and tried to soothe his hottempered disposition, he suddenly assured, swearing as solemn an oath as possible on his own life and that of his beloved ones, that he could not care less about the presence of so many mediators; that, in short, his slaves would pick that neighbor up by his ears and throw him far from his little house, and right away, too (tr. Hijmans et al. 1995, 299). The Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius ad loc. observe the exceptional use of the term auricula (Apuleius always uses auris in the rest of the Met.), which may have no diminutive force and enhances the presence of a “ton volontairement familier” (Callebat 1968, 34) in this passage. But the term is notably found in the threatening words of the rich neighbour cited in indirect discourse, and, along with the diminutives seruulos and casula, may well have a pejorative connotation and suggest arrogance in that character’s speech. Moreover, auricula ‘the earlobe,’ as it has been noted above, is the usual term in expressions that denote touching or holding a person by the ears. Both Weyman 1893, 382 and the Groningen commentary ad loc. adduce as a sole parallel to this extract from Apuleius a passage from the Late Latin Story of Apollonius, King of Tyre, in which a brothel-keeper is arrested and taken by the ears to the market-place for his trial: Hist. Apoll. 46 RA His auditis populi ab auriculis eum comprehenderunt. Ducitur leno ad forum uinctis a tergo manibus “When the people heard this, they seized the pimp by the ears; he was led to the forum with his hands tied behind his back” (tr. E. Archibald 1991, 171).22 There is, however, an important difference between the passage of Apuleius and the extract from the Story of Apollonius: in the latter, the brothel-keeper is being led to the market-place by the ears, because his hands are tied up and behind his back. On the other hand, the similarity in detail between the Apuleian passage and the Ps. Lucianic one (if we read “by the ears”) is striking (denique uicinum illum auriculis per suos seruulos sublatum de casula longissime statimque proiectum iri ~ κα‹ καλε› εÈθÁς ≥δη τοÁς οfiκέτας ka‹ κελεύει µε τ«ν των µετέωρον κοµισθ∞ναι ¶ξω ————— 22
Kortekaas 2004, 36–37 compares this passage with the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, Greek Text B 5 κα‹ κρατήσας αÈτοË §κ τοË »τίου ¶θλιψε σφοδρ«ς “and he took hold upon his ear and pinched it sore” (transl. M.R. James).
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τ∞ς οfiκ¤ας); the fact that the threat of holding someone up by the ears is actually realized only in the Greek text of Ps. Lucian does not undermine the resemblance of these two incidents. To sum up. The gesture of raising someone high by the ears is very rarely attested in our extant literary sources. Furthermore, The Ass – to my knowledge, the only extant text which may share with Apuleius’ novel this detail – is ultimately derived from a source which has independently been used by Apuleius. Both of these factors increase the plausibility of the conjecture. Finally, it is intriguing that the Greek and the Latin extracts under discussion do not refer to the same point in the ass-story and radically differ in atmosphere. Van Mal-Maeder has recently revisited with an ingenious proposal what is arguably the greatest problem in Apuleian criticism, namely the dissonance between Books 1-10 and Book 11; this dissonance is felt even stronger when one considers the farcical qualities of the final episode of The Ass as opposed to the “serious tonality” of the Isiac conclusion of The Golden Ass. She proposes that a final confrontation between Lucius and the matron who fell in love with him in Book 10 was actually included at the very end of The Golden Ass, but has been lost in a gap which occurred in the textual transmission of the Latin novel.23 On the basis of the conjecture τ«ν των “by the ears” at the end of the Greek ass-tale and of its connection to the passage from the Ninth Book of Apuleius’ novel, I would like to argue that Apuleius did not reject the subversive comedy of the final scene of the Greek ass-story; rather, he detached this farcical detail from its original context in the Vorlage, and incorporated it elsewhere in Lucius’ narrative, in a different context which was serious, sinister, and tragic.24 Bibliography Anderson, G. 1976. Studies in Lucian’s comic fiction, Lugduni Batavorum: E.J. Brill (Mnemosyne Supplementa 43). Archibald, E. 1991. Apollonius of Tyre. Medieval and Renaissance Themes and Variations, Cambridge: D.S. Brewer. Bernsdorff, H. 1997. ‘Lukios als Exclusus Amator (Zu [Luc.] Asin. 56)’, Mnemosyne 50, 35–44. Callebat, L. 1968. Sermo Cotidianus dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée, Caen: Association des Publications de la Faculté des Lettres et Sciences Humaines de l’Université de Caen.
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Van Mal-Maeder 1997, esp. 110–112, 114–116. I would like to thank Anastasios Nikolaidis, Costas Panayotakis and Wytse Keulen for their valuable comments on drafts of this paper.
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Cataudella, Q. (ed.) 1992. Il romanzo antico greco e latino, Firenze: Sansoni editore. Cavalca, M.G. 2001. I Grecismi nel Satyricon di Petronio, Bologna: Patròn. Hall, J. 1981. Lucian’s Satire, New York: Arno Press. Hansen, W. (ed.) 1998. Anthology of Ancient Greek Popular Literature, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Hillyard, B.P. 1981. Plutarch: De Audiendo. A Text and Commentary, New York: Arno Press. Hijmans, B.L., Jr. 1987. ‘Apuleius, Philosophus Platonicus’, in: W. Haase (ed.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt II 36.1, Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter, 395–475. Hijmans, B.L., Jr., Van der Paardt, R.Th., Smits, E.R., Westendorp Boerma, R.E.H., Westerbrink, A.G., 1977. Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses, Book IV 1-27. Text, Introduction and Commentary (Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius), Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis. Hijmans, B.L., Jr., Van der Paardt, R.Th., Schmidt, V., Wesseling, B., Zimmerman, M., 1995. Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses, Book IX. Text, Introduction and Commentary (Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius), Groningen: E. Forsten. James, M.R. 1924. The Apocryphal New Testament, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Junghanns, P. 1932. Die Erzählungstechnik von Apuleius’ Metamorphosen und ihrer Vorlage, Leipzig (Philologus Supplementband 24). Keulen, W.H. 2003. Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses Book I, 1-20. Introduction, Text, Commentary, Diss. Groningen. Kortekaas, G.A.A. 2004. The Story of Apollonius, King of Tyre, Leiden, Boston: Brill. Kühner, R., Gerth, B. 18983. Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache, Zweiter Teil: Satzlehre (I. Band), Hannover and Leipzig: Hahnsche Buchhandlung (repr. Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung 1976). Kytzler, B. (ed.). 1983. Im Reiche des Eros. Sämtliche Liebes- und Abenteuerromane der Antike, 2 vols., München: Winkler Verlag. Langslow, D.R. 2000. Medical Latin in the Roman Empire, Oxford: Oxford University Press. MacLeod, M.D. 1994. ‘Lucianic Studies since 1930’, in W. Haase (ed.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt II 34.2, Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1362–1421. Mason, H.J. 1978. ‘Fabula Graecanica: Apuleius and his Greek sources’ in: B.L. Hijmans and R.Th. van der Paardt (eds.), Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 1–15 (reprinted with an Afterword in S.J. Harrison (ed.), Oxford Readings in the Roman Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999, 217–236). Mason, H.J. 1994. ‘Greek and Latin Versions of the Ass-Story’, in W. Haase (ed.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt II 34.2, Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1665–1707. Maurach, G. 1988. Der Poenulus des Plautus, Heidelberg: Carl Winter. Murgatroyd, P. 1994. Tibullus, Elegies II. Edited with Introduction and Commentary, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Otto, A. 1890. Die Sprichwörter und sprichwörtlichen Redensarten der Römer, Leipzig: Teubner (repr. Hildesheim, New York: Georg Olms, 1971). Schlam, C.†, and Finkelpearl, E. 2000. ‘A Review of Scholarship on Apuleius’ ‘Metamorphoses’ (1970–1998)’, Lustrum 42, 7–230. Schwyzer, E., Debrunner, A. 1950. Griechische Grammatik. Zweiter Band: Syntax und Syntaktische Stilistik, München: C.H. Beck’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung. Teodorsson, S.-T. 1996. A Commentary on Plutarch’s Table Talks, vol. III, Göteborg: Almqvist & Wiksell.
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Van Mal-Maeder, D. 1997. ‘Lector, intende: laetaberis. The enigma of the last book of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: H. Hofmann, M. Zimmerman (ed.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel 8, Groningen: E. Forsten, 87–118. Van Thiel, H. 1971–1972. Der Eselsroman. I. Untersuchungen; II. Synoptische Ausgabe, München: C.H. Beck (Zetemata 54,1 and 2). Weyman, C. 1893. ‘Studien zu Apuleius und seinen Nachahmern’, SBAW 2, 321–392. Zimmerman, M. 1995. ‘“Nihil scribens sine exemplo”? Apuleius’ Gouden Ezel en de Griekse ezelsromans’, Hermeneus 67, 104–111.
Psyche’s Sisters as Medicae? Allusions to Medicine in Cupid and Psyche1 T HOMAS M C C REIGHT Loyola College, Maryland
One of the chief themes of this volume is the relationship between textual criticism at the “local” level and interpretation at the “global” level. For my part I examine a single passage containing textual difficulties and then discuss larger interpretive issues related to or stimulated by that section. Maaike Zimmerman excels at exactly this sort of exegesis, and in this book in her honor I am very pleased to be able to offer my own efforts in this vein. I have learned a great deal over the years through exposure to her vast learning, good judgment, patient criticism and gentle guidance. Although she may not agree with the details of my analysis, I hope she will recognize that the very attempt, and the way in which it is executed, are heavily indebted to her, and I thank her for what she has taught me. In what follows, proceeding from a contested reading in Metamorphoses 5,11, I offer a new way of looking at one of the very many levels of allusion ————— 1
Abbreviations used throughout: GCA = Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius, various editions; GCN = Groningen Colloquia on the Novel; OLD = Oxford Latin Dictionary; ThLL = Thesaurus Linguae Latinae. All other abbreviations are the standard ones used in the Oxford Classical Dictionary and l’Année philologique. References to Apuleius’ cite from Helm’s 1992 revised Teubner edition, giving standard book and chapter numbers followed by page and line numbers from Helm. References to the Apology give chapter and section numbers from Vallette’s 1973 Budé edition. Research for the various incarnations of this paper was generously supported by many individuals and institutions. I am grateful for release time and financial assistance from the Faculty Development committee and Center for the Humanities at Loyola College in MD, and especially to assistance long ago from the Netherlands Organization for Scientific Research (NWO), which enabled me to work for an extended period under the guidance of Maaike Zimmerman with the Apuleius group at the University of Groningen. I offer special thanks to Wytse Keulen, who offered a great many suggestions for improvements to this article. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 123–167
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and meaning that Apuleius has inserted into the most famous “tale” of his novel. In short, I propose that, in addition to the evocation of the military and erotic spheres in Apuleius’ depiction of Psyche’s sisters,2 he also subtly paints them as greedy, unscrupulous and deadly doctors who are willing to mislead and damage their patient in order to enrich themselves. He does this through careful use of technical vocabulary from medicine and by evoking various facets of the popular reputation of and literary tradition regarding ancient physicians.3 The layout of the paper is as follows: To supply a broader context for my remarks on specific passages, in an introduction I review what Apuleius’ other works tell us about his knowledge of medicine. I then survey some passages from the Metamorphoses, both within and outside the Cupid and Psyche tale, that scholars agree make clear reference to medical vocabulary and material. After laying this foundation, in part I, “Textual problem in 5,11”, I make a detailed case for reading deterentes (5,11: 111,25), which is not printed by other editors. In order to better situate that contention I exam————— 2 3
See Panayotakis 1998, esp. 152–162. The precise nature of “medical Latin” continues to be debated among specialists, and the controversy extends beyond the scope of this paper. Earlier studies (e.g. André and Önnerfors) tended to rely on the deep debt to Greek, and they focused on neologisms or new attestations, loan-words, calques and (especially in encyclopedias or less technical treatises) clear, self-explaining periphrases. All of Adams’ and Langslow’s work, and much of Mazzini’s (see esp. 1997, 123–171), concentrate to some extent on such features. Other studies (including recently Langslow 2000, but see also Pinkster 1992 and 1995) have broadened in scope to investigate the syntax and style of medical Latin; a consensus appears to exist that sees, for example, a marked tendency toward parataxis and asyndeton, and sometimes even rhyme, especially in descriptions of symptoms or lists of remedies. This can change according to context, of course, but experts seem to agree on the existence of well-defined patterns. See Sconocchia 2004, 536–540 and below, section III, for some particularly clear examples. A good bibliographical conspectus of recent studies appears in Sconocchia 2004, esp. 513 notes 72 and 73. That article functions as a review of sorts of Langslow’s magisterial 2000 book, and gives a digest of recent controversies: see esp. 496–497 and 520–524. See Adams 1995, 668–669 and Langslow 2000, 165–167 on the relation of medical Latin (which had many levels, depending on both author and audience) to other realms of discourse; for example, words for implements and medicines tend to come from standard, everyday vocabulary. Reviewers may differ from Langslow 2000 about details, but overall they praise the general findings of his study: medical Latin was “a written technical language in the strong sense” (Langslow 2000, 434). Apuleius often uses other specialist vocabularies (judicial, e.g.; see Norden 1912; Keulen 1997, with references), and his use of medical vocabulary should not surprise us.
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ine some medical terms in the immediate context that are used both concretely and metaphorically in Apuleius and in other authors. With this background, I proceed in Part II, “Medical Vocabulary and Doctors in Apuleius”, to an examination of previously unrecognized medical vocabulary in other chapters where the sisters appear. This section is deeply indebted to recent studies of medical Latin, and examines in addition some ways in which allusion to medicine in literature may affect the reader. The study in both Parts I and II concentrates often on Apuleius’ tendency to “concretize” the metaphorical, to use words or images literally that are regularly used in a transferred sense.4 In Part III, “The Broader Medical Context”, I move from a largely lexical study to examining other references to doctors and patients. After a review of the Romans’ mostly negative attitudes concerning imported Greek doctors and practices, I examine the strong similarity between this hostile tradition and Apuleius’ portrait of the sisters. In addition I use some recent work on medical writers’ conception of women and their illnesses to analyze parts of the sisters’ description. I then offer some examples of how recognition of this pattern of allusion can deepen our appreciation of some episodes in the tale. A conclusion summarizes the results of the investigation undertaken in parts I–III and suggests some possible avenues of further inquiry. Introduction: Apuleius and Medicine There is no doubt about Apuleius’ knowledge and use of medical lore and specialist medical terminology.5 The “doctor” stories in books 2 and 10 are particularly clear examples, as are his remarks on his own medical work in the Apology. Scholars have produced studies both general and specific of the ————— 4 5
For a similar approach see the contributions in this volume of Plaza and Panayotakis. See Harrison 2000, 25–26 with notes on a fragment from Apuleius’ medical work. Harrison gives a concise overview of evidence for Apuleius’ interest in medicine. The locus classicus, cited by almost all who look into the matter, is Apuleius’ statement in Apol. 40 that he is medicinae nec instudiosus neque imperitus; cf. with notes Hunink 1997, vol. II, 122–123 ad loc., who mentions flor. 19 (see Hunink 2001, 196–197) and 23,3–5 as evidencing medical knowledge and, more importantly (see below), the doctor as metaphor. On the Florida passages see Lee 2005, 178–181; 190–191. Cf. also Apuleius’ special connection with the cult of Asclepius as detailed in flor. 18,37. Note also that a charge of “medical malpractice” featured among the accusations brought against him, as detailed in apol. 42–52; for more on this see below, note 106.
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employment and valence of medical lore in specific sections of the Metamorphoses.6 In addition to these articles that investigate individual passages, the study of medicine in general in Greco-Roman antiquity has grown significantly in the last twenty years. Recent studies like those of Flemming and Nutton, but especially of Mazzini, Adams, and Langslow, have made the findings of dedicated specialists in ancient medicine available in systematic fashion to literary critics. Luchner has recently offered a study of the role of medicine in the Greek literature of Apuleius’ age.7 This work is a great boon for those of us not steeped in the likes of Galen or Scribonius Largus, nor intimately familiar with encyclopaedists who have a keen interest in medical practice like Pliny the Elder and Celsus. It allows us to understand better another level of Apuleius’ learning and writing. This paper examines in greater depth a tendency already present in Roman letters and in the Metamorphoses in particular. References to medicine are fairly common in classical literature, especially in erotic contexts. Across genres, but especially in poetry, stories of love frequently employ the metaphors of “love as a disease” and of “the wound of love”.8 In other parts of ————— 6
7
8
General studies of doctors in popular culture in general and in ancient novels in particular are Amundsen 1974 and 1978 and Crismani 1993; see also more recently with notes Luchner 2004, 229–240. These give good comparanda from the Greek novels of the use of the doctor in roughly contemporary imaginative narrative. Mudry 1992 gives a detailed discussion of medical lore in Met. 10,25. Mattiacci 1993 is an especially clear example of Apuleius’ use of medical knowledge of rabies; see also the detailed elaborations and additions, with full bibliographical references, to be found in GCA 1995, 50 ad 9,3 (204,21) on increscente uirus (both proper medical and veterinary terms); on hydrophobia in general, see 52–53 along with Appendix I on rabies, 357–358. See also Zimmerman in GCA 2000, 179–183 on the “doctor” story in 10,11 (244,28–245,3) with its various bits of medical lore like the (accurately described) effects of the drug mandragora and the proper use of medical terms like grauedo, efficax and discutere; also 317 ad 10,25 (256,17–22) on Apuleius’ discussion of bile and its effects within the traditions of ancient medical thought; also 331 ad 10,26 (258,1–4) on his use of demersus as a possible translation of a Greek medical term; 345 ad 10,28 (259,4–13) the likely medical pedigree of uirus infestum. On the various multiple levels of allusion (both to medicine and to Vergil) in Apuleius see Lazzarini 1985, 145–146 on 10,2,7 heu ignarae mentes. See also Graverini 1996 on Lucretius, Vergil and discussions of disease. See Luchner 2004 passim, but especially relevant for this topic are 23–30 and 52–65 (see below, section III on Galen). Her study offers a wealth of comparanda in Greek literature for some of what I undertake below, especially in section III; I focus in sections I and II on lexical matters specifically in Latin. See below, note 62. Cf. the description of the common effects of Cupid’s intervention as described by Venus in 4,31 (99,3–4) per tuae sagittae dulcia uulnera, per flammae istius
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the novel as well as in the narrative concerning Psyche itself these metaphors return. For example, in the “Phaedra” episode in Met. 10,2–12 the lovesick stepmother suffers from the standard elegiac “symptoms” of love,9 including a metaphorical “spiritual” wound (10,2: 237,19 uulnus animi).10 In her commentary on these chapters Maaike Zimmerman provided copious references for the pedigree of the various elements included in the woman’s description.11 Apuleius complicates and manipulates the traditional catalog of symptoms, however, sometimes by making concrete that which in earlier authors is metaphorical. In the story of the stepmother he creates a new character who is a dense intertextual embodiment of many previous lovesick heroines. He concretizes the “medical” provenance of the description of symptoms by introducing the notion of real doctors in the famous apostrophe (10,2: 237,25–238,1), “Alas for the perception of doctors” [who do not know how to diagnose the symptoms of erotic obsession] Heu medicorum ignarae mentes ... Moreover, he then has the “sick” woman achieve her aims by feigning a “real” (but different) illness (10,3). And then a genuine doctor is brought in to give a correct “diagnosis” of the situation (10,8–12).12 Apuleius also alludes to the “medical” side of the world of lovers in the Cupid and Psyche tale. Psyche is so formidably beautiful that she intimidates all suitors and is left alone and thus starved for love. Apuleius therefore describes her, even before she falls for Cupid, as “ill in body and wounded in spirit” aegra corporis, animi saucia (4,32: 100,12). This description includes allusions to passages from Ennius and Vergil that contain the notion of the wound of love. In addition, however, Apuleius goes beyond the traditional material, “incarnating” Psyche’s lovesickness by describing her as physically sick.13 Similar vocabulary (saucia mente “wounded mind”) returns in 5,23 (121,9),14 but here she is also actually injured: she has just punctured her thumb with one of Cupid’s arrows and “fallen in love with Love”. In this —————
9 10 11 12 13 14
mellitas uredines “by the sweet wounds of your arrow, by the honey-sweet burns of this flame of yours”; see GCA 2004, 67–68 ad loc. for references on the literary lineage of these notions. See GCA 2000, 69–79 with copious references ad 10,2. See GCA 2000, 73 ad loc. with references. GCA 2000, 59–195; Appendix I, 417–432. See above, note 6 for references to accurate representation of recondite medical lore in these chapters and elsewhere in book 10. GCA 2004, 81–82 ad loc. with references. See GCA 2004, 289 ad loc. with references to Apuleius’ dense intertextual structure here.
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chapter both lovers wind up with real bodily harm: Psyche wounded in her finger (and soul, of course), and Cupid burned by oil from the lamp.15 In this tale of two lovers Apuleius has made “flesh and blood” characters suffer the actual burning and penetrating wounds of love that the literary tradition so often used as metaphor. Moreover, when Venus learns of the affair she decides to disarm her son and even to inflict corporal punishment. This last course of action is described as a “treatment” to be applied to his body, a very concrete sort of “remedia amoris”16 (5,30:127,19–20): immo et ipsum corpus eius acrioribus remediis coherceat “yes, and to punish his body with even more severe treatments”.17 We see this combination of psychological pain and physical suffering in the “Charite complex”, the narrative framing the tale of Cupid and Psyche that has many points of contact with Psyche’s story.18 The presence of this element of physical distress in the frame may serve to contextualize and prepare for the medical imagery inside the more famous tale. In 4,25 (94,11) the exasperated anus asks Charite why she “has renewed her unbridled lamentation” over her kidnapping: quid … lamentationes licentiosas refricaret.19 As GCA 1977, 190 ad loc. notes, Cicero uses refricare to mean “tear open wounds” (Att. 5,12,2); the verb emphasizes the physical side of her psychological distress and connotes more than mere “renewal”. Psyche’s selfflagellating behavior (after having also been separated from her own lover) is described in similar terms in 5,25 (122,14–16): Psyche ... affligebat la————— 15
16 17
18 19
Cf. also with references GCA 2004, 325 ad 5,28 (125,12–13) ille uulnere lucernae dolens ... iacens ingemebat “he ... lay smarting from the pain of the wound of the lamp”; GCA 2004, 334 ad 5,29 (126,13) aegroto puero “ailing boy” with references to other passages mentioning both real and metaphorical wounds; GCA 2004, 298 on the literary tradition of Love himself suffering the wound of love. The cure for love here is of course also Love’s cure: amor could easily be capitalized and serve as both objective and possessive genitive. See GCA 2004, 348 ad loc. on the interplay here of the literal, literary and metaphorical. For a similar interplay, compare the “illness” of Venus herself, whose “blood is up” in 5,31 (127,25–26) stomachata biles Venerias (see GCA 2004, 349 ad loc.). For the term and the relationship between this tale and Cupid and Psyche, see with references GCA 2004, 9–11. Cf. also the notion of physical punishment in 4,25 (94,1–3) (Charite) … uehementius adflictare sese et pectus etiam palmis infestis tundere et faciem … uerberare incipit “(Charite) ... began to attack herself far more vehemently, and even to beat her breast with cruel hands and strike her lovely face.”
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mentationibus animum “Psyche ... tormented her soul with ... lamentations”; cf. Charite’s adflictare sese in 4,25 (94,1). In addition to mirroring the mental and physical torments of Charite, the formulation Psyche affligebat... animum, owing to the “speaking name” of the heroine, collapses into the selfsame character (an ensouled body and a body that is literally “soul”) and renders coterminous the realms of bodily and spiritual affliction. This “concretizing” of the psychological in the physical is not restricted to Psyche, as we have noted above and shall see again below. It also reminds the reader of the oft-repeated play with (Greek) psyche = (Latin) anima/animum.20 In addition to being a clever bilingual game, this ambiguity reflects a constant undercurrent in the novel as a whole: the Roman representation of Greek tradition, setting and content. But it also rehearses a preoccupation of Latin medical texts: how does one adequately bring into Latin the long and venerable tradition of Greek medical practice and literature?21 As both Roman novelist and knowledgeable medical writer, Apuleius offers in the “case” of the sisters an answer of sorts to these questions, as I hope to show in the sections that follow. In the next part I address a passage with a contested reading that forces us to consider the medical nature of some of the vocabulary used in the description of the sisters. I
Textual problem in 5,11
In book five of Apuleius’ tale of Cupid and Psyche, the young wife ignores her husband’s predictions of disaster and prevails upon him to let her receive her sisters. Psyche entertains her sisters lavishly, who are then stricken with jealousy at her palace and riches, and determine to destroy her. They hide the opulent gifts given by their younger sibling, and feign grief at her death. At this point there is a textual problem, discussed in the recent GCA commen————— 20 21
See GCA 2004, 301 ad loc. with references on the bilingual pun; GCA 2004, 64 on 4,30 (98,25 f.) on the allegorical implications of the name. See above, note 3 for references. In his Apology (49–51) Apuleius digresses on various theories about epilepsy, citing Plato, Aristotle and Theophrastus (see ad locc. Hunink 1997, vol. II, 140–143), and does so in a section (42–52) where he responds to an accusation of faulty medical practice: see below, note 106; cf. also his comments on his own translations of Aristotle’s biological works (and mentions of others’) in 36, with the remarks ad locc. of Hunink 1997, vol. II, 114–115. See below, section III for Roman ambivalence about importations of Greek culture, especially medicine.
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tary.22 The remarks in this first section follow closely the discussion in the commentary but explore and develop other points. placet pro bono duabus malis malum consilium totisque illis tam pretiosis muneribus absconditis comam trahentes et proinde ut merebantur ora lacerantes simulatos redintegrant fletus. ac sic parentes quoque redulcerato prorsum dolore raptim deterentes (deserentes GCA 2004; deterrentes edd.) uesania turgidae domus suas contendunt dolum scelestum, immo uero parricidium struentes contra sororem insontem. Met. 5,11 (111,21–27) ‘The twin evils find their evil plan a good one, and after caching the whole of those very valuable gifts, tearing their hair and, just as they deserved, disfiguring their faces, they start anew their mock mourning. And in this way hastily rubbing raw their parents too by once again completely ripping the scab off their (parents’) grief, swollen with madness the sisters make for their own houses, plotting a criminal deception, or more exactly an execution, against their innocent sister.’23 F and φ give rapti~ det~rentes. The chief difficulty is deterrentes, which has long exercised commentators and emenders, and is printed by most editions. It must be nominative, modifying the sisters, and parentes should then be its object. The problems are as follows: 1. Raptim seems awkward with deterrentes. This has led many editors to make transpositions in word order (see GCA 2004, 180 ad loc. for various examples), all of which do violence to the transmitted text and offer little in the way of improvement. 2. Deterreo itself is a problem:24 it usually means “to frighten” or “to discourage”, and most who retain this reading rely on a play between the
————— 22 23 24
GCA 2004, 180 ad 5,11 (111,24–24); for another view see Graverini 2006, 4–6; also below, note 25. This translation is mine. Unless otherwise indicated, all subsequent translations of material from the Metamorphoses are from GCA volumes. Cf. ThLL s.v. deterreo 808,46, which gives as synonyms coercere, continere, depellere, remouere.
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two meanings.25 However, the notion of the sisters’ frightening their parents quickly does not easily coincide with their first taking time to rehearse their own faked lamentations and thereby reawaken the parents’ very real grief (see below on redulcerato … dolore). In light of this evidence, then, deterrentes needs to be changed. Many other emendations have been proposed. The GCA commentary on this chapter, which I authored, prints and defends Colvius’ deserentes, adducing in support the sisters’ tendency to ignore their parents or treat them with disrespect, and their propensity for haste.26 Nonetheless, for reasons outlined in what follows, I submit that Wiman’s deterentes corresponds best with other resonances in the passage and should be strongly considered. ————— 25
26
Graverini 2006, 4–5, following earlier editors like Oudendorp and Grimal (and, to a lesser extent, Fernhout, Purser, and Robertson; see the GCA lemma ad loc.), interprets deterreo as an intensive form, “to terrify” (cf. OLD s.v. 2), and notes that the ThLL has 4 late instances of this. He also points to examples in the Met. where he sees this as the primary or sole connotation of the word. However, in the passages he cites (4,26 and 8,5; see below for these and others) there is a decided note of discouragement or prohibition through fear from actions planned or already in course: in 4,26 (94,16) Charite stops her extravagant lamentations in response to the threatening speech of the anus; in 5,22 (120,7–8) Psyche is prevented by Cupid’s otherworldly beauty from carrying out her ‘assassination’ of him; in 9,21 Philesitherus is not dissuaded from playing the clever adulterer, and comes up with a plan to extricate himself from a difficult situation (218,28) Philesitherus … non enim deterritus … recolens; in 8,5 (179,15) the other hunters in Tlepolemus’ party are frightened into withdrawing from the chase at the sudden appearance of a boar. Graverini maintains that the parents are frightened by the sudden change in the sisters’ behavior from dutiful offspring (5,4) to crazed mourners swollen with madness. The only hint that the parents are frightened by this is, however, the disputed word deterrentes; the contrast in the sisters’ conduct upon which he bases his interpretation is not (as far as the text tells us) elsewhere noticed or expressed by the parents, nor noted as a contrast by the narrator. The sisters desert their loved ones regularly, and desero is sometimes used of this behavior. Cf. 5,4 (106,10–12): propereque maestae atque lugubres deserto lare certatim … perrexerant (“they immediately left home sad and in mourning, and vied with each other in their rush to see and address their parents”); after 5,20, where they suggest to Psyche “radical surgery”, i.e., cutting off her husband’s head, 5,21 (119,4–8) begins thus: tali uerborum incendio flammata uiscera sororis iam prorsus ardentis deserentes ipsae protinus, tanti mali confinium sibi etiam eximie metuentes ….ilico pernici[o] se fuga proripiunt, statimque conscensis nauibus abeunt (“by such a blaze of words their sister’s already thoroughly heated heart caught fire. They left her instantly, utterly terrified of being themselves close to such a disaster, and ... immediately ran in a hurried escape, and went aboard their ships and disappeared”). For the sisters’ disrespectful haste towards their parents cf. 5,14 (114,7–8); 5,17 (116,8–10).
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Those other resonances are the ones I attempt to make more audible in the sections below. Detero is archaic, non-classical,27 and thus consistent with many of Apuleius’ stylistic proclivities. It is used of persons most often in Apuleius’ contemporaries (ThLL s.v. 805,52 ff.).28 Gellius uses it (15,30,1) in a discussion of older people (like Psyche’s parents?), debilitated by other concerns, who come to the study of literature late in life: qui ab alio genere uitae detriti iam et retorridi ad litterarum disciplinas serius adeunt “(those) who, worn away and dried out by another kind of life, come rather late to the study of literature”. Marcus Aurelius uses it metaphorically with a psychological sense (but in reference to a real sickness) in a letter to Fronto. There it appears not with a personal object like parentes, but with a dative referring to himself (5,41,2 = p. 76,15 van den Hout 1988): tua ista ualetudo aliquantulum detriuit mihi, “Your sickness has worn me down some”.29 In Firmicus Maternus and later Christians, people, most often soldiers, are worn down by natural or professional causes, e.g., “the perpetual burden of military service” (sempiterno onere militiae); “age” (aetate); “the siege” (obsidio); “the locale and the heat” (situ aestuque) (ThLL s.v. 805,56–67). This metaphorical use of detero with the notion of harming (see ThLL s.v. 805,36; 52) is consistent with the quite literally ‘abrasive’ tone of the rest of our passage: the sisters have torn out (trahere) their hair and scratched (lacerare) their faces. Moreover, redulcerare also contains the notion of abrasion;30 it is attested only twice (probably) before Apuleius,31 ————— 27 28 29 30
31
ThLL s.v. 804,71 ff.; it appears in Naevius and Plautus but is completely absent in Terence, Cicero, Vergil, Livy. Wiman 1927, 43 gives examples of detero used of things associated with humans, like cities or talent, but not people themselves,. See Van den Hout 1999, 203 ad loc. with references; he translates “has bothered me a good deal.” The use of prorsum here with redulcerato, used at GCA 2004 ad loc. (see with references) as support for adopting deserentes, may also be used for adopting deterentes: see OLD s.v. prorsum 2, ‘as an intensive.’ In 5,1 (103,19) it emphasizes the adjective coming before it; for its use in climax, cf. 10,1 (236,15) and apol. 4,12. Kenney 1990 ad loc. finds it ‘odd’ and cites with approval Van der Vliet’s rursum. If we read deterentes, however, then prorsum here emphasizes the chafing notion present in both verbs redulcerare and deterere. There is a similar usage of the related prorsus at 5,21 (119,5), where the sisters set aflame Psyche’s already kindled passions: tali uerborum incendio flammata uiscera sororis iam prorsus ardentis; see GCA 2004, 263 ad loc. OLD s.v. lists its occurrence here in Apuleius as a transferred use; the ThLL archives show that other uses outside orthographical or grammatical works are concrete.
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once in a glossary entry,32 and once in Columella’s discussion of treating a skin ailment common to sheep (RR 7,5,8): medicamentum illinitur scabrae parti, qua tamen prius aspera testa defricta uel pumica redulceratur (“The medicine is then applied on the affected area, where it has first been reinflamed by chafing with a rough piece of pottery or stone”). The word is probably a technical term from the medical realm (see below, section II, for more on such words), since the only lengthy attestation post-Apuleius is in the medical writer Caelius Aurelianus (4th–5th century CE) and is reminiscent of the Columella passage. It describes the proper treatment for healing bleeding wounds, and counsels against any actions that might open recently closed lesions: Chron. 2,13,162 recentium glutinationum atque mollium uulnerum redulcerantia probantur, “newly healed and tender wounds are likely to open again”; inflata etenim parua ex occasione atque turgentia redulcerantur, “In fact, if the parts are given even a small opportunity to become puffed up and swollen, the wound will open again.”33 Perhaps not coincidentally, the passage here in 5,11 also combines the notions of inflammation and swelling. The words immediately following the contested reading encourage us to view this passage as in some way “medical”, since the sisters are described as turgidae. OLD s.v. turgidus 1c lists only this passage and Met. 9,21 (218,22) as examples of the figurative meaning of the word as “frenzied or inflamed with passion”; the primary meaning is “swollen, distended”,34 as the sisters’ faces would likely be from being scratched. Apuleius uses the word here in a transferred sense, to be sure, specifying that the sisters are swollen with uesania, but the primary and literal force of the word is also appropriate to the context.35
————— 32
33 34 35
The ThLL archives list a passage from L. Caesellius Vindex, a grammatical writer who appears not to have written past the age of Hadrian; his work is excerpted by Cassiodorus in Keil, Grammatici Latini VII 202,19–207,12. The word in question appears in a passage discussing the use of consonants in prefixes: ulcero redulcero, ago redigo, eo redeo ... The word also appears in a list in the Notae Tironianae (111,86a). Translation from Drabkin 1950, 671. For the association of turgidus with disease see GCA 2004, 428 ad 6,9 (134,21–22) turgidi uentris (in reference to Psyche’s pregnancy). Cf. 4,31 (99,4) dulcia uulnera ... mellitas uredines “sweet wounds and honey-sweet burns”, with GCA 2004,67–68 ad loc. Venus cites these as the traditional effects of Cupid’s arrows and torch. They become “real” later on when Psyche punctures her thumb with his arrow and the lamp burns the god of love; see below, section III.
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As I observed above in the introduction, Apuleius combines the notion of psychological pain and physical irritation in the tale of Charite,36 so the imagery is not unexampled. Indeed, Apuleius here is working within a tradition of Greek and Roman letters that uses physical wounds as a metaphor for grief. This topic reaches beyond the scope of this paper,37 but some examples will help put Apuleius’ use of related terms in context. Seneca uses exulceratio and exulcerare frequently of grief, and is thereby exploiting its currency as a medical term.38 He does so frequently, and one of the clearest examples is Dial. 11,1,339 (=Ad Helviam Matrem De Consolatione): haesitabam uerebarque, ne haec non consolatio esset, sed exulceratio “I held back and I was afraid that this would be not a consolation, but a rubbing raw”.40 Apuleius was certainly familiar with the medical use of exulcerare, as shown by his use of it in the description of the abused mules in the mill at 9,13 (212,17): muli … pectora copulae sparteae tritura continua exulcerati “mules with their breasts full of festering sores through the continual rubbing of the rope harness”. He uses other medical vocabulary there correctly and concretely.41 In light of his manifest knowledge and exploitation of specialist medical terminology elsewhere (see Introduction above and section II be————— 36 37 38
39
40
41
See Introduction above with notes 18–19. Wöhrle 1991, 1–13 gives a good overview of the range of use of the ulcus/ἕλκος metaphor. See below, section III.d with note 138 for more. See ThLL s.v. exulceratio 2102,13–2103,24, which notes that the word is read from Celsus on, in Scribonius Largus, Seneca, Pliny the Elder, and especially among medical writers. The simplex form is used also, without seeming change in meaning, as at Garg. Mart. med. 30 and Plin. NH 30,80. Apuleius’ willingness to use a different compound form of a root notion (redulcerare instead of exulcerare) is thus not remarkable. The ThLL article refers especially to metaphorical and specialist medical uses, and lists places where it is used as an antonym of consolatio. Busa and Zampoli’s concordance lists 7 uses of the exulc- root, two thirds of them appearing in De tranquillitate animi, De ira, or the consolation to his mother. Duff’s commentary (1915, 226) points out (with parallels) the use in this same passage of other medical vocabulary like reptare, “to crawl while wounded”; obligare, “often used of medical aid,” to press on a wound; immatura medica, “too hasty treatment”. For similar uses see ThLL s.v. exulcero 2105,53–69, where examples appear of the word used for aggravating psychological pain; cf. esp. Plin. epist. 8,23,5 and 9,9,3, where he mentions that recollection of the departed increases the pain of his bereavement, dolorem meum exulcerat. There is no lemma on exulcerati, but see GCA 1995, 127–128 ad loc. on various terms like follicantes, scabiosa (both common in veterinary writers) and tussedo, a hapax that Langslow 2000, 314 sees as coined exactly because it sounds like many standard pathological terms in –edo, like putredo in the previous line, with which it rhymes.
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low), his use here of two verbs relating to the “chafing” effect of grief would not be surprising. It seems clear that both the compounded and simplex forms of the verb could be used without significant difference in meaning and were prevalent in medical contexts (see ThLL s.v. exulcero 2103,40–45), so his evocation of the literary tradition associated with grief, while using a related verb, is not arresting. One is tempted to see his use of redulcerare here as both functional and in keeping with his stylistic practice. Using redulcerare instead of exulcerare might be a typically Apuleian attempt to ornament an otherwise standard bit of terminology. He appears to do exactly that in 10,28 (258,24–26), where we read sustinebat aegerrime, “she was extremely vexed,” an Apuleian variation of a standard medical phrase aegre ferre.42 Moreover, Apuleius has a taste for rare compounds in re-, e.g. 5,26 (124,3) rebulliuit and 1,9 (9,7) repigrato.43 But the re- prefix is appropriate for two reasons: the parents had already been grieving, so the sisters’ actions both renewed the parents’ anguish and rehearsed their own (mock) lamentation. Another passage seems to indicate that Apuleius was willing to juxtapose two verbs, one more familiar and the other more exotic, as a way of both dressing up a passage and also helping the reader interpret the more obscure usage. In 9,37 (231,9) we encounter a highly unusual compound form of terere along with another more easily construed verb, as if he were trying to “explain” his use of the bolder formulation – perhaps much like his use of redulcerare and deterere in 5,11. In the later passage, one of three brothers is killed by dogs as the two other brothers try vainly to drive off the hounds: nec tamen eorum ferociam uel conterere uel expugnare potuere … “Yet they could not crush or suppress their ferocity …” The commentators defend the reading of conterere in F and φ,44 in preference to Colvius’ conterrere (adopted by Helm) or van der Vliet’s continere, by stating, “these verbs do not differ much in meaning … Possibly the two verbs are used interpretatively by the narrator to help the reader understand conterere.” It appears, in short, that there are examples within this novel for Apuleius’ bold use of both the metaphor and the verbal root of the verb (–)terere. That parallel and features of the immediate context in 5,11 make the employment of deterere possible or even likely. ————— 42 43 44
See GCA 2000, 342 ad loc. for references; also OLD s.v. aegre 2. See respectively GCA 2004, 316 and Keulen 2003, 203 ad locc. GCA 1995, 310 ad loc.
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There are additional advantages to deterentes: 1. Detero and quoque Adoption of detero also helps to solve some problems concerning the presence of quoque in this passage;45 the sisters have quite literally torn themselves up in feigned mourning, and by thus reinflaming their parents’ grief they metaphorically do the same to their mother and father. This type of play with the literal and metaphorical meanings of words is common in Apuleius.46 Reading deterentes also avoids Grimal’s strained attempt ad loc. to make sense of quoque and still retain deterreo: ‘les (sc. parentes) effrayer, comme elles (sc. sorores) affectent de l’être ellesmêmes.’47 The sisters pretend to be grief-stricken, not terrified. 2. Raptim Close attention to Apuleius’ stylistic practice, especially his fondness for etymology, permits a response to some of the arguments against reading deterentes that are put forth in GCA 2004, 180 ad loc. The GCA commentary points out that the other attested uses of detero with personal objects usually refer to slow actions, and that raptim thus clashes; however, if raptim is construed as explaining an action that usually takes some time but that the sisters perform rapidly, it makes sense. Haste characterizes the sisters’ actions toward their parents throughout this tale (cf. note 26). Here their habitual hurrying moves them to perform what is usually a gradual action very quickly. Thus raptim deterentes (“hastily rubbing raw”) becomes a sort of mild oxymoron like “deafening si————— 45
46
47
See Kenney 1990 ad loc., who articulates the problems well, and GCA 2004, 180 ad loc. The verbs redulcero and redintegro are parallel in a narrative sense here, so the quoque makes sense. So does sic: it shows how the sisters caused their parents to grieve genuinely by their own feigned mourning (described in the previous sentence). Graverini 2006, 5–6 has an illuminating discussion with parallels on the “loose” use of quoque to refer to the action of a whole phrase, not just the words in its immediate orbit. He interprets the passage differently (retaining deterrentes), but his points on the flexibility of quoque can also serve as support for my interpretation offered here. See Introduction above. For a clear discussion with many examples of this “concretization” of words, see Plaza’s contribution in this volume. See also, e.g., Mattiacci 1993, 180 note 3: Apuleius uses the Plautine word carnifex (“executioner”) in 9,1 (202,21) in a properly comic situation, but also in a literally appropriate and concrete way: the person in question has just previously delineated his plans to execute the narrator. Watt’s observation (1991, 140) is not much better: ‘However, in itself quoque is excellent: the parents also grieved, i.e. they as well as (albeit hypocritically) the two wicked sisters.’ See note 45 above.
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lence”. Apuleius uses this device occasionally, as when Psyche is described as a “widowed virgin” uirgo uidua in 4,32 (100, 11).48 The stylistic flourish calls attention to the phrase and adds extra emphasis to their rushing. In addition, Apuleius most often uses raptim elsewhere to modify actions usually performed with the hands – in short, actions more like deterere than deterrere or deserere. Raptim appears among his extant works only in the Met., and then only nine times.49 The one instance in which it is clearly to be taken with a verb of motion (like e.g. desero) is in 9,1 (202,26–203,3), but even here there is other frantic activity usually performed with the hands (although Lucius there is using his hooves). In short, Apuleius’ practice in his use of raptim can also be used to support the reading of detero. Apuleius’ fondness for etymological play50 is at the root of the unusual collocation raptim deterentes. The verb from which raptim is formed, rapio, can mean “tear off or away”, and there are many passages where it is used for the tearing of hair or skin.51 In a context where we also encounter forms of redulcerare, lacerare, and comam trahere, this connotation of rapio is likely to have been close to the surface (right under the skin, perhaps). There are examples of his employing a word in an unusual way that calls attention to the etymology.52 In many of those pas————— 48
49 50
51 52
See GCA 2004, 81 ad loc.; cf. GCA 2004, 67–68 ad 4,31 (99,3–4), the description of the effect of Cupid’s weapons as “sweet wounds and honey-sweet burns” (discussed from a different standpoint in note 35 above); on other oxymora in the Met., cf. 10,2 (237,22– 23) quies turbida with GCA 2000, 57 ad loc. 2,17 (38,15); 3,13 (61,16); 3,28 (72,29–73,1); 4,11 (82,21–22); 6,25 (147,10–11); 8,17 (190,25–26); 9,20 (218,5–6); 11,26 (287,20–22). For instances of Apuleius’ focusing on etymology, i.e., using a word in an unusual way by calling attention to and resuscitating its root meaning(s), see with references GCA 1985, 66 ad 8,6 (180,18) definito iuuene, “when the young m[a]n had been finished off” (definire as used here has no parallels); GCA 1985, 67 ad 8,6 (180,20–21) frontem adseuerat, “assumed a sombre mien” (adseuero = “to make serious, seuerus” only here and 3,13: 61,23); with many references GCA 2000, 57–58 on 10,2 (237,1) dissignatum scelestum “a crime that was revealed” (dissigno = “break the seal of something” = “make known what was hidden”). The OLD lemma 13 c gives the definition ‘to tear off or away,’ and lists examples from Vergil, Ovid, Statius et al. See note 50 above; also apol. 4,12 inenodabilis with Hunink 1997, vol. II, 26 ad loc., where Apuleius seems to be the first to use the adjective in a concrete way; 5,3–6 with Hunink 1997, vol. II, 27 on the series of etymological puns eloquentia, eloquentior, eloqui; facundus, nefas (from fari); dissertissimum, disserere.
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sages the expression is abundant and supplies a set of clues or other alternative formulations that make the bold meaning clear and thus further underscore the stylistic novelty of his new expression (compare the use of contero with expugno in 9,37 as discussed above).53 In other words, the sisters do what they do here quickly, which is of course the primary meaning of raptim. In addition, however, the root notion of rapio latent in raptim blends especially well with the violence of the other verbs in this passage (lacerare, trahere, redulcerare) in a way that it simply cannot with deterrentes or deserentes. 3. Paleographical considerations The change from detero to deterreo is easy to explain paleographically, for deterreo occurs far more commonly than detero, which makes the latter the lectio difficilior.54 For the above reasons I think deterentes is the best reading for this passage. The decisive consideration (at least for me) is the shared medical provenance of detero and redulcero. Both verbs appear to belong to the same lexical field and thus more easily help to interpret one another. Additional grounds are laid out in the following two sections: the sisters are often described with vocabulary and attributes commonly found in the medical sphere. II. Medical Vocabulary and Doctors in Apuleius In this section I will exploit recent studies (see Introduction above) that concentrate on Latin medical vocabulary in order to examine areas in Cupid and Psyche, especially with reference to Psyche and her sisters, that seem to ————— 53
54
For similar use of adverbs in –tim cf., e.g., Met. 4,8 (80,12–14) Estur ac potatur incondite, pulmentis aceruatim, panibus aggeratim, poculis agminatim ingestis, “There was unbridled eating and drinking, as they absorbed meat in heaps, bread in mounds, and cups in serried ranks”. See with references GCA 1977, 70–71 ad loc. Aggeratim and agminatim are first attested here, but their meaning is easily derived from their roots; note also the abundant expression that starts with the less unusual aceruatim and moves on to neologisms. Cf. a similar series, this time with four such adjectives, at flor. 9,30, with remarks by Hunink 2001, 117–118 ad loc. For a comparable case, see GCA 1995, 46, ad 9,2 (204,12), where the commentators argue for concessionis in preference to the almost universally printed congressionis. They base part of their decision on the fact that it is the lectio difficilior (along with its etymological appropriateness in context; see above), despite the lack of other attestations of the word with the meaning “approach”.
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evoke and manipulate the medical lexicon and widely-held opinions concerning doctors.55 The line of enquiry described above seems to me to be authorized by the narrator herself of the Cupid and Psyche tale. In 5,10 (110,18–24) she quotes one of the sisters who responds to the other’s complaints about her woeful state. The second sister compares herself to a medica, a doctor or nurse and lists,56 with accurate technical terms, some of her duties in caring for her aged and infirm husband: Suscipit alia: ‘ego uero maritum articulari etiam morbo complicatum curuatumque ac per hoc rarissimo uenerem meam recolentem sustineo, plerumque detortos et duratos in lapidem digitos eius perfricans, fomentis olidis et pannis sordidis et faetidis cataplasmatibus manus tam delicatas istas adurens nec uxoris officiosam faciem sed medicae laboriosam personam sustinens.’ “The other one continued: ‘On my part, I have to put up with a husband who is even bent in two and crippled with arthritis, and for that reason hardly ever worships at the shrine of my love. For the most part I rub all over his disfigured and petrified fingers, and these so delicate hands of mine blister from the use of stinking compresses and filthy rags and foulsmelling plasters, and instead of having the dutiful appearance of a wife, I have to take on the laborious role of a nurse.’” The GCA commentary ad loc. (2004, 173–175) provides good explanations and references for Apuleius’ correct use of the seldom-encountered technical terms articularis morbus and cataplasma. It also discusses his accurate reflection of the pathology (deformed and inflamed joints) and treatment (various plasters) of arthritis and gout, and of common beliefs associated with
————— 55 56
For a good model of the sort of nuances that can be revealed in a given passage by a thorough knowledge of medical terminology, see Mazzini 1988. See GCA 2004, 174 ad loc. with references, who hold that the context here indicates a nurse and not a physician. As so often in Apuleius, however, a wide range of associations of a given word can be evoked once it has been used. Medicae often functioned as more than rudimentary care-givers, and much in the chapters where the sisters appear is redolent of the many facets of ancient doctors that we encounter in other sources. See below for more, and Jackson 1993, 85–86.
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that illness (e.g., that sexual indulgence is counter-indicated);57 it also gives adequate references for recent discussions of medicae. My comments in this section will focus first on possible additional allusions to medical practice in this chapter, and then I will move on to discussions of other passages. But first, a few preliminary questions. What purpose might these allusions serve? How might Apuleius’ audience have interpreted them? The broader questions about the meaning and extension of allusive practice are beyond the scope of this paper,58 but a few remarks may help anchor the discussion to follow. Langslow (1999, 188–202) discusses the circumstances under which technical vocabulary from the realm of medicine enters poetry. He makes ample allowance for differences between authors (Lucan is much more willing to import technical terms than Vergil, for instance) and genres (satire, comedy and epigram are “looser” than epic, lyric or elegy). He also makes clear remarks (1999, 207) on the different levels or registers of medical discourse:59 “lay-colloquial-informal” and “specialist-elevated-formal.” It is not surprising that these two levels should coexist, especially since, chiefly in the realm of therapeutics, most of the implements and medicines used to treat illness were derived from common household objects or plants familiar to the local inhabitants.60 Overall, Langslow’s investigation of medical language in poetry, although often expressing caution, does produce some strong findings: “Special vocabulary sensu proprio is avoided in high poetry if either its form or its meaning is held to be banal or otherwise unsuitable”, but he notes that translations of Greek terms were acceptable.61 In the novel, ————— 57 58 59
60
61
Cf. Luchner 2004, 352–372 on Lucian’s use of gout as both focus of satire and platform for metaliterary discussion. For a good extended study of allusivity, with many references to theoretical discussions, see Finkelpearl 1998, esp. 1–35. See Langslow 1999, 206 with notes on controversies among specialists about the extent to which medical Latin had its very own vocabulary, and how it might be recognized; also Önnerfors passim; Langslow 2000, 351 with notes; above, note 3. Langslow 2000, 165; see also 188 on metaphorical terms in therapeutics (often to objects of material culture) and 194 on metaphor in anatomy and physiology, where the voice or senses are referred to as physical objects: e.g., obtundere is used of dull speech in Celsus. Cf. Adams’ remark (1995, 669) on the significant overlap between normal vocabulary and specialist usage in veterinary medicine, especially with reference to body parts. In Apuleius, cf. esp. Keulen 2003, 250 (with references) on 1,13 (12,14) utriculo admoto on the overlap of colloquial language and technical medical jargon. Langslow 2000, 195–196 and notes 38–39. He gives a particularly clear example in the evocation of melancholia as the cause of Hercules’ madness at Verg. Aen. 8,219–220 hic uero Alcidae furiis exarserat atro / felle dolor.
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a much more catholic genre, we will then expect to encounter a wide range of both high- and low-register evocations of the medical realm. Langslow’s comments on the use of medical terminology in metaphor are particularly interesting. Specialist vocabulary can create vividness; “for the image to succeed, to engage rather than alienate the audience, the source domain must be familiar and authentic, both in content and in form” (1999, 198). He notes that the metaphor of disease is frequently encountered and manipulated, especially when discussing love, and that metaphors then often combine in suggestive ways (1999, 199–200). For example, the metaphors of sickness, medical treatment, and soldiery all work together in many poets’ presentations of erotic obsession.62 The strong presence of allusions to military conquest and to Vergil (especially in the sections on Psyche’s sisters) have received adequate comment,63 and in light of Langslow’s research it is not surprising to find medical metaphors mixed in with them. As he points out, in medical writers, diseases do battle (militare), make attacks (impetus; temptare), and take over places (occupare), while doctors must fight (pugnare) to drive out (expugnare) or defeat (uincere) a disease.64 In high poetry, then, bald technical terms are often avoided, but in metaphor they are allowed, for they “sharpen and enrich” the imagery employed (Langslow 1999, 201).65 We see something very much like this in passages that discuss the sisters: remarks by both Cupid and the anus-narrator employ vocabulary relating to disease. When Cupid first tries in 5,5 to dissuade Psyche from seeing her sisters, he uses a number of metaphors (military ones most prevalently), but he also describes their presence as deadly and painful, using terms frequently applied to illnesses and death, e.g. 106,15–16 exitiabile periculum, “mortal danger”. In 106,21 he says that if she does see them, she will “bring about the bitterest pain for [him]”, mihi ... grauissimum dolorem ... creabis. GCA 2004, 141 ad loc. point out that the only earlier attestation of dolorem ————— 62 63 64
65
See Langslow 1999, 200 with notes 47–50 for many good specifics on the combination of these metaphors in Propertius and especially Ovid. See most conveniently Panayotakis 1998 with notes and references. See Langslow 1999, 200 note 49 for full references (mostly from Celsus and the respective ThLL articles): Cels. 6,6,31A militare; 3,12,2, 6,6,37A pugnare; 3,15,4 and ThLL s.v. expugnare 1811,30 ff.; cf. also ThLL s.vv. impetus 604,79 ff.; occupo 386,29 ff.; euinco 1042,77 ff. See Langslow 1999, 203–215, especially 203–4 and 210–214 for examples from Plautus through Lucretius of figurative use of medical terminology.
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creare is in a concrete sense in Celsus 2,8,39. When Cupid later attempts to convince Psyche to avoid seeing her sisters, he again mixes images (e.g., evil spirits, Lamiae, armed as if for battle). The narrator, as if to top him, then combines a number of disease metaphors. In 5,12 (112,22–113,1) she describes the sisters as “those infectious diseases, those disgusting furies breathing their snake-like poison”: pestes illae taeterrimaeque furiae anhelantes uipereum uirus.66 But let us return to our passage in 5,10, where the sister is not described as a disease, but as a doctor (medica). The sister not only uses correct technical terms for the things used in treating her husband’s ailment;67 she also describes her actions with verbs commonly encountered in medical treatises. Aduro occurs commonly in medical authors, especially with reference to cautery, but also with great frequency of harsh medicines, as here.68 The sister uses another technical term in 5,10: perfrico turns up regularly in medical contexts to describe the sort of massaging the sister complains about having to perform.69 Her use of uenus to mean sexual intercourse may also have medical resonances;70 Celsus uses it fourteen times to refer to inter————— 66 67 68
69
70
See GCA 2004, 190–191 ad loc. with references for the resonances of these disease terms. Not only cataplasmatibus, but also pannis; to the references in GCA 2004, 173 ad loc. add Langslow 2000, 166 with note 134 and references on pannus used as a dressing. See ThLL s.v. aduro 898,26–33, where the word is listed as very common (“familiarissima”) in medical writers, but also 898,75–899,9, which includes this passage in many describing the action of painful medicines (“de medicamentis acribus”). This word describes Cupid in 5,28 (125,12) adustum filium (“her son, scorched by fire”). On the pun adumbrating both medical and erotic realms see GCA 2004, 327 ad loc. The burning metaphor with the root urere appears more than once: cf. 5,23 (121,16) inustus... deus. See Önnerfors 1993, 261 on the frequent use of participles, sometimes as substantives, to designate the patient or his complaint. Dolens is frequent among them; cf. 5,28 (125,7) uulnere lucernae dolens with GCA 2004, 325 ad loc. See ThLL s.v. perfrico 1402,67–34, esp. 1403,3–21, which lists body parts that are rubbed; this passage from Met. 5,10 is included; also Adams 1995, 167 for the related compound infrico. See also Adams 1995, 55 on frico. There he discusses an anecdote at Gell. 15,4,3 about the consul Ventidius Bassus who before his elevation used to massage mules. The use of the verb seems to be part of the joke, as well as the recipient of the massage. As in Met. 5,10, it indicates a lowering of status. Apuleius also uses exfrico at 1,2 (2,13) and 1,7 (6,17), the first in a veterinary context, the second in a broadly therapeutic one, where Aristomenes takes care of Socrates. I thank Wytse Keulen for alerting me to the passages in book 1. GCA 2004, 173 ad loc. discuss some parallels for this use, mostly in poetry.
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course, but employs the synonyms concubitus and coitus only twice each.71 It seems that this sister not only performs the actions of a doctor; she talks like one, too. Another passage concerned with the sisters seems to contain specialized medical vocabulary. On their third visit (5,17: 11–12) they manufacture tears in order to appear genuinely worried about Psyche as they try to convince her that her husband is a terrible monster. The narrator describes their actions thus: lacrimisque pre<s>sura palpebrarum coactis, “with tears forced out by squeezing their eyelids”. GCA 2004, 234 ad loc. correctly notes that this is a technical term for squeezing olives or grapes. Langslow’s study of forms in –tura, –sura, and –ura shows that these words tend to be associated with various craftsmen and their technical activities,72 clustering mostly in the realms of farming and animal husbandry, the culinary arts, and in medicine, especially in descriptions of wounds, lacerations and inflammations.73 His research into twenty-three of these words across four medical writers from the first to the fifth centuries CE finds that many of them “make their first appearance and/or are mainly attested in medical writers.”74 Pressura is among them, which “is found largely in Christian and medical texts.”75 Langslow wants even to hazard the notion that “–tura is the nominalizing suffix of the ‘hands-on’ medical practitioner.”76 Many of the attestations upon which Langslow bases the claims above are from writers active much later than Apuleius, and it may seem unwarranted to attribute a medical flavor to a word on the basis of its use in ages well after the author under consideration. On the other hand, Apuleius often seems to be the first to use a given phrase or word in a sense that is then taken over by later (often Christian) authors. For example, Langslow discusses what becomes a common medical phrase and locates its origin in Apuleius. In Met. 2,16 (38,12), in a passage concerned with Lucius’ impatient sexual desire, he says formido ne neruus rigoris nimietate rumpatur, ————— 71 72 73
74 75 76
Langslow 1999, 212 with references. Langslow 2000, 300–304; see especially 300–301 with notes for references. See Langslow 2000, 301. He cites Cassius 155,16 for pressura used of “a sense of being weighed down”, and points out (195) that Celsus and others use the verbs premo and oppremo for the action of diseases. Langslow 2000, 302, with examples like fractura (first in Cato and then often in medical and veterinary writers), uinctura, sutura. Langslow 2000, 302 note 121, based on his consultation of the ThLL archives. Langslow 2000, 304.
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“I’m afraid my member may burst through an excess of stiffness.” Langslow observes that nimius was “very common in medical and veterinary texts, especially in accounts of the causes of disease.”77 Using the related noun nimietas and a genitive, usually of a noun in –or, seems to have developed into a fairly common way of referring to diseases and symptoms. An example is Amm. 19,4,2 on the genesis of plagues: Nimietatem frigoris aut caloris uel umoris uel siccitatis pestilentias gignere philosophi et illustres medici tradiderunt. “Philosophers and famous doctors have taught that plagues are caused by a surfeit of cold or heat or moisture or dryness.”78 Ancient medical teaching was dominated by the “hydraulic” view that located sickness and health in a proper balance of humors, so a phrase designating “an excess/surfeit of x,” as in the Ammianus passage above, has obvious attractions. Langslow hypothesizes, on the basis of the jocular tone in Met. 2,16, that collocations like nimietas rigoris might have had a “medical ring”; a faux-clinical reference to an erection here would be part of the joke. Proof is not possible, but Langslow wants to credit Apuleius with the invention of this type of medical phrase, or at least to place its genesis in his era.79 This progression is similar in some ways to the development of the use and semantic import of words in –tura/–sura/–ura, and in the light of that there may be some medical color to the use of pressura in 5,17. If so, it gives added depth to the descriptions of the sisters’ very physical and concrete approach to deception in 5,11 and 5,17, and may indirectly support the reading of deterentes in 5,11. In 5,11 the sisters use their hands to disfigure their faces and tear their hair as part of their feigned mourning; they thereby upset their parents and then hasten home to work on their plan. In 5,17 they briefly visit their parents, hurry to the rock above Psyche’s castle, quickly descend and, just before starting to tell their lies, they squeeze tears out of their eyes with their hands. The actions are in a sort of rough chiasmus, and the repetition of the notions of haste (cf. note 26) and duplicity encourage us to juxtapose the two descriptions. In each instance they use their hands to hurt themselves in an effort to lend verisimilitude to their act. If pressura in 5,17 has a medical resonance, it may be used in order to correspond with the medical flavor in redulcerato (and perhaps in deterentes) in 5,11. ————— 77 78 79
Langslow 2000, 308 note 144 gives examples from Pelagonius and references the discussion in Adams 1995, 158 and 212. See Langslow 2000, 308 for other examples and references. Langslow 2000, 309.
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If we accept that there may be more frequent allusion to medical practice in these chapters than has previously been acknowledged, we can appreciate with greater depth the richness of Apuleius’ depiction of the relationships between Psyche, her sisters, and her husband. Common resonances or associations of medical vocabulary not audible or active outside the medical realm might be in play if the situation is recognizably “medical.” Specialist studies have investigated a phenomenon that Langslow calls “contextual modulation”: “ordinary words with ordinary meanings ... which arguably show a modulation of their meaning in a medical context.”80 We have seen this already in 5,10 (110,22) pannis sordidis; pannus, usually just a piece of cloth, in this context clearly refers to a bandage or rag used for applying medicines.81 I think this tendency is active in broader ways that I will develop in the next section: if there are linguistic features evocative of the world of medicine present in a section describing a given character(s), we can view other features of that character’s presentation that are not strictly from the medical lexicon through a medical “lens”. III The Broader Medical Context As mentioned above, the last two decades have seen a flowering of scholarship on ancient medicine that allows us to understand that world in greater depth and detail. If the vocabulary used of the sisters is frequently reminiscent of that sphere, what other associations might be active? In Langslow’s terms, what aspects of the “target” realm might be evoked by these words? Although it is not possible here to give a review of the current state of our knowledge of medicine in Apuleius’ day, it may be helpful to discuss some commonly held beliefs about doctors that will help us flesh out the picture of the sisters. My remarks will perforce concentrate on the negative, since the sisters are the unsympathetic characters who are the focus of this study. To be sure, some Romans, particularly Cicero and Seneca, give voice to a tradition of praise for the physician as a valuable friend, possessor of liberal learning and guarantor of health; this tradition finds its fullest expres————— 80 81
Langslow 2000, 165. Langslow 2000, 166 uses pannus as an example of contextual modulation; see with references GCA 2004, 173 who note that the word occurs both in medical and nonmedical contexts.
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sion in Galen’s long record of achievements and self-justifications.82 But this was a minority view at least insofar as our sources tell us, and the discussion below will reflect that. In Roman letters there was a long literary tradition hostile to professional physicians;83 its first coherent description appears in Cato the Elder84 and perhaps its fullest expression in Pliny the Elder,85 but it is already clearly discernible as early as Lucilius.86 Varro appears to have devoted parts of his satires to poking fun at the pretensions and ineptitude of physicians,87 and that theme is common enough in light poetry and epigram, especially in ————— 82
83
84
85
86
87
See Nutton 1986, 32 with notes 5–7 for full testimonia. The evidence he assembles is from Cicero’s letters; Fam. 13,20; 16,4 and 9; Att. 15,1–3; Brut. 1,6. Cicero could argue to the contrary; cf. his depiction of the criminally duplicitous and deadly itinerant country doctor in Pro Cluentio 40. For Seneca the testimonia are primarily from Ben. 3,35,4 and 6,5–16. For similar attitudes see Plutarch De sanitate tuenda I (= Mor. 122d–123), where we encounter a self-promoting and aggressive fool as a foil in the dialogue to the philosophically inclined physician. See Flemming 2000, 39–44 for a survey of attitudes, positive and negative, towards various types of medical practitioner, especially females; also Pleket 1995 (very brief and schematic). See also Flemming’s appendix 2 (383–391), a collection of inscriptions relating to female medical practitioners, many of which are very laudatory. There are many accessible treatments of this theme: see Scarborough 1993; Amundsen 1974, 320–321 with notes is very good on testimonia, and 1978 gives a fine overview; also Mazzini 1982. Nutton 1986 (especially good) and Kudlien 1986 supply evidence (primarily inscriptions) and discussion of the reliability of this portrait. Cataplasma (see above in Section II on Met. 5,10) seems to appear first in Latin in his works: Cato, frag. at Prisc. 77,94; Pliny the Elder (HN 29,5) quotes from Cato’s vituperative letter on doctors. See for more Scarborough 1993, 13–15; Amundsen 1978, 652. Cato’s attitude is best summed up by Nutton 1992, 35: “Roman medical tradition as expounded by Cato the Elder and, long after him, by Pliny the Elder ..., was one of domestic, practical medicine, marked by a strong chauvinism. The effete philosopher was contrasted with the sturdy, self-sufficient Roman farmer.” See further Nutton 1992, 35– 38 with notes. See above all Nutton 1986; Amundsen 1978, 652–653, with notes; Scarborough 1993, 22–27; Marchetti 212–225. Pliny’s longest diatribes are in NH 29,1,1–29,8,28; see also 26,6,10–26,8. See Flemming 2000, 132 with notes for bibliography on discussions of these passages. See Santini passim. He focuses on the issue of genre, pointing out (29) that satire, concerned with human foibles, will likely make remarks on health, so some presence of medical terms is not surprising. Greek words appear rarely; anatomical terms (with the exception of stomachus) are usually in Latin, and these tend to appear in groups, along with lists of symptoms and affected parts and mention of medical implements (31–34), much as we see in the sentence in Met. 5,10 describing the affliction and treatment of one of the sisters’ husband’s arthritis. Especially his Quinquatrus, fragments 444–451.
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Martial.88 Galen himself, a rough contemporary of Apuleius and the foremost medical authority of his day (and later), often mentions the general public’s suspicion of doctors, and is unsparing in his criticism of the greed, folly and incompetence of his professional rivals.89 If we posit some degree of allusion to the world of medicine in the chapters concerned with the sisters (as I think the previous section allows us to do), then looking at possible evocations of the larger sphere of experience will give us a more rounded picture of Psyche’s siblings. In light of the generally disparaging tone of much written about ancient medicine, I organize this discussion in sections corresponding to rough categories of moral and professional failings among doctors. a
Greed
In this section I offer a reading of the greed of Psyche’s sisters’ that is informed by two things: commonly lodged complaints about doctors in general as avaricious, and stereotypical thinking about women found in medical lore. One of the sisters describes herself as a medica, so looking for attributes commonly associated with medical personnel seems sound. In addition, in light of the remarks above about “contextual modulation”, it seems reasonable to view these women through a medical “lens”; to look at them as the medical writers might have, especially given the many linguistic features of their presentation that invite the reader to assume or supply a medical context. Chief among the complaints levied against doctors by Pliny is their greed.90 Psyche’s sisters are repeatedly described as grasping even after Psyche has given them extravagant gifts; indeed, the more they see and get, the more avaricious they seem to become. Some examples (and this is only a sample) are 5,8 (109,16–20), where Psyche loads them up with worked gold and necklaces of gems, and their immediate response (5,9: 109,19–22) is to “[seethe] with the bitterness of increasing envy” gliscentis inuidiae felle ————— 88 89
90
Amundsen 1974, 320–321, with notes. See Scarborough 1993, 33–35 with notes. There are many discussions of the nature and reliability of Galen’s self-presentation: Nutton 1972, 1984, 1995; Von Staden 1997. For fuller bibliographical references see Luchner 2004, 52–99, with notes and references. Flemming 2000, 132 sums up his attitude well: they are “out to profit by murder”. The accusation was not new in Roman letters; cf. Varro’s Quinquatrus frgg. 450 and 451, which mocks the rich doctor who owns extravagantly opulent furniture.
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fraglantes; chapter 5,10 is full of references to their resentment of Psyche’s wealth; they decide to hide their gifts in 5,11 (111,21–22); in 5,20 (119,1–2) after instructing Psyche how to kill her husband, they encourage her to plunder the castle before she leaves. Greed and subterfuge are associated in Roman literature with women in general and women in elegy in particular.91 I do not mean to imply that the medical resonance here is primary, but rather to suggest that it deepens the portrait of the sisters; it characterizes them as doubly bad through comparison to two different sets of people associated with avaricious prevarication.92 The two realms (the medical and the female) are combined in writers roughly contemporary with and active shortly before Apuleius. In Plutarch’s Instructions for Health women are held up as bad examples of excess or temptation.93 Galen often found women “good to think with” in his own selfaggrandizing presentations. Flemming’s treatment of this current in Galen’s thought is instructive: for her the male is the paradigm of self-mastery and the female of its lack. Women are “useful symbols of what he despises;” “The insatiable desire of women for pearls, other jewels, and the most elaborate and costly clothing, all for their personal adornment, stands as an example of the worst kind of bodily greed that must be completely excised through the discipline of the soul;…”94 In combining allusions to the females of elegy and of the medical writers, Apuleius deepens his already vivid portrait of some important subsidiary characters. As noted above in section II, those who write about erotic obsession (chiefly elegists) often resort to medical metaphors. In describing Cupid and Psyche’s relationship, Apuleius has literally “fleshed out” this tradition (see discussion in introduction above of a similar narrative strategy in 10,2–12); he introduces actual medicae (as greedy as both the doctors in the hostile tradition and as the grasping older women in elegy) who claim to minister to the lovesick Psyche. ————— 91 92
93 94
The literature on this subject is very large and beyond the focus of this paper. GCA 2004 has many good references to the subject of elegiac females in the chapters on the sisters. See Von Staden 1997a, esp. 159–164 on the tendency in Apuleius’ time to focus on the moral character and qualifications of physicians as much as on their professional competence. See Flemming 2000, 135, with notes; Luchner 2004, 176–187 with notes for a fuller discussion. See Flemming 2000, 258–259 with copious notes for full references and comparanda. Quotations are from p. 259.
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Lust
In the ancient invective tradition, one moral failing tended to imply another: greed led to luxury, which led to sexual dissipation (among other things).95 Pliny links the two in one of his disparagements of doctors; not only are they the source of poisoned spouses and illicit enrichment, they foster intrafamilial strife and “even acts of adultery in the very homes of the royal family” iam uero et adulteria etiam in principum domibus (29,8,20). Similar is Martial’s joke in 11,71 where the young wife of an older man (cf. the complaints of the first sister in 5,9: 110,14–16) claims hysteria in order to gain from her doctors the standard therapy for that ailment – namely intercourse.96 Apuleius tells a memorable story of a lustful woman using a doctor to help her in her plots in 10,23–28.97 Psyche’s sisters (“queens” in the cities where they live) are certainly depicted as lustful in 5,9 and 5,10.98 When Psyche later tells her sister the lie that Cupid wants to marry her instead, the sister immediately deceives her husband and runs off to commit adultery, calling to Cupid to accept her as his new wife. Before she plummets to her death, the narrator describes “her sister, driven by the spurs of delirious passion and harmful envy” illa uesanae libidinis et inuidiae noxiae stimulis agitata 5,27 (124,11–12).99 The sisters seem to be as lustful as the doctors in the hostile tradition. c
Envy and Professional Competition
Section III.a. above treats the sisters’ envy of Psyche’s wealth. This section, much longer, expands the concept of resentment into many other realms. Psyche’s siblings are also jealous of her spouse and her position as the potential mate of a god. As soon as they see the palace and are acquainted with ————— 95 96 97
98
99
See Flemming 2000, 26–30 for interesting comments on the tendency after Actium to locate and discuss moral decline in the behavior of women. For comments and references see Parker 1997, 133 and notes 16 and 17. See GCA 2000 passim on these chapters. Apuleius uses a term with a medical flavor (urigo) in 1,7 (7,14) when describing another lustful female: see the discussion in Keulen 2003, 182 ad loc. See the comments on their exchange of complaints about their respective husbands in GCA 2004, 170–174 ad 5,9–10 (110,14–24), and above in section II on the use of uenus in one sister’s discussion of frequency of intercourse. The same phrase, uesanae libidinis, is used of a woman driven by passion at 10,19 (251,24).
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the invisible servants, they are described (5,8: 109,7–8) as “deep in their hearts ... nurturing their envy,” praecordiis penitus nutrirent inuidiam. In 5,9 and 10 their complaints about the perceived unfairness of Psyche’s elevation are given at length, and elaborated upon in 5,16. Their plan for revenge begins to be hatched in 5,11, is elaborated in 5,17–18, and specifically laid out in 5,20. In all of these chapters Cupid or the narrator comments on the sisters’ resentment. How does this relate to the medical profession? Recent research emphasizes the agonistic nature of ancient medicine, comparing it to unregulated fields like astrology as opposed to contemporary medical science.100 This is a large subject; I offer here but a sketch of some recent ways of thinking that can cast light on the case of the sisters. Nutton (1992) and his student Flemming (2000, 8–10) have referred to the world of the Greek and Roman doctor as a “medical marketplace,” an area “pluralistic and competitive ..., fractious and fragmented, not subject to official control or internal policing.” In such surroundings, competition for patients could be fierce, as could the envy of those who had landed a coveted position as physician to a member of the imperial family or someone otherwise very wealthy. We see this most clearly in many anecdotes and in case histories related by Galen (more on this below). Flemming gives a thorough account of the development of this state of affairs from the beginnings of medicine up until Galen’s time. For her, Roman medicine was a “discursive formation” within certain “social and economic relations” (80); the chief requirement of imperial Roman doctors as opposed to their classical Greek forbears was “the continual need to claim the authority to intervene in an acutely competitive context”(81). Unlike modern doctors, ancient physicians’ influence was based on knowledge they had inherited but not themselves created. Moreover, their claims to authority were “externally constructed,” i.e. subject to verification by people outside the group of practitioners (i.e., chiefly patients) (84–85). Traditional healers in small communities could rely on local lore to convey this authority, but in cities and closer to the elites there was competition from other knowledge systems, like philosophy. The result was an increasing elaboration of medical theory: an “epistemologization” of knowledge in the various sects of medical practitioners and theorists that were usually allied in some way with ————— 100
Flemming 2000, 8. There are many accounts of this. See especially Nutton 1992 and 1984; Von Staden 1997; Luchner 2004, 52–54.
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a philosophical school.101 The single best example of this is Galen’s oeuvre: he wrote dialogues and philosophical and scholarly works in addition to his many works on medicine.102 In short, in Apuleius’ time the acerbity of personal contestation and ambition that one sees among sophists (in Gellius, for instance) is evident also among doctors.103 Galen gives some particularly clear illustrations of this state of affairs in his On Prognosis, and Nutton’s (1979) full commentary gives many parallels and analyzes the individual episodes.104 A few examples will be helpful. The piece opens with commonplaces reminiscent of Juvenal or Pliny on the appeal of doctors’ flattery of the rich.105 Galen then immediately moves on to discussing the envy of the successful doctor (i.e., himself); when bested in a contest over prognosis, his rivals accused him of sorcery and alleged that he had killed a patient.106 He complains that he cannot get free of the machinations of the jealous, and he uses the metaphor of civil war, employing lots of military vocabulary (ἀντέχω, διαγωνίζοµαι, ἐκφεύγω, πολεµέω; resisting, fighting, fleeing, battling).107 Later, after an account of a successful cure, we get a speech by the patient just healed by Galen on the generally bad morals of Roman doctors. The patient and philosopher Eudemus attributes this evil partly to the corrupting influence of money and partly to envy; unscrupulous doctors get rich, see others doing the same and succeeding, and they become even worse.108 Galen (as Eudemus) continues, saying (more than once) that ————— 101
102 103
104 105
106
107 108
Flemming 2000, 84–85. The topic of the various schools and their theoretical foundations and influence is too large to treat here. For a recent discussion with some good examples (again from the Greek side) from (roughly) Apuleius’ age, see Luchner 2004, 99–144. See next note and Nutton 1979, 60 note 4 for references to Galen’s philosophical works, some in dialogue form. See Bowersock 30–58 and 89–100; esp. Nutton 1979, 60 with notes; Von Staden 1997, 51–54 with notes, where he gives a conspectus of Galen’s non-medical works; Flemming 2000, 255 with references. See Nutton 1972, 50–51 for a brief but thorough outline of the piece. For fuller and more recent bibliography, see Luchner 2004, 52, note 142. Nutton 1979, 68 = Kuehn 14,599–600 = De praecog. 1,1–4; see note on 70,22 on p. 151 for a listing of many other places where envy is discussed; see note p. 152 on 70,23 for comparanda discussing the problem of doctors’ credibility and the common claim that they are murderers. Nutton 1979, 70 = Kuehn 14,601–602 = De praecog. 1,5–9. Cf. Apuleius’ own problems with an accusation of sorcery, treated at length in his Apology, including a section on questionable (to the accusers) medical treatment (chapters 42–52); see above, note 5. Nutton 1979, 72 = Kuehn 14,603 = De praecog. 1,9–10. Nutton 1979, 90 = Kuehn 14,621–622 = De praecog. 4,5–10. See his note p. 154 on 72,22 for comparanda about the luxury of the rich.
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other doctors, because they are unscrupulous, assume that everyone else is also a liar and on the make.109 The similarity of many of the elements above to the conduct of Psyche’s sisters should by now be clear. It seems to me that especially under the rubric “envy” this resemblance is unlikely to be merely random. There is, however, another point of contact between this treatise of Galen’s and Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. It does not concern Psyche’s sisters, but rather the story of the lovesick woman in 10,2–12. In that section Apuleius explored (and confounded and complicated) the idea that the symptoms of love can be read by a clever physician (see introduction above).110 This finds its echo in Galen’s treatise, where he tells his own version, presented as a factual case history, of the “Antiochus and Stratonice” affair. Like his literary forbears, in this anecdote he too makes a miraculous diagnosis of lovesickness from knowing how and when and why to measure changes in pulse rate.111 The presence of this “novelistic” anecdote in an apologetic treatise written by one of the most insistent self-promoters of antiquity shows the ease with which the realms of medicine and literary fiction could interpenetrate one another.112 My argument here is that similar play in Cupid and Psyche is therefore entirely plausible, especially if there are other contextual or linguistic elements that incline one to look for connections. So how are we to read the sisters’ envy as somehow “medical”?113 As is typical in Apuleius, the situation has multiple levels. Since the one sister ————— 109 110 111
112
113
Nutton 1979, 92 = Kuehn 14,623–624 = De praecog. 4,13–15. See GCA 2000, 424, 430–31 and esp. 73–79, with references; Crismani 1996; next note. See also Keulen in this volume, n. 99. See Flemming 2000, 262–263; Amundsen 1974, 333–337 with notes and references and Nutton 1979,100–104 = Kuehn 14,630–635 = De praecog. 6,6–16, and especially 194– 196 with notes for excellent remarks on all the various versions of this “tale” (this is the word used by Flemming 2000, 263), including different ones by Galen himself. GCA 2000, 73–79 comments often on the frequent appearance of technical medical vocabulary and other elements specific to the medical realm in 10,2, while Nutton 1979, 61 remarks on the light tone (appropriate for comedy) of many of the anecdotes in On Prognosis, especially this one. See also Luchner’s chapter on medical elements in Greek novels (2004, 229–240). If the sisters are depicted as envious doctors, we might expect them to compete with one another. They are clearly a unit, however, treated almost as a single character and never given separate names (see with references GCA 2004, 317 ad 5,26: 124,7 sororem tuam). Their envy seems to be almost entirely directed toward their younger sibling. We see the first hint of competition with one another only after Psyche’s separation from Cupid;
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describes at length treating her own husband, these women appear at least in part to be representatives of a peculiarly Roman tradition of “self-help” reaching back to Cato for its theoretical justification of the aristocratic paterfamilias who treats his own family, slaves and animals.114 The technical jargon employed in the description of the sisters’ actions brings an element of Romanitas into this “Greek” story, as does, e.g., legal jargon employed elsewhere in the tale.115 But medicine was also viewed as something typically Greek and therefore suspect, so this bit of Roman vocabulary also has (with typically Apuleian ambiguity) its dark side. Moreover, the sisters, displaced into Psyche’s world, have no “external authority” (in Flemming’s terms) with which to convince her, so they fall back on another font of influence; the tradition of family devotion, which they exploit in order to gain Psyche’s trust.116 Cupid might easily be viewed as a rival doctor (effete and Greek unlike the Catonian sisters?) who offers in his repeated warnings a competing (and true) diagnosis of the situation.117 But in a wonderfully Apuleian complication, Cupid can only allude to his own divine authority and cannot name himself because he is (like a doctor?) involved in clandestine, self-serving and lustful behavior. ————— 114
115
116
117
when Psyche tells her sisters the lie about Cupid’s wanting to marry (each) of them (5,26–7), they run off in haste without any concern for the other. See, e.g., Scarborough 1997, 13–15; 19–20, with references. Celsus wrote in the same tradition for heads of households who would have been treating their own family or slaves (Langslow 2000, 352; 48). See, e.g., GCA 2004, 430–432 with references on the allusions to Roman family law in 6,9; also, GCA 2004, 316–318 with references on Psyche’s allusion to the same realm when telling the lie in 5,26 that leads to the sisters’ deaths. See note 3 above for references to studies of Apuleius’ use of other technical vocabularies. The sisters evoke the family bond (originis nexus) explicitly in 5,20 (118,8–9) as the basis for their plan to kill her husband. Cupid and the narrator often comment on their abuse of this connection. Cf., e.g., 5,12 (113,10–12), where Cupid insists that they have trampled the bonds of blood and no longer deserve to be called sisters; the narrator calls their plan to separate Psyche from her riches parricidium in 5,11 (111,26). See Luchner 2004, 52–53 with notes for remarks on the frequency in Galen’s circle of “dueling diagnoses”; identification and treatment of illnesses frequently unfolded as a contest held between groups of rival doctors summoned to the sickbed by the elite patient. See also Nutton 1995. In this tale Cupid is more patient than doctor, of course (see notes 15, 68), but both he (especially “bedside”) and the sisters offer competing advice to the confused and suffering Psyche. For the doctor unable to cure himself, see below, note 129. For Cupid’s “diagnosis” of the sisters as a disease, echoed by the narrator, see above, section II with note 66.
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All of this is rendered more plausible by the way in which the situation is described once the sisters, having given their counsel, have been removed from the scene. When Psyche tries to execute their “cure” for her situation by cutting off her husband’s head (for this Radikalkur see below, section d. with note 138), she is described at length as suffering from the classical indicators of erotic obsession in 5,21 (119,13–15) 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.”118 This list of symptoms is rendered in a style mirroring the asyndetic prose with rhyming and alliterative phrases that one often encounters in medical writers’ descriptions of symptoms.119An example from Celsus’ Proemium (41) is illustrative. This part has a higher literary color than the rest of the work and is thus perhaps more legitimately compared to Apuleius’ novel. In his discussion of his opposition to vivisection he says that the body parts revealed by it are not necessarily as they are in a healthy person: Proem 41: Nam colorem, leuorem, mollitiem, duritiem, similiaque omnia non esse talia inciso corpore, qualia integro fuerint... “For when the body had been laid open, colour, smoothness, softness, hardness and all similars would not be such as they were when the body was untouched.”120 To a reader who reads the sentences aloud, the similarities may seem even stronger, and such a reader is invited to diagnose the description of Psyche’s behavior as a list of “symptoms of love”. A description of the “symptoms of love” returns later in 5,25 (123,1– 5),121 crafted with similar stylistic tools. Pan tells Psyche what he thinks is wrong with her and why he thinks so:
————— 118 119
120 121
See GCA 2004, 266–268 ad loc. with references for a detailed analysis of both the structure of the sentence and the many evocations of erotic themes and poetry. Rhyme in medical Latin is a contested topic, but there are clear examples. Langslow 2000, 303 discusses (although most of the evidence is later than Apuleius) the tendency of words in –tura to cluster as “rhyming derivatives” in reference to physical and structural aspects of the body. See also above, notes 3 and 41. Sconocchia 2004, 536–537 has a good list of asyndetic passages form Celsus, Scribonius Longus and Pliny the Elder. Translation is by W.G. Spencer from the 1938 Loeb edition. See GCA 2004, 307 ad loc. on the literary pedigree (elegiac/erotic) of the elements in this passage.
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Verum si recte coniecto, quod profecto prudentes uiri diuinationem autumant, ab isto titubante et saepius uaccillante uestigio deque nimio pallore corporis et assiduo suspiritu, immo et ipsis maerentibus oculis tuis, amore nimio laboras. ‘ But, if I guess right – sages, I assure you, claim that this is ‘prophecy’ – judging from that staggering and often reeling gait of yours, and from the extreme paleness of your frame and your constant sighing and, moreover, especially from your mournful eyes, you are suffering from an overwhelming love.’ Recall the remarks above in section II about the frequent occurrence of nimius in descriptions of causes of disease. Laborans appears often in medical literature (along with, e.g., patiens or cubans) to designate “the patient”122; Apuleius has changed it to an inflected verb form. Note also the rhyme and alliteration. In this passage we see instead of asyndeton anaphora with et. Anaphora instead of asyndeton sometimes occurs also in medical authors in passages with literary pretensions,123 and another passage from Celsus’ Proemium (48) will serve as an example. Here he ruminates on the nature of medicine, “... for it is an art based on conjecture. However, in many cases not only does conjecture fail, but experience as well; and at times, neither fever, nor appetite, nor sleep follow their customary course.”: ...est enim haec ars coniecturalis. Neque respondet ei plerumque non solum coniectura sed etiam experientia et interdum non febris, non cibus, non somnus subsequitur, sicut adsueuit.124 There are similarities beyond style between Pan’s remarks here and other aspects of the medical world. Pan prefaces his diagnosis (coniecto; cf. coniecturalis in the Celsus passage above)125 with a remark on the tendency of intellectuals to dismiss it as based on divination. There are two obvious jokes here, one an allusion to Cicero126 and another situational; a god does not need prophecy (so much for the prudentes!). In addition, however, this pas————— 122 123 124 125
126
See Langslow 2000, 345–361 for examples and discussion. See Sconocchia 2004, 538. Translation by Spencer. See Sconocchia 2004, 538. Coniectura, coniectatio, and conicere add to the “technical” tone of the passage, since they are used with reference to a specialized body of knowledge (usually physiognomy), as in Ter. Ad. 822 f. and Gell. 1,9,1–2: see the discussion and parallels in Keulen (2006, forthcoming) ad 1,23 (21,10) conicerem (cf. Keulen in this volume, note 3). Cic. div. 2,12; see GCA 2004, 307 ad loc. for the many ironies in this sentence.
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sage bears a striking similarity to material in Galen’s On Prognosis. He notes in the opening of the work that anyone good at prognosis is almost viewed as a magician (γόης).127 This word or the related term for magic (γοητεία) appears three times within fifteen lines in his complaint about the charges leveled by his jealous rivals, all of them less well-educated than he is. He spends a great deal of the first section of the piece (Nutton 1979,68– 72) establishing his credentials, citing his deep reading of Hippocrates and other authorities along with his wide clinical experience. Similarly, Pan establishes his credentials or, to use Flemming’s term, “epistemologizes” his authority, in the sentence immediately preceding the one discussed above (122,28–29) ... sum quidem rusticanus et upilio, sed senectutis prolixae beneficio multis experimentis instructus. “... I may be a rustic fellow, a herdsman, but thanks to my advanced old age I have the advantage of much experience.” There are many metaliterary games afoot in this passage, and this is not the place to discuss them.128 I hope merely to point out another stratum in the multilayered tale of Cupid and Psyche. Apuleius has Pan playing many roles – pastoral fixture, adviser and helper, loser in the game of love – but he also, like the sisters, talks like a doctor. To review: by 5,27 both of the competing “doctors” (sisters and Cupid) have given bad advice, been unable to cure themselves (another well-known medical topos)129 of their greed or lust (or, in the sisters’ case, both), and are killed or injured by their own patient. In this final “diagnosis” scene, Pan correctly identifies (like Galen triumphing after the bumbling attempts of others)130 Psyche’s symptoms and prescribes a treatment regime that ultimately works. He claims the ability to make a correct diagnosis by citing not his divine status but his age and wide experience of love. In other words, the “doctor” Pan grounds his advice in an appeal to an “external authority” consisting on one level in his mythological erotic escapades and on another in the literary figure and tradition of the praeceptor amoris. He cites both spe————— 127 128 129 130
Nutton 1979, 70 = Kuehn 14,601–602 = De praecog. 1,7–10. See above, note 106. See GCA 2004, 305–310 with references for the many literary issues (allusion, role of the reader) that this chapter brings up. See Amundsen 1978, 648 for a group of fables and anecdotes on the “physician, heal thyself” theme. See the story of Galen’s first triumph over rivals in Rome with the case of Eudemus in On Prognosis Nutton 1979, 74 ff. = Kuehn 14,606 ff. = De praecog. 2,1 ff. with Nutton’s comments 157 ff. ad locc.
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cifically. The elegiac atmosphere is explicitly evoked, while the medical sphere is called to mind by the similarities in situation and diction. By including in his portrait of the sisters many associations with the world of medicine, Apuleius has subtly prepared the reader for the bald use of the medical metaphor in both the description of Psyche’s symptoms when she first sees her husband (5,21) and in the interview with Pan (5,25). d
Murderous Intent or Effect
Many critics have pointed to the sisters’ extreme malevolence and inclination toward violence; indeed, military metaphors predominate in remarks about them.131 Thus I will give only some selected examples and not reproduce a full account of their wickedness. In 5,10 (111,8) one sister insists that Psyche be toppled from her good fortune, and the narrator next (5,11: 111,26) describes their strategy as murder (parricidium). Their plans and actions increase in severity until they convince Psyche to kill her own husband in 5,18–20. Her husband warns her in 5,12 (113,6–14) that the sisters are going for her throat with swords drawn and compares them to the Sirens, bringers of death. The narrator describes Psyche as the sisters’ prey (praeda) in 5,15 (114,14). After they convince Psyche they desert her because they fear the enormity of what they have brought about (5,21: 119,4–6). Doctors in the literary and even the inscriptional record turn up as murderers actual, potential or negligent; if the sisters are in other ways depicted as physicians, this part of the portrait is consistent with significant portions of contemporary realia. There are many examples beyond the “evil doctor” story in Apuleius’ own book 10. Galen cites the case of a doctor who was exiled because he was (falsely, according to Galen) accused of killing his patients.132 Nutton’s commentary on this passage includes references to scholarly literature and provides a list of inscriptions that protest about killer doctors. One example is CIL 3,3345, complaining about the death of a loved one at their hands, per culpam curantium.133 Elsewhere Galen admits that ————— 131 132
133
Panayotakis 1998 gives an admirable discussion with references. Nutton 1979, 70 = Kuehn 14,602 = De praecog. 1,9; commentary on 152, which includes Hadrian’s conduct on his deathbed, “shouting aloud the popular saying: ‘Many physicians have slain a king’”: Dio Cassius 59,22,4, translation by E. Cary in the 1925 Loeb edition. See also Nutton 1992, 25 with notes for more references. See ThLL s.v. curo 1503,65 ff. for similar instances.
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poor care can easily cause the patient’s death.134 Amundsen135 gives a large list with lively English translations of various fables, anecdotes and poems on the subject of deadly doctors, many of whom kill for their own enrichment. Psyche’s sisters act in similar fashion. Ancient therapeutics were traditionally divided into three areas: diet, drugs and surgery.136 The last was by far the most dangerous and radical, and therefore avoided when possible by those who were conscientious and careful.137 Included under the rubric “surgery” was cautery, and “the fire and the knife” were proverbial for the most extreme treatment.138 The medical writer Scribonius Largus makes this clear in the dedicatory epistula that opens his work (Ep. 2, p. 2); he says that a firm knowledge of drugs is important “because the fearful human race does not easily entrust itself in the early stages to the knife and cautery” quia timidum genus mortalium inter initia non facile se ferro ignique committebant. The sisters’ “cure” for Psyche’s predicament can, I think, be viewed as a hasty (as is typical of them) prescription of the most drastic treatment. The oil lamp provides the “cautery” by burning Cupid before the “surgery” can be attempted. Some vocabulary in the piece encourages us to look at things ————— 134
135 136 137 138
See Garcia Ballester 1981, 17 with notes and references. As examples he notes Galen’s admitting that a doctor can “provoke disease with his own hands,” (Ad Glaucum de methodis medicis 1,4 = Kuehn 11,17; De locis affectis 5,8 = Kuehn 8,362) or even kill his patient (De crisibus 3,5 = Kuehn 9,726). Amundsen 1978, 645–648 with notes. See Jackson 91–94 and Flemming 2000, 111 with notes and references. See, e.g., Nutton 1992, 25 with notes. See Wöhrle 1991, 13 and cf. above, section I, note 37 on Wöhrle’s overview of the range of use of the ulcus/ἕλκος metaphor. One of his prime examples is Polybius 1,81,6–8: “Such horrors justify the remark that it is not only the bodies of men, and the ulcers and imposthumes which are bred in them, that grow to a fatal and completely incurable state of inflammation, but their souls also most of all [my italics – TM]. For as in the case of ulcers, sometimes medical treatment on the one hand only serves to irritate them and make them spread more rapidly, while if, on the other hand, the medical treatment is stopped, having nothing to check their natural destructiveness, they gradually destroy the substance on which they feed ...” Wöhrle notes (13) that such metaphors often mention the tendency of ulcers to spread, their soreness, and the fact that treatment can make them worse. “Die Radikalkur bleibt immer das Brennen oder Schneiden.” Since this rarely works, authors often then move to military metaphors, and talk about the violence and difficulty of the treatment and disease (compare note 64 above). Cf. Demosthenes Against Aristogeiton 1,25,95 “Just as physicians, when they detect a cancer or an ulcer or some other incurable growth, cauterize it or cut it away, so you ought all to unite in exterminating this monster.”
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this way: Cupid is later referred to with a technical term for a burn victim (5,28: 125,12 adustum).139 Moreover, when Psyche tells her sisters (5,26: 124,4–5) the lie about her encounter with her husband, she says that upon the lamp’s burning him he awoke and “he saw me armed with fire and sword” me ferro et igni conspexit armatam. As the GCA commentators point out, this phrase is used in military imagery and elegiac poetry – but also in medical contexts.140 In short, Psyche’s sisters, if they are depicted as bloodthirsty doctors “out to profit by murder”141, have lots of (bad) company. Apuleius exploits other ironies and ambiguities here. As mentioned above, ferrum et ignis are regularly used in military contexts as tools of destruction and in medical contexts as implements of healing (but also potential harm). They are also, however, the stock attributes of Cupid, namely his arrows and torch. Apollo’s oracle (4,33: 101,2) describes the “monster” Psyche is to wed as hurting individuals with these same tools: flammaque et ferro singula debilitat “with flames and iron [he] weakens every single creature”.142 These literary trappings return in 5,20–23 as medical implements that will (as Psyche has been convinced by her sisters) bring her back to health143 – but will also (in keeping with the sisters’ duplicitous and murderous plot) destroy the couple’s union. Cupid conceals his identity from Psyche, but with hostile intent she brings back to him two concrete manifestations of his own standard accessories, one of which (the lamp) both reveals his nature and makes physical the burning of his love for his consort. Because of Cupid’s immediate departure, the burn from the lamp also banishes the symptom (“Love”), which is what good cauterization should do. In other words, the sisters’ diagnosis and recommended treatment are more accurate and literarily appropriate than they had imagined: Psyche’s spouse is revealed as a monster, although not the one they had thought. Moreover, the treatment they prescribe, even though Psyche fails to execute it, achieves (if only for a short time) their own ends: the lovers’ separation and Psyche’s ————— 139 140 141 142
143
See above, part II, note 68 for a discussion of this technical term. See GCA 2004, 316 ad loc. with references; also note 138 above. The phrase is Flemming’s: see note 90 above. See note 36 in Hijmans’ contribution to this volume. Note that Cupid here is described as having a disastrous effect on people’s health, and recall that Apollo is the father of the god of medicine. Cf. the sisters’ description of their plan to kill the husband as “the only [way] which steers your course to safety” uiam, quae sola deducit iter ad salutem 5,20 (118,10–11); but salus can also mean physical health: see OLD s.v. 2.
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misery. Like bloodthirsty doctors described elsewhere they recommend a murderous treatment using standard tools: fire and blade. In addition, in keeping with their selfishness, this prescription (at least temporarily) actually treats their own symptoms of (professionally approved, as it were) envy and greed. e
Professional malfeasance
Amundsen’s list mentioned above includes stories of doctors who kill both through incompetence and with malice aforethought. What sets the portrait of Psyche’s “doctor-sisters” apart is the thoroughness of their deception; they play the part well when they interact with their naive younger sibling. From their first encounter they question her closely about her husband, his background, profession, and habits. I provide here a summary of their interrogation: In 5,8, after the sisters have seen how Psyche lives, the narrator says that they were filled with envy. The first action described immediately following is a close and thorough interrogation about the husband (109,8–10): “And so one of these two did not cease from inquiring meticulously and curiously, who was the owner of these heavenly riches, or who and what kind of a person her husband was.” After the sisters leave, they discuss the implications of Psyche’s (false) replies and the evidence of what they have seen, and then they make a diagnosis along these lines (5,9: 110,8–14, paraphrased): “If she really has such a beautiful husband, no one could be luckier. He’s probably a god and will make her the same – in fact, she already acts like one.” When they return for their second visit, immediately after having been luxuriously entertained they again begin their questioning (5,15: 115,8–10): “... they deviously begin to ask over and over again what sort of husband she has, and what was his parentage, and from what walk of life he comes.” After Psyche’s second lie in 5,16, the sisters carefully pick apart the inconsistencies between her replies and arrive at a new diagnosis and course of treatment, taking the time first to make their reasons for both clear. In much of this the sisters act like their younger sibling who is famously curious,144 and especially so about her husband’s “physical condition”. But ————— 144
On Psyche’s curiosity, especially with reference to her husband, see with references GCA 2004, 148 and 235. There the commentators point out that, at least initially, the sisters are the more inquisitive ones who induce Psyche to try to identify her mysterious husband.
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their conduct also conforms to medical practice as prescribed in theoretical handbooks. The interest in the basis for knowledge claims is a concern throughout the novel in ways not to be explored here, but it also figures prominently in medical treatises. Galen remarks often that a good physician must be indefatigably curious and persistent in questioning his patients.145 Garcia Ballester’s survey of Galen’s clinical practice includes many instances in which Galen questions the patient and relatives about his situation and circumstances both past and present.146 Indeed, the sisters’ interrogation reads very much like the practices suggested by Rufus of Ephesus, one of Galen’s admired predecessors from the age of Trajan. He wrote a complete treatise On the Interrogation of the Patient147 that recommends, like Galen, an attempt to construct a sort of modern “case history” by interviewing the patient and others about her general habits and appearance. It also, however, counsels careful observation and evaluation of the patient’s delivery of the answers: whether they are relevant, given from memory, and in a manner consistent with the patient’s usual practices; also, whether she in fact answers the questions put to her, and how she responds – confidently or hesitantly.148 Given these similarities, we can view the sisters as doctors using textbook clinical procedure, but for the wrong reasons. There are examples of this outside the novel: in addition to the stories supplied by Amundsen (see above), Scribonius Largus in his proem (Ep. 9, p.4) complains about duplicitous doctors who not only neglect to read the ancient authorities but make a show of their knowledge by fabricating things about them.149 Moreover, the Digest 50,13,3 mentions doctors who give bad medicine for the eyes in order to steal from the patient. It seems that even when the sisters are doing the correct thing “professionally”, they are doing the wrong thing morally.
————— 145 146 147 148 149
See Garcia Ballester 1981, 25 with notes 100 and 101. See Garcia Ballester 1981, 30 with notes 164, 174, and 178 for references (e.g. De locis affectis 1,1= Kuehn 8,8). Greek text in Daremberg 1897; English translation of much of the work in Brock 1929, 112–120. Brock 1929, 112–113. See with notes and references Kollesch 1972, 29–30. Cf. Pliny’s complaints at NH 92,8,18–19 that there are no laws against malpractice, however lethal the doctors are, and that doctors can practice on the innocent and even kill them without fear of retribution.
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Conclusion In the description of Psyche’s sisters Apuleius makes much deeper and broader reference to the world of medicine than has previously been noticed. In both the sisters’ own words and in remarks made about them by others we see numerous terms and shades of meaning taken from medical jargon. Allusion to medicine is a frequently encountered part of Apuleius’ complex and densely woven portrait of Psyche’s siblings. My investigation of these patterns of allusion reveals that the sisters behave like malicious doctors as they are commonly described by both literary artists and practising physicians. Moreover, throughout Cupid and Psyche the medical thread turns out to connect episodes more tightly than had previously been acknowledged and also to deepen their color and texture. In an Introduction I review Apuleius’ knowledge of medicine and his patent use of medical vocabulary in Cupid and Psyche. I also discuss his manipulation of the medical material through his characteristic and frequent collapsing or redrawing of the boundaries between the concrete and the metaphorical. Against this background I make a detailed case in Part I for accepting the reading deterentes in Met. 5,11 (111,25). A fundamental prop for my argument is the overall “medical ring” of the surrounding vocabulary, which my study of medical terms in this passage bears out. Using this analysis as a foundation, and taking into account some important results of recent studies of medical Latin, I move on to Part II, “Medical Vocabulary and Doctors in Apuleius”. This section reveals more references to medical vocabulary (not previously noticed as such) in other chapters where the sisters appear. In this part I also discuss some possible effects on the reader of allusions to medicine in non-medical literature. In Part III, “The Broader Medical Context”, additional light is shed on Apuleius’ portrait of the sisters by explicating allusions to other ‘medical’ aspects, such as the interaction between doctor and patient, and the Roman hostile tradition toward imported Greek medicine. The sisters’ characteristics turn out to correspond strikingly with categories of moral and professional failings regularly imputed by Roman writers to Greek doctors: greed, lust, envy and professional competition, murderous intent or effect, and professional malfeasance. Recent work on how the medical writers (especially Galen) viewed women and their treatment also throws light on Apuleius’ description of the sisters’ conduct.
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As this investigation demonstrates, a recognition of this level of allusion can increase our understanding of Apuleius’ complex portrayal of the sisters, and generally refine our interpretations of individual passages that contain medical content. My overall contention is that by depicting the sisters as devious, grasping, unscrupulous and bloodthirsty doctors, Apuleius adds significant depth to his multilayered and damning portrait. How might this line of enquiry be useful elsewhere? For students of Cupid and Psyche, close scrutiny of medical allusion might help us better understand certain episodes. For example, more levels of irony and complexity could be revealed by looking at Cupid and the sisters as doctors who cannot heal themselves, a topic only briefly mentioned above. The medical background might even permit a clearer understanding of the choice of implements for Cupid’s beheading, the lamp and blade: both appear in medical instrumentaria and in the iconography of doctors’ tombstones. Regarding the novel as a whole and its structure, the “medical sisters” in the central tale might balance the doctors’ stories in books two and ten. To take a wider perspective, this investigation shows the benefits and promise of investigating technical jargon and “scientific language” in nontechnical literature. Much work of this sort has been done with, e.g., legal terminology, but studies focusing on medical language could enlarge our picture of many authors. Furthermore, we can now see that Apuleius’ use of contemporary scientific discourse may mirror the valetudinarian preoccupations of his contemporaries Aelius Aristides and Fronto; this comical, nuanced and literary “treatment” of doctors situates him yet more firmly in the intellectual debates and social concerns of the Antonine age. In addition, looking at medicine can throw more light on Apuleius’ exploration of “realism” and “Romanitas” in the novel; the sisters now look more like actual practitioners living (like so many other characters in the Metamorphoses) between Greek and Roman conceptions of their duties and actions. Moreover, the “medical angle” may offer a bridge of sorts between allegorical readings of the tale and Antonine realia. Galen for one was interested in the “mind-body” problem and the nature of the soul,150 and Apuleius may be offering his own take on the issue in his highly sophisticated literary enter————— 150
See Quod animi mores corporis temperamenta sequantur (‘That the Faculties of the Soul Follow the Mixtures of the Body’ = Kuehn 4,767–882, translated in P.N. Singer. 1997. Galen: Selected Works, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. I thank Wytse Keulen for bringing this to my attention (cf. Keulen in this volume, note 17).
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Fernhout, J.M.H. 1949. Ad Apulei Madaurensis Metamorphoseon librum quintum commentarius exegeticus, diss. Groningen. Finkelpearl, Ellen. 1998. Metamorphosis of language in Apuleius: a study of allusion in the novel, Ann Arbor (Mich.): University of Michigan Press. Flashar, Hellmut, Jouanna, Jacques. eds. 1997. Médecine et morale dans l’antiquité: dix exposés suivis de discussions, Vandoeuvres-Genève: Fondation Hardt. Flemming, Rebecca. 2000. Medicine and the Making of Roman Women. Gender, Nature and Authority from Celsus to Galen, New York: Oxford University Press. French, R., Greenaway, F. eds. 1986. Science in the early Roman Empire. Pliny the elder, his sources and influence, London: Croom Helm. Furst, Lilian R., ed. 1997. Women Physicians and Healers: Climbing a Long Hill, Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky. Garcia Ballester, Luis, 1981. ‘Galen as a medical practitioner: problems in diagnosis’, in: Nutton 1981 (ed.), 13–46. 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. Book IV 1–27. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis. GCA 1981 = Hijmans, B.L. Jr., Van der Paardt, R.T., Schmidt, V, Westendorp Boerma, R.E.H., Westerbrink, A.G. eds. 1981. Apuleius Madaurensis: Metamorphoses, Book VI, 25–32, and VII. Text, Introduction, and Commentary, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis. GCA 1985 = Hijmans, B.L. Jr., Van der Paardt, R.T., Schmidt, V., Settels, C.B.J., Wesseling, B., Westendorp Boerma, R.E.H. eds. 1985. Apuleius Madaurensis: Metamorphoses, Book VIII. Text, Introduction, and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 1995 = Hijmans, B.L. Jr., Van der Paardt, R.T., Schmidt, V., Wesseling, B., Zimmerman, M., eds. 1995. Apuleius Madaurensis: Metamorphoses, Book IX. Text, Introduction, and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 2000 = Zimmerman, Maaike. 2000. Apuleius Madaurensis: Metamorphoses, Book X: Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 2004 = Zimmerman, M., Panayotakis, S., Hunink, V., Keulen, W.H., Harrison, S.J., McCreight, T.D., Wesseling, B., Van Mal-Maeder, D. eds. 2004. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Books IV,28 – VI,24. Cupid and Psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Graverini, Luca. 1996. ‘Apuleio, Virgilio e la ‘peste di Atene’: note ad Apul. met. IV 14’, Maia 48, 171–187. Graverini, Luca. 2006. review of GCA 2004, AN 5, 1–11(preliminary). Grimal, P. 1963. Apulei Metamorphoseis (IV,28–VI,24), Édition, introduction et commentaire (Érasme: Collection de textes latins commentés, 9), Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Gourevitch, Danielle. ed. 1992. Maladie et maladies: histoire et conceptualisation: mélanges en l’honneur de Mirko Grmek (École Pratique des Hautes Études IVe section Sér. 5: 70), Genève: Droz. Helm, R., ed. 1955. Apuleius Metamorphoseon Libri XI. 3d ed. of 1931, with additions and corrections. Leipzig: Teubner. Hijmans, B.L. Jr., Van der Paardt, R.T. eds. 1978. Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass. Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis. Hunink, V. ed. 1997. Apuleius of Madauros Pro se de magia (Apologia), vols. I & II, Amsterdam: Gieben. Hunink, V. ed. 2001. Apuleius of Madauros: Florida. Ed. with comm. Amsterdam: Gieben.
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Jackson, Ralph P.J. 1993. ‘Roman medicine: the practitioners and their practices’, ANRW 2,37,1, 79–101. Kenney, E.J. 1990. Apuleius: Cupid & Psyche. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Keulen, W. 1997. ‘Some Legal Themes in Apuleian Context’, in: Picone et al. (eds.), 203– 230. Keulen, W.H. 2003. Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses, Book I, 1–20. Introduction, Text, Commentary, diss. Groningen. Keulen, W.H. 2006 (forthcoming). Apuleius Madaurensis: Metamorphoses, Book I: Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Kollesch, J. 1972.‘Artztwahl und aerztliche Ethik in der roemischen Kaiserzeit’, Altertum 18, 27–30. Langslow, D.R. 1999. ‘The Language of Poetry and the Language of Science: The Latin Poets and ‘Medical Latin’’, in: Adams et al. (eds.), 183–225. Langslow, D.R. 2000. Medical Latin in the Roman Empire, Oxford: Clarendon. Lazzarini, Caterina. 1995. ‘Il modello Virgiliano nel lessico delle Metamorphosi di Apuleio’, SCO 35, 131–160. Lee, Benjamin Todd. 2005. Apuleius’ Florida: a Commentary, Berlin: De Gruyter. Luchner, Katharina. 2004. Philiatroi. Studien zum Thema der Krankheit in der griechischen Literatur der Kaiserzeit (Hypomnemata 156), Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht. Mattiacci, S. 1993. ‘L’episodio della canis rabida e la prova dell’acqua: una innovazione Apuleiana tra scienza e parodia (Met. 9.1–4)’, Sileno 19, 179–195. Mazzini, I. 1982. ‘Le accuse contro i medici nella letterature latina ed il loro fundamento’, QLF 2, 75–91. Mazzini, I. 1988. ‘La medicina nella letteratura latina. I. Osservazioni e proposte interpretative su passi di Lucilio, Lucrezio, Catullo, e Orazio’, Aufidus 4, 45–75. Mazzini, I. 1997. La medicina dei greci e dei romani, Rome: Jouvence. Mudry Philippe. 1992. ‘Le médecin félon et l’énigme de la potion sacrée: (Apulée, Métamorphoses, 10, 25)’, in: Gourevitch (ed.), 171–180. Norden, F. 1912. Apuleius von Madaura und das römische Privatrecht, Leipzig-Berlin: Teubner. Nutton, V. ed. 1979. On prognosis, Galen (Galeni De praecognitione): edition, translation and commentary (Corpus Medicorum Graecorum 5,8,1), Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Nutton, V. ed. 1981. Galen: problems and prospects, London: Wellcome Institute for the History of Medicine. Nutton, V. 1972. ‘Galen and medical autobiography’, PCPhS 18, 50–62. Nutton, V. 1984. ‘Galen in the Eyes of his Contemporaries’, BHM 58, 315–324. Nutton, V. 1986. ‘The perils of patriotism. Pliny and Roman medicine’, in: French (ed.), 30– 58. Nutton, V. 1992. ‘Healers in the medical market place: towards a social history of GraecoRoman medicine’, in: Wear (ed.), 15–58. Nutton, V. 1995. ‘The medical meeting place’, CM 27, 3–25. Önnerfors, Alf. 1993. ‘Das medizinische Latein bis Cassius Felix,’ ANRW 2,37,1, 227–392; 924–937. Panayotakis, S. 1998. ‘Slander and War Imagery in Apuleius’ Tale of Cupid and Psyche (Apul. Met. 5,5–5,21)’, in: Zimmerman et al. (eds.) 1998, 151–164. Parker, Holt. 1997. ’Women Physicians in Greece, Rome, and the Byzantine Empire’, in: Furst (ed.), 131–150.
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Picone, M., Zimmermann, B. eds. 1997. Der antike Roman und seine mittelalterliche Rezeption, Basel: Birkhäuser Verlag. Pinkster, Harm. 1992. ‘Notes on the syntax of Celsus’, Mnemosyne 45, 513–524. Pinkster, Harm. 1995. ‘Notes on the syntax of Celsus’, CM 28, 555–566. Pleket, H.W. 1995. ‘The social status of physicians in the Graeco-Roman world’, in: Van der Eijk et al. (eds.), 27–34. Robertson, D.S., ed., Vallette, P., trans. 1940–45. Apulée: Les Métamorphoses. 3 vols., reprint 1965–71, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Santini, Carlo. 2004. ‘Lessico Medico in Lucilio’, in: Baldini et al. (eds.), 29–38. Scarborough, John. 1993. ‘Roman Medicine to Galen’, ANRW 2,37,1, 3–48. Sconocchia, Sergio, Toneatto, Lucio, Crismani, Daria, Tassinari, Piero. eds. 1993. Lingue tecniche del greco e del latino. Atti del I. Seminario internazionale sulla letteratura scientifica e tecnica greca e latina. Associazione internazionale lessicografica sulla letteratura scientifica e tecnica greca e latina. Dipartimento di scienze dell’antichità, Trieste: Università degli studi di Trieste. Sconocchia, Sergio, Toneatto, Lucio, Crismani, Daria, Faraguna, Michele, Pin, Italo. eds. 1997. Lingue tecniche del greco e del latino II. Atti del II. Seminario internazionale sulla letteratura scientifica e tecnica greca e latina. Associazione internazionale lessicografica sulla letteratura scientifica e tecnica greca e latina. Dipartimento di scienze dell’antichità, Università di Trieste, Bologna: Patron. Sconocchia, Sergio. 2004. ‘La lingua della medicina greca e latina’, in: Baldini et al. (eds.), 493–544. Sorabji, Richard. ed. 1997. Aristotle and after (Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies Supplement 68), London: Institute of Classical Studies, University of London. Van den Hout, Michael P. J. 1999. A commentary on the letters of M. Cornelius Fronto, Leiden: Brill. Van der Eijk, Ph.H., Horstmanshoff, H.F.J., Schrijvers, P.H. eds. 1995. Ancient Medicine in its Socio-Cultural Context, Amsterdam: Rodopi. Van der Paardt, R.T. 1971. L. Apuleius Madaurensis. The Metamorphoses. A commentary on book III with text and introduction, Amsterdam: Hakkert. Von Staden, Heinrich. 1997. ‘Galen and the ‘Second Sophistic’’, in: Sorabji (ed.), 33–54. Von Staden, Heinrich. 1997a. ‘Character and competence: personal and professional conduct in Greek medicine’, in: Flashar et al. (eds.), 157–210. Watt, W.S. 1991. ‘Five notes on Apuleius, Cupid and Psyche’, LCM 16, 140–141. Wear, A. ed. 1992. Medicine in society: historical essays, Cambridge & New York: Cambridge University Press. Wiman, Gerhard. 1927. Textkritiska studier till Apuleius, Göteborg: Elanders. Wöhrle, G. 1991. ‘Zur metaphorischen Verwendung von elkos und ulcus in der antiken Literatur’, Mnemosyne 44, 1–16. Zimmerman, M., Hunink, V., McCreight, T.D., van Mal-Maeder, D. Panayotakis, St., Schmidt, V., Wesseling, B. eds. 1998. Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass II. Cupid and Psyche. A Collection of Original Papers, Groningen: Egbert Forsten.
Ad amussim congruentia: Measuring the Intellectual in Apuleius W YTSE K EULEN Groningen University Introduction: viewing and reading Lucius’ physiognomy In this article I focus on some aspects of vision and visual relations in a scene from Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (hereafter the Met.).1 Here the gaze is directed at the physiognomy of the protagonist Lucius while he still has his human shape (Met. 2,2, quoted below). My discussion of Lucius’ appearance is anchored in a close examination of two words in this passage that have posed textual difficulties to editors. These words focus my discussion of Lucius’ physiognomy on the notion of the ‘norm’ or ‘yardstick’ (amussis, section I) and the notion of the ‘curse’ (execrabiliter, section II). A closer look at these two notions may yield important information for deepening our own view of Lucius and our perception of the persons who ‘physiognomise’ him, including the sophisticated reader (lector doctus) presupposed by the Apuleian narrative (section III). In this introduction, after quoting the crucial passage, I present some aspects of Apuleius’ interest in ‘physiognomising’ characters, and place this interest in the context of Antonine intellectual culture, exemplified by the writings of Gellius and Apuleius, in which ‘measuring the intellectual’ and ‘questioning authority’ were key issues.
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My approach to vision in this article is indebted to the excellent study on Achilles Tatius by Helen Morales (2004); see p. 8 n. 39 for studies on ancient visuality. On the gaze in Apul. Met., focusing especially on the Actaeon sculpture group (Met. 2,4), see the important article by Niall Slater (1998; cf. also Slater 2003); on mirrors and sculptures in Apuleius see Too 1996. On visuality, the body, and desire in ancient Greek culture see Stewart 1997; on the Roman gaze see Fredrick 2002. Lectiones Scrupulosae,168–202
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In the first and the second book of the Met., Lucius after his arrival in Hypata experiences two encounters with local prominent figures who receive Lucius as a guest: the miser Milo, who hosts Lucius in his house, and his aunt Byrrhena, who warns Lucius against Milo’s wife – a dangerous witch – and tries to persuade him to stay at her place. Both are leaders of local society,2 who take their time to contemplate and interpret Lucius’ physical appearance. Both portrayals appear very positive, praising Lucius’ physical and moral qualities and his noble origin. Just as Milo did,3 Byrrhena observes signs of modesty in Lucius’ complexion, which she links to his aristocratic breeding: 2,2 ‘uereor’, inquam, ‘ignotae mihi feminae’ et statim rubore suffusus deiecto capite restiti. At illa optutum in me conuersa: ‘En’, inquit, ‘sanctissimae Saluiae matris generosa probitas, sed et cetera corporis execrabiliter ad [regulam qua diligenter aliquid adfingunt] sim congruentia: inenormis proceritas, suculenta gracilitas, rubor temperatus, flauum et inadfectatum capillitium, oculi cae[ci]si quidem, sed uigiles et in aspectu micantes, prorsus aquilini, os quoquouersum floridum, speciosus et immeditatus incessus. “I am embarrassed in front of a woman whom I do not know,” I answered, suddenly blushing; and I just stood there looking at the ground. Then she turned and stared at me. “He inherited that well-bred behaviour,” she said, “from his pure and virtuous mother Salvia. And his physical appearance is a damnably precise fit too: he is tall but not abnormal, slim but with sap in him, and of a rosy complexion; he has blond hair worn without affectation, wide-awake light blue eyes with flashing glance just like an eagle’s, a face with a bloom in every part, and an attractive and unaffected walk.
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Cf. Met. 1,21 Milonem quendam e primoribus, ‘Milo, one of the foremost citizens’; 2,19 utpote apud primatem feminam flos ipse ciuitatis, ‘since she was one of the first ladies in town, the very flower of society was there’. I refer to the edition of Helm (31931, repr. 1992). Translations are by Hanson 1989 (occasionally modified) unless stated otherwise. 1,23 … me … etiam nunc uerecundia cunctantem adrepta lacinia adtrahens: ‘adside’, inquit, ‘istic’. (…) ‘ego te … etiam de ista corporis speciosa habitudine deque hac uirginali prorsus uerecundia, generosa stirpe proditum et recte conicerem’. ‘…I still hesitated out of modesty, but he grasped the hem of my tunic and pulled me towards him. “Sit down right here,” he said (…). “In itself your beautiful physical stature and your quite virginal modesty would lead me to conjecture, and quite rightly, that you come of a noble family”.’
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The detailed description of Lucius’ physical attributes is typical of the ancients’ approach to physiognomy, “the discipline that seeks to detect from individuals’ exterior features their character, disposition, or destiny”.4 ‘To physiognomise’, according to the explanation of Apuleius’ contemporary Gellius (Attic Nights 1,9,2), “means to inquire into the character and dispositions of men by an inference drawn from their facial appearance and expression, and from the form and bearing of their whole body”.5 Gellius describes the function of physiognomic analysis as an ‘admissions test’ for the community of the philosopher Pythagoras.6 Thus, Gellius stresses the value of physiognomic judgement as a tool for exercising social control and for forming an intellectual elite group. Apuleius testifies to the same belief in physiognomy as an instrument of selection and configuration of a philosophical elite. In his story about the origins of Plato in De Platone et eius dogmate (1,1), Apuleius relates that Socrates, before accepting Plato as a student, acknowledged his future pupil’s ingenium by judging his looks (quem ubi adspexit ille ingeniumque intimum de exteriore conspicatus est facie).7 Both Gellius and Apuleius, then, shared a belief in a ‘genuine’ physiognomical method of recognising true philosophical qualities, which they illustrate by means of anecdotes on ‘physiognomical recruitment’ that are situated in a context of a distant past associated with the origins of philosophy.8 Their approach to physiognomics as an ‘assessment tool’ and a ‘method of character analysis’ reflects Greco-Roman traditions of physiognomic learning, which contrast with ‘outlandish’ Babylonian or Chaldaean traditions where physiognomics is a form of divination, a method to read a person’s destiny.9 ————— 4
5 6 7 8 9
See Barton 1994, 95. For a full discussion including ancient definitions of physiognomy see Popović 2006, esp. chapter II, “To Read Strange Matters from the Human Body: Physiognomics in Babylonian and Greco-Roman Literature”. … ἐφυσιογνωµόνει. Id uerbum significat, mores naturasque hominum coniectatione quadam de oris et uultus ingenio deque totius corporis filo atque habitu sciscitari. For similar anecdotes on Pythagoras cf. Iambl. Vit. Pyth. 17,71 and 74; Porph. Vit. Pyth. 13 and 54. Plato’s name derived from his broad (πλάτος) stature (Apul. Plat. 1,1 p. 180 Platoni habitudo corporis cognomentum dedit). Philostratus recounts a similar anecdote about the procedures of admittance of the ‘wise men’ in India; cf. Vit. Apoll. 2,30; see Flinterman 1995, 105 n. 73. For this general contrast see Popović 2006, Ch. II (above, n. 4). In the Met., Lucius’ glorious literary future is predicted by a Chaldaean fortune-teller (2,12), possibly by means of physiognomical analysis. Cf. Plut. Sulla 5,5–6 where a Chaldaean predicts Sulla’s glorious future after carefully studying his physiognomy (I owe this reference to M. Popović).
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Here, in the Met., Apuleius sets the scene for a ‘physiognomical recruitment’ of his protagonist not in a philosophical circle of the distant past, but in a civic community situated in the ‘present’ scenery of the Roman province Thessaly, which is at the same time a ‘distant’ realm of the fictional (‘witchcountry’) and the literary.10 Despite these differences, Lucius’ physiognomic scrutiny has connotations similar to a ‘screening’ of someone’s suitability for a ‘select few’, a civic elite with a philosophical pedigree. Lucius himself explicitly connects the destiny of his journey with his intellectual credentials, boasting descent from Plutarch and Sextus (1,2).11 After his arrival in Hypata, Lucius’ encounters with Milo and Byrrhena, both prominent members of the Hypatan elite, have a strong undercurrent of a ‘trial’ experienced by a young aristocrat who wishes to be accepted and recognised in his peer-group abroad. Lucius’ physiognomy functions like the credentials he brings along in the form of a letter of recommendation which enumerates in text the same virtues that Milo is able to observe visually in Lucius’ demeanour.12 Both Milo and Byrrhena, then, refer to an external (written) source of information which functions as a frame of reference to confirm and legitimise their ‘measuring’ of Lucius: just as Milo’s visual judgment of Lucius is ‘matched’ by Demeas’ written words, Byrrhena’s description of Lucius’ body evokes the ‘written measures’ of physiognomical theory. These frames of reference give their perceptions an aura of objectivity, since they highlight the aspect of ‘authorised judgment’ rather than the emotional effect Lucius’ appearance has on them as viewers. One of the ‘threads’ of this article is to learn more about this ‘procedure of judgment’, and to what purpose Byrrhena is ‘physiognomising’ Lucius. Just like Lucius, Byrrhena claims descent from Plutarch, recognising him as a ‘member of the family’ – but this ‘kinship diplomacy’ also functions to establish her own credentials as a matrona docta.13 Her way of looking at Lucius tells something about her view ————— 10 11
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For the literary nature of the topography in the Met. see Harrison 2002. 1,2 Thessaliam – nam et illic originis maternae nostrae fundamenta a Plutarcho illo inclito ac mox Sexto philosopho nepote eius prodita gloria<m> nobis faciunt – eam Thessaliam ex negotio petebam. ‘ To Thessaly – for there too are the foundations of my ancestry on my mother’s side, which, established by the famous Plutarch and next by his descendant, the philosopher Sextus, bring me glory – to this Thessaly I was headed, in pursuance of my business’ (tr. Keulen 2003a, 87). See Keulen 2004a, 261. 1,23 sed et meus Demeas eade<m> litteris pronuntiat, ‘but my friend Demeas also affirms this in his letter’. Cf. Met. 2,3 (Byrrhena on Lucius’ mother Saluia) Nam et familia Plutarchi ambae prognatae sumus, ‘we are both descendants of Plutarch’s family’; cf. n. 11 above.
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of Lucius’ social identity, but it also defines her own social role in the world of the Met.14 Byrrhena’s active female gaze disrupts the usual order of Graeco-Roman visuality where the woman is displayed for the man, an anomaly that adds a ‘mythical’ dimension to the present encounter in the magical world of Hypata.15 However, Lucius is gazed at not only by the local aristocracy from Hypata, but also by the reader. Just like Byrrhena or any other spectator of Lucius’ appearance, each reader defines his or her own identity and social role by the way s/he looks at Lucius. On the level of the reader, then, there is another ‘trial’ taking place, a ‘judgment’ of Lucius’ appearance and character formed during the act of reading. Again, this ‘judgment’ pertains to ways of selecting, defining, and maintaining a certain elite and its identity. The reader of the Met. is ‘looking over Byrrhena’s shoulder’, and is thus dependent on the information given by her. On the other hand, this reader also has his own independent viewpoint, standing outside the interaction between the two characters gazing at each other in the present scene.16 As Slater (1998, 18) points out, the question of ‘who sees’ is related to issues of power and control; moreover, Slater observes that in the Met. the control of the gaze and the power inherent in it are matters that are continually contested. The power of each spectator/reader was defined by his/her own particular frame of reference. As Maaike Zimmerman notes in her excellent commentary on Book 10, a ‘physiognomical repertoire’ formed part of the general outlook and interest in Apuleius’ time.17 We may expect then, that the Apuleian reader was supported by this physiognomical ‘background’ in picturing and ‘judging’ Lucius’ appearance, as he read Byrrhena’s description of him. Moreover, standing outside the encounter between Lucius and Byrrhena, the reader seems able to get a ‘fuller’ picture of him than Byrrhena, observing things that Byrrhena did not or could not observe. Where Byrrhena observes unaf————— 14 15 16 17
See Morales 2004, 23. See Morales 2004, 27 on the ‘oppositional gaze’. Cf. Petron. 126,2–3, where Circe’s slave girl (!) Chrysis ‘physiognomises’ Encolpius. See Slater 1998, 44 on the ‘third point of view’ of the reader. See Zimmerman 2000, 66 on Met. 10,2. For Apuleius’ use of physiognomy see Opeku 1979 (esp. on Flor. 3 and 15); in the Met. see Mason 1984 (cf. below, n. 49). As a diagnostic method physiognomy was closely related to medicine (cf. Galen’s That the Faculties of the Soul Follow the Mixtures of the Body; see McCreight in this volume, n. 150); see Barton 1994, 97–99; Martin 1995, 18–20. Cf. below, n. 95.
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fected modesty, the reader detects calculated opportunism or even greed.18 Moreover, the Apuleian reader’s frame of reference for ‘measuring’ – and ‘visualising’ – Lucius was not limited to physiognomical theory and practice. As Slater has demonstrated, Apuleius manipulates in his hermeneutic games the reader’s knowledge of a ‘visual repertoire’ of artistic representations.19 When reading visual descriptions, the Apuleian reader is partly cast in the role of an ‘art critic’;20 a similar thing seems to be going on in the description of Lucius’ body, as we will see. But, as Maaike Zimmerman (2000, 430 f.) has shown in her Appendix I: Apuleius’ Phaedra, the reader of the Met. is also cast in the role of a ‘literary critic’, interpreting (and ‘seeing’) the Apuleian characters as intertextual reincarnations of famous mythical figures immortalised in the literature of the past. In a parallel way, Apuleius also relies on the reader’s ability to flesh out mental pictures of various ‘character types’.21 The theatricality of these characters possibly imbued the reading of the narrative with vividness and some visual contours, although it is difficult to trace the role of the visual. As I have argued elsewhere, these character types, along with the character portrayals in Plutarch’s Moralia such as the πολυπράγµων (‘busybody’, reflected in Lucius’ curiositas), guide the Roman readers in their ‘judgment’ of the Apuleian characters.22 What is more, the Apuleian readers were also familiar with Platonic doctrine, for example through Apuleius’ own philosophical writings. This doctrine constitutes another important frame of refer————— 18
19
20 21
22
As Van Mal-Maeder (2001, 79) notes, Byrrhena calls Lucius’ gait an ‘unaffected walk’ (2,2 immeditatus incessus; cf. below, n. 59), whereas the reader knows that Lucius was running around like a madman at the very moment he encounters Byrrhena. Lucius consciously quickens his pace (adcelerato uestigio belies the immeditatus) to catch up with this woman, whom he recognises by her gold and jewellery as ‘the wife of an important man’. See Slater 1998, 19 (cf. Zeitlin 2003, 72 on Chariton: “Phantasia often draws upon the cultural storehouse of a visual repertoire”). For the role of euidentia (enargeia, the vivid visual impression generated in the mind during perception/reading) in the Met. see Keulen 2003a, 119 and Van Mal-Maeder in this volume. See also Keulen 2003a, 46 f. with n. (on phantasia); Morales 2004, 90. See Zimmerman et al. 2004, 74 (with lit.) on Apuleius’ indebtedness to art in his ‘tableau vivant’ of Venus in 4,31; p. 276 on the ecphrasis of the sleeping Cupid in 5,22. Scholars have emphasised the parallels and correspondences of the physiognomic descriptions of ethical types with character types from comedy and treatises like Theophrastus’ Characters. See Barton 1994, 110; Sassi 2001, 52. See Keulen 2004a.
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ence for the ‘measuring’ of the characters of the Met. (see esp. section III below). Thus, physiognomic scrutiny is just one of the multiple frames of reference through which the reader is to picture and to judge Lucius’ external and internal qualities. Apuleius plays with a multiplicity of representations which picture Lucius’ personality in terms of a fluctuating ‘metamorphosis’ rather than as a coherent, unequivocal image.23 We can see various possible ways of ‘reading Lucius’ dramatised by different characters in the narrative, such as the surprised reply of the sceptic to Lucius’ credulity (outlined in detail in the first book), before he arrives in Hypata. The sceptic’s reaction in that early scene, staged in a kind of travesty of contemporary intellectual controversies,24 implies that Lucius’ actual philosophical stance is unworthy of the culture and status that he visually displays.25 Some Apuleian readers would have felt more affinity with the exploring gaze and inquisitive behaviour of the nagging old cynic Milo,26 others would have recognised their particular way of reading in the sensuous pleasure of Lucius’ voyeuristic gaze as he contemplates Photis (2,7–8) and Pamphile (3,21).27 But ‘reading Lucius’ can also be inspired by his own famous curiosity,28 as he invites his audience to scrutinize more meticulously (1,3 si paulo accuratius exploraris) and to detect hidden meanings.29 Although the reader looks over Byrrhena’s shoulder at Lucius’ own body, this body is put on display ultimately by Lucius-narrator himself in his ego-narrative. Does this say something about the narrative’s ‘autobiographical’ status? Apuleius wrote a self-contained work of fiction and did not portray the world around him in a one-to-one correspondence. Still, his choice ————— 23 24 25
26 27
28 29
Compare Cupid’s various ‘faces’ in the Met.; see Zimmerman et al. 2004, 62 (with lit.). Keulen 2004b, 232 f. Met. 1,20 tu autem … uir, ut habitus et habitudo demonstrat, ornatus accedis huic fabulae? ‘but yoú (…) a man, as your appearance and attitude show, of culture, – do you go along with this fairy story?’ Cf. Morales 2004, 94 f.: “by dramatising the various ways of reading, the narrative pre-empts, reflects and positions its own readers.” See above, n. 3 and cf. Met. 1,26 and 2,13. Cf. 2,8 nec tamen ego prius inde discessi, quam diligenter omnem eius explorassem habitudinem, ‘but I did not move away until I had carefully scrutinised every aspect of her appearance’. Cf. Morales 2004, 86 on ‘reading with polupragmosune’. See Keulen 2003a, 131 on 1,4 diceres. Cf. also 2,1, where Lucius examines each and every object with curiosity (curiose singula considerabam), believing that the scenery in Hypata was a potential source of prophesies and oracles.
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of images and themes in the Met. connects the narrative and its hero with the cultural-educational context of the Antonine age, which provides an important interpretative framework for the reader/viewer. The marked use of physiognomy in the early scenes evokes associations with notions of ‘trial’ and ‘questioned identity’ that were vividly present in the world that Apuleius and his readers inhabited, and form an area of concern throughout the Met.30 The programmatic scene between Lucius and the sceptic reflects that judging and describing each other’s appearance took place in a context of intellectual conflict and strife, in which the force of the gaze functioned to structure mutual power relations. Just as the sceptic ‘measures’ Lucius’ appearance, judging that his ideas do not live up to the social status and culture he displays, we see in Gellius’ Attic Nights various scenes of unmasked charlatans who look or behave like philosophers but do not live up to this title.31 Both Apuleius and Gellius were familiar, by virtue of their own experience, with the opportunities, dangers and risks involved in the use of the powerful ‘physiognomical gaze’ in contexts of intellectual competition. Just like Apuleius, Gellius’ beloved mentor Favorinus had become the victim of charges which employed representations of his physical appearance to undermine his authority as an intellectual.32 More importantly, the emphasis on the beauty of the young and eloquent intellectual Lucius, who is elsewhere also praised for his doctrina (3,15; 11,15), and who calls Plutarch his ancestor,33 recalls Apuleius himself, who can be seen as a sort of spiritual father to Lucius. In his Apology Apuleius defends himself against the charge that he, being a philosopher, was both beautiful and eloquent.34 In my opinion, we do not have to go so far as to assume, as some scholars have done in the past,35 that the visual representation of Lucius in 2,2 is in fact Apuleius’ selfportrayal. Still, I believe that there is a degree of self-revelation in the Met., and that through Lucius’ physiognomy in the Met. and through his selfpresentation in the Apology, Apuleius reveals an important phenomenon of ————— 30 31 32 33 34 35
Cf. the Prologue’s quis ille; or Cupid, whose face (uultus), and therefore his true identity, Psyche is not allowed to see; see Zimmerman et al. 2004, 250 on 5,19. Cf. e.g. Gell. 9,2,2–6, where the true character of a pseudo-philosopher is revealed; cf. Apul. Flor. 7,9–10 and see Keulen 2004b, 230 with notes 29 and 31. For the role of physiognomy in the conflict between Polemo and Favorinus see Barton 1994, 117 f.; Gleason 1995, 7, 27–28, 46–48; Holford-Strevens 2003, 98–102. See above, n. 11. Cf. Apol. 4,6; 4,9. See Hicter 1944, 13; more references in Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 74.
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the intellectual culture of his day, the dynamic process of ‘measuring’, ‘judging’, or even ‘condemning’ moral and intellectual qualities by means of mutual assessments of physical appearance and performance. The cultural preoccupations of the Antonine age are reflected in its literary imagery. Both Gellius and Apuleius use the Varronian expression ad amussim (‘by the setsquare’, ‘with precision’),36 applying it to a context of ‘measuring the calibre’ of persons or writings in intellectual, moral, or literary terms. Through this image, both authors represent the spirit of an age obsessed with the notion of the κανών, looking for a ‘rule’ or ‘norm’ that enables one to judge true from false behaviour, authoritative intellectuals from dispensable ones, and commendable language from that to be avoided.37 The image of the amussis, on which I will focus especially in section I of this article, derives from a specialist term, denoting a mason’s or carpenter’s rule or line (cf. regula, linea). As Blümner points out, we should not identify the amussis strictly with one particular instrument, but rather perceive the original image of an instrument that guarantees regularity, mathematical precision, symmetry and balance in a given construction.38 The architectural imagery (ad amussim), applied to the context of putting someone’s moral and philosophical qualities to the test, recalls the figure of Socrates, who, according to the tradition, was a stonemason by profession, ————— 36
37
38
‘Nach der Richtschnur’: Otto, Sprichwörter, p. 24. The expression ad amussim is plausibly restored in Met. 2,2 by Plasberg, see below, section I. For the connotation of ‘judgement’ cf. Gell. 1,4,1 (on Antonius Iulianus) scripta omnia antiquiora tam curiose spectabat et aut uirtutes pensitabat aut uitia rimabatur, ut iudicium esse factum ad amussim diceres, ‘he inspected all the earlier literature with such care, weighing its merits and ferreting out its defects, that you might say that his judgment was perfect’ (tr. Rolfe in the Loeb). Cf. Gr. παρὰ στάθµην (Theognis 541). For the Varronian tone of ad amussim see HolfordStrevens 2003, 160 f., who points out that Gellius does not use the Plautine examussim. For Apuleius’ use of examussim cf. Met. 2,30; 4,18; 10,2; 11,27; see Hijmans et al. 1977, 138. See Harrison in this volume, who discusses Koch’s conjecture examussim in Met. 10,7. Rutherford 1998 uses the concept of the κανών in his discussion of the use of stylistic models in the Antonine age; see Nauta 2005 on the concept of the classic(al), starting with the passage in Gellius (19,8,15) from which later uses of the term derive. See Blümner 1912, 237: the literary use of the amussis encompasses the linea or regula (κανών), the perpendiculum (στάθµη), the libella (διαβήτης), and the norma (γνώµων); see also Müller 1974, 41 f. In Socr. prol. 3 p. 106–108 Apuleius uses similar architectural imagery in his comparison between extempore speech and the building of a rough wall, contrasted with the precision and polish of studied oratory. Apuleius is the first to use perpendiculum in a transferred sense (see ThLL s.v. 1616, 5 f.). In a context of ‘moral judgment’, this use was picked up by Ausonius, Ammianus and Ennodius; cf. n. 109.
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but whose true πρᾶγµα was to ἐξετάζειν (‘examine’) and ἐλέγχειν (‘refute’).39 In this aspect, the works of Apuleius and Gellius follow a long tradition of representations, starting with Aristophanes, picturing Socrates as a man who teaches others to ‘know themselves’ by his method of ‘examining and refuting’.40 In the tradition of the Socratic dialogue, Gellius and Apuleius themselves make sparing use of visual details to depict their characters, preferring to ‘portray’ and to ‘judge’ them through what they say.41 This brings us back to the central issue of this article, ‘measuring the intellectual’, which entails ‘looking at a person’, but also ‘looking at a text’, and ‘visualising through words’. In the following, we take a closer look at the Apuleian intricacies of vision in the encounter between Byrrhena and Lucius, focusing on the intriguing problem of ‘adequate view’ and its accountability. Who is ‘seeing through’ Lucius? Byrrhena? The reader? Whose view is reliable – and why?42 I
Byrrhena’s ‘admissions test’: Lucius the καλὸς κἀγαθός
An intriguing textual problem in our central passage (2,2, cited above) is associated with the above-mentioned issue of seeing and interpreting ‘correctly’ and the related question of a ‘norm’ or ‘criterion’ that authorises and confirms the ‘correctness’ of this perception. This textual problem was brilliantly solved by Plasberg (followed by most of the edd.), who assumed that the words regulam qua diligenter aliquid adfingunt (‘a rule, by which they
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40
41 42
See Koster 1974, 596 f. Cf. Plat. Charm. 154b, where Socrates says that he is not a measurer (οὐδὲν σταθµητόν) of beautiful people, calling himself “a mere ‘white line’” in measuring them (ἀτεχνῶς γὰρ λευκὴ στάθµη εἰµὶ πρὸς τοὺς καλούς). For this architectural metaphor (related to amussis, κανών etc.) cf. Gell. praef. 11 alba … linea; Otto, Sprichwörter s.v. albus, p. 11. Cf. Aristoph. Nub. 842 (Strepsiades answering Pheidippides’ question what anyone could learn from Socrates) γνώσει δὲ σαυτὸν ὡς ἀµαθὴς εἶ καὶ παχύς, ‘You’ll see how thick you are, how stupid’; cf. Keulen 2003a, 115 on Met. 1,3 crassis auribus. For γνῶθι σαυτόν see below, n. 107. On Socrates in Gell. and Apul. cf. Keulen 2004b, 228–230. Cf. Apul. Flor. 2,1; see Holford-Strevens 1997, 96; Keulen 2004a, 266 with n. 21. For the concern of exploring the basis for knowledge claims cf. the programmatic discussion about Aristomenes’ story in book I (see Bitel in this volume), or Apuleius’ use of external ‘bodies of knowledge’ such as physiognomy and medicine (see McCreight in this volume).
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fashion something’) are a gloss explaining the archaism amussim (of which F transmits only sim).43 In the present passage, the expression ad amussim modifies congruentia, and since the latter word is generally interpreted in the sense of ‘corresponding’, ad amussim is by consequence interpreted as ‘precisely’, ‘exactly’, indicating the exact correspondence Byrrhena perceives in Lucius’ bodily features to the generosa probitas that – in the eyes of Byrrhena – is embodied by his mother Saluia.44 For Byrrhena, the ‘exact match’ is that of the ‘family member’ (the implied dative would be ‘generosae probitati’), and this ‘match’ is denoted by congruentia.45 By praising the likeness between Lucius and his family, Byrrhena confirms the genuineness of their shared lineage, and interprets Lucius’ appearance in terms of the stability and continuity guaranteed by a lawful marriage and family (2,3 clarissimas … nuptias). Moreover, it is suggested that Lucius’ beauty is an outward manifestation of his high birth.46 However, since there is no dative here, congruentia also allows a different interpretation, ‘well-proportioned’.47 This connotation of congruentia is implied in the variant exaequabiliter in ς for execrabiliter (F), as well as the correction inter se aequabiliter proposed by Nolte.48 The notion of the right proportion was an important feature of physiognomical descriptions, and this is reflected in the emphasis on the golden mean in the description of Lucius’
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44 45
46 47
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The word amussis and expressions that employ it (ad amussim, examussim, emussitatus) are frequently explained in ancient Glossaries (e.g. amussis: regula fabri exaequalis, qua tabulae diriguntur; emussitatus: mussim exactus; emussitata: ad amussim facta; examussim: integre, sine fraude). For a similarity in phrasing to the gloss in the Apuleian manuscript F compare the explanation in Paul. Fest. p. 6 amussim regulariter, tractum a regula, ad quam aliquid exaequatur, quae amussis dicitur. See Mason 1984, 307. Apuleius uses congruere also elsewhere in the Met. in contexts of recognising (family) identities by tokens of conduct or appearance, cf. e.g. 5,29 (Venus says to Cupid in a sarcastic tone) honesta … haec et natalibus nostris bonaeque tuae frugi congruentia, ‘what honourable behaviour … befitting our descent and your virtuous character’ (tr. Zimmerman et al. 2004, 334). Cf. Perkins 1995, 53 on Chariton. Cf. Suet. Tib. 68,1: ceteris quoque membris usque ad imos pedes aequalis et congruens, ‘he was well-proportioned and symmetrical from head to foot’. See Vogt 1975 ad loc. (with references): “ebenmässig und proportioniert”. For the transmitted execrabiliter and other conjectures see below, section II.
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physique.49 In this interpretation (“But your physical appearance is damnably precisely proportioned too”), the idea of the amussis as an instrument securing balance, symmetry and precision strengthens the notion of balance and symmetry (congruentia) in Lucius’ physical ‘build’, a notion that it is illustrated in the rest of the sentence with words like inenormis … temperatus … inadfectatum … immeditatus: everything in Lucius’ appearance is in proportion. If we read the phrase cetera corporis … ad amussim congruentia in this way, Byrrhena describes the balanced proportions in Lucius’ physique without making an explicit connection with a ‘model’ which this physique resembles. At the same time, the words Sed et indicate that in Byrrhena’s eyes Lucius’ well-proportioned physique is only further proof of the generosa probitas that she has already observed in Lucius. Cetera corporis … congruentia, then, denotes a quality in itself that chimes with Byrrhena’s idea of generosa probitas, viz. a quality of internal and external balance. The amussis is the touchstone of this balance. The emphasis on perfect balance and symmetry (ad amussim congruentia) in Lucius’ physiognomy evokes the image of the free Greek male as the embodiment of the ‘ideal of the mean’, and ideal of which slaves, women and barbarians generally fall short.50 This is the ideal type of the καλὸς κἀγαθός, whose ideal physiognomy reflects emotions that are well-balanced and free from contrast. In Apuleius’ time these virtues are still attested as the distinctive qualities for aristocratic elite identity.51 Given the ancient belief in a correspondence between physical equilibrium and moral excellence, the metaphor of the amussis becomes a touchstone not only of the perfect physical proportions of Lucius’ build, but also of his character.52 The moral connotations of ad amussim go back to similar metaphorical uses of Greek
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50 51
52
See Evans 1969, 73; Martin 1995, 34–36; Sassi 2001, 47–48; Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 75. As Mason 1984, 308 with n. 10 points out, the mean is especially praised in the Latin Physiognomoniae liber, which uses the Apuleian word medietas (but is probably not written by Apuleius himself). On notions of balance and proportion, which are central to all branches of Greek culture from the archaic period onward, see Sassi 2001, 45 f. Honorary and funeral inscriptions in the 2nd century AD repeatedly stress moral virtues such as καλοκἀγαθία, σωφροσύνη, etc., in combination with the literary and rhetorical qualities (παιδεία, λόγοι) of the honoured individual; see Schmitz 1997, 136–141. Cf. Plaut. Mil. 632.
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words for ‘rule’ (κανών, στάθµη), which illustrate the ‘straight’, ‘true’ nature (εὐθύς, ὀρθός) of a person.53 The amussis, however, at the same time evokes the imagery of constructing, building, and moulding. An ancient glossary interprets amussis as ‘λιθοξόου κανών, norma’, which can mean both ‘the rule of the stone- or marble-mason’ and ‘the rule of the sculptor’. Moreover, the gloss in our passage explains amussis as ‘a rule, by which they fashion something’, using a verb (adfingere, with ad- reflecting the preposition in ad amussim) that denotes the process of forming and shaping in sculpture.54 Thus, in the present passage, the image of a Greek sculpture can be evoked, marked by a perfection in solidity, proportions and symmetry that guarantees that the statue will stay upright and endure the wear and tear of time (see below). Byrrhena, who has a true passion for sculpture (cf. 2,4), turns her gaze on Lucius’ beautifully symmetrical appearance almost as if he were a perfectly polished and balanced statue55 – not unlike Psyche’s divine beauty, which is literally compared to a skilfully polished sculpture (cf. 4,32 mirantur quidem diuinam speciem, sed ut simulacrum fabre politum, with Zimmerman et al. 2004, 80 ad loc.). The admiration of the physical beauty of a male protagonist in terms of a sculpture recalls the use of ἄγαλµα in Plato’s Charmides (cf. above, n. 39), where all those present have eyes only for the beautiful youth Charmides, gazing at him as if he were a statue (154c πάντες ὥσπερ ἄγαλµα ἐθεῶντο αὐτόν). Moreover, we are also reminded of Chaereas, the male protagonist of Chariton’s novel, whose beauty is described in terms of artistic portraiture.56 In the present passage, however, the notion of amussis (‘κανών’) highlights ————— 53
54
55
56
Cf. notes 36, 38. Cf. Theognis 804 f.: the man who is going to consult the Delphic oracle should be εὐθύτερος than ‘a circle, a plumb line and a setsquare’; see Dietel 1939, 33. For the use of κανών in moral contexts see Oppel 1937, 23 f.; cf. Lucian’s use of κανών with reference to Demonax as a ‘role-model’ (Dem. 2); see Schmidt 1897, 90. See OLD s.v. fingo 1c ‘to mould, knead (materials) into shape’. Cf. Apul. Apol. 14,7 quod luto fictum uel aere infusum uel lapide incussum uel cera inustum uel pigmento illitum uel alio quopiam humano artificio adsimulatum est, ‘what is formed in clay, moulded in bronze, hewn in stone, expressed in wax, or made to look similar by any other human craft’ (tr. Hunink 2001); for adsimulare cf. Flor. 7,6 cited below, n. 57. The balance and regularity observed by Byrrhena in Lucius’ chiselled features contrast with the suggestion of unsteadiness and imbalance in her own sculpture garden (2,4); cf. Merlier-Espenel 2001, 137. For Chariton’s use of ἄγαλµα and of associations with artistic portraiture as a touchstone of beauty (cf. 1,1,3, describing Chaereas) see Zeitlin 2003, 80 with n. 24.
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the aspect of judging or measuring beyond admiration. Through the word amussis and its connotations of physical perfection and symmetry related to sculpture, the Apuleian reader, ‘looking over Byrrhena’s shoulder’, may be reminded of the famous statue of the spear-bearer by the Argive sculptor Polycleitus, who was commended by Apuleius in the Florida.57 Interestingly, according to Oudendorp’s edition, Sopingius conjectured Polycleti ad regulam for execrabiliter ad regulam in our passage in F. Polycleitus’ famous work of art, which was given the significant name Κανών, ‘aimed at the mean’58 and proclaimed an ideal of male self-discipline.59 Hence it became a widely influential model (‘κανών’) for statues of the male body, developing a particular popularity in Roman imperial sculpture (see plate 1).60 Thinking of a perfectly proportioned body like Polycleitus’ Κανών, the Apuleian (re-)reader is invited to compare the present passage with other passages that associate the hero of the Met. with a written, painted, or sculpted work of art, eternal in its perfection, to be forever gazed upon and admired by endless numbers of spectators.61 The rest of Byrrhena’s physiognomical description also suggests that Lucius is not only modelled after the ————— 57
58
59
60 61
Apuleius acknowledges Polycleitus’ reputation as an exemplary sculptor in Flor. 7,6, where the anachronism confirms this artist’s absolute paradigmatic status: (Alexander) edixit uniuerso orbi suo, ne quis effigiem regis temere adsimularet aere, colore, caelamine, quin saepe <scripsit>, solus eam Polycletus aere duceret … ‘he issued a decree to the whole of his empire that no one should simply go ahead and make a likeness of the king in bronze, paint, or stone, but that Policlitus alone should cast copies of it in bronze …’ (tr. Hilton 2001); see Hunink 2001b, 96–97 ad loc. (with lit.). Galen, De temp. p. 36,16 f. Helmreich (566 K.). Polycleitus also wrote a book called Κανών based on his statue in which he described a system of proportion whereby every part of the body was related mathematically to every other and to the whole; cf. Galen, De plac. Hipp. et Plat. 5,3,15–16 in De Lacy 1978, 308 f.; see Oppel 1937, 14 f.; Stewart 1997, 88. “The statue’s unhurried movement, self-contained pose, foursquare physique, and tightly circumscribed forms announce not only the defining constituents of true human greatness, but how such greatness may be controlled, disciplined, and sustained.” (Stewart 1997, 92). Cf. above, n. 18. Cf. Plin. nat. 34,55; see OCD s.v. Polyclitus (2); Kreikenbom 1990. Writing: 2,12; sculpture: 3,11 (cf. 3,10); painting: 6,29. Cf. 11,24, where Lucius, standing in front of Isis’ statue, is exhibited to the crowds as a statue himself and thus becomes part of a sculpture group with Isis, while standing under her gaze (Slater 1998, 39 f.). For a possible connection with Apuleius’ own concerns about the dangers for the individual arising from a ‘public image’ fashioned by society, e.g. in the form of a statue (cf. Flor. 16), see Too 1996, 134–141. Cf. below, nn. 74 and 97.
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Plate 1. Roman sculpture (Claudian age) after Polycleitus’ Spear-bearer. Kreikenbom 1990, 163 (no. III 3).
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physical ideal of the ‘perfect free man’, marked by symmetry and perfect proportions,62 but also embodies an intellectual ideal, as a ‘man of letters’, which is appropriate for the future writer of his own adventures.63 His sparkling eyes even resemble panegyrical descriptions of emperors, suggesting that Lucius belongs to a ‘ruling class’ of aristocrats.64 The identification of Lucius’ appearance as that of the ‘ideal intellectual’ by the lector doctus, who is looking at Lucius’ appearance over Byrrhena’s shoulder, may coincide to a certain extent with Byrrhena’s own vision of Lucius. Byrrhena presents herself as a matrona docta, sharing Lucius’ kinship with the philosopher Plutarch. However, Byrrhena also looks at Lucius from her role as a prominent member of Hypatan civilised society. She invites Lucius to participate in the opulent parties organised in her house for the flos ciuitatis, the ‘high society’ of Hypata, which is dedicated to the pleasures of food, wine, laughter, jokes, and storytelling (2,19).65 In addition, in her responsibility for the ritual activity of the local elite related to the god Risus, Byrrhena observes in Lucius’ innate qualities of wit a welcome potential to add allure and prestige to the religious cult of the deity of laughter, to be celebrated on the next day: 2,31 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 the god with, to help us appease this powerful deity better and more thoroughly”. ————— 62
63 64
65
“Measure personified and the very epitome of male sophrosyne, he represents Polykleitos’s fantasy of the most perfect, most complete, freest, and therefore most powerful male ego in the world. (…) Striving for both the most rigorous abstraction (the Kanon) and the most thoroughgoing corporeality, he sought to use each to reinforce the other.” (Stewart 1997, 92). See Mason 1984; van Mal-Maeder 2001, 74 f. Cf. Suet. Aug. 79 and see Couissin 1953, 243 f.; Bollók 1996, 11 f.; Gleason 1995, 45 (Polemo’s description of Hadrian’s eyes). Cf. Amm. 25,4,22 (on emperor Julian) uenustate oculorum micantium flagrans (see below, n. 68), with Den Boeft et al. 2005, 159–161 ad loc. (see also Den Boeft et al. 2005, 336–337 on Amm. 25,10,14 oculis caesis). For Lucius’ physical resemblance to emperors cf. also above, n. 47. Cf. 2,19 iam inlatis luminibus epularis sermo percrebuit, iam risus adfluens et ioci liberales et cauillus hinc inde, ‘soon lamps were brought in and the table-talk increased, with plentiful laughter and free wit and banter on every side’. Cf. n. 69.
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By calling Lucius’ wit (lepos) “your own” (proprius),66 Byrrhena demonstrates that she has detected Lucius’ natural talent for humorous invention (cf. comminiscaris),67 which may be a family trait that Byrrhena particularly appreciates. Moreover, Byrrhena proudly adds to her physiognomic description of Lucius that he is the product of her own education (2,3 ego te, o Luci, meis istis manibus educaui). The power of Lucius’ physical presence (tua praesentia), especially his sparkling eyes (2,2 oculi … in aspectu micantes), which also have erotic connotations, could well have been read by Byrrhena as physiognomic indicators of his clever humour and wit.68 Evidently, Lucius passed the physiognomic admittance procedure for the local elite of this intriguing community. In Byrrhena’s eyes, Lucius’ beautiful appearance and entertaining characteristics make him an ideal candidate for the social and religious activities of Hypatan urbane society, which is governed by a libertas otiosa, and centred both in the opulent entourage of her house and in the theatre of Hypata.69 II Looking at cursedness (execrabiliter) In his/her assessment of Byrrhena’s perception of Lucius’ physiognomy, the reader is confronted with the enigmatic use of the adverb execrabiliter, which according to some scholars cannot be correctly transmitted, since they expect a positive adverb in this context.70 How do we explain that execrabili————— 66
67 68
69
70
For this use of proprius, referring to innate qualities that define someone’s identity, cf. Apul. Flor. 16,31 est enim tantus in studiis, praenobilior sit proprio ingenio quam patricio consulatu, ‘for he has such a reputation as a scholar that he is much better known for his own talent than for his patrician consulship’; see ThLL s.v. proprius 2100, 69 f. Cf. 3,12 quem ipse fabricaueram risum, ‘laughter which I myself had manufactured’. Cf. Amm. 25,4,22 (above, n. 64) uenustate oculorum micantium flagrans, qui mentis eius argutias indicabant, ‘his eyes were delightful and flashing, an indication of the nimbleness of his mind’. Lucius shares his micantes oculi with Photis (Met. 3,19 tuis istis micantibus oculis) and Venus (5,31 tantam uenustatem micantium oculorum); see Mason 1984, 308 n. 19. The association of wit and eros (cf. Keulen 2003a, 171) is especially present in the communication between Lucius and Photis, cf. 2,7; 3,19–20. On the Roman terms of refinement and sophistication depicting Byrrhena’s tastes see Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 305 f. on 2,20. See Frangoulidis 2002 for a persuasive reading of the Risus Festival as a community integration rite. For attempts at emendation cf. e.g. inextimabiliter proposed by Hildebrand. For an extensive discussion of the proposed solutions see Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 73. For Nolte’s solution inter se aequabiliter see above, section I with n. 48.
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ter, which is attested here for the first time and in other passages always has negative connotations, is used here to modify an expression that praises Lucius’ beautiful physical appearance? What is the significance of the notion of a ‘curse’ in a praise of beauty? Such problems cannot be explained away by assuming that this is a colloquial expression or enhances the comic characterisation of Byrrhena – this may be true, but does not give the whole picture.71 In my opinion, this issue is related to the question of the ‘control of vision’, a problem often raised by the Apuleian narrative, albeit without providing unambiguous answers. It challenges the reader to read more perceptively, to become a lector scrupulosior. A lector scrupulosus (‘careful reader’)72 may note that Lucius is ‘cursed with’ an extraordinary beauty, not unlike Psyche or heroes and heroines from Greek romances.73 If this reader is familar with themes and motifs from ancient narrative, s/he may see in Lucius’ ‘cursed beauty’ a sophisticated metaliterary reference to his future fate as a celebrity, becoming the auctor et actor (‘author and actor’, cf. Met. 3,11) of his own written adventures.74 A lector scrupulosior may see even more in Lucius’ cursedness. If we take a closer look at curses in the Met., we see that they are frequently directed against outrageous conduct, especially against outrageous sexual behaviour.75 Moreover, Apuleius also applies the notion of ‘cursedness’ to seeing those who are morally depraved. An excellent example is the ‘detestable sight’, the execrabilis conspectus (10,4) of the stepmother in the tenth book, which her stepson, the object of her illicit passion, tries to avoid. As Maaike Zimmerman notes,76 there is an active and a passive side to execrabi-
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72 73
74 75 76
Cf. e.g. Thomas 1912, 65; Hofmann, Lateinische Umgangssprache, 78. Cf. Met. 9,30 with Hijmans et al. 1995, 257 (with lit.) on the limited perception of the narrator and the demands on the reader (lector scrupulosus) made by the narrative. Cf. Xen. Eph. 2,11,4 διὰ τὴν ἄκαιρον εὐµορφίαν (2,1,3), 5,5,5 ὦ κάλλος ἐπίβουλον … ὦ δυστυχὴς εὐµορφία, Char. 5,5,3 κάλλος ἐπίβουλον (6,6,4). Like the heroines in Greek romances, Psyche ‘curses’ her own beauty (see Zimmerman et al. 2004, 82 on 4,32 odit in se suam formonsitatem). For the fatal beauty of the heroine as a leitmotiv of the Greek novels see Kenney 1990, 135 on Apul. Met. 4,34 nomine Veneris (with references). For the ‘curse’ of absolute beauty leading to celebrity status see Schmeling 2005, 42–44, who points out that this motif may go back to Helen (Hom. Il. 6,357–358). Cf. nn. 61; 97. See Zimmerman et al. 2004, 440 on 6,10 saeuitiam execrata. See Zimmerman 2000, 103 on 10,4 execrabilem … conspectum.
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lis:77 the virtuous young stepson avoids the sight of the stepmother as something both repulsive and harmful to him (a few lines earlier it is called a noxius conspectus, ‘offensive sight’). This lexical link, noticed by the scrupulous re-reader, with the execrabilis conspectus of the stepmother leads us to the question of what kind of ‘curse’ is expressed by the execrabiliter in our passage. If we take execrabiliter in an active sense, then it ominously refers to a threatening ‘doom’ embodied by the perfect physical beauty of Lucius, a ‘curse’ which is going to come down upon the viewer from the impact of seeing Lucius. If we take it in a passive sense, it refers to a ‘cursedness’ that implies that the beauty itself is ‘doomed’, and hence being seen is an inescapable fate. It appears, then, that Byrrhena perceives the young, modest Lucius as a kind of Hippolytus-figure exposed to the active ‘gaze of desire’ of an elderly female, a figure who resembles the above-mentioned young pious and modest son with the good liberal education from Met. 10,2 (see plate 2).78 This startling observation does not only reveal something about Lucius, but also about the present beholder herself. Looking at her younger relative, Byrrhena becomes a quasi-Phaedra to Lucius’ Hippolytus. Thus, Byrrhena gaze’s turned upon the young Lucius elucidates and prefigures her anxiety about what will happen when the wife of Lucius’ host Milo, the witch Pamphile, casts her glance on Lucius:
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For the capability of adjectives in –bilis to be both passive (much more common) and active cf. e.g. Apul. Apol. 14,3 culpabilis (not found before Apul.), clearly passive, and Apol. 35,7 uincibilis (1st attestation in active sense); for the active use see Koziol 1872, 290; Löfstedt 1936, 84–88; Leumann-Hofmann-Szantyr, Lateinische Grammatik, I: Lateinische Laut- und Formenlehre, 348 f. (on ‘instrumentales –bilis’). I thank Thomas McCreight for pointing out these references. For the contemporary interest in adjectives that can be both active and passive cf. Gell. 9,12. Cf. Met. 10,2 iuuenem filium probe litteratum atque ob id consequenter pietate, modestia praecipuum, quem tibi quoque prouenisse cuperes uel talem, ‘a young son with a good liberal education, who was consequently unusually obedient and modestly behaved – indeed the kind of son you would wish to have as your own’. See Fiorencis-Gianotti 1990, 113 f. for the parallelism between this iuuenis and Lucius, and the connection between Lucius, whose father is named Theseus (1,23), and Hippolytus, a connection visualised in Lucius’ appearance (see above, n. 3). Cf. Appendix I: Apuleius’ Phaedra in Zimmerman 2000, 430 f. For Hippolytus as a paradigm of male beauty in sculpture and paintings cf. Char. 1,1,3 (above, n. 56).
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Plate 2. Illumination by Andrea da Bologna (in MS Vat. Lat. 2194 F. 57 v.) of the capital D at the beginning of Book Ten, representing on the left the ‘noxious gaze’ of the lovesick stepmother trying to seduce her stepson. Zimmerman-de Graaf 1992, cover illustration.
(2,5) Nam simul quemque conspexerit speciosae formae iuuenem, uenustate eius sumitur et ilico in eum et oculum et animum detorquet. Serit blanditias, inuadit spiritum, amoris profundi pedicis aeternis alligat. No sooner does she catch sight of some young man of attractive appearance than she is consumed by his charm and immediately directs her eye and her desire at him. She sows her seductions, attacks his soul, and binds him with the everlasting shackles of passionate love.
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Byrrhena’s anxious warnings reveal the inauspicious implications observed by her in Lucius’ charming appearance. She refers both to the consuming power of Lucius’ looks (cf. uenustate … sumitur) and to the impending dangerous response to his sight if Pamphile reciprocates it with the spell-binding power of her own erotic gaze.79 We can view Byrrhena’s conception of Lucius’s uenustas as a ‘curse’ with both an active and a passive side, a ‘fatal attraction’ which threatens to boomerang against him as soon as Pamphile looks back and binds him with the shackles of her passion. Byrrhena’s warnings thus illustrate and lay out explicitly the terms of the curse denoted by execrabiliter, the adverb that refers to the mathematical perfection (amussis, κανών) of Lucius’ physical charm. In the view of Byrrhena, who is worried about Lucius, the ‘curse’ applies in the first place to the object of the gaze (Lucius, whose beautiful body will be seen by Pamphile, with fatal consequences). In the present passage (2,2), Lucius is the object of the gaze too, while the subject of the gaze is Byrrhena. Her ideas about Pamphile in 2,5 mirror her own unstated desire for the young Lucius, as if she is cast in the same ‘Phaedra’-role as the evil stepmother. The object of her gaze, Lucius, is cast in the role of a Hippolytus, who averts his own gaze from this powerful female, just as he will protect himself from the gaze of Pamphile.80 Moreover, the passive aspect of Lucius’ ‘curse’ as related to Byrrhena’s warnings implies that Lucius does not wish to ensnare women with his physical allure, and that he has this effect on others despite himself. His avoidance of the female gaze by averting his own gaze signifies his shame (rubor, αἰδώς),81 but also characterises him as an unwilling participant in the encounters with the two elderly females with their penetrating gazes. His unwilling exposure to their voyeuristic gaze is an illustration of the ‘cursedness’ of his beauty in a passive sense, as something not chosen by him but ————— 79
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For erotic empowerment and binding by the eyes see Barton 2002, 224; Morales 2004, 161. Cf. 2,2 statim rubore suffusus deiecto capite restiti, ‘suddenly blushing, I just stood there looking at the ground’ (since Van der Vliet, all editions print Colvius’ emendation deiecto, whereas Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 71 prefers to read the transmitted reiecto); 2,11 quam pote tutus ab uxoris eius aspectu, Byrrenae monitorum memor, et perinde in eius faciem oculos meos ac si in Auernum lacum formidans deieceram, ‘as protected as possible from his wife’s gaze, mindful of Byrrhena’s warnings. When I cast my eyes upon her face, I was as fearful as if I were looking into Lake Avernus’. For the concept of shame (pudor, uerecundia, αἰδώς) related to seeing and visibility and ‘acted out’ by averting the gaze, see Barton 2002; Morales 2004, 162 (with lit.).
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determined by some higher force or fate, like the beauty of novelistic heroines. This representation is completely at odds with other scenes that show Lucius as far from restrained in using the power of his physical charm to obtain what he wants from females (cf. 2,6).82 Is his so-called uerecundia, his apparently modest resistance to the penetrating gaze of his hosts, just a calculated strategy and a devious demonstration of Lucius’ ability to control his outward physical manifestation in order to pursue a hidden agenda?83 Is he a so-called ‘physiognomical impostor’, whose true immoral nature is concealed under a deceptively modest behaviour, a protocol that begs to be decoded by the clever viewer/reader?84 At the same time, Byrrhena also recognised an inauspicious, ‘harmful’ sign in Lucius’ appearance, illustrating the active side of the ‘curse’. An instructive parallel for the active ‘curse’ of Lucius’ looks is provided by a passage from Apuleius’ contemporary Athenaeus (deipn. 13, 564b), who gives various examples of lovers gazing upon their beloved. For the ‘shame’ (or ‘modesty’) characterising Lucius (rubor, probitas),85 which is the first thing Byrrhena notices when she turns her gaze upon him, Athenaeus offers two illuminating parallels (fragments from Lycophronides and Aristotle) on the ‘modesty’ (αἰδώς) observed by lovers in the eyes of their loved ones. Then, Athenaeus cites a fragment from Sophocles in which Hippodameia is discoursing on the beauty of Pelops, in a scene where they stand on the chariot, conquered by each other’s looks. This scene probably belonged to the ‘visual repertoire’ of the Apuleian readers.86 In the description of Lucius’ beauty by Byrrhena, who is captured, among other things, by his eyes, a visual allusion to the famous scene from Sophocles is established through ————— 82
83
84
85 86
Cf. Lucius’ ‘protocol of shamelessness’ when he shows his genitals to Photis (2,16) without any trace of shame or modesty; see Keulen 2003b, 114–116 for the symbolism of Lucius’ exhibistionistic gesture for the role of the satirist. For Lucius’ manipulative uerecundia in his encounter with Milo see Keulen 2004a, 272. Compare Photis, who apparently attempts to resist the gaze of Lucius by modestly covering her pubes, but in fact shadows it on purpose, which implies that her conduct is a strategy to further arouse Lucius’ desire rather than genuine modesty (2,17); see Slater 1998, 24. See Gleason 1995, 76–81 on ‘physiognomical deception’, who demonstrates that both the desire to improve one’s physiognomical profile and the eagerness of physiognomists to detect false deportment are two sides of the same coin, reflecting the dynamics of the agonistic intellectual society with its competitive pressures. Cf. above, Introd., nn. 31-32. The notion of probitas often includes that of uerecundia, modestia, and pudor; see ThLL s.v. probitas 1457, 74 f. See n. 19. The scene is also represented in Philostratus’ Imagines (1,17).
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the parallels with the charm of Pelops’ flashing eyes and the imagery of the craftman’s rule (Soph. F 474 Radt): τοίαν Πέλοψ ἴυγγα θηρατηρίαν ἔρωτος, ἀστραπήν τιν’ ὀµµάτων, ἔχει· ᾗ θάλπεται µὲν αὐτός, ἐξοπτᾷ δ’ ἐµέ, ἴσον µετρῶν ὀφθαλµόν, ὥστε τέκτονος παρὰ στάθµην ἰόντος ὀρθοῦται κανών. “Such is the charm to ensnare love, a kind of lightning-flash that Pelops has in his eyes; with it he is warmed himself, but scorches me with the flame, measuring a glance to equal my own, just as the craftman’s rule is laid straight while he moves along the line.”87 Lucius’ portrayal by Byrrhena reflects Pelops’ portrayal by Hippodamia through his ‘flashing eyes’ (oculi … in aspectu micantes), but also through the great impact that the precision of the ‘craftman’s rule’ (κανών, amussis) in his appearance makes on the beholder. In the case of Pelops, this precision refers to the glance of his eyes, whereas in Lucius’ case it refers also (sed et) to ‘the rest of his body’ (cetera corporis), including his flashing eyes, which are the most prominent part of his physiognomy and the most important index of his identity.88 The ‘exact matching’ of the glances of Pelops and Hippodameia, then, is re-enacted when the optutus of Byrrhena (2,2 optutum in me conuersa) ‘touches’ the aspectus of Lucius.89 The Sophoclean allusion vividly pictures the visual and erotic reciprocity of their glances, and plays on the notion of the ‘cursed hero’ (Pelops). Moreover, their encounter takes place in ‘the market of desire’ (forum cupidinis), in the middle of Lucius’ restless quest ————— 87
88
89
For the interpretation of these difficult lines see the edition of Radt, TGF p. 384. The present translation is a modified combination of Gulick (Athenaeus, Loeb) and Ellis (quoted by Radt). Cf. Ach. Tat. 1,4,2–3 and see Morales 2004, 158 for many parallels. For the importance of the eye and the look in ancient physiognomists see Gleason 1995, 32; Bollók 1996, 11. The emphasis on the light radiated by Lucius’ eyes implicitly points to the etymology of Lucius’ own name (lux), just as Plato’s name was explained by Apuleius through an allusion to his stature (Platoni habitudo corporis cognomentum dedit; see above, n. 7). Notably, Photis, whose name is often etymologically explained through φῶς (‘light’), has sparkling eyes too (3,19); see above, n. 68. See Morales 2004, 29 for the ‘haptic’ and ‘corporeal’ nature of vision in ancient optics.
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(2,2 cuncta circumibam) to satisfy his suspicious desires (cruciabili desiderio; cupidinis meae). The intensity of this desire evidently shone through in Lucius’ eyes. It seems that Byrrhena is not unaffected by Lucius’ erotic powers. Byrrhena’s recognition of Lucius’ erotic allure is reflected in various words and actions performed by her, such as the presents she will send to Lucius at Milo’s house, which are full of erotic connotations.90 But at the same time this does not prevent her from being a sensitive observer as well. To Byrrhena, who is Lucius’ aunt, his eyes looked familiar, and reminded her of Lucius’ mother – they may even be a family trait, shared by Byrrhena herself as well. Possibly, Byrrhena saw herself reflected in the ‘mirror’ of Lucius’ eyes.91 Did Byrrhena also see an ‘ancestral curse’ in it?92 Her recognition of Lucius’ ‘cursed’ identity makes Byrrhena herself a deeply ambiguous figure. Byrrhena appears to be an authority figure who seems to ‘know more’93 – indeed, Lucius’ blush, a symptom that invites multiple readings, perhaps reveals his sense of being ‘observed’ in his deepest essence. Lucius’ blush in Byrrhena’s company could be interpreted by a lector doctus as a blush of heightened self-awareness, as Lucius realises that the person who gazes at him may guess something significant about him.94 The chapters after their first encounter can be read as a confirmation that Byrrhena has ‘guessed’ Lucius’ ill fate.95 After recognising Lucius’ ‘true nature’ behind his sculpture-like perfection, Byrrhena decides to show Lucius her own sculpture garden, with a hidden message to Lucius, embodied by the statues of Diana and Actaeon. Possibly, Byrrhena was struck by the similarity between the ‘inquisitive stare’ (curiosum optutum) of Actaeon ————— 90
91 92
93 94 95
See Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 196 f. on 2,11 (the tokens of her ‘friendship’). For the idea of the viewer (lover) being mirrored in the viewed’s (loved one’s) eyes (cf. Plat. Phaedr. 255b–e) see Bartsch 2000, 76–77; Morales 2004, 132. For the idea of ancestry reflected in one’s eyes cf. the physiognomical description of Phaedra by her nutrix in Sen. Phaedr. 379 f. qui ferebant signa Phoebeae facis / oculi nihil gentile nec patrium micant, ‘those eyes, the very torches of the sun, reflect no trace of what was once their birthright’ (tr. Watling 1966), but cf. l. 364. On Byrrhena as an ambivalent figure, with predictive powers and with Isiac connotations (e.g. through the associations of Diana with Isis) see James 1987, 241 f. On the various meanings of blushes in Plato see Gooch 1988. For blushes in ancient fiction see Lateiner 1998. For the ‘conjectural’ diagnosis of erotic symptoms as a form of divination cf. Pan’s diagnosis of Psyche’s ‘disease’ in Met. 5,25; see Zimmerman et al. 2004, 307 ad loc. and see McCreight in this volume with nn. 125-126.
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and the rashness that could be read from Lucius’ eyes.96 Her ‘Chaldaean’ recognition of Lucius’ impending bad fortune may also be implied by her famous comment adressed to Lucius with regard to the sculpture group (2,5 tua sunt … cuncta quae uides, “Everything you see … belongs to you”). However, Byrrhena’s good intentions are as questionable as Lucius’ beautiful appearance. Byrrhena introduces Lucius to her house, which represents a miniature of the Met., a lush world of seductions where anything is possible and where storytellers become the object of ridicule and the victim of magic and metamorphosis (Thelyphron).97 Byrrhena’s gaze at Lucius anticipates his initiation into an uncanny world where he will be fashioned into an image for public viewing, both in human and asinine shape, attracting the attention of many who turn their gaze towards him in ridicule or admiration.98 III The comprehensio of the lector doctus The link of execrabiliter in our passage with the execrabilis conspectus of the stepmother in Book 10 introduces another issue, the question of the power of the lector doctus to judge outward symptoms, a power sometimes superior to that of characters in the story such as the learned young stepson – a metaliterary question to which Apuleius alludes explicitly in 10,2.99 The stepmother’s beautiful appearance, which does not reflect a noble character (cf. 10,2 sed nouerca forma magis quam moribus in domo mariti praepollens), creates an ominous parallel with Lucius, underneath whose attractive forma may be mores that are far from attractive. The lector doctus, then, is ————— 96
97 98
99
I thank Stelios Panayotakis for pointing this out to me. See Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 111 f. for the significance of curiosum optutum for the interpretation of the ecphrasis in 2,4 as a “mise en abyme proleptique” of Lucius’ adventures; for the correction curiosum optutum (Kirchhoff) for curioso optutu (F, followed by most editions) see p. 110 f. For Lucius’ flashing eyes as a sign of rashness bordering on insanity see Mason 1984, 308. See Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 287 on 2,19 quicquid fieri non potest ibi est (with lit.). Cf. 3,2; 10,19; 11,24. See Zimmerman et al. 2004, 42 on 4,28 quos … rumor … congregabat for the parallels between Lucius and Psyche’s situation as the centre of attention, and cf. nn. 61 and 74 above. Dii boni, quam facilis licet non artifici medico, cuiuis tamen docto Veneriae cupidinis comprehensio, cum uideas aliquem sine corporis calore flagrantem, ‘Good gods, how simple is the recognition of love’s passion, if not for a medical practitioner, then certainly for any educated person, when you see someone all in a flame without the body being overheated!’ (tr. Zimmerman 2000, 78). Cf. above, n. 95 and McCreight n. 110.
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invited to subject Lucius to his own independent penetrating scrutiny, investigating whether this man is not only καλός, but also ἀγαθός. The enigmatic adverb execrabiliter may imply that Lucius’ appearance embodies a ‘curse’ also in the perception of the reader. The adverb itself gives us an important clue as to what ‘harm’ Lucius’ appearance may betoken. It is not likely to be a coincidence that Apuleius uses another similar neologism, viz. the noun exsecrabilitas, in the context of his portrayal of the immoral man in his De Platone et eius dogmate (2,16 p. 243):100 pessimo … deterrimoque non ea tantum uitia quae contra naturam sunt pariunt exsecrabilitatem, ut est inuidentia … sed etiam quae natura non respuit, uoluptatem dico atque aegritudinem, desiderium, amorem, misericordiam, metum, pudorem, iracundiam. “in the immoral and depraved man, not only those vices that are against nature produce an abominableness, such as envy, … but also those which nature does not reject, for example ‘pleasure’ and ‘illness’, ‘desire’, ‘love’, ‘pity’, ‘fear’, ‘shame’, ‘anger’”. For a reader who ‘sees through’ Lucius’ immoral character, the portrayal of the immoral man in Apuleius’ De Platone seems a commentary on the behaviour and demeanour of Lucius as it unfolds in the Met., with his general lack of restraint, his immoral desires,101 and his unquenchable thirst for forbidden fruits of various kinds.102 Moreover, the immoral type’s love of soft and effeminate appearances contains verbal parallels with Lucius’ fascination with the snake-like puer in Met. 1,4.103 The ‘immoral man’ significantly does not know himself (Plat. 2,16 p. 242 quod ipse etiam sibimet sit ignotus), and is unable to recognise true beauty (p. 243 ignorans ueram pulchri————— 100 101 102
103
A paraphrase of Plat. Phaedr. 239c–d; see Harrison 2000, 201 f. for Apuleius’ use of Platonic dialogues in the De Platone. Cf. Apul. Plat. 2,16 p. 243 with Lucius’ frenzy in Met. 2,1-2 and 2,6. Plat. 2,16 p. 243 inexplebili[s] siti haurire auet omnia genera uoluptatis, ‘with unquenchable thirst he longs to deeply imbibe all sorts of pleasures’; cf. Met. 1,2 sititor alioquin nouitatis ‘being generally thirsty for novelty’; see Keulen 2003a, 44 on thirst as a symptom of moral and psychological ailments. Plat. 2,16 p. 243 corporis effetam et eneruem et fluxam cutem deamans, ‘in his passion for a feeble and limp and flabby skin’; cf. Met. 1,4 puer in mollitiem decorus … eneruam et exossam saltationem explicat cum omnium, qui aderamus, admiratione, ‘a boy …, graceful to the point of effeminacy, unfolds a limp and loose dance with sinuous twists, to the amazement of all of us there’ (see Keulen 2003a, 128–130 ad loc.).
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tudinem), because he is deluded by superficial appearances.104 Via the lexical connection between execrabiliter – exsecrabilitas, two striking Apuleian neologisms, the lector doctus is invited to associate Lucius’ physiognomy with the portrayal of the immoral man from Platonic doctrine. The lector doctus, then, with a philosophical background that included reading Plato,105 Plutarch,106 and Apuleius’ own Platonic writings, is invited to subject Lucius to a scrutiny ‘ad amussim’ that goes beyond physical appearance, and to reveal his internal substance or expose the lack of it. In fact, this kind of scrutiny of others and of oneself, looking at the true person within, is advised by the philosophus Platonicus Apuleius in his treatise on the God of Socrates (23 p. 174). Of no value are ‘extraneous aspects’ defined by Apuleius as ‘those which are engendered by one’s parents and bestowed by fortune’, such as ‘nobility of birth’, ‘ancestry’, and ‘distantly stretching lineage’ (generositatem ... prosapiam ... longos natales). Keeping this advice in the back of his mind, the Apuleian reader meets in Lucius a young intellectual who claims to descend from philosophers, but who seems far from inclined to ‘know himself’ (‘γνῶθι σαυτόν’),107 being quite the opposite of a uir bonus et sapiens, who examines his own character as a iudex ipse sui.108 Instead, the ‘probing’ and ‘measuring’ of his personality ‘by the amussis’ is assigned to others who gaze at him and claim to possess a certain power to
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105 106
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Compare Lucius’ purely aesthetic pleasure in contemplating Byrrhena’s works of art (for which see Merlier-Espenel 2001). For (lack of) self-knowledge see below, n. 107. See above, n. 40, below, n. 107. For the role of Platonica in the Met. see also the contributions to this volume by Dowden, Graverini, and Plaza (n. 28). For Plutarch’s use of the imagery of the ‘rule’ (κανών) and of the unbalanced sculpture to illustrate the uneducated ruler’s failure to cultivate the interior qualities of wisdom and intelligence cf. Ad principem ineruditum, Mor. 780b; cf. also Praecept. ger. rep., Mor. 807d. For Socrates as a proponent of self-knowledge, connected with the advice to look in a mirror frequently, see Apul. Apol. 15,4–6. Cf. Plat. Charm. 164c–165b, where Critias talks about the relationship between σωφροσύνη (‘temperance’) and the Delphic inscription γνῶθι σαυτόν (cf. also Phaedr. 229e–230a); for the connection of self-knowledge with mirroring and vision cf. Plat. Alcib. I 132c–d and see Morales 2004, 14; Bartsch 2000. For Lucius’ (apparent) oblivion to his own moral faults see e.g. Met. 1,2 non quidem curiosum, with Keulen 2003a, 103 ad loc. In his poem De uiro bono (14,20, p. 114 Green), Ausonius pictures the wise man as someone who is his own judge, using the image of the ‘architect’, who ensures the precision of the building by means of the amussis (9–11); see Koster 1974.
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identify him – both to those within the world of the narrative, such as his aunt Byrrhena,109 and to those without, the readers of the Met. Although Byrrhena praises Lucius, and by praising him proves that she knows him, her eulogy is limited to the ‘extraneous aspects’ listed by Apuleius in the above-mentioned passage from Socr. (see Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 75). In fact, the only qualities that Byrrhena praises are the qualities Lucius has inherited from his family, which not only goes for his physique, but also for his probitas, which is a generosa probitas, i.e. it is not an independently acquired moral quality, but a ‘family trait’. The words ‘generosus est’: parentes laudas (“‘He is well born’: it is his parents you praise”) from Socr. 23 p. 175 put Byrrhena’s compliment to Lucius in a less favourable or even narcissistic light: in fact she praises herself, being one of Lucius’ parentes, through Lucius. For the lector doctus, this reinforces the impression of a dichotomy between external appearance and internal substance in Lucius’ characterisation, which foreshadows the ‘lesson’ taught to Lucius in the final book, where he learns that ‘extraneous features’ like noble birth turn out to be of little moral worth.110 Moreover, in the eyes of the re-reader, this dichotomy and the ‘curse’ implied by Lucius’ beauty anticipate a different dichotomy between external appearance and internal essence, ensuing from Lucius’ impending metamorphosis into a ‘cursed animal’, the ass.111 Conclusion In this conclusion I foreground some metaliterary aspects of Lucius’ physiognomy as a site of multiple readings and of detecting both the limitations and the depths of individual perceptions. ‘Physiognomising’ Lucius represents ‘reading’ in its narrowest, but also in its widest and deepest sense. It ————— 109
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111
For the use of architectural imagery (perpendiculum) with regard to moral ‘judgment’ cf. Auson. 10,5,8 (164 S.) (on his grandmother) non delictis ignoscere prompta … ad perpendiculum seque suosque habuit. Cf. Amm. 29,2,16; Ennod. opusc. 3,109 p. 359, 10. Cf. above, n. 38. Met. 11,15 (cf. James and O’Brien in this volume); see Mason 1984, 309. Cf. Bollók 1996, 9 on an reverse kind of duality, viz. between the negative physiognomic characteristics and the internal sanctity of the apostle Paul. Cf. 11,6 (Isis speaks to Lucius) pessimae mihique iamdudum detestabilis beluae corio te protinus exue, ‘cast off at once the hide of that wretched beast which I have long detested’.
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opens up synchronic and diachronic perspectives. Reading Lucius’ face means both ‘measuring’ him by the κανών and ‘recognising’, ‘predicting’ his (future) ‘celebrity status’ – his cursedness. Lucius’ physiognomical screening in the context of a fictional civic community becomes a selfreflective metaphor for reading Apuleius’ text within the context of Antonine intellectual society and as part of a long venerable literary tradition. The intricacies of viewing Lucius’ physiognomy (2,2) introduce us to the intricacies of power in the Met. The notions of the ‘rule’ (amussis, κανών) on the one hand and the ‘curse’ on the other hand bring out ‘measuring’ and ‘Chaldaean’ powers of reading and viewing. Images of visual and erotic reciprocity are conjured up, in which viewers become viewed. Gazing at Lucius’ ‘sculpted body’ (ad amussim congruentia), Byrrhena, a passionate collector of sculptures (cf. 2,4), discovers a welcome addition to her aesthetic world of lush dinners, captivating glances, and urbane wit, a world of living statues (cf. 2,1). Byrrhena represents the local elite of Hypata (the ‘web of power’),112 a community with mythical dimensions and uncanny rituals, where Lucius loses both his freedom and his human status.113 Just as Lucius tries to avoid Byrrhena’s ‘measuring’ gaze and her invitations to participate in her fancy parties, Lucius declines the statue offered by the Hypatan elite.114 Behind the civic facade of local ritual, however, an immeasurable force turns out to govern events that Lucius does not avoid, but, on the contrary, eagerly tries to encounter and embrace. As a result, his noble traits suffer a metamorphosis that replaces the ideal of human masculine beauty and selfmastery (the Κανών) with the lowest of animal appearances, the ‘cursed ass’, until a new authority figure from a different cult turns her ‘benevolent gaze’ on him in the final book, changing his ‘curse’ into the ‘blessing’ of a rhetorical career in Rome.115 The gazes of Byrrhena, Pamphile, and Isis prefigure ————— 112 113
114 115
For the term ‘web of power’ cf. Edwards 1993. For the irony of 2,20 nec usquam gentium magis me liberum quam hic fuisse credidi (‘I think I have never been freer anywhere in the world than here’) see Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 295 ad loc. This behaviour, as Frangoulidis (2002, 184 f.; 187) has suggested, amounts to Lucius’ refusal to integrate into the local community. Cf. n. 69. In my opinion, to argue for a linear development in Lucius’ role from being a spectator in the beginning to becoming a ‘spectacle’ at the end of the novel (thus Slater 1998; 2003) is oversimplifying the matter; rather, we can observe from the beginning until the end of the narrative a continuous intricate dialectic between those two opposed roles of Lucius.
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Lucius’ immutable future on the pages of the man from Madauros that describe his constantly changing past. Lucius’ symmetrical proportions (2,2) indicate a noble origin, and thus seem to symbolise the endurance and changelessness of a genuine aristocratic lineage – his physiognomy reflects a true uetus prosapia, recalling the words from the Prologue where the ego celebrates the venerable Greek literary tradition as his ‘time-honoured pedigree’.116 Although he is endowed with a magnificent physique worthy of kings and emperors, Lucius’ subversive personality forms a disconcerting microcosm of social disruption and instability. Instead of embodying an elite idealised dream of a local Greek aristocracy,117 Lucius embodies a ‘comic nightmare’ of the Antonine ruling class. This draws our attention to the imagined reaction of the Roman spectator/reader to Lucius’ Greek body, in which we can feel a different sort of power, the power of the ‘Roman gaze’. This is the power of the readers who stand outside the world of the narrative and read the text, ‘measuring’ Lucius from the frame of reference of their own society. This power is defined by the paideia that these readers bring to their reading of Lucius.118 To a Roman reader, Lucius’ portrayal may have invited a range of different perceptions and (conflicting) judgments. At the same time, each individual way of reading represented a way of fashioning one’s own identity and role in Roman society, defined (among other things) by gender and ethnicity. In view of the traditional function of physiognomics as an ‘assessment tool’, we can see the activity of ‘reading Lucius’ as a reflection of the dynamics of Antonine intellectual culture as a continuous competitive and pluriform process of ‘measuring’ others and self.119 The measurer becomes ‘measured’. Some Romans may have seen in Lucius an object of ridicule, an effeminate Greek pretender whose fantasy runs away with him – we can observe a reflection of this ‘Roman gaze’ in the narrative in the view of the sceptic travelling companion (1,3; 1,20).120 Others may have enjoyed the rhetoric of ————— 116
117 118 119 120
Lucius’ prosapia makes him a local celebrity in Hypata (cf. 3,11). Cf. the prosapia mentioned in Socr. 23 p. 174 (quoted above, section III). Cf. Bitel in this volume, n. 4. See Perkins 1995, 44 on the beautiful heroes of the Greek novel. For the notion of ‘reading power’ see Whitmarsh 1998. Cf. Introduction. For reading the Met. as a performative activity viewed in the ‘face-toface’ context of Antonine literary culture see Keulen 2006 (forthc.). The ego of the Prologue, who emphasises his Greek identity, anticipates possible criticism of his Roman audience towards his effeminate, ear-pleasing fiction; this critical atti-
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Lucius’ description in a purely aesthetic way, just as Lucius enjoys the visual enthralment of the art of sculpture in 2,4 (cf. n. 104). While being cast into the roles of ‘art critic’ and ‘literary critic’, and guided by ‘the cultural storehouse of a visual repertoire’ (cf. n. 19), some readers could detect a wide spectrum of (meta-)literary facets in Lucius’ ‘cursed beauty’. Looking at Lucius, those readers who knew their Plutarch and Plato – and their contemporary philosophus Platonicus, Apuleius – would be encouraged to read more perceptively than others, than Byrrhena at least.121 Finally, a Roman intellectual from the Antonine age who heeded the Socratic instruction to ‘know thyself’122 may have used Lucius’ portrayal to investigate his own soul. In scrutinising and measuring the demeanour of this ‘ideal man of letters’, the Roman reader may have recognised an accurate reflection of the particular tastes of his own age, such as an eager curiositas for marvels that becomes especially harmful to those who do not have their desire under control.123 Such a Roman reader may have heard in the sceptic’s words (cf. 1,20) a playful reference to his own reading activity: ‘but yoú, a man, as your appearance and attitude show, of culture – do you go along with this fairy story?’ Thus, the contemporary reader who was drawn into the Apuleian narrative and eagerly looked over Byrrhena’s shoulder may have viewed Lucius’ portrayal as a kind of mirror, with an unsettlingly precise reflection, ‘execrabiliter ad amussim congruentia’, of his own curious soul.124 ————— 121 122 123
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tude is dramatised in the narrative by the sceptic travelling companion. See Keulen 2003a, 18–19; 79; Keulen 2006 (forthc.). Cf. Dowden in this volume for the Apuleian reader envisaged almost as a ‘philosopher’s apprentice’. See above, nn. 40, 107. Gellius’ caution concerning mirabilia reflects a similar consciousness (10,12,4): de istiusmodi admirationum fallaci inlecebra ..., qua plerumque capiuntur et ad perniciem elabuntur ingenia maxime sollertia eaque potissimum, quae discendi cupidiora sunt ‘the fallacious seductions of marvels of that kind, by which the keenest minds are often deceived and led to their ruin, and in particular those which are especially eager for knowledge’. For the tension between Gellius’ Roman aim of utility and his taste for telling tales of marvels (cf. also 9,4,5) see Holford-Strevens 2003, 41; 166. Cf. also the warnings against indulging in the pleasure of ‘ear-charming rhetoric’ in Gell. 11,13,5; for Apuleius see Graverini 2005, esp. 193. For attitudes of self-irony in Gellius and Apuleius cf. Keulen 2004b, 243 f. For the suggestion of an analogy in Apuleius between mirrors and written texts see Too 1996, 143 f.; for the idea of a text as a ‘mirror’ cf. Apul. Socr. 17 p. 158. See also above, n. 107.
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I can find no more appropriate way of concluding this article than by quoting Maaike Zimmerman’s observation on the use of inspicere in the Prologue, where the reader is asked not to decline to examine this papyrus: “… even when Apuleius talks about inspicere in speculum (‘looking into a mirror’), he presents looking into a mirror as an eminently philosophical occupation. As actual readers we too are invited to carry on our careful examination of the text of the Met., reflecting on what we see reflected there.”125 I dedicate this article to Maaike Zimmerman, who has been a κανών for me in many ways. Bibliography Barton, T.S. 1994. Power and Knowledge. Astrology, Physiognomics, and Medicine under the Roman Empire, Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Barton, C. 2002. ‘Being in the Eyes. Shame and Sight in Ancient Rome’, in: Fredrick (ed.), 216-235. Bartsch, S. 2000. ‘The Philosopher as Narcissus: Vision, Sexuality, and Self-Knowledge in Classical Antiquity’, in: R.S. Nelson (ed.), Visuality Before and Beyond the Renaissance, Cambridge: CUP, 70–97. Blümner, H. 1912. Technologie und Terminologie der Gewerbe und Künste bei Griechen und Römern, vol. 2, Hildesheim: Olms (repr. 1969). Bollók, J. 1996. ‘The description of Paul in the Acta Pauli’, in: J.N. Bremmer (ed.), The Apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla, Kampen: Pharos (Studies on the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, 2), 1–15. Couissin, J. 1953. ‘Suétone Physiognomoniste dans les Vies des XII Césars’, REL 31, 234– 256. De Lacy, P. (ed.). 1978. Galen, On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and Plato. Edition, Translation and Commentary by Phillip De Lacy, First Part: Books I–V, Berlin: AkademieVerlag (CMG V 4, 1, 2). Den Boeft, J., Drijvers, J.W., den Hengst, D., Teitler, H.C. 2005. Philological and Historical Commentary on Ammianus Marcellinus XXV, Leiden: Brill. Dietel, K. 1939. Das Gleichnis in der frühen griechischen Lyrik, Diss. München, WürzburgAumühle: Druckerei wissenschaftlicher Werke Konrad Triltsch. Edwards, D.R. 1993. ‘Defining the Web of Power in Asia Minor: The Novelist Chariton and his City Aphrodisias’, JAAR 67, 699–718. Evans, E.C. 1969. Physiognomics in the Ancient World, Philadelphia: The American Philosophical Society (Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, N.S. 59,5). Fiorencis, G., Gianotti, G.F. 1990. ‘Fedra e Ippolito in provincia’, MD 25, 71–114.
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Zimmerman 2001, 255. I thank Stephen Harrison, Luca Graverini, Stelios Panayotakis, Mladen Popović, and especially Thomas McCreight for their help with this article.
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Flinterman, J.-J. 1995. Power, Paideia & Pythagoreanism. Greek identity, conceptions of the relationship between philosophers and monarchs and political ideas in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius, Amsterdam: Gieben. Frangoulidis, S. 2002. ‘The Laughter Festival as a Community Integration Rite in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: Paschalis, Frangoulidis (edd.), 177–188. Fredrick, D. (ed.). 2002. The Roman Gaze. Vision, Power, and the Body, Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Gleason, M.W. 1995. Making Men. Sophists and Self-Representation in Ancient Rome, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Gooch, P.W. 1988. ‘Red Faces in Plato’, CJ 83, 124–127. Graverini, L. 2005. ‘Sweet and Dangerous? A Literary Metaphor (aures permulcere) in Apuleius’ Prologue’, in: Harrison, Paschalis, Frangoulidis (edd.), 177–196. Hanson, J.A. (ed., tr.). 1989. Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 2 Vols., Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press. Harrison, S.J. 2000. Apuleius. A Latin Sophist, Oxford: OUP. Harrison, S.J. 2002. ‘Literary Topography in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: Paschalis, Frangoulidis (edd.), 40–57. Harrison, S. Paschalis, M. Frangoulidis, S. (edd.) 2005. Metaphor and the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & Groningen University Library (AN, Supplementum 4). Helm, R. (ed.). 31931. Apulei Platonici Madaurensis Metamorphoseon Libri XI, Leipzig: Teubner (repr. 1992). Hicter, M. 1944. ‘L’autobiographie dans l’Âne d’Or d’Apulée’, AC 13, 95–111. Hilton, J.L. 2001. ‘Apuleius, Florida’, in: Stephen Harrison (ed.), Apuleius: Rhetorical Works, Translated and Annotated by S.J. Harrison, J.L. Hilton, and V.J.C. Hunink, Oxford: OUP, 121–176. Hijmans, B.L. jr. et al. 1977. Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses. Book IV 1–27. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis. Hijmans, B.L. jr. et al. 1995. Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses IX. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Holford-Strevens, L. 1997. ‘Aulus Gellius, the Non-visual Portraitist’, in: M.J. Edwards, S. Swain (edd.), Portraits: Biographical Representation in the Greek and Latin Literature of the Roman Empire, Oxford: OUP, 93–116. Holford-Strevens, L. 2003. Aulus Gellius. An Antonine Scholar and his Achievements, Second revised edition, Oxford: OUP. Hunink, V.J.C. 2001a. ‘Apuleius, Apology’, in: Stephen Harrison (ed.), Apuleius: Rhetorical Works, Translated and Annotated by S.J. Harrison, J.L. Hilton, and V.J.C. Hunink, Oxford: OUP, 11–121. Hunink, V. (ed., comm.). 2001b. Apuleius of Madauros, Florida, Amsterdam: Gieben. James, P. 1987. Unity in Diversity. A Study of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses with particular reference to the Narrator’s Art of Transformation and the Metamorphosis Motif in the Tale of Cupid and Psyche, Hildesheim-Zurich-New York: Olms. Kenney, E.J. 1990. Apuleius, Cupid & Psyche, Cambridge: CUP (Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics: Imperial Library). Keulen, W.H. 2003a. Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses, Book I, 1–20. Introduction, Text, Commentary, diss. Groningen.
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Keulen, W.H. 2003b. ‘Comic Invention and Superstitious Frenzy in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: The Figure of Socrates as an Icon of Satirical Self-exposure’, AJPh 124, 107– 135. Keulen, W.H. 2004a. ‘Lucius’ Kinship Diplomacy: Plutarchan Reflections in an Apuleian Character’, in: L. De Blois et al. (edd.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s works. Proceedings of the sixth International Conference of the International Plutarch Society, Nijmegen – Castle Hernen, May 1–5, 2002, Leiden: Brill, 261–273. Keulen, W.H. 2004b. ‘Gellius, Apuleius, and Satire on the Intellectual’, in: L. HolfordStrevens, A. Vardi (edd.), The Worlds of Aulus Gellius, Oxford: OUP, 215–237. Keulen, W.H. 2006 (forthcoming). ‘Vocis immutatio: the Apuleian Prologue and the pleasures and pitfalls of vocal versatility’, in: V. Rimell (ed.), Orality and Representation in the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing and The University Library Groningen (AN Supplementum, 5). Koster, S. 1974. ‘Vir bonus et sapiens (Ausonius 363 p. 90 P.)’, Hermes 102, 590–619. Koziol, H. 1872. Der Stil des L. Apuleius. Ein Beitrag zur Kenntnis des sogenannten afrikanischen Lateins, Wien: Carl Gerold’s Sohn, repr. 1988 Hildesheim – Zürich – New York: Olms. Kreikenbom, D. 1990. Bildwerke nach Polyklet. Kopienkritische Untersuchungen zu den männlichen statuarischen Typen nach polykletischen Vorbildern. ‘Diskophoros’, Hermes, Doryphoros, Herakles, Diadumenos, Berlin: Gebr. Mann. Lateiner, D. 1998. ‘Blushes and Pallor in Ancient Fictions’, Helios 25, 163–189. Löfstedt, E. 1936. Vermischte Studien zur lateinischen Sprachkunde und Syntax, Lund: C.W.K. Gleerup (Acta regia societatis humaniorum litterarum Lundensis, 23). Martin, D.B. 1995. The Corinthian Body, New Haven – London: Yale University Press. Mason, H.J. 1984. ‘Physiognomy in Apuleius Metamorphoses 2.2’, CPh 79, 307–309. Merlier-Espenel, V. 2001. ‘Dum haec identidem rimabundus eximie delector: remarques sur le plaisir esthétique de Lucius dans l’atrium de Byrrhène (Apulée, Mét. II,4 – II,5,1)’, Latomus 60, 135–148. Morales, H. 2004. Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon, Cambridge: CUP. Müller, D. 1974. Handwerk und Sprache. Die sprachlichen Bilder aus dem Bereich des Handwerks in der griechischen Literatur bis 400 v. Chr., Meisenheim am Glan: Verlag Anton Hain (Beiträge zur klassischen Philologie, 51). Nauta, R.R. 2005. ‘Het ‘klassieke’ en de Oudheid. Een korte begripsgeschiedenis’, Lampas 38 (2005), 92–107. Opeku, F. 1979. ‘Physiognomy in Apuleius’, in C. Deroux (ed.), Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History, Bruxelles (Collection Latomus, 164), 467–474. Oppel, H. 1937. ΚΑΝΩΝ. Zur Bedeutungsgeschichte des Wortes und seiner lateinischen Entsprechungen (regula-norma), Leipzig: Dieterich’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung (Philologus, Supplementband 30,4). Panayotakis, S., Zimmerman, M., Keulen, W. (edd.). 2003. The Ancient Novel and Beyond, Leiden: Brill. Paschalis, M. Frangoulidis, S. (edd.). 2002. Space in the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing and The University Library Groningen (AN Supplementum, 1). Perkins, J. 1995. The Suffering Self. Pain and Narrative Representation in the Early Christian Era, London – New York: Routledge. Popović, M. 2006. Reading the Human Body: Physiognomics and Astrology in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Hellenistic-Early Roman Period Judaism, Diss. Groningen.
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Rolfe, J.C. (ed., tr.). 1946–1952. Aulus Gellius, The Attic Nights, Vols. I–III, Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press. Rutherford, I. 1998. Canons of Style in the Antonine Age: Idea-Theory in its Literary Context. Oxford: OUP. Sassi, M.M. 2001. The Science of Man in Ancient Greece, transl. Paul Tucker, Chicago – London: The University of Chicago Press. Schmeling, G. 2005. ‘Callirhoe: God-like Beauty and the Making of a Celebrity’, in: Harrison, Paschalis, Frangoulidis (edd.), 36–49. Schmidt, O. 1897. Metapher und Gleichnis in den Schriften Lukians. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der griechischen Tropik, Winterthur: Buch druckerei Geschwister Ziegler. Schmitz, T. 1997. Bildung und Macht: zur sozialen und politischen Funktion der zweiten Sophistik in der griechischen Welt der Kaiserzeit, München: Beck (Zetemata, 97). Slater, N.W. 1998. ‘Passion and Petrifaction: The Gaze in Apuleius’, CPh 93,1, 18–48. Slater, N.W. 2003. ‘Spectator and Spectacle in Apuleius’, in: Panayotakis, Zimmerman, Keulen (edd.), 85–100. Stewart, A. 1997. Art, Desire, and the Body in Ancient Greece, Cambridge: CUP. Thomas, E. 1912. Studien zur lateinischen und griechischen Sprachgeschichte, Berlin: Weidmann. Too, Y.L. 1996. ‘Statues, mirrors, gods: controlling images in Apuleius’, in: J. Elsner (ed.), Art and Text in Roman Culture, Cambridge: CUP (Cambridge Studies in New Art History and Criticism), 133–152. Van Mal-Maeder, D. 2001. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses. Livre II. Texte, Introduction et Commentaire, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Vogt, W. 1975. C. Suetonius Tranquillus, Vita Tiberii: Kommentar, Diss. Würzburg. Watling, E.F. (transl.) 1966. Seneca, Four Tragedies and Octavia, London: Penguin. Whitmarsh, T. 1998. ‘Reading Power in Roman Greece: the paideia of Dio Chrysostom’, in: Y.L. Too, N.L. Livingstone (edd.), Pedagogy and Power. Rhetorics of classical learning, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (Ideas in Context, 50), 192–213. Zeitlin, F.I. 2003. ‘Living Portraits and Sculpted Bodies in Chariton’s Theater of Romance’, in: Panayotakis, Zimmerman, Keulen (edd.), 71–83. Zimmerman-de Graaf, M. 1992. Apuleius, Metamorphosen X, 1-22: Tekst, inleiding, commentaar, Diss. Groningen. Zimmerman, M. 2000. Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses. Book X, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Zimmerman, M. 2001. ‘Quis ille … lector: Addressee(s) in the Prologue and throughout the Metamorphoses’, in: A. Kahane, A. Laird (edd.), A Companion to the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Oxford: OUP, 245–255. Zimmerman M., Panayotakis S., Hunink V., Keulen W.H., Harrison S.J., McCreight T.D., Wesseling B., Van Mal-Maeder D. 2004. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Books IV,28 – VI,24. Cupid and Psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten.
The Language of Animals and the Text of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses1 E LLEN F INKELPEARL Scripps College
One of the most dire consequences of Lucius’ transformation into an ass in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses is his inability to speak in the language of humans. Almost as soon as he sees that his body is covered in hair and his ears have grown immoderately, Lucius realizes that he cannot rebuke Fotis for her error since he is “iam humano gestu simul et uoce priuatus” (‘lacking human gestures as well as words’) and that he will have to settle for inadequate gestures and complain “tacitus”, ‘in silence’ (3,25: 70,20–22).2 Several times in the course of the novel, the ass vainly tries to call attention to injustices using human language, but is finally only able to say part of what he wants to say, in the form of bestial braying. While Lucius retains many of his human senses, the inability to utter articulate communicative sounds renders him, according to ancient philosophical ideas about animal articulation, inhuman almost as much as does his animal body.3 Yet, a neat distinction between human and animal based on any of the traditional boundaries between them—language, food, living space, sexual partnership, level of “civilization,” etc.—is inadequate to the complex blurring and deliberate undoing of such distinctions throughout the Metamorphoses. Not only is Lucius himself simultaneously and complicatedly both ————— 1 2
3
For Maaike with the greatest fondness and admiration. In citation of Apuleius’ Met. I refer to the edition of Helm (1968). Translations are by Hanson 1989 (occasionally modified) unless stated otherwise. “Language of animals” in this essay is to be taken broadly to mean the language that Lucius attempts to speak, animal sounds uttered by animals and humans (such as mugitus, hinnitus, etc.) and also occasionally language used about animals. While the focus of this essay is very much on the text, arguments about the text will be completely based on literary interpretation, leaving the paleographical arguments to those better equipped to make them. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 203–221
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ass and man as a result of his metamorphosis, but other animals, humans, plants and inanimate objects share frequently in this kind of ambiguous and changing status and, in Book 11, even the gods sometimes look like animals (e.g. 11,11). As Nancy Shumate says of the pre-conversion world of Lucius in general, including categories of life and death, human and animal, art and life, sleep and waking, animate and inanimate: A consistent feature of Lucius’ unfolding preconversion world view is the disintegration of the ontological and conventional categories that would have been the mainstays of his quotidian thinking and organization of reality. Common oppositions that structure thought and whose axiomatic status is rarely questioned…begin to collapse….Thus it is not simply a case of a man becoming an animal. Lucius is stuck somewhere between the two; he does not belong unambiguously to one category or the other. In view of his predicament, the categories themselves begin to seem quite inadequate.4 Thus, it is meaningless to say, for example, that humans often act like animals in the Metamorphoses or that hierarchies are reversed; rather, the work tortures the very distinctions themselves.5 (The Tale of Cupid and Psyche, however, creates a very different world, a fairy tale world in which animals speak human language without difficulty and without question and move in
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Shumate 1996, 62, 65. Schlam 1992, Chapter 9 “Animal and Human” presents a mixed view of the humananimal divide. In the early parts of his chapter, he seems to argue for a sharp distinction between human and animal delineated in the work: “The story of the transformation of a human being into an ass depends on an antithesis between human and animal…. The animality of much human behavior receives considerable emphasis” (100). Later, he argues that “the conception of animals as inferior to man, the dominant classical convention from Homer on, is challenged by the treatment of animal motifs throughout the work. The hierarchy is repudiated by the role of animals in the cult practices described in book 11” (109). In general, Schlam seems to see a reordering of categories and hierarchies so that both animals and humans finally have a proper place in an ordered cosmos under Isis (100). Shelton 2005 in an article which meticulously and admirably avoids anthropocentrism, emphasizes the hierarchies (gender and species) present in the world in which Lucius and the novel are situated. While she grants that boundaries are fluid, she foregrounds the ill effects and dangers of the transgression of boundaries and she assumes that the text seeks to reinforce rather than question those boundaries.
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the same circles as humans. Although distinctions are erased, they are erased without tension.6) The fluidity and collapse of boundaries between human and animal, animate and inanimate not only is evident at the level of plot, but is mirrored at the linguistic level. As Callebat has demonstrated in detail, Apuleius is among the most productive of Latin authors of neologisms, a confounder of the expected, who manipulates language to show the reversibility and instability of human actions, and, in a world of magic come true, creates through his different linguistic levels expressions to describe his world of new combinations, interconnections and disconnections.7 In the case of language used by and about animals, this inventiveness and expressive flexibility operates to collapse the boundaries between animal and human and to undo assumptions about species differentiation. For establishing the text of the Metamorphoses, a careful consideration of the mechanisms of Apuleius’ linguistic inventiveness to describe the liminal state of humans in metamorphosis or the collapsed boundaries between species even at other times is essential in order to avoid throwing out readings because they are unattested elsewhere or seem not to make sense. An apt example of Apuleius’ adaptation of an existing linguistic formation to express the metamorphic condition in the work is the “in bouem [sic] mugire” (6,29) construction, as found in Charite’s words to the ass as he carries her on his back: Quodsi uere Iuppiter mugiuit in bouem, potest in asino meo latere aliqui uel uultus hominis uel facies deorum, ‘but if Jupiter truly bellowed with the throat of a bull, perhaps in this ass I am riding lurks the face of a man or the likeness of a god’ (6,29: 151,9–11).8 W.T. McKibben shows that Apuleius has imported a sub-literary use of in with accusative in instances where Apuleius’ characters have become animals, to mean “as” or “as if being.” While the primary function of the construction is as “in identitatis,” it also suggests a “pun on the preposition” where we were expecting “in bouem mutatus” or the like. McKibben denies that Jupiter in any sense mooed himself into a bull, arguing that the sense “into” is merely alluded to. However, it seems to me that McKibben’s arguments should be broadened to comprehend more of the latent transformative meaning of in ————— 6 7
8
See e.g. James 2005, esp. 213–217 on speaking birds in Cupid and Psyche. Callebat 1978, 177–178 and passim. Much more could, of course, be said here about the uniqueness and expressivity of Apuleius’ style. See McKibben 1951.
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with accusative. Actaeon, “iam in ceruum [sic] ferinus”, ‘in the very act of changing into a stag’ (2,4: 28,9): his metamorphosis, his becoming, is at the heart of the myth. Jupiter did undergo metamorphosis and his animal speech is part of his transition into bovinity; perhaps he did moo while a god, and the ambiguously transformed construction emphasizes liminality where in bove (an emendation following one of the inferior mss. accepted by Helm and Robertson) would dully imply that one either is or is not a bull.9 Another example of the way a consideration of Apuleius’ representation of human/animal liminality can lead to accepting a reading of F that might otherwise be considered untenable is found in Maaike Zimmerman’s commentary at 10,15 (248,2-4). The text reads: Nam neque asinum, qui solus interesset, talibus cibis adfici posse et tamen cotidie †pa~tes† electiles conparere nusquam10 The ass, they said, who was the only creature present, could not possibly be attracted by that sort of dish, and yet every day their choice … were disappearing While recent editors have adopted Oudendorp’s emendation “partis” or “partes,” Zimmerman prints pastus, speculating that Apuleius may have in mind Lucretius 6,1127: “hominum pastus pecudumque cibatus,” the first attested passage in which pastus is used of human food. She adds: In using this remarkable phrase, Lucretius may have wished to suggest that disease and decay, when they occur in nature, do not distinguish between human and animal food. If so, Apuleius in referring to Lucretius’ remarkable line is playing on the dichotomy between animal and human food which is prominent in this context: like Lucretius, he transfers pastus, which is used especially of animal food, to human food.11 ————— 9
10
11
After GCA 1981, 58, the reading “in bouem” which is anyway the reading of F, seems firmly accepted. See also GCA 1977, 51; van der Paardt 1971, 179 for details and crossreferences. According to Zimmerman in GCA 2000, 220, the original reading of F, pastis, has been changed by a different hand to pa~tes and φ has pastis, while Robertson reports that a* has pastus. Zimmerman points out that the st is strongly represented and that therefore pastus should not be brushed aside. Zimmerman in GCA 2000, 221.
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The context here, of course, is that Lucius may be rehabituating himself in various ways to human existence, eating human food, enjoying the human convivium, etc. In such a context, the word partis is inert, while pastus makes the nature of this food nicely ambiguous: is it animal food or human food? Despite the fact that Lucius’ consumption of decidedly human food seems to be re-civilizing him, critics also note that he consumes such food in animal quantities, even excessively for an animal, as he is growing fat, and that it is luxurious food suited to the animalistic gluttony of bestial humans.12 Whether or not Apuleius is referring to Lucretius, it is clear that the division of food into animal vs. human food is not as distinct as it had seemed previously to the cooks, and that pastus renders nicely that ambiguity—which I would emphasize here more than the dichotomy between animal and human food. Another passage in which a consideration of the changed conditions of species boundaries could lead to reconsidering a reading of F widely rejected occurs at 3,26, soon after Lucius’ transformation: praeclarus ille uector meus cum asino capita conferunt in meamque perniciem ilico consentiunt et, uerentes scilicet cibariis suis, uix me praesepio uidere proximantem, deiectis auribus iam furentes infestis calcibus insecuntur. et abigor quam procul ab ordeo, quod adposueram uesperi meis manibus illi gratissimo famulo. (3,26: 71,22–27) illigatissimo (F, φ) ; illi gratissimo (v) …that noble mount of mine and the ass put their heads together and immediately agreed on my destruction. No doubt they were afraid for their own rations: the moment they saw me getting close to the manger they lowered their ears and attacked me furiously with hostile kicks. I was driven far away from the barley which with my very own hands I had set before this fine, grateful servant of mine that evening. Helm, Robertson, Giarratano-Frassinetti, Hanson, and van der Paardt all print illi gratissimo attested in the deteriores. Editors presumably have chosen gratissimo in response to the generally ironic tone of Lucius’ complaints ————— 12
On animal and human food, see Zimmerman in GCA 2000, 21–22, 201, 221 and passim; Schlam 1992, 100–103, Strub 1985, 177, 181–184 and in general Heath 1982.
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about the hospitality of his horse (equum illum uectorem meum probissimum, ‘my horse, my most excellent mount’ [3,26: 71,15]; praeclarus ille uector meus). His initial expectation that there is a “tacitum ac naturale sacramentum” (‘unspoken natural bond of allegiance’ [3,26: 71,18 f.]) among mute animals and that his horse would recognize and pity him has proven false; instead he is being attacked by the animals defending their food.13 A sarcastic comment on his horse’s ingratitude is most appropriate. Further, a demonstrative (illi) accompanying the adjective is consistent with the references to the horse cited above. On the other hand, the lines that follow could offer an argument in favor of “illigatissimo” attested in the better mss.: sic adfectus atque in solitudinem relegatus angulo stabuli concesseram. dumque de insolentia collegarum meorum mecum cogito atque in alterum diem auxilio rosario Lucius denuo futurus equi perfidi uindictam meditor… (3,27: 71,28–72,2) Thus ill-treated and condemned to solitude, I withdrew into a corner of the stable. While I was pondering the effrontery of my colleagues and plotting the revenge I would take on my treacherous horse the next day, when I became Lucius again with the aid of roses … With the words “equi perfidi,” Lucius-auctor does away with the irony as well as with the demonstrative pronoun. More importantly, the word “collegarum” introduces another aspect of the relationship of man to equine: Lucius is now an equal and linked to his horse and Milo’s ass in shape and vocation. OLD s.v. collega lists only this passage in reference to animals, a fresh adaptation of the word to fit the startling new equality of man and horse. It is also relevant to compare the passage at 7,3 when Lucius, frustrated that he cannot say “non feci” when he hears that he has been accused of robbing Milo’s house, complains about his lot: ————— 13
It is worth noting here that Lucius is annoyed at being chased from the barley that he thinks he has a right to. Critics frequently emphasize that Lucius rejects animal food, but there is reason to believe that Lucius is interested in the barley in this passage. See further below.
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sed quid ego pluribus de Fortunae scaeuitate conqueror, [quan]quam nec istud puduit me cum meo famulo meoque uectore illo equo factum conseruum atque coniugem. (7,3: 156,15–18) But what need to say more in my complaints against Fortune’s perversity? She was not even ashamed to make me the fellow-slave and yokemate of my own servant and carrier, my horse. Here Apuleius has given “coniunx” a previously unattested meaning, reactivating the usually dormant etymology of the word (‘yoke-fellow’). He also brings out emphatically here the notion that he and his horse, once his “slave,” are now fellow-slaves, linked together as if by a yoke.14 We should not take this too literally; Lucius does not ever plough fields yoked with his horse; rather, it is their fates and their existential states that are linked, and the startling use of “coniunx” brings out vividly just how linked they are. At 3,26 (71,27), then, the reading “illigatissimo famulo” would make use of a newly created superlative to describe the manner in which Lucius is now “most bound” or linked to his horse, formerly his slave.15 It is worth noting above that Lucius is annoyed at being chased from the barley to which he thinks he has a right. Critics frequently emphasize that Lucius rejects animal food, but there is reason to believe that he is interested in the barley in this passage.16 At the very end of Book 3, Lucius restrains himself from eating roses because he is afraid of being killed as a practitioner of the arts of magic, saying: Tunc igitur a rosis et quidem necessario temperaui et casum praesentem tolerans in asini faciem faena rodebam. (3,29: 74,5–7)
————— 14
15
16
See GCA 1981, 100. The commentators mention the Platonic subtext, but perhaps the more relevant connection for my purposes at the moment is that of slavery. For discussion of Lucius-ass as slave, an important undercurrent of the novel, see Fitzgerald 2000, Bradley 2000. It does not seem to me a problem that Lucius had set the horse’s food out “uesperi” and that it is not until now that the horse is “illigatissimus” since the alternative reading “illi gratissimo” faces the same problem: it is not until now that the beast’s ingratitude is at issue. Schlam 1992, 101 argues that Lucius has no interest in animal fodder here, and sharply differentiates animal from human food.
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I therefore refrained from eating the roses at that time out of necessity, and, bearing up under my present misfortune, I continued to munch hay in the likeness of an ass. A moment later, though in the next book, he is seeking more congenial food, “adhuc insolitum alioquin prandere faenum”, ‘since in any case I was as yet unaccustomed to dining on hay’ (4,1: 74,18–19). Gruter had for this reason emended to “frena rodebam,” which van der Paardt prints, while Helm accepts the mss. reading following Leo who understands the phrase to mean “me rodere simulabam.”17 It seems to me that liminality, uncertainty and ambivalence are again at work in the apparent contradiction between the end of Book 3 when Lucius seems to be eating hay and the beginning of Book 4 when he claims that he is not used to animal food. Lucius is struggling with his species identity; at the end of book 3, he resigns himself to tolerating his bestial form for the sake of safety, and he performs the action of eating hay “in asini faciem,”18 a phrase which seems to carry with it some sense of identification with other asses. In 4,1, on the other hand, Lucius rebels against being an animal that walks “incuruo gradu” (‘with a bent gait’) and longs to find roses so that he can rise up into the upright stature of a human. It is here that he claims reluctance to graze with his horse and ass (note his willingness at 10,29 to eat raw grass even as he is dining like a human), but his eating of garden vegetables is described using words (uentrem sagino, ‘I stuffed my ————— 17
18
Robertson, ad loc. also accepts the reading of F, but with more hesitation than Helm. Van der Paardt gives several reasons for emending to “frena rodebam:” the contradictory information about hay in 4,1, the rarity of faena plural, the fact that the thieves are on the road and hence “faena rodere is unlikely.” More compellingly, van der Paardt cites Mazzarino who calls attention to Onos 17 where Lukios says that the animals were muzzled so that they couldn’t slow down progress by grazing along the way. Lukios then resigns himself to remaining an ass. The parallel is not sufficiently close, however, to support emendation, since there is no mention of such muzzling in Apuleius and since the phrase, whether it is faena rodebam or frena rodebam is metaphorical in Apuleius where there is no such trope in the Onos. In asini faciem faena/frena rodebam: “I continued to eat hay in the likeness of an ass” (Hanson); “I behaved as an ass should and munched my bit instead” (Walsh); “I gnawed my hay like any other ass” (Lindsay). Callebat 1968, 231 states: “Chez Apulée, in faciem n’apparait que comme un simple synonyme de ritu.” This phrase is not discussed in McKibben’s article, but is of the same type, in identitatis. The in with accusative, I would argue, is not to be seen as only a feature of colloquial language, but, as in other cases, carries with it an idea of becoming or transformation. By eating hay, Lucius is potentially becoming more an ass, something he denies a moment later.
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belly’) properly applied to animal, not human consumption. The contradiction here is not cause for emendation or even for interpreting the passage to mean that Lucius “pretended” to eat hay. As has often been noted, sometimes Lucius is determined to prove he is not truly an ass mentally, but at other times his animal body guides him to behave like a donkey.19 These two passages need not present a uniform picture of his eating habits, therefore, and the contradiction that is part of his liminal state should not be emended away. Let us survey some other examples more quickly. At 1,9 Socrates tells Aristomenes that Pamphile has transformed a rival innkeeper into a frog and now “officiosis roncis raucus appellat”, ‘he calls out hoarsely with courteous croaks’ (1,9: 9,3). While F reads “rontis,” editors are unanimous in printing roncis, rightly, not just because rontis is meaningless, but because “roncis” is once again a word taken from human vocalization (snoring—rather appropriate for an innkeeper anyway!) and re-invented to portray animal sounds made by a newly transformed human. Apuleius exploits the onomatopoetic qualities of the word and its similarities to both raucus and rana to convey the new meaning to the reader.20 In the Metamorphoses, even the boundaries between animate and inanimate break down. At 2,4, in the Actaeon ekphrasis, the narrator describes the hunter’s dogs as they are rendered in the sculptural group and adds: “sicunde de proximo latratus ingruerit, eum putabis de faucibus lapidis exire”, ‘so that if the sound of barking burst in from next door you would think it had come from the marble’s jaws’ (2,4: 27,13–14). Elmenhorst’s emendation, “lapideis,” is not only not necessary,21 but would detract from the play between art and life, real and impossible that is so dominant in the passage. Hanson’s translation “if the sound of barking burst in, you would think it came from the marble’s jaws” catches the sense that perhaps the marble could have jaws and could bark.22 ————— 19 20 21 22
See e.g. Zimmerman in GCA 2000, 22–23. See Keulen 2003 ad loc., 200. Cf. van Mal-Maeder in GCA 2001, 103. Also worth mentioning is 2,16: pullulatim/pullulatim where Fotis drinks either like a bird or slowly. I have nothing to add beyond van Mal-Maeder’s note (GCA 2001, 251 f.) which defends F’s reading via references to other erotic animal-language in the Metamorphoses. Here, Apuleius has apparently invented an animal word even though the referent did not undergo metamorphosis.
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While Lucius returns to human form and recovers his power of speech and his place in human society in Book 11, the boundaries between human and animal—and further between human, animal, and god—are not clear and set.23 The linguistic inventiveness that signals a newly imagined world continues. At 11,14, a priest gives Lucius a robe to cover himself: quo facto sacerdos uultu geniali et hercules inhumano in aspectum meum attonitus sic effatur, ‘After this the priest, staring in astonishment at me with a kindly and – by Hercules – more than human expression, addressed me as follows:’ (277,2–4). F reads “perhumano” but, according to edd., per was changed from in by another hand. Griffiths, however, prints “perhumanum in aspectum meum” arguing that “inhumanus” usually means “barbarous” and also that there is no reason to dwell on the priest’s face, while we do require a reason for his astonishment. Griffiths’ argument about the meaning of “inhumanus” is of course exactly the point; “inhumanus” makes us take another look and question whether what is not human is necessarily sub-human or whether it could be divine.24 The world of Book 11, in Lucius’ eyes, is alive: the beasts and even the houses are joyous, birds sing the praises of Isis and plants even seem to smile and whisper: quid quod arbores etiam, quae pomifera subole fecundae quaeque earum tantum umbra contentae steriles, austrinis laxatae flatibus, germine foliorum renidentes, clementi motu brachiorum dulces strepitus obsibilabant. (11,7: 271,24–28) filiorum (F, φ); foliorum (v) ————— 23
24
Schlam 1992, 100: “In book 11 both animals and humans are envisioned as having proper places in a divinely ordered cosmos, and animals provide totemic images of the divine.” Shelton 2005, 303–304: “In the system represented in Book 11, order is maintained and the lives of humans….suffer no disturbance if all creatures respect the boundaries which define and separate the ranks.” Both these statements may be true, but it is important to qualify them by stressing that the order presented in Book 11 is not the status quo. This is a world in which animals are elevated to the rank of the divine and where Isis endows plants and animals with unusual powers… This is a world where all is right and in place, but it is not a world in which the normal boundaries set by social convention are recognized. Apuleius is the only author to use “inhumanus” to mean “divine.” He also uses it of Cupid’s table at 5,8 (109,5). See GCA 2004, 160 where the commentators call attention to the ambiguity of the term: inhumanus means “beyond human” but also refers to the bestial nature (real and imagined) of Cupid.
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Why, even the trees – both the fertile ones with their offspring of fruit and the fruitless ones content to produce only shade – loosened by the southerly breezes and glistening with leaf-buds, rustled sweet whispers with the gentle motion of their arms. This whole passage is replete with personification and with an altered view of the natural world. The use of “brachiorum” instead of “ramorum” presents us with trees that have arms. Just as Lucius has, as a beast, prayed to Isis (and see further below), so the birds seem to utter prayers with their song and the trees rustle and whisper in a manner that borders on talk. The better manuscripts here read “germine filiorum renidentes” a phrase which would be a strain, particularly since some of the trees are said to have only shade and not to produce fruit, but one can see how such a word would creep in to this passage full of fertility and humanization of the trees. Lucius’ attempts at speech As noted above, Lucius as ass attempts to speak several times in the novel and finds himself three times unable to say what he wants. The issues raised above about the liminality of Lucius’ existential state are still relevant, but the textual issues that arise are more miscellaneous. Three times (3,29; 7,3; 8,29) Lucius attempts to speak human language, but on two occasions he proudly speaks as an animal. Finally, as I have argued before, Lucius does succeed in speaking as a donkey under the divine protection of Isis.25 His emotions and psycho-physical reactions to Isis in this section involve several textual cruces. The first time Lucius attempts to speak occurs at 3,29 and raises questions about what language we are to understand Lucius to be trying to speak as an ass:26 ————— 25
26
See Finkelpearl 1998, Ch. 8 for a discussion of the passage at 11,1–3 where Lucius is fully awake and prays to Isis aloud. I omit the occasion just after his metamorphosis when Lucius realizes that he is deprived of a voice (3,25: 70,19–23): “querens de facto Fotidis, sed iam humano gestu simul et uoce priuatus, quod solum poteram, postrema deiecta labia, umidis tamen oculis oblicum respiciens ad illam tacitus expostulabam”, ‘I wanted to complain about what Photis had done, but I lacked human gestures as well as words. Still, I did the only thing I could: I hung my lower lip, looked askance at her with moist eyes, and berated her in silence’. Here, van der Vliet deleted querens de facto Fotidis. Though he is not followed by other
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inter ipsas turbelas Graecorum genuino sermone nomen augustum Caesaris inuocare temptaui; et O quidem tantum disertum ac ualidum clamitaui, reliquum autem Caesaris nomen enuntiare non potui. (3,29: 73,15–18) Graecorum suppl. Robertson I tried amidst those crowds of Greeks to invoke the august name of Caesar in my native tongue. And indeed I shouted the “O” by itself eloquently and vigorously, but I could not pronounce the rest of Caesar’s name. The passage is clearly adapted from Onos 16 where Lukios tries to call out “O Caesar” but can only get as far as the “O.” It is assumed that Lucius is trying to say “Oh Caesar” here (cf. GCA 1981, 97) in parallel with the Greek of the Onos, and perhaps that he is saying it in Greek.27 It is unclear whether Graecorum modifies turbelas or sermone: Walsh: “I tried to call on the august name of Caesar in my native Greek;” Hanson: “I tried amidst those crowds of Greeks to invoke the august name of Caesar in my native tongue.” I would suggest, first of all that the text ambiguously sets up the possibility that Lucius might be trying to say “Au-gustus” or “Augustus Caesar” rather than “O Caesar” since he puns just before on the “nomen augustum Caesaris” and since he tells us that he could not say “reliquum Caesaris nomen” or the rest of Caesar’s name (cf. OLD s.v. reliquus 1), not that he could not say Caesar’s name at all.28 —————
27
28
editors, it is worth noting that querens seems here to be redefined by the gestures Lucius invents to express his complaint. It is a first attempt at a new type of communication and is accompanied by a refiguring of the word queror following Ovid’s use in the Io episode in Metamorphoses I: “cum Ioue uisa queri” where, however, uisa implies that queri is a human activity which can only seem to be performed by an animal. If there is any question, “querens…Fotidis” should be retained both because of the Ovidian parallel and because it is part of a re-imagined conception of the language of a human animal. In general, Ovid’s play with the moments at which humans try to speak as they are being transformed into animals forms a background and interesting point of comparison to Apuleius. Cf. James 2005, 218 with n. 15 on Roman anecdotes about the possibility to teach the apostrophe “Caesar” to animals (i.e. birds). I do not mean to imply that “reliquum Caesaris nomen” could not mean “the rest, i.e. Caesar’s name,” but that the more natural way to construe the phrase would be “the rest of Caesar’s name.”
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The question of whether, with Robertson, to supply however, remains. The speaker of the prologue self-identifies as a Greek, but he composes his narrative in Latin. Lucius, who may or may not be the speaker of various parts of the prologue, demonstrates both that he can understand Latin while an ass and that he can earn money pleading in the Roman forum, a skill he apparently had when the book began (see Keulen 2003, 13).29 Luca Graverini is disinclined to reject Robertson’s conjecture, emphasizing Lucius’ Latinity, but there is also the question of why Lucius would be eager to speak to Greeks in Latin which they might not understand.30 The issue could be broadened to include the notion that “genuino sermone” could mean neither Latin nor Greek, but human language; Lucius tries in his inborn human language to call on the emperor, but all that results is animal language.31 A similar phrase occurs at 9,33 when a hen, as part of the frightening omens in that section, runs into the middle of the room, “clangore genuino uelut ouum parere gestiens personabat”, ‘cackling in the usual way, as if she wanted to lay an egg’ (9,33: 228,7). Here genuino attached to a word describing vocalization indicates that this is the natural sound made by that species. A distinction between Latin and Greek may therefore be irrelevant at 3,29; rather the main distinction is between human and animal talk. Apuleius seems to be playing with the ambiguity of whether Lucius is trying to speak Latin (his actual language in the book) or Greek (his supposed native language and the language of the source), and he maintains ambiguity by positioning Graecorum as an unclear modifier. More to the point is the third “language,” that of animals. To add Romanorum is miss the point that Lucius’ “genuinus sermo” is human language. The other two instances when Lucius futilely attempts speech are worth noting briefly, but involve no relevant textual cruces. At 7,3 (156,14), Lucius tries to clear himself of the charge that he pillaged Milo’s house and can say only “non,” again an “o” sound. At 8,29 (200,23 f.), Lucius tries to say “porro Quirites,” but here at least he grants that “processit O tantum sane clarum et ualidum et asino proprium” (‘all that came out was “O …,” loud and strong and ass-like’), where his frustration at not being able to call on his fellow citizens is mitigated by his satisfaction in making such a strong and ————— 29 30 31
For a different approach see Hijmans in this volume, n. 9. Graverini forthcoming. For a similar suggestion see Keulen 1997, 206–207 n. 20.
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clear sound.32 At 7,13 (163,27–164,2) too, Lucius proudly and voluntarily brays to proclaim his heroic involvement in the rescue of Charite: “porrectis auribus proflatisque naribus rudiui fortiter, immo tonanti clamore personui” (‘I stretched out my ears, flared out my nostrils and brayed my best – I should say trumpeted with thunderous din’). Lucius actually seems to enjoy being an ass and making noise like an ass for a moment. Animal sound is granted its own kind of validity.33 Earlier, at 6,28, however, Lucius imagines he is a horse and whinnies in response to Charite:34 equestri celeritate quadripedi cursu solum replaudens uirgini[s] delicatas uoculas adhinnire temptabam. (6,28: 149,25–26) I smote the earth in a four-footed gallop with the speed of a racehorse; I tried to neigh soft sentences to the maiden. GCA 1981, 48 points to the erotic language of the passage; Lucius surreptitiously kisses Charite’s feet, while her speech ends by evoking Europa and Jupiter’s liaison. The words “equestri celeritate,” as GCA notes, are confusing, since equestris should refer to horsemen, not horses, but Apuleius again seems to be bending the meaning of a word in order to bring out the ambiguity of Lucius’ species—human or equine. The combination of uoculas and gannitus spoken by Charite (6,27: 149,21) is found again in the episode of the matrona (10,22) where Maaike Zimmerman remarks that Apuleius is the first to use gannitus of (inarticulate) human sounds.35 Here, then, both participants threaten the species barrier. Lucius, though, also insists on portraying himself as a horse, if he is going to be an animal at all, and the repetition of “quadripedi cursu” at 6,28 (149,25 and cf. 6,27: 149,4) which van der ————— 32
33
34
35
GCA 1985, 259 note that Lucius is proud of his braying abilities; clarum is rather surprising given what people say about asses’ dissonant braying. See below on Apuleius’ interest in and admiration of animal noises in the Florida. One might note as well that in Book 4 Thrasyleon’s refusal to cry out in human language but rather to keep to the fides sacramenti by uttering only bear sounds is part of what makes him worthy of immortality; speaking like an animal thus leads the bandit closer to the gods. Hinnire is used only of horses in the Metamorphoses, so it is comical that Lucius attempts to sound like a horse, something commentaries do not seem to emphasize. Zimmerman in GCA 2000, 285.
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Vliet wished to delete is surely a deliberate mockery by the narrator of the actor’s insistence that he is either a knight or a horse, but not a donkey.36 Finally, in Book 11, upon sensing the presence of the goddess, Lucius, though still a donkey, speaks. Two passages, at 11,1 and 11,7 frame Lucius’ contact with Isis; the textual issues that arise in these sections center not so much around speech itself, but around the emotions springing from contact with the divine and their physical manifestations. At 11,1, Lucius wakes and, understanding that he is in the presence of divinity, shakes off his sleep: confestimque discussa pigra quiete alacer exurgo meque protinus purificandi studio marino lauacro trado septiesque summerso fluctibus capite, quod eum numerum praecipue religionibus aptissimum diuinus ille Pythagoras prodidit, laetus et alacer deam praepotentem lacrimoso uultu sic adprecabar. (11,1: 266,23–267,3) Quickly I shook off my sluggish sleep and arose eagerly. Desiring to purify myself I went at once to bathe in the sea, plunging my head under the waves seven times, because the divine Pythagoras had declared that number to be especially appropriate to religious rituals. Then, my face covered with tears, I prayed with joy and fervor to the mighty goddess. The disputes around this passage are well-known: Leo had objected to the use of laetus for a weeping Lucius and hence deleted laetus et alacer. Robertson follows Leo, adding to 266,23, objecting more to the repetition of alacer than to the tears. Griffiths adopts Robertson’s reading, arguing that Lucius was in an unhappy state despite the presence of the goddess. Fredouille defends the reading of F with reference to 1,17 (where Aristomenes comments that sometimes we cry for joy and laugh with fear) and ————— 36
Lucius presents a similar equine ambiguity at 8,16 and 8,23. At 8,16 (189,19 f.): “me cursu celeri ceteros equos antecellentem” (‘surpassing all the other horses with my swift gait’), van der Vliet supplied so as to exclude Lucius from the ranks of horses. As GCA 1985, 152 point out, this is unnecessary both because Lucius seems to imagine himself a horse here, even a winged horse, and because ceteros can be understood to mean “also” in the manner of Greek allos or Latin alius. At 8,23 (195,5), Lucius mentions that the equi atque alii asini were purchased, but he was not. Here the same alius-construction can free Lucius from inclusion in this group; the phrase can mean either “the horses and the other asses” which would include him, or “the horses and the asses as well” which would allow him to be whatever mixed-up species he feels he is at the moment.
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3,29 where the same two adjectives appear together. Three factors seem important to me here: the frequency with which laetus et alacer appear together; the religious aptness of being alacer and, most of all, the profound confusion of emotions experienced by Lucius at this moment. A comparison with the passage at 11,7 is illuminating. After Lucius has poured out his prayer, he goes back to sleep and has a dream vision of Isis in which he sees her and hears her speak. When she disappears, he wakes (11,7: 271,10–11): “nec mora cum somno protinus absolutus pauore et gaudio ac dein sudore nimio permixtus exurgo” (‘at once I was quickly released from sleep, and I rose in a confusion of fear and joy, and covered with sweat’), after which, much as before, Lucius washes himself in the sea and wonders at Isis’ powers over nature. He feels contradictory emotions—fear and joy— and he cannot seem to distinguish between his physical and emotional responses. He sweats. Griffiths debates whether pauore et gaudio ac dein sudore is a zeugma or not. The point is that Lucius cannot distinguish the physical from the emotional and the concatenation of unlike terms expresses his confusion. This text of this passage has been disputed,37 but a parallel to Aeneas’ reaction to the epiphany of the Penates at Aeneid 3,175–176 shows that this is a standard reaction: “tum gelidus toto manabat corpore sudor/corripio e stratis corpus.”38 Aeneas both sweats and leaps up in eager reaction to the divine. If we return to 11,1, then, clearly the presence of tears cannot rule out joy and perhaps the repetition of “alacer” describes something like a prompt religious response. In brief conclusion, this paper has examined the ways that the liminal state of Lucius as quasi-animal and of the porousness of the boundaries between species in the novel, expressed via creative use of language, must be considered in establishing the text of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. A parting thought about the broader philosophical context: the Metamorphoses sets up a world in which commonly-held ancient philosophical ideas about the distinctions between animal and human do not hold. Touching only lightly on this immense subject, I would like to suggest that yet another way that Lucius (and the book) traces his ancestry to Plutarch is in its position with regard to the debate over the the rational capabilities of animals. While Aristotle and later the Stoics denied animals reason and speech and the capacity for other men————— 37 38
pauore et stupore (Cornelissen) ac dein gaudio (van der Vliet). I owe this parallel to my student Ela Harrison of Berkeley.
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tal activity, Plutarch objects to the Stoic denial of planning in animals and the ability to feel emotions (Sollertia, Mor. 961C–F) and claims that animals (birds in particular) can generate articulate utterance (Sollertia, Mor. 973A). In the Bruta animalia ratione uti (‘That Irrational Animals Use Reason’), he puts a sophisticated (and sophistic) argument about reason and intelligence in animals in the mouth of one of Odysseus’ men transformed into a pig by Circe, who claims he would rather remain an animal, comically siding with the Cynic view of animal superiority.39 The Metamorphoses, as a work of fictional narrative rather than philosophical discourse, does not explicitly and systematically set up any such arguments. But the work does confound the neat distinction between rational humans and brute animals, speaking humans and mute animals in ways that sometimes explicitly evoke philosophy and at other times attribute rational thought to animals other than himself (e.g. 3,26; 4,5; 10,33; 10,34) or a kind of speech to animals.40 In the Florida, Apuleius repeatedly touches on the differences between human and animal vocalization, generally praising the beauty and variety of animal sounds vs. the expressiveness of human speech.41 His excerpt on the parrot (Florida 12) teases the reader with the bird’s human qualities.42 Even as Apuleius points out that parrots can only say what they have learned (presumably meaning that they can’t generate syntax and new combinations of words), he tells us that the variety that best learns to speak is the one that has five toes like a human, and he stresses that if you heard it you would think it a human. Hunink suggests that the full speech “may have developed the contrast of man and animal and the ideal use of human language” and that there may have been philosophical overtones.43 In short, the Florida explicitly interests itself in the same distinctions between man and animal as does the Metamorphoses implicitly—though ————— 39
40
41
42 43
Plut. Mor. 986F-987B; 991D-992A. On these points, see Sorabji 1993, 52–53, 81, 160, and 178–179, and see in general the whole book for a history of Classical (and modern) philosophical views about animals, humans and rationality. In any case, those who read the Metamorphoses as philosophical allegory vel sim. do not demand that it set up logical arguments about Platonism. Also, see Gianotti 1986 on animals and the philosophical elements. Florida 13 compares the speech of philosophers to birdsong; Florida 17 celebrates the volume and mellifluousness of the uox of animals, while preferring the utilitas of the human voice. Nonetheless, even Flor. 17 points out that animals were the audience of Arion and Orpheus’ song. See James 2005, 211–212. Hunink 2001, 128.
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possibly the rhetorical work makes greater distinctions between the species than does the novel. This confusing world of collapsed distinctions, then, is situated at least to a degree within debates about such issues in philosophical realms. Bibliography Bradley, K. 2000. ‘Animalizing the Slave: The Truth of Fiction’, JRS 40, 110–124. Callebat, L. 1968. Sermo Cotidianus dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée, Caen: Association des Publications de la Faculté des Lettres et Sciences Humaines de l’Université de Caen (Publications de la Faculté des Lettres et Sciences Humaines de l’Université de Caen, 13). — 1978. ‘La Prose des Métamorphoses: génèse et spécificité’, in B.L. Hijmans and R. Th. van der Paardt (edd.), Apects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis, 167–188. Finkelpearl, E. 1998. Metamorphosis of Language in Apuleius. A Study of Allusion in the Novel, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Fitzgerald, W. 2000. Slavery and the Roman Literary Imagination, Cambridge: CUP. Fredouille, J-C. 1975. Apulei Metamorphoseon Liber XI, Édition, introduction et commentaire (Collection Érasme), Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Gianotti, G. 1986. ‘Asini e schiavi’, in G. Gianotti, Romanzo e ideologia. Studi sulle ‘Metamorfosi’ di Apuleio, Napoli: Liguori, 11–52. Giarratano, C., Frassinetti, P. (edd.). 1960. Apulei, Metamorphoseon Libri XI, Torino: Paravia. Graverini, L. forthcoming, ‘A Booklike Self. Ovid and Apuleius’, Hermathena. Griffiths, J.G. 1975. Apuleius of Madauros, The Isis-Book (Metamorphoses, Book XI), Leiden: Brill. Habinek, T.N. 1990. ‘Lucius’ Rite of Passage’, MD 25, 49–69. Hanson, J.A. (ed., tr.). 1989. Apuleius Metamorphoses, Loeb Classical Library, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Heath, J.R. 1982. ‘Narration and Nutrition in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, Ramus 11, 57–77. Helm, R. (ed.). 1968. Apuleius I: Metamorphoseon Libri XI, Leipzig: Teubner. GCA 1977 = Hijmans, B.L. Jr., van der Paardt, R.T., Smits, E.R., Westendorp Boerma, R.E.H., Westerbrink, A.G., Apuleius, Metamorphoses, Book IV, 1–27: Text, Introduction, and Commentary, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis. GCA 1981 = Hijmans, B.L. Jr., van der Paardt, R.T., Schmidt, V., Westendorp Boerma, R.E.H., Westerbrink, A.G., Apuleius, Metamorphoses VI, 25–32 and VII: Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis. GCA 1985 = Hijmans, B.L. Jr., Settels, C., Wesseling, B., van der Paardt, R.T., Schmidt, V., Westendorp Boerma, R.E.H., Apuleius, Metamorphoses VIII: Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 1995 = Hijmans jr., B.L., van der Paardt, R.Th., Schmidt, V., Wesseling, B., Zimmerman, M., Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses IX: Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius, Groningen: Egbert Forsten.
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GCA 2000 = Zimmerman, M., Apuleius Madaurensis. Metamorphoses X. Text, Introduction, Commentary, Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 2001 = Mal-Maeder, D. van, Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Livre II Texte, Introduction, et Commentaire, Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Hunink, V. 2001. Apuleius of Madauros, Florida, Amsterdam: Gieben. James, P. 2005. ‘Real and Metaphorical Mimicking Birds in the Metamorphoses of Apuleius’, in S. Harrison, M. Paschalis and S. Frangoulidis (edd.), Metaphor and the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing and Groningen University Library (AN Supplementum, 4), 210–224. Keulen, W.H. 1997. ‘Some Legal Themes in Apuleian Context’, in M. Picone, B. Zimmermann (edd.), Der antike Roman und seine mittelalterliche Rezeption, BaselBoston-Berlin: Birkhäuser, 203-230. — 2003. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses Book I, 1–20, Diss. Groningen. Lindsay, J. (tr.) 1932. Apuleius, The Golden Ass, New York: The Limited Editions Club. McKibben, W.T. 1951. ‘In bovem mugire’, CP 46, 165–72. Paardt, R.T. van der. 1971. L. Apuleius Madaurensis, The Metamorphoses: A Commentary on Book III with text and introduction, Amsterdam: Hakkert. Robertson, D.S. (ed., tr.). 1956. Apulée, Les Métamorphoses, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Schlam, C. 1992. The Metamorphoses of Apuleius: On Making an Ass of Oneself, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Shelton, J. 2005. ‘Putting Women in Their Place: Gender, Species and Hierarchy in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in William Batstone, Garth Tissol (edd.), Defining Gender and Genre in Latin Literature: Essays presented to William S. Anderson on his Seventy-Fifth Birthday, New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 301–29. Shumate, N. 1996. Crisis and Conversion in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Sorabji, R. 1993. Animal Minds and Human Morals: The Origins of the Western Debate, Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press. Strub, C. 1985. ‘Die ‘Metamorphosen’ des Apuleius als Tiergeschichte (Sprache, Sexualität, Essen und Lucius’ ‘Prozeß der Zivilisation’’, WJA N.F.11, 169–188. Walsh, P.G. (tr.) 1994. Apuleius, The Golden Ass, Oxford: OUP.
: Apuleius, Asinus aureus 1,5,3 and the Interpretative Implications of Naming Narrators A NTON B ITEL Oriel College, Oxford
Near the beginning of his adventures, Lucius – the principal ego-protagonist of Apuleius’ Golden Ass – falls in with two other travellers on the road to Hypata in Thessaly. Encouraged by Lucius, one of the travellers agrees to resume a story that he had been telling to his companion before Lucius joined them. After halfheartedly thanking Lucius for offering him lunch at the next inn, and swearing to the story’s truth (Apul. Met. 1,5,1–2), this as yet unnamed sub-narrator makes to introduce himself before launching into his tale: Sed ut prius noritis, cuiatis sim, qui sim: Aegiensis... Apul. Met. 1,5,3 ‘But first, so that you know where I am from, who I am: an Aegian…’ No matter whether the ethnic marker Aegiensis refers to origins in Aegium or Aegae,1 it clearly does not in itself constitute a complete answer to the very question(s) of identity that the sub-narrator has just posed. Castiglioni (1930, 99–100) found the omission of a name here so unsatisfactory that he inserted the supplement Aristomenes sum between qui sim and Aegiensis;
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For a full discussion of the implications of Aegiensis, see Keulen 2000; cf. Keulen 2003, 142 ad loc. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 222–233
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and in this he has been followed by all the standard editions of Apuleius.2 It is certainly a neat solution to a difficult problem. After all, the name Aristomenes will shortly be used to refer both to the ego-protagonist of this subnarrator’s tale (Met. 1,6,4; 1,12,1; 1,12,7), and to the sub-narrator himself (Met. 1,20,1; 2,1,2) – so it seems reasonable to annex this name to an earlier, apparently lacunose section of the text where a name is most obviously required, and where, as Keulen (2003, 142) has suggested, the omission of the phrase can easily be explained by ‘saut du même au même’ (sim – sum). Yet in this paper, I shall try to demonstrate that Castiglioni’s supplement is not only entirely unnecessary, but also reflective of an interpretative bias that risks making asses of us all. From its very outset, Apuleius’ text goes out of its way not to reveal, but to conceal and therefore problematise, the identity of its principal narrator. For after explicitly raising the question of who he is (Met. 1,1,3 quis ille?) in the prologue, that narrator promises to give an answer (paucis accipe), but then singularly fails to offer either his own name, his parents’ name, or even an explicit statement of his place of birth – precisely the three pieces of information that are conventionally employed by strangers to identify themselves in the ancient world, and more particularly in ancient literature.3 Instead, the ego in Apuleius’ prologue employs elaborate circumlocutions to reveal not one, but three cities (Met. 1,1,3 Hymettos Attica et Isthmos Ephyrea et Taenaros Spartiatica), which he expressly designates as places where he has family going way back (Met. 1,1,3 mea vetus prosapia),4 rather than as his patria (indeed, they cannot all be his patria).5 In other words, the ego’s re————— 2
3
4
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Castiglioni's supplement appears in Helm 1931, Robertson–Vallette 1940, Giarratano– Frassinetti 1960; more recently Keulen 2000, 311 has found the supplement ‘attractive’; cf. Keulen 2003, 141–142 ad loc. Scobie 1975, 89 is more sceptical, as is Hanson 1989, vol. 1, 10, n.3. See, e.g., Hom. Od. 8,550 f. and 9,504 f.; Liv. 1,7,10 nomen patremque ac patriam accepit; Ov. Met. 3,581–582 ede tuum nomen nomenque parentum / et patriam; and, with particular pertinence, [Lucianus] Asin. 55. Apuleius’ own awareness of the convention is made clear at Apul. Met. 7,5,6 (discussed below); cf. 10,18,1. For the meaning of the archaism prosapia, see van der Paardt 1971, 87; Scobie 1975, 73. It refers to pedigree or parentage rather than place of origin; at Pl. Merc. 634, Charinus poses unde esset and qua prosapia as separate questions; and Apuleius’ other uses of the term prosapia suggest that he too consistently understands it to denote family background (Met. 3,11,1; 6,23,4; 8,2,5; 9,35,3; 10,18,1; Apol. 18,12; Soc. 23,174). Cicero’s (unorthodox) suggestion that people can be thought to have two patriae, one the place of birth, the other the place where citizenship is held (Cic. Leg. 2,2,5), can hardly
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sponse to the question quis ille? is both comic and mystifying in equal measure, offering both too much and too little detail. It transforms an apparently innocuous introductory question of identity into a programmatic textual enigma that has been challenging Apuleius’ readers ever since; and while many readers have come up with answers of their own to the question, few would propose supplementing the prologue’s actual text with one answer or another. The exception, one might say, proves the rule. In his English version of the Golden Ass (1950, Harmondsworth), Robert Graves translates quis ille? paucis accipe from the prologue as: ‘Let me briefly introduce myself as Lucius Apuleius, a native of Madaura in North Africa…’ It goes without saying that this translation is entirely fanciful. Not only does it supplement an elaborate and controversial (albeit possible) answer to the question quis ille?, but it also completely effaces both the impact of the question and indeed the question itself. This is a case of highly subjective interpretation trying to pass itself off as textual criticism – in short, Graves’ is a supplement too far. The same principle ought to be applied to the sub-narrator’s selfintroduction. His question of identity (cuiatis sim, qui sim), though more elaborate than the principal narrator’s (quis ille?), is a clear enough echo of it; and the sub-narrator’s failure to supply a complete answer similarly echoes the principal narrator’s reticence, and similarly signals to the reader that his identity is something of a puzzle. In both prologues the question of identity is topicalised as a problem. It is not so much that there is a lacuna in the text, as that the sub-narrator has withheld important information, thus stimulating the reader’s curiosity and desire to read on in the hope of finding answers. For, of course, first-person narratives can in themselves form a part (however incomplete) of an answer to a question of identity. The classic illustration of this is Homer’s Odysseus in the court of the Phaeacians, where he is a complete stranger. Arete asks him to give an account of himself with the same question that Apuleius’ sub-narrator has asked:
————— be used to account for the multiplicity of (putative) provenances to be found in Apuleius’ prologue.
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‘Stranger, I shall first ask you this question myself: who are you among men, and where are you from? Hom. Od. 7,237–238 Odysseus neglects to answer Arete’s question directly (much as the subnarrator fails to answer his own question), preferring to tell her a part of his story. This answer apparently leads Arete’s husband Alcinous to feel that he has enough of an idea what kind of man Odysseus is (Od. 7,312) to ask him to become his son-in-law. Later, however, Alcinous asks Odysseus to give a fuller account of who he is, insisting that he reveal his name, parentage and homeland, as well as more of his past adventures (Od. 8,547–586). Odysseus then obliges with a formal self-identification (Od. 9,19-20), before launching into a first-person narrative that spans four books of the Odyssey. If the tales told by Odysseus amongst the Phaeacians demonstrate that questions of identity can (at least for a while) go unanswered, and that a tale itself can constitute at least a partial answer to a question of identity, they also show how names attached to the ego-protagonist within a narrative need not correspond to the name of the narrator. When the Cyclops Polyphemus, who also has no idea who Odysseus and his companions are (Od. 9,252), asks Odysseus to reveal his name (Od. 9,355–356), Odysseus answers cleverly with a false name, ‘No-one’ (Od. 9,366–367). Polyphemus believes this answer, which not only results in his losing his single eye, but also in his becoming a ridiculous fool (Od. 9,413–419); and anyone hearing or reading Homer’s epic who also concluded that the narrator of its ‘Phaeacian tales’ was similarly called ‘No-one’ would be as blind, credulous and lacking in urbanity as Polyphemus himself – if not more so. This brings us back to the tale heard by Lucius along the road to Hypata (Apul. Met. 1,5,1–19,12), and the questions that it raises about the subnarrator’s name and identity. The tale is preceded by a debate between Lucius and an unnamed third party about its truth value: the unnamed third party insists that the sub-narrative is an absurd lie (Met. 1,2,5; 1,3,1), whereas Lucius argues, contrariwise, that it is entirely credible (Met. 1,3,1– 4,4). After the tale has been retold, both the unnamed third party and Lucius reassert their essentially incompatible positions (Met. 1,20,1–4), and Lucius parts company with the two travellers. Neither listener supports his position by reference to any of the tale’s specific content, so that the tale is left free floating, suspended between two irreconcilable, yet equally possible, readings. For, like the narrative equivalent of Schrödinger’s cat, the tale is in a
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superposition of states, both true and untrue in the absence of further evidence to confirm its status unequivocally (evidence which, it need hardly be said, is never forthcoming within the text). During this dispute, the sub-narrator himself remains something of a cipher. He makes no contribution to the debate himself,6 and all that Lucius’ and the unnamed third party’s words reveal about the sub-narrator himself is his gender, and the fact that he has a tale to tell, a tale which the unnamed third party already does not believe, but which Lucius will believe (Met. 1,4,6 credam). Of course, the sub-narrator will have a lot to say for himself once he has been invited by Lucius to retread his tale (Met. 1,4,6 fabulam remetire) – but as the truth of his words has just been called into question by the unnamed third party, it remains a genuine possibility that some, or indeed all, of what he says is not to be believed. The dismissive disbelief of the unnamed third party may, or may not, be misplaced, but it casts, or at least ought to cast, a long shadow over the tale, as one explicitly available reading of it. In the (pre-Castiglionian) text, the name Aristomenes does not appear until the sub-narrative is well underway, when its ego-protagonist is addressed in the vocative by an old friend, Socrates (Met. 1,6,4 ‘Aristomene’ inquit…). That Aristomenes is indeed the name of the sub-narrative’s protagonist is confirmed within the tale at 1,12,1 (de Aristomene testudo factus) and again at 1,12,7 (‘At hic bonus’ inquit ‘consiliator Aristomenes…’). This, however, does not guarantee that it is likewise the name of the sub-narrator himself. For it remains possible that the sub-narrator, as someone whom the unnamed third party has declared to be peddling absurd fiction, might merely be inventing the persona of Aristomenes, and impersonating his voice as much as he impersonates the voice of Socrates (Met. 1,6,4; 1,7,1; 1,7,5–10; 1,8,2; 1,8,4; 1,8,6–10,6; 1,17,2; 1,17,6; 1,18,6–7), of Meroe (Met. 1,12,4–8), of Panthia (Met. 1,13,3; 1,13,7), and of the janitor (Met. 1,15,2; 1,15,4; 1,17,1). By using words that he ascribes to one Aristomenes, the sub-narrator need no more himself be called Aristomenes than Odysseus need actually be called ‘No-one’. It might be objected that the sub-narrator is expressly named Aristomenes after the sub-narrative has come to a close (Met. 1,20,1 haec Aristomenes [sc. dixit]), and again at the beginning of Book Two (Met. 2,1,2 fabulam… ————— 6
Cf. Winkler 1985, 34: ‘This narrator is as uninvolved with his audience and their discussion of his tale as the physical book is in a reader’s hands.’
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illam optimi comitis Aristomenis); but at this point it becomes important to pay careful attention to who exactly is doing the naming. In the Golden Ass, Lucius is not only the protagonist of the principal narrative, but also its principal centre of orientation, focalising events as he experiences them from moment to moment, with only a very few discursive intrusions by the storyteller in the present time of narration.7 Accordingly, before Lucius hears the sub-narrator’s tale, he can only refer to the sub-narrator with an anonymous pronoun (Met. 1,5,1 ille); it is only after Lucius has heard the sub-narrator’s tale that the sub-narrator can be referred to as Aristomenes, precisely because Lucius (the ego-protagonist/actorial focaliser) encounters this name for the first time within the tale. Just as within the tale Aristomenes infers that the strange woman standing before him is the witch Meroe who had featured in stories told earlier to him by Socrates (Met. 1,13,3 Meroe – sic enim reapse nomen eius tunc fabulis Socratis convenire sentiebam…), so too at the story’s end Lucius has inferred the name of the otherwise unknown subnarrator before him to be Aristomenes based on information that he has learnt from the sub-narrative itself. It is because Aristomenes believes Socrates’ stories (as is shown by his reaction to them at Met. 1,11,1–3) that he is able to identify the person standing before him as a character from those stories. Similarly Lucius believes the sub-narrator’s tale (Met. 1,20,3; 1,20,5), and so he identifies his story-telling companion with the person of the ego-protagonist Aristomenes, name and all; the unnamed third party, on the other hand, who expressly does not believe the sub-narrator’s tale, also never refers to the sub-narrator by name. Both Lucius’ readiness to name the sub-narrator as Aristomenes, and the third party’s failure to do the same, might be regarded as symptomatic of their divergent attitudes (belief vs. disbelief) towards the sub-narrative. Readers who refer to the sub-narrator by the name Aristomenes (and to the best of my knowledge, all scholarship on the tale of Aristomenes’ adventures refers to the sub-narrator as Aristomenes) are in effect following Lucius in his interpretation of the tale as veridical, and disregarding (whether ————— 7
De Jong 2001, 208: ‘the narrator… tells his story according to the (restricted) focalization of Lucius-actor’; cf. Winkler 1985, 140–153, esp. 141: ‘Each event of the past is told for immediate effect, with virtually no intrusion of the present speaker judging, condemning, commenting on the action’; van Mal-Maeder 1995, 111–112: ‘Dans les Métamorphoses en effet le monde romanesque est généralement décrit tel que le perçoit Lucius-acteur’; cf. GCA 1995, 12 n.18; GCA 2000, 30–31; GCA 2001, 8–9; van der Paardt 1978, 76–80; Dowden 1982, 429–432.
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willfully or unconsciously) the alternative interpretation suggested by the unnamed third party’s incredulity. It is of course the privilege of readers to interpret a text as they please; but in ignoring the possibility (and it is no more than a possibility, albeit one clearly signalled within the text itself in the discussions that frame the sub-narrative) that the sub-narrator’s tale may be fiction, so that he need not share his protagonist’s name or identity, readers find themselves in the uncomfortable position of siding with Lucius – credulous, asinine Lucius, who by his own admission has ‘greater confidence’ (or ‘too much faith’) in words (Met. 1,3,2 ego in verba fidentior), and who is so foolish as to pledge his belief in the sub-narrator’s tale even before he has heard it (Met. 1,4,6 haec pro isto credam).8 This will not of course be Lucius’ last leap of faith, but rarely is faith so utterly blind. Like Lucius, Apuleius’ readers first learn the name Aristomenes from the body of the sub-narrative itself, when the ego-protagonist is addressed by his friend Socrates (Met. 1,6,4). Yet the unnamed third party’s reading of this tale opens up the possibility that the same name need not be attached to the sub-narrator. The tale has allegorical significance for the principal narrative of the Golden Ass:9 for shortly after he parts company with his two companions and arrives in Hypata, the principal ego-protagonist Lucius is himself named for the first time when, like Aristomenes, he runs into an old friend (with the suitably ‘oracular’ name Pythias) who addresses him in the vocative (Met. 1,24,6 ‘Mi Luci’ ait [sc. Pythias]…; cf. 1,6,4 ‘Aristomene’ inquit…). This close echo of the sub-narrative, coming so soon after it, suggests that perhaps one should similarly hesitate before attaching this egoprotagonist’s name (Lucius) to the principal narrator of the Golden Ass. The sub-narrative equips the attentive reader to discern the equivocal relationship in the Golden Ass between narrators and their ego-protagonists, and primes her/him to suspend judgement on the question of whether the text’s principal ————— 8
9
Winkler 1985, 27 (and n. 4) is quite right to characterise the attitude of the unnamed third party as ‘cynical’, involving as it does ‘the uncompromising rejection of pretentious claims’; he is, however, surely mistaken to suppose that Lucius is a champion of (29) ‘suspended judgement, an open mind, and an acknowledgement of the limitations of individual experience’. Lucius’ slightly incoherent arguments (at Met. 1,3,2–4,5) for hearing the sub-narrative may seem to tend towards such a balanced position of scepticism, but his conclusion, an advance promise to believe an as yet unheard story already (Met. 1,4,6), seems little more than dogmatism at its most deranged. For other (thematic, rather than narratological) aspects of the sub-narrative that serve an allegorical function within Apuleius’ text, see Tatum 1969, 493–499.
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narrator must likewise be called Lucius and identified with the protagonist, or whether he might be someone with an altogether more mysterious identity (qui sim/quis ille?), no matter how many adventures he may unfold for the protagonist that he impersonates. To do otherwise is to risk restricting oneself to an (at most) one-eyed reading of the principal narrative akin to Lucius’ reading of the sub-narrative – and Lucius is, to be sure, an ass.10 The starting point in this paper was Castiglioni’s supplement of the phrase at Met. 1,5,3, which I have tried to refute by arguing that it is at best unnecessary and at worst a repetition of Lucius’ own rather asinine assumptions about the identity of his fellow-traveller on the road to Hypata and the credibility of the story that he tells. I would therefore propose that any new edition of the Golden Ass should revert to the text of the principal manuscript F: Sed ut prius noritis, cuiatis sim, qui sim: Aegiensis… Apul. Met. 1,5,3 ‘But first, so that you know where I am from, who I am: Aegian…’ The possibility of course remains that qui sim is a (scribal) gloss on cuiatis sim;11 but it seems more likely to be an (authorial) echo of the prologue’s question quis ille?, coming as it does alongside several other echoes of the prologue in the sub-narrator’s own self-introduction;12 and so, on balance, qui sim should be retained. Furthermore, if qui sim is to remain as an echo of the prologue, then readers should not be too perturbed if it also remains ————— 10
11 12
Cf. Smith 1972, 521: ‘If Lucius’ judgment about people and events is suspect, it naturally follows that we cannot always believe his analyses of the fabulae…’. See Keulen 2003, 141 ad loc. Besides the echo of qui sim/quis ille? (Met. 1,1,3/1,5,3), both the principal narrator’s and the sub-narrator’s respective prologues are introduced by the combination of (the same) adversative particle and pronoun (Met. 1,1,1 at ego…; 1,5,1 at ille…); both use the same verb to mark their formal status as a prologue (Met. 1,1,3 exordior; 1,5,1 exordiar); both contain requests to listen to some preliminary information (Met. 1,1,3 paucis accipe; 1,5,3 sed ut prius noritis…audite…); both refer to the narratives that they introduce as ‘conversational’ pieces (Met. 1,1,1 sermone; 1,5,2 sermo); both narrators link themselves to desultoriness, whether literal or metaphorical (Met. 1,1,6 desultoriae scientiae stilo; 1,5,3 ultro citro discurrens); and, of course, both the narrative and the sub-narrative begin with a protagonist travelling through Thessaly on business (Met. 1,2,1/1,5,3–4).
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without an immediate, direct answer, since the same is true of the prologue’s quis ille?. Castiglioni’s supplement needs to be recognised for what it is: one scholar’s interpretation of the sub-narrator’s identity, rather that what was actually written in the text. We do Apuleius a disservice by reducing the hermeneutic challenges of the Golden Ass to textual problems that can be averted, unravelled or massaged away with the mere stroke of a magic pen; if Castiglioni’s Aristomenes sum has a proper place, it is in the imagination of the reader (as one of several possible solutions to the riddle of the subnarrator’s identity), rather than on the page. If the supplement is to appear at all in editions of the Golden Ass, it should in my view be relegated once and for all to the apparatus criticus as a footnote in the history of the text’s reception. Yet in a way, even if an ancient Apuleian papyrus were to emerge confirming Castiglioni’s supplement, much of the argumentation presented here about the indeterminacy of the sub-narrator’s identity would still remain unaffected. For once the unnamed third party has cast doubt on the truth of Aristomenes’ words, such doubt can extend even to the content of the tale’s prologue, including any assertions about the narrator’s supposed name and identity. This is not merely some abstruse theoretical issue whispered amongst narratologists in their spare time, but a phenomenon that finds spectacularly concrete expression within the Golden Ass itself. For the only narrator in the entire text who introduces himself in full and formal terms, offering his name, parentage and place of birth, is the stranger who comes to the robbers’ cave in Book Seven: Ego sum praedo famosus Haemus ille Thracius cuius totae provinciae nomen horrescunt, patre Therone aeque latrone incluto prognatus… Apul. Met. 7,5,6 ‘I am that famous brigand Haemus of Thrace, at whose name entire provinces tremble, and my father Theron is likewise a well-known robber…’ He then launches into a story, using the first person, of his (i.e. Haemus’) recent escapades (Met. 7,6,2–8,3). This however is all a ruse, as Lucius later realises; for in fact the storytelling stranger is Tlepolemus, the fiancé of a girl whom the robbers have kidnapped (Met. 7,12,1). The (narrator) Tlepolemus
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has invented the persona of Haemus for himself in order to steal his way into the bandits’ confidence. The robbers have fallen for this trick, confusing the alter ego that Tlepolemus has assumed with Tlepolemus himself, and they eventually pay for their mistake with their lives. Lucius has also taken Tlepolemus’ words at face value, leading him to all manner of foolish conclusions or as he puts it, the ‘judgement of an ass’ (Met. 7,10,4 asini…iudicio). And if we are honest with ourselves, Tlepolemus’ deception also took most of us readers in too, at least on our first reading, confined as we are to Lucius’ asinine focalisation. Like Odysseus in Polyphemus’ cave, Tlepolemus claims to be someone other than he is, and his story reduces us all to Cyclopes, blind to the seductive spell of the fiction being perpetrated upon us.13 The lesson to be drawn here – one with broad implications for the interpretation of the Golden Ass as a whole – is that there are inherent dangers involved in assuming that narrators share, whether in full or even in part, the identities that they assume in their narratives or even in their prologues, including the names of their ego-protagonists. Tlepolemus’ tale of Haemus equips the reader to realise that even if Lucius’ storytelling companion on the road to Hypata had answered his own question of identity (cuiatis sim, qui sim) more fully, perhaps with something like Castiglioni’s supplement, that answer need not have revealed anything (or at least anything straightforwardly true) about the person of the sub-narrator himself. As long as Lucius’ own credulity is matched by the unnamed third party’s incredulity, as long as the story is poised uncertainly between fact and fiction, the possibility remains that the ego-protagonist Aristomenes is an auctor only in the sense that he advised Socrates to escape (Met. 1,12,7 “At hic bonus” inquit [sc. Meroe] “consiliator Aristomenes, qui fugae huius auctor fuit…”), and not in the additional sense that he is the ‘author’ of the tale in which he so prominently features. For while the name Aristomenes does reflect an aspect, real or invented, of the sub-narrator, it should not necessarily be regarded as the sum of his person.14
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For other parallels between Tlepolemus’ escape from the robbers’ cave and Odysseus’ escape from Polyphemus’ cave, see Frangoulidis 1991, 1992a and 1992b. This paper freely reworks a few scattered ideas first presented in my doctoral thesis (Bitel 2000), for which it was my great privilege to have Maaike as external examiner.
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Bibliography Bitel, A. 2000. Quis ille? Alter egos in Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Diss. Oxford. Castiglioni, L. 1930. ‘Apuleiana. I. Adnotationes ad Metamorphoseon Libros I–III’, in: Mélanges Paul Thomas, Bruges: Imprimerie Sainte Catherine, 99–115. Dowden, K. 1982. ‘Apuleius and the Art of Narration’, CQ 32, 419–435. Frangoulidis, S. A. 1991. ‘Charite dulcissima: A note on the nameless Charite at Apul. Met. 7.12’, Mnemosyne 44, 387–394. Frangoulidis, S.A. 1992a. ‘Epic inversion in Apuleius’ tale of Tlepolemus/Haemus’, Mnemosyne 45, 60–74. Frangoulidis, S.A. 1992b. ‘Homeric allusions to the Cyclopeia in Apuleius’ description of the robbers’ cave’, Parola del passato 47, 50–58. Giarratano, C.–Frassinetti, P. (edd.) 1960. Apulei Metamorphoseon Libri XI. Torino: In aedibus Io. Bapt. Paraviae. GCA 2001 = van Mal-Maeder, D. 2001. Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius – Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses – Livre II – Texte, Introduction et Commentaire, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 1995 = Hijmans, B.L. – van der Paardt, R.Th. – Schmidt, V. – Wesseling, B. – Zimmerman, M. 1995. Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius – Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses – Book IX – Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. GCA 2000 = Zimmerman, M. 2000. Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius – Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses – Book X – Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Hanson, J.A. (ed./transl.) 1989. Apuleius, Metamorphoses. (2 vols), Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press (The Loeb Classical Library). Harrison, S. J. (ed.) 1999. Oxford Readings in the Roman Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Helm, R. (ed.) 1931. Apulei Platonici Madaurensis Metamorphoseon Libri XI, Lipsiae: Teubner (reprinted with Addenda et Corrigenda 1955). Jong, I.J.F. de. 2001. ‘The Prologue as a Pseudo-Dialogue and the Identity of its (Main) Speaker’, in: Kahane, A. – Laird, A. (edd.) A Companion to the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 201–212. Keulen, W. H. 2000. ‘Significant Names in Apuleius: a ‘Good Contriver’ and his rival in the cheese trade (Met. 1.5)’, Mnemosyne 53, 310–321. Keulen, W.H. 2003. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses Book I, 1–20: Introduction, Text, Commentary, Diss. Groningen. Paardt, R.Th. van der. 1971. Apuleius the Metamorphoses: A Commentary on Book III, Amsterdam: A. M. Hakkert. — 1978. ‘Various Aspects of narrative technique in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: Hijmans, B.L. – van der Paardt, R.Th. (edd.), Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis, 75–94. Robertson, D.R. (ed.)–Vallette, P. (tr.) 1940–45. Apulée: Les Métamorphoses. (3 vols.), Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Scobie, A. 1975. Apuleius Metamorphoses (Asinus Aureus) I – A Commentary, Meisenheim (am Glan): Hain.
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Smith Jr., W.S. 1972. ‘The narrative voice in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, TAPhA 103, 513– 34; reprinted in: Harrison (ed.) 1999, 195–216. Tatum, J. 1969. ‘The tales in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, TAPhA 100, 487–527; reprinted in: Harrison (ed.) 1999, 157–194. Van Mal-Maeder, D. 1995. ‘L’Âne d’Or ou les Métamorphoses d’un récit: illustration de la subjectivité humaine’, in: Groningen Colloquia on the Novel 6, 103–125. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor and actor: A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Berkeley: University of California Press.
To Baldly Go: A Last Look at Lucius and his Counter-Humiliation Strategies P AULA J AMES Open University, UK M AEVE O ’B RIEN National University of Ireland Maynooth A personal preamble About 10 years ago I (PJ) gave a paper re-interpreting the Risus Festival in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. I was particularly interested in Lucius’ attempt to restore his dignitas after the humiliation at Hypata. It seemed to me that the Apuleian hero was propelled towards shape shifting and the desire to take flight literally as a bird to counter his shameful experience performing for the god of Laughter. It was with characteristic generosity that Maaike Zimmerman and Danielle van Mal-Maeder consequently commented, at my request, on the paper’s strengths and weaknesses, but for a number of reasons it never came to fruition as a published piece.1 Having travelled some distance away from Apuleian studies over the years, I returned for the purposes of this contribution, and with some trepidation, to the unfinished business of Lucius’ counter-phobic strategies to shame. A small part of my original idea is embedded within the offering to this volume.
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Lateiner 2001, 217–255 has written the most thorough exploration of Lucius’ humility at the Risus festival to date. Massey 1976, pre Winkler, explored the alienation and detachment that comes as a price for metamorphosis but which guarantees protection of privacy. He saw (38) the transformation as a continuation of Lucius’ festival experience. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 234–251
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Beautiful Friendships! It is a great honour to be part of this volume and very enjoyable to work with Maeve O’Brien who has added a philosophical and daemonic dimension to the somewhat unworked-out equation of my ideas about humiliation and self-definition. We believe that Lucius’ depressed psychological state after the ‘new fiction’ of the Risus festival means that he does indeed need to find a way of redeeming his sense of self, his dignitas. This he does within the wider fiction of the novel. Taking as our main theme Lucius’ redemption in terms of identity and social status, we have looked more closely at the very end of the novel and have both become intrigued by the apparent inappropriateness or, pardon the pun, wrong-headedness of Lucius’ hairless state. Our intention is to uncover a connection between the hero’s baldness and his earlier attempt to metamorphose his identity more drastically. The hero’s goal has been to restore, perhaps even improve, his shaken status after the Risus festival, and so the starting point of this interpretation is the ramification of this one particular word, dignitas, a textual conundrum, we hope, after Maaike’s heart. We are sure that she could convert our questions into a scintillating study some day; her insights into the Apuleian text invariably encourage and empower critics of the ancient novel whatever tentative steps they take towards interpreting the multi-layered nature of the Metamorphoses. Dignity, always Dignity. At the beginning of the film Singing in the Rain the silent screen star and heartthrob Don Lockwood (played by Gene Kelly) is interviewed in front of crowds of sighing and swooning fans. He proceeds to weave an impromptu narrative about his rise to fame and success. His voice over repeats the motto he has lived by: ‘Dignity, always dignity’ while the screen flashback tells the real story of his past with partner Cosmo Brown, playing vaudeville in low dives and then as a stunt man in spectacular crashes and pratfalls. It is a nice and neat underlining of the film’s ironic focus on the end of the Silent Era and the coming of the Talkies. The movie audience sees the truth in pictures without dialogue; the crowd, fooled by the storyteller and supplying their own visualisation from his illusory version of the truth, has no idea that their idol could be literally false or fallen. They are also protected from the actual
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sound the apparently elegant and refined leading lady, Lina Lamont (Jean Hagen) produces, which is so at odds with her (studio constructed) image.2 In spite of his skill as a word spinner Don is later also forced to question whether he has ever been a proper actor or a kind of clown who simply does ‘dumb show’, however romantic, dashing and courageous a part he has played in past pictures. This is perhaps a quirky introduction to the dilemma of Lucius in Apuleius’ novel, a hero who goes from an excess of articulateness to voicelessness in the human sense. However, dignity is a commodity of great value to Lucius and his pursuit of its restoration takes some unexpected turns. The Latin word dignitas comes with an interesting set of associations and the hero’s use of it is perhaps too little glossed in the commentaries. To make the most of this word in Apuleius we need to go beyond dignitas as function, office or even adornment. Dignitas is associated with the status necessary for and accruing from the status of office holding (for instance dignitas consularis – a person worthy of being a consul). Apuleius’ choice of this word in a key scene before Lucius’ transformation suggests how very high Lucius’ hopes are for improving his status by the intended metamorphosis. It is necessary to set the scene and context for Lucius’ recently damaged ego and identity. Humiliation – Hypatan style. Lucius has suffered a terrible humiliation in Hypata where he is staying on business in the house of the miser, Milo. The townspeople have a yearly celebration for the god of Laughter, Risus, and Lucius seems to have been ————— 2
The unfortunate Lina with her common and coarse voice is dubbed by Kathy Selden on screen (played by Debbie Reynolds but paradoxically it was Jean Hagen, with her naturally mellow and feminine voice, who provided the rich velvety crooning for her alter ego!). Lina’s lack of singing talent is finally exposed to the audience at the end of the film. Singing in the Rain is full of ironies about constructed identities, about silencing and about learning to speak, sing or perform in unnatural registers: ‘Academics love it because it is a movie about movies. College students steeped in semiotics loop it through their moviolas searching for cinematic syntax in the “The Moses Supposes His Toeses Are Roses’ sequence.” John Mariani, Film Comment, May-June 1978. Funnily enough on the embarrassment front, the art director had troubles with the third act ballet dance sequence as they had to disguise Cyd Charisse’s dark body hair which was showing through her tight-fitting brilliant white body suit!
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manipulated into giving a performance in the deity’s honour. Book Three begins with Lucius’ arrest and trial for the murder of three young local men of high standing. Lucius explains that he attacked them as they were forcing an entry into his host’s house. However, his narration of past events (like Don Lockwood’s!) is at odds with his previous description of the night-time confrontation (as narrated previously to the reader). In the embellished version delivered passionately to the Hypatan townsfolk he comes out heroic, even Herculean, in his battle and he ascribes speeches to the ‘robbers’ to build up his bravery and add to the drama of the occasion. His rhetorical defence is met with gales of laughter from all present. The corpses of the murdered men turn out to be goat skins for holding wine and the whole trial has been an elaborate hoax, possibly constructed out of Lucius’ drinkinduced misidentification of the animated skins. During the terrifying trial Lucius is threatened with torture, as if he has no rights and no protection as a citizen of the Empire, in short no status or dignitas. This is just one indication of abnormality and anomaly in the proceedings. Only days before, Lucius has been clearly viewed as an educated young man; he has attracted the attention and praise of his aunt who is a leading figure in the town (Met. 2,2). So his dignitas matches a physical attractiveness that is described in some detail. This blazon of Byrrhena’s could suggest a supernatural beauty – at the very least it should hold this moment and this meeting in our minds as a significant occasion. Lucius’ comeliness is so eagerly looked at and looked over when he encounters his aunt Byrrhena and her entourage we might suspect that he has been chosen as the sacrifice cum scapegoat for the festival at this point:3 ‘En’ inquit ‘sanctissimae Salviae matris generosa probitas. Sed et cetera corporis exsecrabiliter ad [regulam qua diligenter aliquid affingunt] amussim congruentia: inenormis proceritas, suculenta gracilitas, rubor temperatus, flavum et inaffectatum capillitium, oculi caesii quidem, sed
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Choosing a suitably sleek and unblemished animal was an important part of the process. There has been a good deal written on the Risus festival as carnival, ritual and a pharmakos –like cleansing of the community. See for instance, James 1987, 87–106, Bartolucci 1988, Habinek 1990, McCreight 1993, Van der Paardt 1990; Frangoulidis 2002 argues contra the pharmakos-interpretation and views the festival rather as an integration rite into the community. For a similar view see Keulen in this volume.
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vigiles et in aspectu micantes, prorsus aquilini, os quoquoversum floriMet. 2,2 dum, speciosus et immeditatus incessus.’ 4 ‘He inherited that well-bred behaviour,’ she said, ‘from his pure and virtuous mother Salvia. And his physical appearance is a damnably precise fit too: he is tall but not abnormal, slim but with sap in him, and of a rosy complexion; but he has blond hair worn without affectation, wide-awake light-blue eyes with flashing glance just like an eagle’s, a face with a bloom in every part, and an attractive and unaffected walk.’5 Byrrhena appears to be part of the set-up, the conspiracy committee that has selected Lucius as a likely lad for the day of Laughter. She even suggests to Lucius at her banquet in Book Two that he finds some suitable material for the jesting god. And indeed Lucius has, but at great cost to his self-esteem. Once the wineskins have been uncovered and the whole theatre has erupted into laughter, Lucius collapses psychologically. Winkler (1985, 171–173) focuses on Lucius’ immobility, his alienation and the anaesthetizing effect the shock of the discovery has upon his outward body while his inner self is in turmoil. Lucius later rejects the honour of a statue from the magistrates to celebrate his starring role in the Risus Festival. He views such a gesture as the externalising and eternalising of his humiliation. He is slow to exorcise the experience and inconsolable until Photis later explains how the goatskins came to be battering at the door of Milo’s house. Photis’ story of Pamphile’s witchcraft and her own part in the summoning spell manqué re-awakens Lucius’ fascination with magic. He is finally able to laugh at his energetic attack upon and repulse of the wine skins which had arrived instead of the young Boeotian Pamphile had meant to attract. Photis had substituted goat hair for the Boetian’s hair clippings (the barber had shooed Photis away as she attempted to steal the young man’s cut locks, for he suspected that the human hair would play a part in some sort of magic ritual). The emotional release brought about by this laughter might suggest that Lucius has recovered from the Risus experience. He had been unwise in ————— 4
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The expansive description makes the metamorphosis of the hero at 3,24 a striking and painful contrast. The ass has an immense face (facies enormis) and gaping nostrils (nares hiantes). The passage describing the hero while still human has been analysed in impressive detail by Van Mal-Maeder in her commentary of 2001, 71–79 and thoroughly discussed in her article of 1997a. Translations by Hanson 1989.
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rejecting the god by refusing to share in the hilarity of the Hypatans. His active avoidance of Risus who surely is manifesting himself in the laughter after the festival demonstrates that he was unable to integrate himself into the community at the end of the ritual. By laughing later he does not seem to have redeemed himself and fails to reconcile himself to and with Risus. This is only one possible reading, but it does seem clear that if laughter is destined to be Lucius’ constant companion (as predicted by the magistrates at 3,11 when they claim to recognise their victim’s dignitas) his ass transformation is a sardonic fulfilment of the prophecy. Motivating the metamorphosis Lucius forgives Photis for her part in the series of unfortunate events but begs her, in return, to let him into Pamphile’s magical secrets. Photis takes Lucius to the attic to spy upon her mistress as she transforms herself into a bird. She then reluctantly agrees to assist him in a similar metamorphosis, but an application of the wrong ointment has disastrous consequences. Instead of becoming a bird, Lucius is turned into an ass. He could not be more landlocked or downward looking and he is continually frustrated from this moment on, as a human mind trapped within the body of a dumb beast. The question is why Lucius wanted to be transformed at all, magical metamorphosis being a risky business at the best of times. As this episode is one of the points where Apuleius and the Greek story coalesce, it is worth comparing the alleged reasons for both heroes’ desire to become a bird. The Greek Onos hero also asks the slave girl (Palaestra) to help him change form. He expresses an almost scientific or socio-psychological desire to find out if the human mind remains unaltered when the external form is transformed (Onos 13). Not so the Latin Lucius who wants to stand beside his beloved Photis like a winged Cupid at 3,22: ‘Tuumque mancipium irremunerabili beneficio sic tibi perpetuo pignera, ac iam perfice ut meae Veneri Cupido pinnatus assistam tibi. ‘Bind me as your slave for ever by a favour I can never repay, and make me stand beside you now, a winged Cupid next to my Venus.’ Apuleius’ hero has to reassure Photis that he is not going to take flight and find other partners for his sexual romps.6 He seems ————— 6
For the imagery of flight and Lucius’ links with Cupid throughout the novel see James 1998.
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very keen to be airborne and Apuleius avoids the standard ‘oarage of wings’ image and has his Lucius talk of the ‘office of wings’ pinnarum dignitatem: ‘ut ego, quamvis ipsius aquilae sublimis volatibus toto caelo pervius et supremi Iovis certus nuntius vel laetus armiger, tamen non ad meum nidulum post illam pinnarum dignitatem subinde devolem? Adiuro per dulcem istum capilli tui nodulum, quo meum vinxisti spiritum, me nullam aliam meae Photidi malle.’ Met. 3,23 ‘Even if I could traverse the entire sky in the lofty flight of the eagle himself, even if I were the unerring messenger and happy weapon-bearer of almighty Jupiter, don’t you think I would still fly back down to my little nest after so nobly employing my wings. I swear by that sweet knot of your hair with which you have bound my soul that there is no other woman I prefer to my Photis.’ The ‘dignity’ of wings will not stop Lucius from returning to his modest ‘nest’ and his low-status lover. In fantasising about what free flight might allow him to do and be, he seems to have moved on from the horror and humiliation of the Risus festival. If Newbold’s theories on Icarianism (1985) hold water, desire for this particular shape shift is Lucius’ way of rising above his shame and restoring his worthiness. What Lucius seems to desire after the horrors of the Risus day is a dignity of feathers and he is of course cruelly disappointed when the magic goes wrong. In a novel that has as one of its many timbres the philosophical and platonic aspects of curiosity and identity, it seems strange that the verbose hero shows no inquisitiveness about altered states. Unlike his Onos counterpart, he does not pose any profound questions about metamorphosis and the fate of the soul but appears fixated upon the sensuous experience of being ‘winged.’ The desire for dignitas may be a strong hint that the hero is still in a psychological trauma from the Risus Festival and that shape shifting and especially the enjoyment of flight is his way of restoring the dignity he has lost. Newbold explored Icarianism as a counter-phobic strategy to shame in other ancient texts and much of his argumentation could be applied to the unhappy situation Lucius finds himself in at Hypata. Lucius has sworn to return from this dignity of flight by the almost magical knot of Photis’s beautiful hair. It is interesting to recall that dignitas
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has occurred in Lucius’ elaborate encomium on female hair at 2,9, an outburst prompted by the slave girl’s seductive appearance: ‘Tanta denique est capillamenti dignitas ut quamvis auro veste gemmis omnique cetero mundo exornata mulier incedat, tamen, nisi capillum distinxerit, ornata non possit audire.’ ‘In short, the significance of a woman’s coiffure is so great that, no matter how finely attired she may be when she steps out in her gold, robes, jewels, and all her other finery, unless she has embellished her hair she cannot be called well-dressed.’ Apuleian commentators and critics have made interesting observations on the theme of hair in the novel.7 Pamphile’s intention to entice an attractive Boeotian to her bed by stealing his hair and bewitching him by this means is not the first example of hair appearing in the context of an erotic entanglement. Lucius is particularly attracted to the slave girl’s coiffure and extols female hair as a prelude to his seduction of Photis.8 He expressly talks of the capillamenti dignitas as the crowning glory for any woman. However lovely, Venus herself would be unattractive if she were bald.9 The hero’s preoccupation with hair sets up a particular paradox when his narrative concludes – the old pre-ass Lucius would have been mortified, we assume,10 to parade a bald head around the streets of Rome. As a priest of Osiris this is exactly how Lucius ends up. It is worth striking when the ironies are hot, however, and observing that the transformation into an ass makes the hero a marvellously hairy beast – he has an embarrassment of riches in that respect. His happiness to be hairless by the end of the book ————— 7
8
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The theme of hair is explored in Englert and Long 1972–1973. See also Schmeling and Montiglio in this volume. Lucius may have made up his mind to win her over in order to gain access to her witch mistress Pamphile and satisfy his appetite for witnessing magic and metamorphosis, but Photis seems rapidly to take charge of the situation sexually and narratively. Lucius becomes enslaved to the slave girl and is soon in the throes of sex addiction. We are indebted to Joann Fletcher (see note 17) who has commented on our paper from the Egyptologist’s perspective. She confirms just how potent a symbol hair is and that it can, across cultures, be viewed as ‘a receptacle for physical and often secret power.’ However, although the allure of real and also false hair was much admired in a woman, high status mummies sometimes have shaven heads and artistic representations can show bald women to advantage. It is the female of the species whom Lucius is praising in particular at this point. Perhaps we are in danger of overstating Lucius’ attachment to his own human hair.
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could be comically explained by his exorcising his hairy time as an ass but yet another interpretation will be on offer in due course. Defining ‘dignity’ The use of the word dignitas evokes not just the ‘function’ of wings but might be an intentional pointer to Cicero’s discussion of dignitas as a physical attribute in his treatise on practical philosophy, de officiis (1,36,130, quoted below). Cicero suggests when writing about the beauty of the body that dignitas is the male attribute equivalent to venustas in the female (comeliness, charm, the physical allure associated with the goddess Venus). Although both venustas and dignitas are qualities of adornment for the human species, for the male this is achieved by restraint in dress and appearance. It is worth looking at the discussion in more detail: sed quoniam decorum illud in omnibus factis, dictis, in corporis denique motu et statu cernitur idque positum est in tribus rebus, formositate, ordine, ornatu ad actionem apto, difficilibus ad eloquendum, sed satis erit intellegi, in his autem tribus continetur cura etiam illa, ut probemur iis, quibuscum apud quosque vivamus, his quoque de rebus pauca dicantur. Principio corporis nostri magnam natura ipsa videtur habuisse rationem, quae formam nostram reliquamque figuram, in qua esset species honesta, eam posuit in promptu, quae partes autem corporis ad naturae necessitatem datae aspectum essent deformem habiturae atque foedum, eas contexit atque abdidit. Cic. offic. 1,35,126 But the propriety to which I refer shows itself also in every deed, in every word, even in every movement and attitude of the body. And in outward, visible propriety there are three elements – beauty, tact and taste; these conceptions are difficult to express in words, but it will be enough for my purpose if they are understood. In these three elements is included also our concern for the good opinion of those with whom and amongst whom we live. For these reasons I should like to say a few words about this kind of propriety also. First of all, Nature seems to have had a wonderful plan in the construction of our bodies. Our face and our figure generally, in so far as it had a comely appearance, she has placed in sight; but the parts of the body that are given us only to serve the
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needs of Nature and that would present an unsightly and unpleasant appearance she has covered up and concealed from view.’11 ‘cum autem pulchritudinis duo genera sint, quorum in altero venustas sit, in altero dignitas, venustatem muliebrem ducere debemus, dignitatem virilem. ergo et a forma removeatur omnis viro non dignus ornatus, et huic simile vitium in gestu motuque caveatur.’ Cic. offic. 1,36,130 ‘Again, there are two orders of beauty: in the one, loveliness predominates; in the other, dignity; of these, we ought to regard loveliness as the attribute of woman, and dignity as the attribute of man. Therefore, let all finery not suitable to a man’s dignity be kept off his person, and let him guard against the like fault in gesture and action.’ Cicero is establishing precepts of propriety and decorum in every aspect of human bodily actions and linking in a traditional way outer appearance with inner and abstract qualities and attributes. Cicero measures appropriateness by three main qualities: formositas, ordo, ornatus – beauty, tact and taste. He recommends the golden mean in deportment, bodily decoration and general demeanour. Cicero describes Nature’s wonderful plan for exposing to view those parts of the body most to be looked at. Any coarse aspect of the body must be kept hidden. Personal appearance must be neat but not fastidious or affected. In fact the admiring description of Lucius in Book 2 quoted earlier corresponds rather well to the positive role model of manhood constructed by Cicero, that behaviour and appearance should be modest, unaffected and in proper proportion. Lucius starts off with plenty of dignitas in this respect. As well as all these advantages and admirable qualities, Lucius also enjoys a reputation for doctrina, according to Photis at Met. 3,15. Photis trusts Lucius with her mistress’s secrets because of his noble pedigree and his knowledge of cultic practices. However, as this paper progresses Lucius’ physiognomy will prove to be a site for all kinds of fascinating readings, not least of which is Wytse Keulen’s contribution to this volume. Photis has been portrayed by Lucius in fulsome praise as a Venus lookalike and substitute. Her clear claim to venustas makes her an ideal match for Lucius who hopes to become a Cupid by acquiring dignitas and to stand by her side in this guise. Thinking back to the elaborate description of Lucius in ————— 11
Tr. Walter Miller in the Loeb (1975).
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Book 2 which is followed by the hero’s similarly constructed address to the reader about the attributes of Photis, we can assume that this couple are reflections of each other in physical beauty. The pair of lovers are beginning to look like a near parody of the heroes and heroines of Greek novels who invariably come as an alluring package. Lucius is destined not only to be separated from Photis (which does not break his heart!) but also to be divided from his true self, going through much suffering before he is re-united with his human exterior.12 Journey’s end? The Laughter Festival is important in propelling the narrative along by giving an extra motivational push to the hero to take part in a transformation, to be ‘hands on’ rather than simply staying as a voyeur of magic and metamorphosis. However, Newbold’s article raises the issue of the misfire in such shame-attacking techniques and the unfortunate outcome for Lucius is that he loses his humanity and becomes the essence of coarseness as an ass. His human mind and sensibilities remain but he picks up bestial habits that are a comical contradiction to everything Cicero recommends for looking ‘dignified.’ Spraying his tormenters with excrement at 4,3 is a case in point, something Lucius the ass does without a thought to retaining humanity or avoiding humiliation.13 Lucius becomes acclimatised as an ass to being an object of wonder and laughter once he reveals his affinity with things human. When in Book Ten he is faced with another theatrical performance, however, the copulation with the condemned woman (with its attendant dangers from the wild beasts that will be let loose upon them both) he runs away and begs to shed his shameful ass skin. He regains his human form, by the grace of Isis, and provides a different awesome kind of spectacle. Lucius is stark naked in the crowded festival, not a promising start to his repossession of dignitas as ————— 12
13
Photis does not reappear and with hindsight her role seems more sinister. Lucius tells family and friends that a witch was responsible for his traumatic transformation. He is returned to his own self. See James 1998, 49. Lucius’ excessive histrionics at the mock trial signified his slip from a measured manner and discourse as recommended by Cicero in his portrait of the ideal man. His shuffling gait around the city beforehand and the way he carried himself when led back to Milo’s house were also crimes against the Ciceronian precepts of dignitas.
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Cicero would see it, but he is immediately given an outer tunic to cover himself. The priest addresses the tongue-tied newly re-born mortal with words of wisdom about his suffering and its causes. He observes that none of his natural advantages protected Lucius from a misfortune brought about by the rashness of youth: Nec tibi natales ac ne dignitas quidem, vel ipsa qua flores usquam doctrina profuit, sed lubrico virentis aetatulae ad serviles delapsus voluptates, curiositatis improsperae sinistrum praemium reportasti. Met. 11,15 ‘Not your birth nor even your position, nor even your fine education has been of any help whatever to you; but on the slippery path of headstrong youth you plunged into slavish pleasures and reaped the perverse reward of your ill-starred curiosity.’ The emphasis upon dignitas in this significant summary of Lucius’ suffering should encourage us to see this attribute as bound up in Lucius’ inner and outer being before its disintegration at the Risus Festival. He seems to have lost it forever when he is changed into the ass, because his attempts to relaunch himself as a being of nobility by a metamorphosis into a bird and therefore a creature akin to and closer to the gods went disastrously awry. The priest pronounces that Lucius is about to have a happy ending; he has arrived at the port of Isis, goddess and Seeing Fortuna. The hero is strongly urged to enlist in her cult and after a good deal of expense and various drawn-out processes he becomes a priest of Osiris, enrolled in the directorate of the Shrine Bearers (pastophori). At the end of the novel Lucius tells the reader that he goes everywhere with his bald head uncovered and joyfully carries out his duties.14 Scholars of Apuleius have offered persuasive arguments that there is a strong vein of satire in this conclusion.15 The Greek Ass story ends on a comic, indeed a farcical note; the hero tells a final anecdote against himself, how the loss of the large sexual organ the ass possessed had made him far less attractive to the high-born and beau————— 14
15
Winkler’s contention that the use of the imperfect tense suggests that the novel (and Lucius’ conversion) is open ended has been countered and problematised. See Penwill 1990, 24, Finkelpearl 1998, 187 (see also Finkelpearl 2004). Laird 2001 and van MalMaeder 1997b have produced persuasive theories about where to find the ‘real’ ending. Heiserman 1977, Winkler 1985, Murgatroyd 2004.
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tiful woman he had copulated with when he was a beast. In spite of all the lyrical writing and religious fervour we find in Apuleius’ version and his acceptance by the female goddess and her consort, his manipulation by the cult and the considerable expenditure it involves could point to the hero’s gullibility and his continued manipulation by powerful females. It is true that Lucius is willing to give up his pleasures and to accept aspects of slavery in the service of the divine, but the priest had alerted him at the end of his speech to the dialectic of surrendering to the goddess in order to be free. We could approach Lucius’ fate from a different angle and ask just how appropriate it was for him to sport his baldness at every opportunity, and this brings us back to dignitas again. It has been pointed out by Winkler (1985, 225–227), Doody (1996, 123), and Lateiner (2001, 235) that priests of Isis and Osiris were figures of fun and butts of derision for Roman satirists, that baldness was the attribute of jesters and could also be regarded as an infirmity. Lucius is still exhibiting asinine qualities after his re-transformation and is as much a dupe of the duplicitous cult as he was a victim of witchcraft.16 It would certainly seem that Lucius’ baldness is a barrier to being taken seriously, especially by the scrupulous reader. The interesting point about Lucius’ embracing of this visible aspect of the cult is that priests of Osiris were expected to wear wigs when on everyday business and to reserve their baldheaded state for the time when they were actually and actively involved in a ritual.17 Apart from the fact that Cicero may well have frowned upon shaven heads as inappropriate for a dignified citizen (revealing what nature has designed to be hidden?!), the cult itself may not have favoured such a blatant, in-your-face kind of baldness being constantly on show. So, can we suggest that the motif of hair and hairlessness can be taken even further in the novel?18 ————— 16
17
18
We are grateful to Wytse Keulen for his summary of the satiric perspective upon the priesthood of Lucius. He points out that Lucius has, however, been reflective about his initiations and the implications of denial they bring (Met. 11,19; 11,29). His lack of means is as much due to expensive city life (Met. 11,28) as his financial outlay for his religious ceremonies! On wigs, hair, cleanliness and head lice, see Fletcher 2004, 79–116. She goes into a great deal of detail in her thesis (unpublished) of 1995, an especially relevant section being 211–253. The shaven head and body guarded against the contamination of parasites while priests were about their duties but the devout formed a guaranteed clientele for wig makers and could wear their false hair with pride. One of Psyche’s sisters complains of having to put up with a husband balder than a pumpkin at 5,9 (see Zimmerman et al. 2004, 170 f. ad loc.). Of course, Psyche’s sisters
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Lucius has compromised his dignitas once again by not preserving the custom of priests of Osiris to sport wigs and restrict the clean and shining bald heads for processions and priestly rites. Lucius professes to be deeply impressed by the magnae religionis terrena sidera –‘earthly stars of the great religion’ as he dubs the shaven pates of the men in the navigium Isidis at 11,10. Small wonder he too wishes to parade his catasterised head around Rome as a sign that he has finally reached a heavenly state as a follower of Isis and Osiris. Is this another attempt to reach the stars and restore his dignity? The joke seems to be on Lucius as the hero is responsible for this final humiliation and it is his over-zealous embracing of the cult that results in his baldly and boldly going around Rome uncaring of the attention he is attracting. Lucius would appear to be oblivious to the fact that yet another counterphobic strategy to shame has missed the mark and that true dignitas continues to elude him. If only things were that simple. The ‘Right’ Reader Response? Is it legitimate to laugh and then take stock as we read the finale of Apuleius’ novel with its strongly visual image of our handsome hero ‘baldly and boldly’going around the city of Rome? A comedy of errors on Lucius’ part does not necessarily mean that he has failed to reach an exalted state. Our interpretation may hedge the bets, but it has implications for the bigger question about the nature of the narrative itself and harks back to Winkler, 1985, 275 who writes: ‘Religious knowledge as such has this comedic aspect, that one person’s saving system is another person’s joke. In a certain light the deacon of Isis looks rather like a clown.’ As Maeve O’Brien has argued in Apuleius’ Debt to Plato in the Metamorphoses (2002, Prefatory Note): ‘Another approach is to combine the two [views of the novel as purely comic or religious allegory] and say that Lucius’ fall is a felix culpa because through it Lucius is finally re-united with Isis, and that the story has a heuristic purpose, the comedy or levity designed to win the sympathy of the reader for the final –serious – message.’ ————— come with a tradition of philosophical symbolism. See most recently O’Brien, 1998, 23– 34. Hair is an important attribute not just for beauty but for counter-humiliation strategies. Thelyphron grows his hair long to cover the mutilation he has suffered, the loss of his ears (Met. 2,30).
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On that note, we suggest an alternative ‘happy’ ending for Lucius.19 Selfconscious self-definition was a common feature in the iconography of ‘learned portraits’ of the second century. In his discussion of this vast topic Zanker shows that the ‘intellectual look’ – baldness and a beard – was a fashionable image to adopt.20 For our purposes it is sufficient to note that costume or disguise seemed necessary to indicate on the outside what was going on on the inside: a person had to be read by his cover. The intellectual or philosopher had to look bald or the complete opposite, wildly hairy and old as fashion demanded. Apuleius’ own remarks on his wild coiffure in the Apology are intended to show his concern with higher things, though he does plead that philosophers might also be good-looking (Apol. 4). This is ‘branding’ ancient style and, taking our argument into profounder philosophical realms, is the reason why Apuleius himself feels it necessary to state in On Plato and his Doctrine that outward appearance is of no account at all in the philosopher’s search for true wisdom (Plat. 2,22 p. 251). It is against this background that one should look at Lucius’ physical appearance in the Metamorphoses. As with everything else in Hypata, Lucius’ image is in a continuous state of becoming. It is no surprise that he does not want it to be made into a statue after the Risus festival. He has too much shape-shifting yet to embark upon. He has the single necessary ingredient for this voyage into the unknown, not wings but quality or uprightness, the probitas inherited from his mother (Met. 2,2). This uprightness drives his desire or curiosity to know more about everything: magic, love, and novelty of every kind. Apuleius maintains elsewhere that this desire is important in the search for knowledge and that no appearance of the body (deformitas corporis) can ever shake this desire: It is the wisdom of a good man that makes a youth love him, but only a youth who by the uprightness of his innate nature (probitate ingenii) is well-disposed towards the good arts. Shapelessness of the body cannot drive away such a desire: for when the soul herself has captivated the affections, the person as a whole is loved, but when it is the body which is sought out eagerly, only his inferior part is held dear (Plat. 2,22 p. 251). ————— 19
20
The ‘happy ending’ of Lucius’ journey in the different space of Book 11 and with difficult roads behind him, is suggested by Maaike Zimmerman in her aptly named article of 2002, ‘On the Road in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, especially p. 81. See Zanker 1995, esp. 224–250. Cf. Dowden in this volume, n. 35.
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Even if one is possessed of such uprightness one can be led astray in seeking out transient delights. Lucius is changed into a donkey in pursuit of such delights. But this is not a punishment, rather it is just one more way, as is the Risus festival debacle, for him to continue his quest. The desire to seek out a higher knowledge (represented in the novel possibly by the Isiac cult) is different in that this level of the quest is conducted by means of learning to love the soul. This is of necessity what happens to Lucius, because after he loses his human body all he has left is his human soul. It is with this soul that he communes with Isis, a metaphor for divine knowledge in the eleventh book of the Metamorphoses. As readers then we might be entitled to think that Lucius has reached nirvana – but, have we? Lucius’ bald pate is so well polished it has blinded us as readers. We cannot see Isis but can access her only through Lucius’ description. Isis is the goddess of Egyptian religion but in Apuleian terms she is a god in literature. According to Plato, Olympian gods in literature relate to true divinity as objects of illusion relate to objects of true knowledge.21 As a Platonist, Apuleius must have known that true communion with the gods, the only true love, will be truly achieved when one beholds them with the eyes of the soul.22 Apuleius discusses the gods as they appear in literature in the context of a wider discussion of daemons in On the god of Socrates (Socr. 11-12 p. 145–6). Daemons are made of stuff so fine that they are invisible (11 p. 145). The literary examples used to illustrate the point are Homeric Minerva, who is visible to Achilles alone, and also noted is Vergilian Iuturna’s invisibility to the army. The effect of the invisibility is also illustrated with a literary exemplum: daemons then are invisible because the eyes of those trying to see them are blinded much as when the enemy is blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the braggart soldier’s shield (Socr. 11 p. 145). On the other hand it has been noted that a glimpse of the gods is achieved sometimes by means of the sight of the soul (mentis) (2 p. 121), but that the inadequacy of human speech is such that they cannot be described (3 p. 124). The god in the Metamorphoses is not Minerva or Iuturna but Isis. She is not an Olympian god but a description of her is attempted by Lucius who bemoans the inadequacy of language as he does so. The hero has achieved the status he desires as his shaven head proclaims. He is now the intellectual, ————— 21
22
Symp. 210a; Rep. 389d–390c. Or Phaedrus, 250e–251a, where soul is corrupted by the influence of Olympian gods. Plato, Symp. 212a.
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he has learned to love his soul and by means of this soul he is able to look upon Isis. The introduction of the Isiac cult into the novel at this point is a device used to show how Lucius has made this progression and achieved a new level in his quest for knowledge. He has glimpsed the god and tried to describe this vision to us. The point of the eleventh book is to show how such a quest might be pursued. The quality of probitas, so prominent in the description of Lucius’ physical qualities as a human, occasionally re-asserted itself during his unpleasant adventures (the sleek, comely and handsome ass.). He and we have learned that his outward appearance is no bar to achieving the highest knowledge. But while he continues on, we ourselves cannot follow the imperfect tense of the last word in the novel. Lucius gaily marches on almost inviting us to go on as well, but we cannot, because he, the lovely fair-haired braggart, has been shorn. His shining head, like the braggart soldier’s shield, is the means by which we are blinded to his new status: he has himself become like a daemon in literature, an earthly star indeed. Unless we can catch sight of him by means of the eyes of the soul, he will be ever elusive. So blinded by the sheen off Lucius’ bald head, the search continues. In this quest we shall, as we said at the outset of this interpretative journey, be guided by Maaike’s insights and take no more tentative steps until she gives us her distinctive ‘reader response.’ Select Bibliography Doody, M.A. 1997. The True Story of the Novel, London: HarperCollins. Englert, J., Long, T. 1972–1973. ‘Functions of Hair in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, CJ 68, 236–239. Finkelpearl, E. 1998. Metamorphosis of Language in Apuleius. A Study of Allusion in the Novel, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. — 2004. ‘The Ends of the Metamorphoses (Apuleius Metamorphoses 11.26.4–11.30)’, in: M. Zimmerman, R. van der Paardt (edd.), Metamorphic Reflections. Essays presented to Ben Hijmans at his 75th birthday, Leuven: Peeters, 319–342. Fletcher, J. 1995. Ancient Egyptian Hair: A Study in Style, Form and Function, PhD thesis, University of Manchester. — 2004. The Search for Nefertiti, London: Hodder and Stoughton. Frangoulidis, S. 2002. ‘The Laughter Festival as a Community Integration Rite in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: M. Paschalis, S. Frangoulidis (edd.), Space in the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & the University Library Groningen (AN Supplementum, 1), 177–188. Habinek, T.N. 1990. ‘Lucius’ Rite of Passage’, MD 25, 49–66.
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Hanson, J.A. (ed., tr.). 1989. Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 2 Vols., Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press. Heiserman, A.R. 1977. The Novel Before the Novel, Chicago: Chicago University Press. James, P. 1987. Unity in Diversity. A Study of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses with Particular Reference to the Narrator’s Art of Transformation and the Metamorphosis Motif in the Tale of Cupid and Psyche, Hildesheim – Zürich – New York: Olms. — 1998. ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being,’ in M. Zimmerman et al. (edd.), 35–50. Laird, A. 2001.‘Paradox and Transcendance: The Prologue as the End’, in A. Kahane, A. Laird (edd.), A Companion to the Prologue of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Oxford: OUP, 267–281. Lateiner, D. 2001. ‘Humiliation and Immobility in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, TAPA 131, 217–255. McCreight, T.D. 1993. ‘Sacrificial Ritual in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, GCN 5, 31–62. Massey, I. 1976. The Gaping Pig: Literature and Metamorphosis, Berkeley – Los Angeles: University of California Press. Mal-Maeder, D.K. van, 1997a. ‘Descriptions et Descripteurs: mais qui décrit dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée?’, in: M. Picone, B. Zimmermann (edd.), Der antike Roman und seine mittelalterliche Rezeption, Basel –Boston – Berlin: Birkhäuser, 171–201. — 1997b. ‘Lector intende: laetaberis. The enigma of the last book of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses,’ GCN 8, 87–118. — 2001. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Livre II Texte, Introduction, et Commentaire, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Murgatroyd, P. 2004. ‘The ending of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in CQ 54, 319–321. Newbold, R.F. 1985. ‘Sensitivity to Shame in Greek and Roman Epic with Particular Reference to Claudian and Nonnus’, Ramus 14, 30–45. O’Brien, M.C. 1998. ‘“For every tatter in its mortal dress”: Love, the Soul and her Sisters’, in M. Zimmerman et al. (edd.), 23–34. — 2002. Apuleius’ Debt to Plato in the Metamorphoses, Lampeter: Edwin Mellen. Penwill, J. 1990. ‘Ambages Reciprocae: Reviewing Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, Ramus 19, 1– 25. Paardt, R.Th. van der. 1990. ‘The Festival of Laughter in the Golden Ass: A Final Solution?’, in: J. Tatum – G.M. Vernazza (edd.), The Ancient Novel. Classical Paradigms and Modern Perspectives. ICAN II, Proceedings of the International Conference, Dartmouth College 1989, Hanover, New Hampshire, 39. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor & Actor: A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’s The Golden Ass, Berkeley – Los Angeles: University of California Press. Zanker, P. 1995. The Mask of Socrates: The Image of the Intellectual in Antiquity, translated by A. Shapiro, Berkeley: University of California Press (Sather Classical Lectures, 59). Zimmerman, M. et al. (edd.). 1998. Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Volume II: Cupid & Psyche. A Collection of Original Papers, Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Zimmerman, M. 2002. ‘On the Road in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in M. Paschalis, S. Frangoulidis (edd.), Space in the Ancient Novel, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & the University Library (AN Supplementum, 1), 78–97. Zimmerman M., Panayotakis S., Hunink V., Keulen W.H., Harrison S.J., McCreight T.D., Wesseling B., Van Mal-Maeder D. 2004. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Books IV,28 – VI,24. Cupid and Psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten.
Lucius descripteur: quelques remarques sur le livre 11 des Métamorphoses d’Apulée D ANIELLE VAN M AL -M AEDER Université de Lausanne
Dans cette contribution, qui n’a d’autre prétention que de rendre hommage à la dédicataire de ce volume, je voudrais brièvement revenir sur un point de discussion entre elle et moi. Plus exactement, je voudrais évoquer une discussion que nous aurions dû avoir lors de ma soutenance de thèse, à l’Université de Groningen. En effet, la procédure aux Pays-Bas limitant la cérémonie à une heure, Maaike Zimmerman, qui faisait partie du jury, n’eut pas le temps de poser sa question avant que l’huissier ne proclame le ‘hora est’ rituel. Je sus après-coup qu’elle aurait souhaité m’entendre sur une phrase quelque peu tranchée de mon introduction à laquelle elle voulait s’opposer. À propos des interruptions de la continuité narrative (récits enchâssés et descriptions), j’affirmais en effet: ‘Quant au livre 11, il n’est pour ainsi dire qu’une longue ekphrasis d’Isis, de son culte et de ses rites’.1 Cette formulation, que j’ai retouchée pour la nuancer dans le commentaire paru dans la série des Groningen Commentaries on the Novel,2 reprenait une opinion exprimée précédemment dans mon article consacré à l’énigme du dernier livre: ‘Book 11 of the Metamorphoses, one might say, is nothing but a lengthy description since, as far as action in the true sense of the word is concerned, very little happens. With the exception of Lucius’ three initiations, we have little but ekphraseis, of which the first ten books, too, contain some examples’.3 En dehors du fait que ces affirmations traduisent, je m’en rends compte aujourd’hui, une vision négative de la description comme ‘ancilla narrationis’ (vision contre laquelle je me suis moi-même plusieurs fois ————— 1 2 3
Van Mal-Maeder 1998, 13. Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 3. Van Mal-Maeder 1997a, 88. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 252–265
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élevée),4 sur le fond, je maintiens mon opinion et saisis l’occasion qui m’est donnée pour la défendre, la corriger là où cela est nécessaire et l’affiner un peu. Pour mieux mettre en perspective le problème, qui est essentiellement celui de la difficulté de distinguer entre narratif et descriptif, je commencerai par résumer le livre 11 avant de me livrer à quelques observations ayant trait à la vitesse du récit et au tempo romanesque. Pour terminer, je reprendrai plus précisément la question de la place et de la fonction des descriptions dans le livre d’Isis et celle de leur descripteur. Au début du livre, Lucius se trouve sur une plage près de Cenchrées, où il a trouvé refuge après sa fuite hors du théâtre de Corinthe. Réveillé durant la nuit, il adresse une prière à la divinité de la lune, la suppliant de venir à son aide. À peine s’est-il rendormi que la déesse Isis lui apparaît pour lui annoncer qu’il retrouvera sa forme humaine le lendemain, lors d’une fête célébrée en son honneur, en cueillant les roses ornant une couronne portée par son prêtre. Elle lui enjoint par ailleurs de consacrer le reste de sa vie à son service. Le lendemain, Lucius se réveille au moment où arrive la procession religieuse, dont il donne une description minutieuse. Obéissant aux indications de la déesse, il s’avance vers le grand-prêtre pour dévorer les roses salvatrices. Dépouillé de sa peau d’âne, il assiste à la suite de la cérémonie, dont il fournit un compte-rendu détaillé. Après une longue attente et de nombreux préparatifs nécessitant des dépenses importantes, il se soumet à une première initiation, partiellement décrite. De retour chez lui, il ne tarde pas à repartir pour Rome, suivant les ordres d’Isis qui l’invite à s’initier à de nouveaux mystères. En dépit du coût de cette nouvelle initiation, Lucius se plie à ses injonctions. Sa situation financière ne tarde pas à s’améliorer, puisqu’en menant parallèlement une carrière d’avocat, il réalise des gains confortables, qui lui permettent de payer une troisième initiation exigée par la divinité. Suivant les ordres d’Osiris, qui lui était apparu dans son sommeil, Lucius se joint au collège de ses pastophores, s’acquittant avec joie de ses obligations. Comme j’ai déjà eu l’occasion de le souligner, tout résumé, qui consiste en la sélection d’éléments nécessaires à la compréhension de l’histoire, comporte une part considérable de subjectivité.5 Celui qu’on peut faire du livre 11 des Métamorphoses reflète sans doute plus qu’un autre la vision qu’on a ————— 4
5
Van Mal-Maeder 1997b. L’expression ancilla narrationis est empruntée à Genette 1969, 57. Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 2.
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du roman. On pourrait par exemple mentionner, de manière plus systématique que je ne l’ai fait, les rêves prémonitoires et les apparitions divines se succédant dans le livre d’Isis et qui sont des moteurs de l’action. Ou encore évoquer les sermons moralisateurs que Lucius se voit infliger ou l’atmosphère de joie et de religiosité euphorique qui règne dans ce livre et qui tranche avec les livres précédents. À l’inverse, certains éléments que j’ai indiqués, comme l’insistance sur le coût des initiations à Isis et à Osiris et sur la situation financière de Lucius, tantôt précaire, tantôt florissante, pourraient paraître superflus à un autre lecteur des Métamorphoses.6 Il en va de même des descriptions, dont un lecteur moderne habitué à la primauté de l’action pourrait estimer qu’elles relèvent essentiellement du décoratif sinon du digressif. Sans vouloir reprendre une question que j’ai déjà eu l’occasion d’aborder, je rappellerai seulement que les descriptions qui émaillent le récit des Métamorphoses y jouent parfois un rôle structurel et signifiant.7 Il arrive en effet qu’elles contiennent une signification symbolique et qu’elles charpentent pour ainsi dire le récit en préfigurant un événement de l’histoire à venir, en renvoyant à un épisode précédent et/ou en fonctionnant comme des mises en abyme. Tel est du moins le cas des descriptions qui, par leur ampleur, constituent des segments textuels clairement distincts du discours proprement narratif, à l’intérieur duquel elles établissent ce que j’ai appelé une ‘pause verticale’. Avec le recul, je remarquerai quand même que la démarche moderne consistant à attribuer une fonction signifiante aux descriptions revient, de manière quelque peu paradoxale et sans doute inconsciente, à justifier leur raison d’être par rapport à une trame jugée prééminente. Pour ce qui est des descriptions de moindre envergure, en tout cas, plus difficilement identifiables en tant que segments textuels distincts, on leur reconnaît essentiellement une fonction artistique, celle de colorer le récit, de l’embellir et de procurer au lecteur un plaisir d’ordre esthétique. La distinction entre descriptif et narratif est ici souvent d’autant plus délicate qu’on serait bien en peine de trouver, dans ce texte comme dans toute œuvre littéraire sans doute, une phrase dépourvue d’élément descriptif. L’adjonction d’un simple adjectif, d’un préfixe ou d’un suffixe, suffit à introduire une part de descriptif ————— 6
7
Sur cet aspect du livre 11, voir Winkler 1985, 215–223; Van Mal-Maeder 1997a, 102– 106. Van Mal-Maeder 1997b, avec références sur la question des descriptions dans le roman grec et latin; 2001, 10–11. Voir aussi Slater 1997; Nimis 1998; Morales 2004, en particulier 96–151 (‘Description, Digression, and Form’); Zimmerman et alii (GCA) 2004, 7–9.
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dans un texte narratif. La distinction n’est en tout cas pas simplement celle d’une opposition entre inaction (le descriptif) et action (le narratif), tant il est vrai qu’il existe des descriptions d’actions.8 Pour en revenir au résumé, censé embrasser de manière condensée l’action principale, la question demeure de savoir ce qu’on entend par ‘action’. S’il s’agit de ‘ce que fait quelqu’un et ce par quoi il réalise une intention ou une impulsion’,9 force est de reconnaître que le livre 11 ne contient guère moins d’action que le livre 2 ou le livre 10, certainement si on inclut au nombre des actions les prières de Lucius (‘faire une prière’), les sermons d’Isis et du prêtre d’Isis (‘faire un sermon’) ou encore les préparatifs successifs aux diverses initiations. Si de plus on accepte l’analyse de Rudi van der Paardt, dans son article consacré aux techniques narratives dans les Métamorphoses, il faut admettre aussi que le livre 11 est beaucoup plus rapide que les précédents, puisqu’il recouvrirait à lui seul une période d’environ une année, comme ensemble les livres 1 à 10.10 Cette analyse, qui étudie les rapports entre le temps de l’histoire (erzählte Zeit), correspondant à la durée de l’histoire mesurée en heures, en jours, en mois ou en années, et le temps du récit (Erzählzeit), correspondant à la longueur du texte, mesurée en lignes ou en pages, met en évidence la construction soignée du roman et du livre 11 en particulier (la troisième initiation aurait lieu en mars, comme l’anamorphose, survenue un an plus tôt). Elle se base sur trois indications temporelles, dont la troisième peut cependant être interprétée de différentes manières. La première indication est celle de la fête du nauigium Isidis, dont on sait qu’elle avait lieu le 5 mars;11 les chapitres 1 à 17 se déroulent donc entre la nuit du 4 mars et le 5 mars. Les chapitres 18 à 26,1, ensuite, relatent les retrouvailles de Lucius avec ses parents et sa famille, sa préparation aux mystères isiaques, l’initiation elle-même et son retour chez lui; ils recouvrent une période de neuf mois, puisque la suite du texte nous apprend que c’est la veille des ————— 8
9
10
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Les théoriciens antiques de la rhétorique ne se soucièrent d’ailleurs pas d’établir une distinction précise entre description et narration; cf. e.g. Quint. Inst. 8,3,6–7; Hermogenes 22 in Kennedy 2003, 86. Sur cette question, on consultera avec profit Hamon 1981 et Adam 1994. Selon la définition du Nouveau Petit Robert. Dictionnaire alphabétique et analogique de la langue française, Paris 2000. Van der Paardt 1978, 84–87. Sur le découpage temporel du livre 11, voir aussi Witte 1997. Gwyn Griffith 1975, 31–47.
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Ides de décembre (le 12 décembre) que Lucius arrive à Rome.12 Enfin, dans ce même chapitre toujours, nous lisons que Lucius reçoit l’ordre de se soumettre à une seconde initiation au moment où ‘le grand soleil, parcourant le cercle du zodiaque, avait accompli une année’ (transcurso signifero circulo Sol magnus annum compleuerat).13 Cette précision peut signifier, comme l’entend Rudi van der Paardt, que l’année en cours s’était achevée; la seconde initiation prend alors place deux ou trois mois après la première, qui eut lieu peu avant son départ pour Rome.14 Mais elle peut aussi indiquer qu’une année s’était écoulée depuis l’arrivée de Lucius à Rome ou depuis sa première initiation. Ces deux dernières interprétations expliqueraient certains détails du texte, comme le passage dans lequel Lucius s’étonne de cette nouvelle exigence de la divinité.15 Ainsi s’expliquerait aussi le fait que Lucius ait eu le temps de se bâtir une glorieuse réputation en plaidant au forum, au point de s’enrichir et de susciter la jalousie de tiers.16 Dans cette lecture, le livre 11 recouvrirait une période d’environ deux ans, soit le double des livres 1 à 10, ce qui accélère encore considérablement son tempo. Quoi qu’il en soit de cette question de (macro)structure, un tempo élevé ne signifie pas forcément un récit dynamique, et je maintiens qu’il se dégage du livre 11 une impression de lenteur, l’impression qu’il ne s’y passe pas grand-chose. La raison en est d’abord que l’accélération du récit, observable à partir du chapitre 18, se produit le plus souvent à travers des indications temporelles embrassant les événements de manière condensée, qui forment autant d’ellipses, où l’histoire est élidée.17 Cette accélération, qui va en augmentant, s’explique par le fait que la première initiation a été suffisamment détaillée pour que les deux suivantes puissent être relatées sous forme de ————— 12 13
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Apul. Met. 11,26,2. Apul. Met. 11,26,4. L’édition utilisée est celle de D.S. Robertson, la traduction de P. Vallette (Les Belles Lettres). Apul. Met. 11,26,1. Voir Van der Paardt 1978, 86, avec références supplémentaires; Witte 1997, 45–51. Apul. Met. 11,26,4: Mirabar, quid rei temptaret, quid pronuntiaret futurum; quidni, plenissime iam dudum uidebar initiatus (‘Quel était son dessein et qu’avait-elle en vue? J’avais d’autant plus lieu d’en être intrigué que je me croyais depuis longtemps pleinement initié’). Voir Fredouille 1975, 124–125, pour qui les mots eram cultor denique adsiduus (11,26,3) semblent également indiquer une longue fréquentation de la déesse et de son temple au Champ de Mars. Apul. Met. 11,28,6; 11,30,2 et 4. Apul. Met. 11,24,5 paucis dehinc ibidem commoratus diebus; 11,24,6 transcurso signifero circulo Sol magnus annum compleuerat; 11,29,1 et ecce post pauculum tempus; 11,30,3 denique post dies admodum pauculos.
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récits sommaires.18 Lucius est un routard des initiations, il a appris à ne pas trop douter, et tout va plus vite à Rome qu’à Cenchrées.19 Mais entre ces ‘pics de vitesse’, on observe dans le livre 11 une prédominance des deux formes les plus lentes du mouvement narratif: la scène dialoguée, qui réalise l’égalité de temps entre récit et histoire, et la description (ou pause descriptive), ‘où un segment quelconque du récit correspond à une durée diégétique nulle’.20 Le livre d’Isis contient en effet, je le disais, plusieurs prières, sermons et discours à teneur religieuse rapportés sous forme dialogique, au discours direct ou au discours indirect libre.21 Dans de tels passages, le temps du récit est identique au temps de l’histoire, ce qui a pour résultat d’étirer le tempo romanesque beaucoup plus que si ces discours étaient rapportés sous forme de récits sommaires. Par ailleurs, dans le livre 11, le cours de l’action est suspendu par de nombreuses descriptions qui ont pour effet d’allonger considérablement le temps du récit. La lenteur découlant de cette forme de mouvement narratif s’observe en outre dans d’autres passages qui relèvent également plutôt du descriptif: ainsi lorsque Lucius évoque ses états d’âme (ce qu’il fait dans le livre d’Isis plus qu’ailleurs), tant dans ses prières à la déesse que lorsqu’il relate les différentes étapes d’une initiation qui se fait attendre.22 Mais ce sont bien les descriptions proprement dites qui retiendront ici mon attention, celles qui, en raison de leur ampleur, de la façon dont elles sont introduites et structurées, apparaissent comme des segments textuels distincts qu’on peut désigner du terme ekphraseis. Il s’agit des descriptions qui foisonnent dans la première partie du livre (ch. 1–17), la plus lente, qui dépeignent la déesse Isis lorsqu’elle apparaît à Lucius dans son sommeil (ch. 3–4), l’éveil de la nature renaissante à l’aube de la fête du nauigium Isidis et à l’aube de la renaissance de Lucius (ch. 7), la procession religieuse (ch. 8– 11), la cérémonie du nauigium Isidis (ch. 16,5–17) et certains aspects de la ————— 18
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20 21
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L’expression ‘récit sommaire’ est de Genette 1972, 128–129, dans sa description des quatre formes de mouvement narratif dont l’alternance crée des effets de rythme: le récit sommaire, l’ellipse, la pause descriptive et la scène dialoguée. Apul. Met. 11,27,4 nec diu res in ambiguo stetit. Nam proxuma nocte…; 11,27,8 nec moratus; 11,28,5 cunctis adfatim praeparatis, decem rursus diebus inanimis contentus cibis; 11,30,1 nec deinceps postposito uel in supinam procrastinationem reiecto negotio. Genette 1972, loc. cit. Prières: Apul. Met. 11,2; 11, 25,1–6; discours de dieux et autres sermons: 11,5–6; 11,15; 11,21,4–9; 11,29,4–5. Apul. Met. 11,2,4; 11,19; 11,21,1–2; 11,22; 11,26,4; 11,28; 11,29, 1–3.
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première initiation de Lucius (ch. 24,4). Certaines d’entre elles sont des descriptions d’objets ou d’entités fixes, immobiles, d’autres décrivent des actions et contiennent plusieurs verbes de mouvement. Bien qu’elles forment des pauses verticales dans le flux narratif, elles n’en sont pas moins constitutives de l’univers spatio-temporel, amenées et motivées par les événements de l’histoire. En cela, le descripteur se conforme aux principes des théoriciens de la rhétorique, qui recommandent d’éviter les digressions s’écartant excessivement du fil argumentatif ou ne présentant pas de véritable pertinence par rapport à la cause traitée.23 Par un jeu savant d’échos thématiques et verbaux, ces descriptions tissent en outre un réseau de liens avec le reste du roman, dont elles soulignent ainsi la construction soignée. Je ne suis pas en mesure d’analyser ici en détail l’ensemble de ces correspondances, dont certaines ont déjà été commentées, mais qui devraient être explorées de manière plus systématique. On a ainsi souligné les parallèles entre la description d’Isis et celle de Photis, deux ensorceleuses aussi envoûtantes que stupéfiantes.24 La peinture que Lucius donne de la nature transfigurée par son espoir renaissant doit être rapprochée du tableau qu’il brosse d’Hypata lorsqu’à peine levé, il part à la recherche des arts magiques.25 La description des anteludia, quant à elle, peut être lue comme une mise en abyme ou une récapitulation symbolique d’éléments clefs de ce roman.26 On peut encore opposer la description de la procession isiaque, avec ses acteurs aussi dignes que beaux et sa musique harmonieuse à celle de la déesse syrienne, véritable débauche cacophonique.27 La représentation des dieux égyptiens, dont Lucius précise – et la préciosité de la formule fait sourire – qu’ils apparaissent ‘daignant, pour avancer, se servir de pieds humains’ (dei dignati pedibus humanis incedere prodeunt : 11,11,1), s’inscrit également dans une thématique récurrente.28 Ces descriptions se signalent comme segments textuels distincts avant tout d’un point de vue formel. Elles constituent en effet des sortes de tableaux, dont les différents éléments sont énumérés de façon détaillée et or————— 23 24
25 26
27 28
Cic. De Orat. 2,80; Quint. Inst. 4,3,1–17. Voir Schmeling – Montiglio dans ce volume, avec références; Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 21–22 et 409–411. Apul. Met. 2,1. Harrison 2000, 240–243; et déjà Gianotti 1986, 78–94; Fick-Michel 1991, 420–430; Finkelpearl 1998, 210–212. Apul. Met. 8,24,2 et 27. Laird 1997.
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donnée, selon un mouvement allant du général au particulier. Elles sont en outre marquées par un changement dans les temps verbaux. Aux verbes du parfait ou du présent historique qui dominent dans le récit narratif, succèdent l’imparfait et le plus-que-parfait. La description d’Isis, par exemple, qui fait suite à son apparition (et ecce pelago medio… emergit diuina facies; ac dehinc… perlucidum simulacrum… constitisse uisum est: 11,3,2), commence par la mention de ses cheveux (iam primum crines… defluebant) et de la couronne ornant sa tête (corona… destrinxerat uerticem), avec son ornement central. Suit la description de la tunique de la déesse, avec ses couleurs changeantes (nunc… nunc… nunc), celle de son manteau dont chaque détail est énuméré selon un mouvement descendant, celle des attributs de la déesse (iam gestamina longe diuersa), où l’adjectif diuersus est développé (nam dextra quidem ferebat…; laeuae uero cymbium dependebat), jusqu’à la description de ses sandales (pedes… tegebant soleae palmae). Un verbe au parfait signale alors la fin de la description et la reprise du discours narratif (talis ac tanta… diuina me uoce dignata est).29 Cet usage des temps verbaux comme marqueurs des parties du discours se rencontre également à l’intérieur d’une description morcelée en différents tableaux. Un verbe au présent sert alors à introduire un nouvel élément dans la succession descriptive. C’est ainsi que dans la description de la procession, le descripteur se concentre successivement sur le défilé populaire qui l’ouvre (ecce pompae magnae… praecedunt anteludia: 11,8,1), suivi de la pompe elle-même, avec les initiés et les ministres du culte (tunc influunt turbae sacris diuinis initiatae: 11,10,1), puis sur les dieux (nec mora cum dei… incedere prodeunt: 11,11,1). Chacune de ces catégories est ensuite l’objet d’une énumération descriptive où dominent les verbes à l’imparfait et que structure une succession de pronoms, d’adjectifs, de conjonctions de coordination et d’adverbes soulignant la recherche d’exhaustivité du descripteur (hic…, illum…, alium…, nec ille deerat qui…, nec qui…: 11,8; illae…, hi…, primus…, secundus…, tertius…, quartus…, quintus…, sextus…: 11,10; hic… ille…, nunc… nunc…, ferebat unus…, ferebatur ab alio…, gerebat alius…: 11,11).
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Isis apparaît ainsi à Lucius sous une apparence anthropomorphique. Cependant, peut-être parce que le divin est indescriptible, Lucius ne décrit (à l’exception de ses cheveux) que son enveloppe extérieure, ses ornements; voir Pigeaud 1983.
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Cette abondance d’éléments descriptifs répond au souci d’enargeia (euidentia en latin), qualité requise par les théoriciens de la rhétorique pour les descriptions et consistant à placer sous les yeux, avec clarté, l’objet ou le fait montré par le langage, à le rendre visible, afin de soulever les émotions les plus vives.30 Quintilien, qui se souvient des préceptes de Cicéron, recommande en outre au rhéteur de ressentir lui-même les émotions qu’il veut susciter.31 Ce dernier point m’amène pour terminer à évoquer la question du descripteur. S’il apparaît clairement que le lyrisme de ces descriptions reflète l’état d’esprit de Lucius-acteur, elles sont bel et bien énoncées par Luciusnarrateur, qui, au seuil de ces développements descriptifs, interpelle explicitement ses narrataires (uos: la formule est ici générale), comme pour mettre en évidence l’acte discursif et plus précisément l’acte descriptif. La description d’Isis est ainsi précédée de la déclaration suivante (11,3,3): 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. ‘Merveilleuse apparition, et dont à vous aussi je m’efforcerai de donner une idée, si toutefois la pauvreté du langage humain m’en accorde le moyen ou si la divinité elle-même fournit à mes discours l’abondance oratoire et la facilité.’ Ce qui, dans un premier temps, apparaît comme une prétention d’insuffisance langagière (adynaton),32 que démentent d’ailleurs les termes mêmes qui l’énoncent,33 peut aussi être lu en référence avec la suite des événements. Une fois qu’il est à Rome, Lucius entreprend en effet, parallèlement à ses activités de dévot, une carrière d’orateur qui, grâce à la généreuse provi————— 30
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Voir, parmi bien d’autres, Zanker 1981; Calame 1991; Aygon 1994; Lévy-Pernot 1997. Pour l’impact émotionnel des descriptions, cf. e.g. Rhet. Her. 4,51; 4,68–69; Cic. Inv. 1,104. Quint. Inst. 6,2,29–36. Cf. Cic. de Orat. 2, 190–194; voir Cassin 1997, 21, qui souligne le parallèle entre ce passage de l’Institution oratoire et Plat. Ion 535c, où il est question de l’enthousiasme du rhapsode. Voir Laird 1998, 82. La combinaison dapsilis copia est unique et dapsilis est un mot de la langue de Plaute (ThLL s.v. 38, 55–73); elocutilis est un néologisme forgé pour la circonstance (ThLL s.v. 398, 80–84). Dans F, le e initial de elocutilis semble avoir été effacé. Mais la leçon est attestée par A et par d’autres manuscrits. Voir Gwyn Griffiths 1975, 123 ad loc.
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dence des dieux (liberali deum prouidentia: 11,30,2), lui permet d’atteindre une jolie aisance. La construction soignée et la richesse d’expression de l’ekphrasis qui suit cette déclaration témoignent d’ailleurs de cet art de la parole inspiré. Elles témoignent que la prétention d’insuffisance langagière n’est que coquetterie rhétorique. Le narrateur se manifeste encore de façon ostentatoire peu avant d’entamer le récit descriptif de sa première initiation. Interpellant son narrataire, défini dans ce passage à la fois comme un lecteur et un auditeur, Lucius lui annonce qu’il ne pourra pas répondre à sa curiosité (11,23,5): Quaeras forsitan satis anxie, studiose lector, quid deinde dictum, quid factum; dicerem, si dicere liceret, cognosceres, si liceret audire. Sed parem noxam contrahe‹re›nt et aures et lingua, ista impiae loquacitatis, illae temerariae curiositatis. Nec te tamen desiderio forsitan religioso suspensum angore diutino cruciabo. Igitur audi, sed crede, quae uera sunt. ‘Peut-être, lecteur désireux de t’instruire, te demandes-tu avec quelque anxiété ce qui fut dit, ce qui fut fait ensuite. Je le dirais s’il était permis de le dire; tu l’apprendrais s’il était permis de l’entendre. Mais tes oreilles et ma langue porteraient également la peine ou d’une indiscrétion impie ou d’une curiosité sacrilège. Toutefois, je n’infligerai pas à la pieuse envie qui peut-être te tient en suspens le tourment d’une longue angoisse. Écoute donc et crois: tout ce que je vais dire est vrai’. Cette pompeuse proclamation précède la description allégorique de son expérience nocturne, dont elle renforce à mon sens le caractère très convenu. Elle est suivie d’une autre déclaration qui consolide l’image d’un narrateur initié suffisant et quelque peu présomptueux, qui aime à marquer sa supériorité sur le profane (11,23,7): Ecce tibi rettuli, quae, quamuis audita, ignores tamen necesse est. Ergo quod solum potest sine piaculo ad profanorum intellegentias enuntiari, referam. ‘Voilà mon récit, et ce que tu as entendu, tu es condamné pourtant à l’ignorer. Je me bornerai donc à rapporter ce qu’il est permis sans sacrilège de révéler à l’intelligence des profanes.’
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Avant de décrire la robe de son initiation, Lucius s’énonce à nouveau avec ostentation pour dire que rien ne lui interdit cette fois de parler (effari: 11,24,1): 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. ‘Le matin venu, et tous les rites achevés, je parus, ayant sur moi douze robes de consécration: de ce costume, malgré son caractère mystique, aucune obligation ne m’interdit de parler, car tout se passa dès lors en présence de nombreux témoins.’ 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 de son discours, détenteur d’un art et d’un savoir qu’il distille quand et comme bon lui semble.34 Mais Lucius n’a pas attendu ce voyage à Rome et la providence des dieux pour devenir un orateur accompli. Au début du roman, plusieurs éléments indiquent qu’il est un jeune homme de bonne famille déjà doté d’une solide éducation rhétorique.35 Cela apparaît en particulier dans son discours de défense, lors du procès de la fête du Rire à Hypata, un épisode qui singe les exercices déclamatoires.36 Le portrait que Byrrhène fait de lui au livre 2 révèle d’ailleurs qu’il est (destiné à devenir) un homme de lettres: 37 un portrait que, dans sa vanité, il n’omet pas de répéter, comme il n’omet pas de répéter la prédiction qui lui fut faite par le devin Diophane lui annonçant qu’il serait le héros d’une longue histoire et d’une fable incroyable (historiam magnam et incredundam fabulam) et qu’on ferait de lui un ouvrage en plusieurs livres (libros me futurum).38 ————— 34
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Un autre exemple de cette affectation se rencontre au livre 4,6,1–2, dans une intervention précédant la description topique de la caverne des brigands. Sur l’ethos discursif, voir Amossy 1999. Voir Penwill 1990, 15; Harrison 2000, 215–220; Keulen 2003, 13. Au livre 1,24,5, Lucius retrouve un camarade d’études (condiscipulus), avec lequel il a étudié à Athènes. Au livre 2,10,2, Photis nomme son galant ‘jeune écolier’ (scholasticus): voir Van MalMaeder 2001, 185–186 ad loc. Apul. Met. 3,2–10; voir Van Mal-Maeder 2003, 351–352. Apul. Met. 2,2,8: voir Van Mal-Maeder 1997b, 177–185 et l’article de Keulen dans ce volume. Apul. Met. 2,12,5.
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Pour atteindre cette maîtrise de la parole, Lucius a donc suivi une formation de rhétorique et s’est plié aux exercices préparatoires (progymnasmata), parmi lesquels celui de la description (ekphrasis).39 Les traités de rhétorique énumèrent des listes de ce qui peut être décrit: personnes, lieux, saisons, œuvres d’art et événements – dont les fêtes religieuses.40 Ainsi, dans l’univers fictionnel des Métamorphoses, la description de la fête du nauigium Isidis est le produit de l’éducation de Lucius, qui trouve l’occasion à travers ses aventures de mettre en application ou, pour mieux dire, de faire parade de ce qu’il a appris à l’école.41 De façon plus générale, et pour conclure, on peut dire que l’abondance des descriptions dans le livre d’Isis s’explique par l’état d’esprit euphorique de Lucius qui, à la perspective de son anamorphose, éprouve une volupté extrême face au spectacle de sa salvatrice, de la nature reflétant à ses yeux sa renaissance imminente, et de la procession annonciatrice de sa délivrance.42 Plus tard, notre héros retire également une grande satisfaction du spectacle qu’il donne lui-même à la foule venue admirer le nouvel initié. Cette volupté de Lucius-acteur se traduit par la propension à la description de Lucius-narrateur, qui, se souvenant des prescriptions de son éducation rhétorique, veille à imbriquer et à articuler sémantiquement descriptif et narratif. Bibliographie Adam, J.-M. 1994. ‘Décrire des actions: raconter ou relater?’, Littérature 95, 3–21. Amossy, R. (ed.) 1999. Images de soi dans le discours. La construction de l’ethos, Lausanne – Paris: Delachaux et Niestlé. Anderson, G. 1993. The Second Sophistic. A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire, London – New York: Routledge.
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Voir Anderson 1993, 47–53; Desbordes 1996, 132–136; Pernot 2000, 194–199; Kennedy 2003. E.g. Aelius Theon 118, Nicolaos 68 in Kennedy 2003, 45–46 et 166–168. La description du festival religieux chez Héliodore 3,1–4 est un autre exemple d’une telle ekphrasis. En cela, Lucius ressemble à l’Encolpe de Pétrone tel que le dépeint Conte 1996. Dans l’univers extratextuel, cette verve descriptive est bien sûr le produit de l’éducation d’Apulée, qui, à travers les aventures de son héros, fait montre de son bagage culturel et de ses connaissances en matière de religion: voir Harrison 2000, 210–259, en particulier 235–252. Les termes exprimant la joie et l’émerveillement foisonnent dans ces morceaux descriptifs. Sur cet aspect du plaisir esthétique de Lucius face à un spectacle et sur le lien entre vision et description, voir respectivement Merlier-Espenel 2001 et Slater 1997.
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Aygon, J.-P. 1994. ‘L’ekphrasis et la notion de description dans la rhétorique antique’, Pallas 41, 39–56. Calame, C. 1991. ‘Quand dire c’est faire voir: l’évidence dans la rhétorique antique’, Études de Lettres fasc. 4, 3–22. Cassin, B. 1997. ‘Procédures sophistiques pour construire l’évidence’, in: C. Lévy – L. Pernot (edd.), Dire l’évidence (Philosophie et rhétorique antiques), Paris 1997: L’Harmattan, 15–29. Conte, G.B. 1996. The Hidden Author: An Interpretation of Petronius’ Satyricon, Berkeley: University of Californian Press. Desbordes, F. 1996. La Rhétorique antique. L’art de persuader, Paris: Hachette. Finkelpearl, E.D. 1998. Metamorphosis of Language in Apuleius, Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Fick-Michel, N. 1991. Art et Mystique dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Fredouille, J.-C. 1975. Apulei Metamorphoseon Liber XI. Apulée, Métamorphoses, Livre XI. Édition, introduction et commentaire, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Genette, G. 1969. Figures II, Paris: Seuil. Genette, G. 1971. Figures III, Paris: Seuil. Gianotti, G.F. 1986. ‘Romanzo’ e ideologia: studi sulle Metamorfosi di Apuleio, Napoli: Liguori. Griffiths, J. Gwyn. 1975. Apuleius of Madauros: the Isis-Book (Metamorphoses, Book XI), Edited with an Introduction, Translation and Commentary, Leiden: Brill. Hamon, Ph. 1981. Introduction à l’analyse du descriptif, Paris: Classiques Hachette. Harrison, S.J. 2000. Apuleius. A Latin Sophist, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kennedy, G.A. 2003. Progymnasmata. Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric. Translated with Introductions and Notes, Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Keulen, W.H. 2003. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses I, 1–20. Introduction, Text, Commentary, Groningen. Laird, A. 1997. ‘Description and divinity in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: H. Hofmann (ed.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel 8, 59–118. Lévy C. – Pernot, L. 1997 (edd.). Dire l’évidence (Philosophie et rhétorique antiques), Paris 1997: L’Harmattan. Mal-Maeder, D. van. 1997a. ‘Lector, intende: laetaberis. The enigma of the last book of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: H. Hofmann (ed.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel 8, 87–118. Mal-Maeder, D. van. 1997b. ‘Descriptions et descripteurs: mais qui décrit dans les Métamorphoses d’Apulée?’, in: M. Picone – B. Zimmermann (edd.), Der antike Roman und seine mittelalteriche Rezeption, Basel – Boston – Berlin: Birkhäuser Verlag, 171–201. Mal-Maeder, D. van. 1998. Apulée. Les Métamorphoses. Livre II, 1–20. Introduction, texte, traduction et commentaire, Groningen. Mal-Maeder, D. van. 2001. Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses. Livre II. Texte, Introduction et Commentaire, Groningen: E. Forsten. Mal-Maeder, D. van. 2003. ‘La mise en scène déclamatoire chez les romanciers latins’, in: S. Panayotakis – M. Zimmerman – W. Keulen (edd.), The Ancient Novel and Beyond, Leiden – Boston: Brill, 345–355. Merlier-Espenel, V. 2001. ‘Dum haec identidem rimabundus eximie delector: remarques sur le plaisir esthétique de Lucius dans l’atrium de Byrrhène (Apulée, Mét. II,4–II,5,1)’, Latomus 60, 135–148.
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Morales, H. 2004. Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nimis, S. 1998. ‘Memory and Description in the Ancient Novel’, Arethusa 31.1, 99–122. Paardt, R. van der. 1978. ‘Various aspects of narrative technique in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: B.L. Hijmans Jr. – R.Th. van der Paardt (eds.), Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis. Penwill, J.L. 1990. ‘Ambages reciprocae: reviewing Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, Ramus 19, 1–25. Pernot, L. 2000. La Rhétorique dans l’Antiquité, Paris: Le livre de poche. Pigeaud, J. 1983. ‘La représentation d’une déesse: Imaginaire et rhétorique’, Helmantica 34, 523–532. Slater, W.N. 1997. ‘Vision, Perception, and Phantasia in the Roman Novel’, in: M. Picone – B. Zimmermann (edd.), Der antike Roman und seine mittelalteriche Rezeption, Basel – Boston – Berlin: Birkhäuser Verlag, 89–105. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor & Actor. A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’s Golden Ass, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London 1985: University of California Press. Witte, A.E. 1997. ‘Calendar and Calendar Motifs in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: H. Hofmann (ed.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel 8, 41–58. Zanker, G. 1981. ‘Enargeia in the Ancient Criticism of Poetry’, RhM 124, 297–311. Zimmerman, M. et alii. 2004. Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses. Books IV 28–35, V and VI 1–24. The Tale of Cupid and psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: E. Forsten.
The ‘spurcum additamentum’ (Apul. Met. 10,21) once again V INCENT H UNINK Radboud University Nijmegen
Among the many controversial issues which are raised by the study of the MSS containing works of Apuleius, the problem of the so-called spurcum additamentum (‘filthy addition’, from here: sp.add.), a section of 81 words in Met. 10,21,1 stands out. It does so for several reasons: first, the problem involves a considerable piece of text, rather than a single word or phrase. Second, it describes sexual organs and is thus often called pornographic, as such forming a unique part of the novel. And finally, the scholarly debate on this piece of text has been going on for centuries. Meanwhile, however, a communis opinio has gradually taken shape, namely the view that the debated section is, really, an addition written not by Apuleius, but by an erudite medieval author who was familiar with Apuleian diction. In her extensive commentary on Met. 10, Maaike Zimmerman inevitably has to deal with the sp.add. She does so in an appendix to the actual commentary.2 Here she discusses the manuscript situation and the origin and date of the sp.add., along with the various theories as to these issues. The final theory she discusses would suggest that the author, with his special knowledge of anatomy and medical technical terms, must be placed in the context of the flourishing medical studies in 11th century southern Italy. In a short conclusion, she states that there can be no doubt about the medieval origin of the sp.add. and that it has no place in the text of the Met. itself but only in the apparatus criticus.
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For the text of the Spurcum Additamentum (Latin and English), see the appendix to this paper. Zimmerman 2000, 433–439. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 266–279
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More recently still, the question was also discussed by Juan Martos in his monumental bilingual edition of the Met., also in an appendix,3 and with similar conclusions, although Martos seems less inclined to point out a specific medieval date for the fragment. By now one would expect the debate to settle down, as the matter seems more or less sorted out. But in the same year in which Martos’ edition was published, Ephraim Lytle published a paper on the sp.add.,4 in which he takes a different position, in fact the very opposite of that of Zimmerman and Martos: according to Lytle the sp.add. is genuinely Apuleian, as it shows clearly Apuleian characteristics, and has been unduly excluded from the text on account of misunderstandings or even moral scruples. So the debate on this curious piece of text seems to be open once again.5 Since this is not a matter of mere technical relevance for specialists of textual criticism, but rather a larger issue of some consequence for our image of the author Apuleius and his literary strategies, it seems necessary to take up the challenge and review the arguments. In the following pages I will summarize the main lines of Lytle’s paper and discuss the points it raises. Since the present paper is offered to Maaike Zimmerman, with whom I had the pleasure to work jointly in the Groningen Apuleius Group for many years, it will not come as a surprise that her conclusions are, in the end, also mine. I will argue that Lytle has reopened the debate on insufficient grounds, and that the sp.add. is to be relegated once again from the light of day of the main text to a modest retreat in the apparatus criticus. The recent defence From the very opening words of his paper, Lytle shows his disagreement with the general view of the sp.add.: the designation ‘spurcum additamentum’ is called ‘modern and unwarranted’ (Lytle, 349). The first, of course, is true, since the name turned up only in the debate about the passage between the earliest editors of the text, such as Elmenhorst (1621), Floridus (1688) and Oudendorp (1786), but the second element implies a rather positive aes————— 3 4 5
Martos 2003, cli–cliv. Lytle 2003. Lytle certainly is not the first scholar to contend that the sp.add. is authentic. Among its 20th-century defenders may be mentioned notably Herrmann 1951; Pennisi 1970; and Pizzica 1981.
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thetic judgment. It remains fair to say that for most readers, the description of a woman handling the sexual organ of an ass will be pornographic, and therefore spurcum does not seem such a bad term after all.6 After a brief survey of previous scholarship on the problem, L. leaves no doubt about his position. He states that the arguments against the ancient authorship of the sp.add. ‘are all misleading and based largely on stylistic or philological grounds’ (p. 350): the piece has unjustly been considered unauthentic a priori and separated from the rest of the narrative, which has resulted in ‘miscomprehension not only of the additamentum, but of the entire scene in which it is embedded’ (p. 350). What L. proposes to do is to show ‘that the additamentum preserves a vital gap in a scene that parallels directly the difficult breeding of an ass with a mare.’ (p. 350). Specifically, L. adds, ‘it is my firm contention that Apuleius firmly roots his narrator in a wealth of carefully observed animal behaviour that an ancient audience would be intimately familiar with.’ (p. 350–351). Lucius the ass consistently presents his asinine behaviour in anthropomorphic terms. According to L., Lucius’ views often do not coincide with the knowledge of ancient readers, and this reflects a conscious strategy by Apuleius: the author wishes his readers to visualize a different tale underneath what is told by Lucius. In L.’s terms, there is a disjunction between ‘narration’ and ‘underlying narrative’ that becomes stronger and reaches a climax in book 10 (p. 351). To support this claim, L. next analyzes a number of passages from Met. 1–9, in which Lucius’ descriptions show some ironical or funny contrast with what could be called ‘ancient reality’. All of this clearly shows that Lucius the ass is an ‘unreliable narrator’. One may note, meanwhile, that this important point concerning Lucius has become almost universally accepted in Apuleian scholarship since Winkler 1985. On reaching the actual sp.add., L. briefly describes the context before and after the section, and concludes as follows: ‘The scene is based upon the breeding of quadrupeds, more particularly donkeys with mares, but with the obvious necessary substitutions made for a narrative in which Lucius’ partner is, in fact, a woman who is taking both the role of the mare and the role of the ‘handler’ or ‘steerer,’ in breeding barn parlance, as she leads Lucius, the donkey, into a union for which he is physiologically incapable of rousing ————— 6
Similar objections to the term were raised by Winkler 1985, 193, also quoted by Lytle 2003, 350.
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himself. Overlaid on this reality we have a typically outrageous narration by Lucius, couched in the vocabulary of romantic love.’ (p. 355). Much is made of the woman applying perfume to the nostrils of the ass,7 and of Lucius using wine and ointment to stimulate himself.8 For, according to L., ‘olfactory stimulation’ and stimulation of the genitals are well-known elements from texts about breeding quadrupeds such as Varro RR 2,7,8 and Columella 6,27,10, while the soothening effect of wine on unruly mules is mentioned by Pliny Nat. 8,173. In these and other technical texts about breeding, a crucial role is that of the handler, who washes the male’s genitals and physically manipulates them to arouse the animal. Now it is these two elements which are missing from the accepted text of Met. 10,21, L. argues, and which are supplied by the sp.add.: the opening sentences (1–2) focus on the woman cleaning the penis, and its stimulation is clearly implied in (3). Lucius’ washing is said to be demanded not only by the parallels from the texts on breeding, but also by the frequent earlier references to Lucius’ dirtiness, of which some examples are given (p. 358). Apart from texts about quadrupeds, L. also invokes other passages, such as Columella 8,5,11 on the production of eggs from hens, a passage which is said to show remarkable parallels with the sp.add., such as the focus on comfortable nesting boxes and cleanliness. As to the sp.add. itself, L. observes that the sensory details of cleaning are Apuleian and he offers a new interpretation of the difficult words in the beginning of (2): Dein, digitis, hypate lichanos mese paramese et nete, hastam mihi inguinis nivei spurciei pluscule excorians emundavit.9 The passage is crucial, not so much for our understanding of a technical aspect, but for the question of authorship of the section. In Greek, the words denote the strings of the lyre, but here they are commonly taken as terms for the five fingers (digitis), their incorrect use in Latin being explained by scholars as based on a misinterpretation of Boethius’ De institutione musica 1,20.10 ————— 7
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de stagneo uasculo multo sese perungit oleo balsamo meque indidem largissime perfricat, sed multo tanta impensius cura etiam nares perfundit meas (Met. 10,21). nam et uino pulcherrimo atque copioso memet madefeceram et ungento fraglantissimo prolubium libidinis suscitaram (Met. 10,21). This is the text as read by Lytle. Cf. appendix. In this passage, Boethius remarks that the third string, lichanos, is also used for the index finger. The author of the sp.add. then seems to have used the other terms found in this context for a piece of verbal pyrotechnics on fingers, being either ignorant of their real
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Now, here L. comes up with a creative suggestion: these terms refer not to the fingers, but rather to the names of the notes corresponding to the different strings. Thus, Lucius in a way sings some sort of ‘do re mi fa sol’, suggestive of the rising of his sexual pitch (p. 359). According to L. the use of this Greek vocabulary is not inappropriate here or uncharacteristic of Apuleius’ general practice, notably his clustering of derivations from Greek such as in 8,24 or 10,18 (p. 361).11 Weighing the evidence, L. suggests that ‘the only genuine consideration should be the content of the additamentum itself’ (p. 362). Towards the end of the paper, L. repeats some of his arguments, pleading once more for the narrative necessity of the washing and stimulation of the male, and hence in favour of retaining the sp.add. In addition, he points out that Apuleius in the course of the novel repeatedly draws the reader’s attention to Lucius’ being hugely endowed (e.g. 8,25), and that a certain ‘adoration’ of his phallus ‘is called for by the narrative, and even desired by the reader’ (p. 363). To exclude this ‘pornographic’ text from the narrative means, L. concludes with Winkler, to ‘castrate the text at its most graphic moment.’12 Textual evidence and idiom It usually seems sympathetic if a particular piece of Greek or Latin text transmitted in the manuscripts is defended as the authentic work of a wellknown ancient author. The resulting image of such an author invariably becomes more complex and varied, thereby gaining further interest. But as much as one would like to see the intriguing section that is the sp.add. established as genuinely written by Apuleius, the case for it should be made on account of solid arguments. It is here that L.’s paper shows some deficiencies. His argument shows a deplorable lack of attention for the philological side of the matter, not only concerning the manuscript tradition but also in the field of Latin idiom. Instead L. singles out one particular theme, animal —————
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sense in Greek or consciously trying to impress readers with a piece of lexical fraud. It goes without saying that a misrepresentation of a text by Boethius (ca. 480–525) would definitely exclude authorship of the passage by Apuleius himself. For this standard view, see notably Mariotti 1956, 236; Zimmerman 2000, 438 and Martos 2003, cliv. The obvious point that this cluster of Greek words in the sp.add. in 10,21, coming only two pages after 10,18 could rather argue against its authenticity, does not occur to L. Lytle 2003, 364, quoting Winkler 1985, 192–193.
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breeding, to provide the basic narrative frame, taking this as the starting point for far-reaching conclusions as to the narrative and the authenticity of the sp.add. Other possibly relevant elements of the narrative are downplayed or disregarded. Let me start with the manuscript situation.13 As all editors show, and as L. has to acknowledge, there is no trace of the sp.add. in the manuscript Laur. 68,2, commonly known as F, which is generally seen as our main witness for the constitution of the text of the Met. The sp.add. is to be found in φ (Laur. 29,2), and, moreover, only written in the margin by a scholar known by name, Zanobi da Strada. It is, therefore, literally ‘marginal’. In a still less important manuscript (Laur. 54,32, known as L1), the passage in question was added by none other than Boccaccio. Both men independently must have copied the passage from another manuscript at Monte Cassino, where these lines had probably been written in the margin as well. All later witnesses that have the sp.add. are clearly dependent on either φ or L1. The textually corrupt state of the sp.add. suggests that the source of Da Strada and Boccaccio was badly legible and dated not from their own time. The most likely conclusion is that the sp.add. represents the addition by some medieval source, which came to be copied as a curiosum in the margin of some of our late MSS. In the light of the situation in the MSS, one wonders how a defence of the sp.add. as an authentic text would seem possible in the first place. The evidence of the MSS for these lines is so weak that one would need to resort to special theories to explain its absence in our main witness F. In fact, this is what L. ultimately does. At the start of the paper, he makes rather lightly of its absence in F; the fact that the passage turns up somewhere in the MSS seems to suffice for his purpose. This implies a serious underrating of the vital importance of F for our text. But worse is yet to come: in his later discussion of the Greek words hypate lichanos mese paramese et nete, L. offers a tentative explanation for the absence of the sp.add. in F: words of Greek origin are often confused in our MSS and even F is often uncertain in such places; this brings L. to the suggestion that the difficult Greek of the sp.add. may have become incomprehensible to a fourth century editor, with the subsequent omission of the passage as a result (p. 361 n. 27). ————— 13
For convenient summaries of the state of affairs, cf. notably Zimmerman 2000, 433–434 and Martos 2003, cli–clii. For some rather vague pictures of the situation in φ and L1, cf. images given in Pennisi 1970 (following p. 8).
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This explanation is unacceptable. If words of Greek colour are regularly confused in our MSS of Apuleius, that does not mean that passages containing such words could have been freely or easily excluded in late antiquity and the medieval period. On the contrary, the presence of several such obscured passages in F clearly testifies that early editors and scribes took great pains to retain transmitted words even if their sense had become vague or incomprehensible to them. For reasons of principle, it may be said that the burden of proof lies with those who defend the authenticity of the sp.add. rather than those who exclude it on the basis of its absence in our main MS. L.’s paper repeatedly suggests the opposite, claiming that the section has unjustly and too quickly been ‘omitted’ from the text.14 Against Lytle, I would therefore propose to uphold the general notion that any discussion about ancient texts should, ultimately, rely on a firmly philological basis, notably that of the evidence of our MSS. Next, some individual points concerning the idiom of the passage may be discussed. Here too, L.’s defence of Apuleian authorship is not convincing. His most remarkable point of idiom concerns the Greek words hypate lichanos mese paramese et nete, taken as ‘do re mi fa sol’. L.’s solution seems ingenious and would indeed avoid the necessity of dating these Latinised words well after Boethius and hence much later than Apuleius himself. But some problems remain here. First, L. passes over in silence how the Greek words for strings of the lyre could have been taken simply for their respective sounds. The transition might seem relatively easy in Greek, but if the words are isolated from their context, as they are here, such a shift in sense makes the Latin extremely hard to follow. The rest of the sp.add. does not evoke sounds or singing, and such a reference would not come in naturally within references to, as L. argues, animal breeding. Thus it seems hard to see how a Roman reader could have interpreted the words as referring to sounds. The fact that no previous editor has ever taken the words in this sense may also seem relevant here. I would also like to point out that L. all too easily supposes a syntactical complexity in assigning the debated words to a parenthesis. The Latin words themselves do not show any further syntactical or other sign to the reader that a parenthesis is to be assumed here, for instance through the presence of a finite verb that does not fit the main clause. Generally speaking, Apuleius ————— 14
Cf. notably Lytle 2003, 349–350; 358 n. 18; 364.
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employs parenthesis relatively sparingly and with specific narrative effects, notably to make the narrator directly address the audience for a moment.15 Here, the alleged parenthesis would seem no more than a lyrical reflection of the narrating ass directed to himself. Finally, there is the preceding word digitis, which L. does not further explain. Why would the writer of these lines have added a plain reference to fingers in the first place? The action of cleaning the ass’s penis certainly does not require this detail, nor does it give the scene any special nuance. If, however, the five Greek words refer to the five fingers of the woman, as even the word order obviously suggests, one might say that they are functional, adding a graphical and even obscene touch with the suggestion of the various fingers that are all handling the animal’s organ. The case for L.’s new, musical interpretation of the debated Greek words, as clever as it is, remains weak, and the commonly held notion that it is the fingers that are specified here makes the best sense. Inevitably, this then automatically pleads against Apuleian authorship, given the link with Boethius that would explain the erroneous use of the words, as mentioned above. Other arguments based on the idiom also remain open to questions and objections. It would require a full philological commentary in English on the sp.add. to discuss all relevant issues,16 but there is no room for this within the bounds of a paper such as this. Therefore, I merely select one or two further issues in L.’s interpretation, in which clarity of the Latin and Apuleian authorship are too easily assumed. First, Lucius’ filth and his member. If we follow L.’s rendering, we should combine the words inguinis niuei (‘snow-white groin’) and take spurciei pluscule (‘much filth’) as genitive depending on emundauit, replacing a normal ablative of separation.17 However, the exact function of ————— 15
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Examples from book 10: 10,1 (236,14) (hoc enim mihi uidebatur); 10,24 (256,4–5) (hoc enim nomen sola sciebat); 10,28 (259,21–22) minus quidem quam merebatur, sed quod dignus cruciatus alius excogitari non poterat. On the function of parenthesis in Apuleius’ Met. see Zimmerman 2000, 310–311 on 10,24. There are no such notes in Zimmerman 2000, who merely refers to Mariotti 1956, 232– 246 (in Italian). Extensive lexical notes may also be found in Pennisi 1970, 144–201 (equally in Italian), but these analyses seem less reliable, since the author wishes to prove the authenticity of the piece. This interpretation closely follows the explanations by Mariotti 1956, 237–238. Cf. also Martos 2003, clii ‘la blanqueada lanza de mi verga’.
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niuei seems doubtful. How could the member of an ass, a dirty one at that, be called ‘snow-white’? Alternatively, we might take the adjective with spurciei (‘white dirt’) and read it as a comical, paradoxical reference to the smegma which the woman may be expected to clean.18 Pluscule comes in for some additional doubt. Scholars seem to agree that the form must represent plusculae, but a case could perhaps be made for the adverb, to be taken closely with excorians ‘skinning a little’.19 Concerning Graecisms in the sp.add., L. quotes a private letter by L. Richardson jr., who claims that he found ‘only the following: orchium, pygam, cephalum, orchibus, priapo, anth’. This however amounts to six additional Graecisms, not counting the debated five words hypate lichanos mese paramese et nete. The fact that Latin speakers often use Greek for both musical and medical terms and for sexual organs (Lytle, 360), hardly justifies the rather excessive piling up of Graecisms here, which makes the passage almost impossible for any reader to understand at first sight. Finally, some minor issues. The curious words pando et repando are generally taken as nouns referring to the oscillating erect penis, obscenely moving up and down. L. however, renders ‘with it growing out, and out some more’ (p. 358) without further discussion.20 And whose belly (uentrem) is it that is touched by the erect penis? Scholars (e.g. Zimmerman 2000, 434) mostly think it’s the woman’s, according to L. it is the ass’s own belly. Technically, that may seem plausible, but it would have earned some discussion; perhaps the issue should best be left open (‘touched the belly’). The final sentence poses another lexical problem with genius in the sense of mentula,21 which seems to be the result of an error22 and a major textual ————— 18 19
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Thus e.g. Zimmerman 2000, 434 ‘whitish dirt’. Admittedly, Apuleius has only forms of the adjective plusculus, the adjective pluscule being not attested before the 11th century. The electronic Cetedoc Index of Latin Forms lists only three occurrences of pluscule: in Lambertus Tuitiensis Miracula Heriberti Coloniensis, in Sigebertus Gemblacensis, Liber decennalis (both 11th cent.) and in Philippus de Haruengt, Vita Foillani (12th cent.). But the adverb would not seem an impossible coinage for Apuleius himself or for a later medieval source familiar with his style. By all means, an adverb fits the sense and structure of the sentence rather well. He apparently considers repando as a reinforcement of pando rather than as its opposite, and he is perhaps taking both words as adverbs. The word is inexactly rendered by Zimmerman 2000, 434 who translates inspiciens quod genius inter antheras excreuerat as ‘when she saw what came out of my penis’. The obvious sense of genius here is simply ‘penis’. The most likely explanation is provided by Mariotti 1956, 243–244. The sense is strange to both classical and medieval use. The solution may be a medieval gloss (CGL IV,
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problem in inter anth. teneras,23 quickly passed over by L., who renders ‘in the midst of such sweet flowers’.24 Other issues might still be added,25 but the general point is clear: on close scrutiny, the idiom in this passage poses so many problems that it is difficult to imagine Apuleius is its author. In fact, the passage is often so hard to understand that it seems to exclude any clear and well-defined interpretation such as the one proposed by L. One may even wonder whether it would have been readily intelligible to the average ancient reader of Apuleius’ novel. It seems that L. has simply been too quick to reaffirm the passage as genuine.
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588,32 f. genium genitale naturale nomen uirgo) in which two other glosses have been conflated (genitale naturale and genium numen uigor). MSS containing the erroneous gloss come from Monte Cassino and date from the 10th or 11th century. If the author of the sp.add. has used this gloss, as Mariotti thinks, we would have a further indication of its date and origin. The objections against this view of Mariotti, as given by Pennisi 1970, 190–191 and Pizzica 1981, 770–771 remain unconvincing and do not sufficiently explain the sense mentula here. Cf. Pennisi 1970, 192: ‘È il locus desperatus dell’ additamentum’; the reading inter anth. teneras (which L. maintains) ‘non significa nulla’. This is both inexact (tener does not equate dulcis or suauis) and speculative (anth. simply – or as anth – taken as Greek ἄνθη, a suggestion remounting to Oudendorp). It also remains obscure to me which ‘flowers’ could possibly be meant in this context. This is not to say that Mariotti’s antheras ‘preparati usati della donna per le frictiones’ (Mariotti 244) is entirely satisfying, but readers may expect at least some amount of textual discussion to accompany new interpretations. I merely mention some elements that seem to require further discussion: what is the function of the rather bleak and inconspicuous adjective formosa in formosa mulier, particularly since tam formonsae mulieris is to follow shortly in 10,21 (253,9)? The verb gannire ‘to whimper, to snarl’ is used originally of dogs (OLD s.v. 1), and Apuleius uses it of a gull (Zimmerman et al. 2004, 329 on 5,28: 125,22), but is it acceptable as a sound of asses? Here too, it is rather suspect that dulces gannitus of the woman will occur shortly in 10,22 (253,22). Mariotti 1956, 240 may be right in assuming that it is this very word in 10,22 that has inspired the writer of the sp.add. Furthermore, on a note of animal breeding: in dentem eleuans we may observe that the ass has become all but calm; indeed he seems almost out of control; apparently, the soothening effect of wine, as adduced by Lytle, 357, has been limited, and moreover, there seems to have been no need to stimulate the lusty animal in the first place. Finally, little attention has been paid by scholars to the ultimate clauses of the sp.add. on a saying by the woman (modicum illud morule... autumabat). Only after some extensive kissing, the woman will be quoted as uttering some words of love in 10,22 (253,3–6). It seems less convincing if she were to speak twice during this short scene.
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Themes Until now, I have tried to reassert the traditional view that the sp.add. can safely be discarded on account of philological and lexical considerations.26 Finally, I add some brief observations about its content and the author’s narrative strategy, although these remarks are bound to be somewhat more subjective. The sp.add. is a clever piece of text, and it is evidently not the work of a simple scribe. It shows some characteristics which make it seem Apuleian to a certain extent. The flowery language, the use of Graecisms, the recherché and perhaps over-precise use of words are all reminiscent of Apuleian style, whereas the focus on the ass and his sensations, and the comical and sexual elements do recall many passages of the Met. But there is something strange about these lines, which most readers and scholars of the text perceive as distinctly different from the rest of the novel.27 This is not merely due to the textual and stylistical difficulties, but also to the explicit references to sexual organs. Clearly, there are several passages in the novel which imply sexual tension and erotic atmosphere,28 and the size of Lucius’ member is referred to more than once elsewhere,29 but most readers will admit that Apuleius carefully avoids direct obscenity or blunt references to sexual organs: his texts (both the Met. and his speeches) are suggestive rather than explicit in this area. It is precisely here that the sp.add. strikes a different note and thus seems to fall short as a piece of Apuleian writing. As far as animal breeding is concerned, L. may well have made a valuable new point in his references to this practice. The technical aspect of handling animals may well have been hinted at by Apuleius in the passage 10,21–22.30 But there is no reason to assume that, by consequence, all as————— 26
27
28
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Pace Lytle, 350 who argues that arguments against its authenticity ‘are all misleading and based largely on stylistic or philological grounds’ (p. 350). On a truly subjective note, I shall perhaps be allowed to mention my personal experience as a translator of the entire text (see Hunink 2003). On reaching the discussed passage at the end of book 10, so near the end of the novel, I considered including the passage, but after carefully rereading it, I felt little hesitation to exclude it as clearly un-Apuleian. Perhaps most famously 2,7–10; 16–17 (Lucius and Fotis: see Schmeling-Montiglio in the present volume) and 10,22 (the ass and the condemned woman). Cf. particularly 3,24 (70,17–8) mihi iam nequeunti tenere Fotidem natura crescebat. For that matter, other passages might equally be brought into the discussion. Thus in 2,16 Lucius (not yet changed into an ass) is given flowers and much wine by Fotis before they have sex.
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pects of a breeding scene would have to be found in Apuleius’ text and therefore plead for the sp.add. As it stands, the accepted text of 10,21–22 without the sp.add., may be said to contain a number of possible allusions to breeding, which add to the fun of the whole passage. In a way, one might argue, Apuleius would even have spoiled it if he had lingered much longer over such technical detail. For Apuleius’ narrative, the sp.add. is not necessary at all, even if writings about animal breeding are accepted as one of the possible intertexts of 10,21. The sp.add. disturbs the careful balance, the habitual, prudent avoidance of explicit references to sexual organs, and the gradual build-up of the passage, thus reducing the overall effect of the whole scene rather than strengthening it. In the end, such issues of broader, thematic relevance and general style must partly remain a matter of taste. Certainly, every scholar is free to speculate about what Apuleius would or could have done or, conversely, avoided, and in this sense, L.’s interesting and thought-provoking paper is to be welcomed. But in discussions of such essential notions as the authenticity of a passage, I would reaffirm the traditional view that textual and lexical considerations should come first and be held as the proper basis for further research. It is to be hoped that the future debate of the sp.add., even if its focus will be on specific lines of interpretation, will take such evidence as its starting point. Appendix: the text and translation of the sp.add. For the sake of clarity, the accepted Latin text of Mariotti 1956, as printed by Zimmerman 2000, 434 and Martos 2003, clii (without critical signs, and reading intus in (4) instead of inter, apparently a misprint) follows here (A1). The Latin text is followed by (A2) an English translation by the author of this paper, based on the one given by Zimmerman, 434 but adapted in a number of places. Under (B) one may find the text (B1) and translation (B2) as given by Lytle 2003, 357–358. (A1) (1) Et ercle orcium pigam perteretem Hyaci fragrantis et Chie rosacee lotionibus expiauit. (2) Ac dein digitis, hypate licanos mese paramese et
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nete, hastam mihi inguinis niuei spurciei pluscule excorias emundauit. (3) Et cum ad inguinis cephalum formosa mulier concitim ueniebat ab orcibus, ganniens ego et dentes ad Iouem eleuans Priapo frequenti frictura porrixabam ipsoque pando et repando uentrem sepiuscule tactabam. (4) Ipsa quoque, inspiciens quod genius inter antheras excreuerat modicum illud morule, qua lustrum sterni mandauerat, anni sibi reuolutionem autumabat. (A2) (1) And by Hercules, she cleansed the fine round pouch of my balls with perfumed wine and rosewater of Chios. (2) And then with her fingers, thumb, forefinger, middle finger, ring finger and little finger, she slightly skinned the shaft of my organ and cleaned it of its snow-white dirt. (3) And when she reached the top of my organ, the beautiful woman, rapidly coming there from my balls, I brayed and lifted my teeth to Jove, stretched out my Priapean member as a result of the frequent friction, and by moving it up and down I often touched the belly. (4) She too, observing what kind of genital had grown among her mixtures, affirmed that this small bit of delay, during which she had ordered our place of debauchery to be prepared, to her was the orbit of a year. (B1) Et, Hercule, orchium pygam perteretem hyacinthi fragrantis et Chiae rosaceae lotionibus expurgavit [expiavit]. Dein, digitis, hypate lichanos mese paramese et nete, hastam mihi inguinis nivei spurciei pluscule excorians emundavit. Et cum ad inguinis cephalum formosa mulier conatim veniebat ab orchibus, ganniens ego et dentes ad iovem elevans, priapo, frequenti frictura porrixabam, ipsoque pando et repando ventrem saepiuscule tractabam [tactabam]. Ipsa quoque, inspiciens quod genius inter anth. teneras excreverat, modicum morule qua lustrum sterni mandaverat anni sibi revolutionem autumabat. (B2) And, by Hercules, she cleaned the hairless base of my balls with washes of fragrant hyacinth and Chiote roses. Then with her fingers – do re mi fa sol! – she cleaned for me the shaft of my snow-white groin, scouring away much filth. And when this lovely woman was coming up from my balls to the end of my cock in her efforts, whinnying and lifting my teeth heavenward, I swelled with a hard-on from the constant rubbing and, with it growing out, and out some more, I caressed my belly with it repeatedly.
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Seeing what a member had grown in the midst of such sweet flowers, the modicum of delay in which she had instructed that the breeding stall be made ready seemed to her to have lasted as long as a year. Bibliography Harrison, S.J. 2000. Apuleius. A Latin Sophist, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Harrison, S.J. 2001 (ed.). Apuleius, Rhetorical Works, translated by S.J. Harrison, J.L. Hilton and V.J.C. Hunink, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Herrmann, L. 1951. ‘Le fragment obscène de l’Âne d’or (X,21)’, Latomus 10, 329–332. Hunink, Vincent. 2002. ‘The date of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in: Pol Defosse (ed.), Hommages à Carl Deroux, II Prose et linguistique, Médicine, Bruxelles: Éditions Latomus, 224–235. Hunink, Vincent. 2003. Apuleius, De gouden ezel. Metamorfosen, vertaald en toegelicht, Amsterdam: Athenaeum – Polak & Van Gennep. Lytle, Ephraim. 2003. ‘Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and the spurcum additamentum (10.21)’, Classical Philology 98, 349–365. Mariotti, Scevola, 1956. ‘Lo spurcum additamentum ad Apul. Met. 10,21’, SIFC 27, 229–250. Martos, Juan. 2003. Apuleyo de Madauros, Las metamorfosis o El Asno de Oro, volomen I, (libros 1–3), introducción, texto latino, traducción y notas, Madrid: Consejo superior de investigaciones científicas. Pennisi, Giuseppe. 1970. Apuleio e ‘l’additamentum’ a "metamorphoses" X,21, Messina: Peloritana editrice. Pizzica, Maurizio. 1981. ‘Ancora sull’ additamentum ad Apul. Met. X 21’, in: M. Simonetti, G. Simonetti (eds.), Letterature comparate: problemi e metodo, studi in onore di Ettore Paratore, Bologna: Pàtron, vol II., 763–772. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor & Actor. A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’s ‘The Golden Ass’, Berkeley/Los Angeles/Oxford: University of California Press. Zimmerman, M. 2000. Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses Book X, text, introduction and commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten (Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius). Zimmerman, M., Panayotakis, S., Hunink, V., Keulen, W.H., Harrison, S.J., McCreight, T.D., Wesseling, B., Van Mal-Maeder, D. 2004. Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses Books IV,28 – VI,24. Cupid and Psyche. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Egbert Forsten (Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius).
Plate 1. MS Harley 4838, folio 134 (reproduced with permission of the British Library).
The Prologue to Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Coluccio Salutati: MS Harley 4838 (With an Appendix on Sozomeno of Pistoia and the Nonius Marginalia)1 R EGINE M AY Merton College, Oxford Introduction: life and work of Coluccio Salutati In the manuscript tradition of Apuleius, MS Harley 4838 has been neglected, since it is not relevant for the constitution of the text. Despite having some unique features, there is no mention of it in the most recent book on Apuleian textual criticism.2 I intend to show how important this hitherto neglected manuscript is for the textual tradition and interpretation of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses in the Renaissance, by first establishing its readings and their importance, and then tracing its influence throughout the Renaissance scholarship on Apuleius. MS Harley 4838 was owned and annotated by Coluccio Salutati, whose most interesting and longest marginal notes are on the prologue to the Metamorphoses (Met. 1,1). The notes have not been properly edited, and what printed versions exist of them are incomplete, imprecise, and untranslated.3 Thus I present here a full transcription and translation of them.
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Maaike Zimmerman was the one who encouraged me to publish my first scholarly attempts on Apuleius, and I am thus very grateful to be allowed to contribute a paper to honour her in her Festschrift. Magnaldi–Gianotti 2000. Cf. also my review May 2002a. For a general study cf. Reynolds 1983, 15–18. Catalogue of the Harleian Manuscripts in the British Museum, Vol. III, 1808; Hildebrand 1842. Lectiones Scrupulosae, 280–312
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Before doing so, however, I should briefly review the life and work of Coluccio Salutati.4 He was born in 1331, educated in rhetoric in Bologna, and worked as a notary for most of his life, which must have given him enough spare time to follow his pastime of collecting books and material with which to write his own works. As well as his prose works, he wrote letters, some in verse, and Latin poetry in diverse metres.5 A friend of Boccaccio and Petrarch, and teacher of Poggio Bracciolini (1380 – 1459), he was a member of an influential literary circle in Florence, where he also eventually became Chancellor from 1375 to his death in 1406. He was the author of important prose works as diverse as De Seculo et Religione (1381–1382, on monastic life) and De Fato et Fortuna (1396, on the problem of free will and predestination). Salutati also knew Zanobi da Strada,6 whose importance for the transmission of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses cannot be overestimated, since he ‘saved’ the only manuscript of the Metamorphoses from oblivion, by ‘removing’ it from the monastery of Monte Cassino, and subsequently bringing it to the attention of the early humanists in Florence.7 There it caused immediate interest, and several copies were soon made. On this famous archetype, Laurentiana MS 68.2 (known as F), depends our whole tradition of Apuleius’ major works: the Metamorphoses or Golden Ass, the Florida, and the Apologia. This codex was written in Montecassino in the 11th century in Beneventan script,8 and is naturally the ancestor of Harley 4838. Acquisition of hitherto unknown ancient authors was a humanist quest;9 Salutati’s letters, many of which deal with the buying and copying of ancient ————— 4
5 6
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Cf. Ullman 1963, 3–16; De la Mare 1973, Vol. I Fasc. I (Oxford 1973), 30 ff.; De Rosa 1980; Witt 1983; Witt 2000, 292–337. Cf. Ullman 1963, 19–36. He reports having heard a lecture by him on Virgil which made quite an impression on the young Salutati, cf. Lab. Herc. pp. 483–486, cf. Ullman 1963, 42, Witt 2000, 295. This is the communis opinio following Billanovich 1953, 30 ff., who disposes of the older idea that it was Boccaccio who committed the theft, for which cf. Sabbadini 1905– 1914, vol. 2, 202. For the manuscript cf. Lowe 1920; Magnaldi–Gianotti 2000, 13 f.; for the latest description: Carver 1991, 111 ff., who, due to dating problems, assumes that another, now lost, manuscript tradition of Apuleius’ Met. may have been around in Florence, attributing the discovery of the Met. to an earlier date, perhaps to Bentius Alexandrinus (ca. 1260 – ca. 1330) (p. 116 ff.). Newton 1999 concentrates in his discussion of Laur. 68.2 on the manuscript of Tacitus’ Histories. He briefly discusses the Apuleius manuscript on pp. 108 and 321, with a description of the codex p. 347, with plate 54. Lowe 1920, 150–155. On the script cf Lowe 21980. Cf. Sabbadini 1905–1914, passim.
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manuscripts, also often explain a Latin passage, occasionally display an interest in unusual Latin vocabulary, in some instances taken from Apuleius, explore the concepts of textual criticism, and in general show his interest in the transmission of the classics. For example, it is Salutati to whom we owe the (erroneous, alas!) distinction between Seneca the philosopher and Seneca the playwright.10 Seneca the tragedian was one of his favourite authors, as the lengthy treatise De laboribus Herculis, an allegory based on Seneca’s Hercules, demonstrates. Despite his productivity, it has been claimed that his writings had remarkably little influence on his successors.11 His pupils Poggio and Leonardo Bruni (1369 – 1444),12 however, continued his studies, with Poggio continuing the hunt for ancient manuscripts. In the course of this paper it will become clear that at least one of Salutati’s scholarly pursuits was very influential indeed. It is symptomatic of the neglect that Salutati has suffered that this idea is not linked to his name at all, and has been on the whole ignored by modern scholars, despite its prominence in the Renaissance. Salutati busied himself by compiling a huge library for himself of classical authors, ranging from the grammatical works of Priscian to Roman philosophy and the poetry of Virgil and Ovid. The estimate of some 200 volumes is possibly not large enough;13 some 120 owned by him have been identified, and the numbers of known manuscripts are increasing even today.14 They are comparatively easy to recognise, since they usually contain his ex libris, to which he added a pressmark, and often marginal notes in an unmistakeable hand. The pressmark contains the word Carte plus a number. Harley 4838 has the pressmark 127 (?) Carte lvij (57) on folio 135 recto, and a partly erased ex libris on the last page of the codex (191 verso), partly written over by the next owner, Sozomeno of Pistoia (on whom cf. the appendix to this paper). After Salutati’s death, his library was sold off, and found various buyers. Quite a few manuscripts, including our Apuleius, went to Sozomeno of Pis-
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Novati 1891–1905, vol. 1, 150. Cf. Ullman 1963, 117 ff. On Salutati and his students cf. Fubini 1992. Cf. Ullman 1963, 129 and De la Mare 1973, 31 f. (with footnotes), who adds even more known manuscripts to Salutati’s library. De la Mare 1973, 31. Further, but older, mathematics: Ullman 1963, 259.
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toia (1387–1458).15 Since the fate of Sozomeno’s library is reasonably documented, we can trace the fate of Harley 4838.16 Most of Salutati’s books remained in Pistoia up until the end of the 15th century. After this date, they were dispersed. A Scottish bookseller, John Gibson, acquired our manuscript through agents in Italy on the 22nd June 1726. At least 29 of Sozomeno’s manuscripts were sold to Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford, and thus became part of the Harleian collection in the British Library.17 Texts of Apuleius at Salutati’s disposal Texts of Apuleius’ philosophical works, consisting of two texts of a Platonist nature (De Deo Socratis, De Platone et eius Dogmate), a hymn to Asclepius, and De Mundo, a translation of a pseudo-Aristotelian treatise on the cosmos, abound in Salutati’s library. The manuscript tradition of Apuleius’ philosophical works is independent of the nowadays better known triad Metamorphoses, Florida and Apologia18 contained in the Harleian manuscript. Salutati owned at least 3 copies of Apuleius’ philosophy, listed in the catalogue of Salutati’s books by Ullman.19 De la Mare20 adds to this list our MS Harley 4838, 134–191v, which was not known to Ullman. The pressmark is easily readable, but the longish ex libris is now erased, between two lines of the explicit: (‘… lucij py … floren————— 15
16 17 18
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Not noticed by Ullman 1963, but by De la Mare 1973, xviii. She also includes a study of him pp. 91ff. De la Mare 1973, 95 f. Wright 1972, 368 f. and 162 ff.; De la Mare 1973, 95. Cf. Moreschini 1977 on the transmission of the philosophical works by Apuleius as differing from the texts contained in F. Ullman 1963, 206 rightly argues that Laur. 29.2 Apuleius was not owned by Salutati, a fact that is indirectly proved by this paper. The mss are: Nos 27, 18 and 61 Ullman. No. 27 Ullman (Marc. 284) includes De deo Socratis (including the prologue from the Florida), Asclepius, De Platone, and De mundo. It was written in France at the end of the eleventh century, belongs to the delta-branch of the transmission of Apuleius’ philosophical works and as such is of great importance for the constitution of the text, cf. Reynolds 1983, 17. Ullman 1973, 154 in his catalogue dates it to the tenth century. No. 18 Ullman (Laurentiana LXXVI,36) s. XII contains the pseudo-Apuleian Asclepius, De Platone, De mundo, De deo Socratis including the prologue from the Florida. It appears to be of French origin and also belongs to the delta-group (thus Reynolds 1983, 17 f.). No. 61 Ullman (Conv. Soppr. I.ix.39) s. XII–XIII contains Asclepius, and De deo Socratis (including the prologue from the Florida). De la Mare 1973.
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tini’), and only visible under ultra-violet light, since Sozomeno of Pistoia wrote his ex libris over it. Salutati adds on the initially empty page folio 134 the word ‘prohemium’, a piece on Apuleius, and also the title of the book and the name of its author.21 These marginalia which concern us here are certainly written by Salutati. De la Mare22 lists some of Salutati’s idiosyncrasies, all of which can be found in Harley 4838: ‘a long, sloping hair-line stroke’ is used to dot his ‘i’s. The -bus abbreviation is always formed like an upright rounded m. He also uses a rather individual form of the capital ‘N’ almost exclusively from at least the time of his Seneca, i.e. 1370.23 It is thus clearly Salutati’s hand in which the metrical annotation is written, and, as De la Mare suggests, it perhaps dates from Salutati’s middle period (from 1370 onwards), when he uses a capital N to indicate his ‘nota’ sign.24 The remarkable notes on metre seem also to be by him. Other notes may have been erased by Sozomeno. It is not unusual for Salutati to own two or more copies of the same text, and his interest in Apuleius is obviously primarily based on his humanist interest in Platonism. The majority of his references to Apuleius’ work are to his philosophical writings, which he used, together with the works of Cicero, Macrobius and Augustine, to access Plato,25 since his small Greek did not allow him to read Plato in the original. As we shall see, this prevalent interest also appears in his marginalia in Harley 4838, where he combines his knowledge of the other three authors to identify Apuleius as a comic writer and a philosopher. His direct citations from Apuleius are primarily from Asclepius and De Platone.26 His marginal notes in his other Apuleian manuscripts are usually on names, rare words, or brief references to ideas.27 Apuleius’ rare and archaic vocabulary must have been very attractive to Salutati the philologist and textual critic. However, his annotations in his other Apuleius manu————— 21 22 23 24
25 26 27
Cf. De la Mare 1973, 42. De la Mare 1973, 36 f. Cf. De La Mare 1973, plate VIIe. Cf. De la Mare 1973, 34 and on this manuscript p. 42 with further evidence for the dating. Cf. Klibansky 1939, 22; Oliver 1940, 315. Cf. Ullman 1963, 215 f. Marginalia indicating rare words include (in De Platone): navita, prodigit, meditullio, extraria, in De mundo: ningorem, nomina ventorum, indidem; (in De deo Socratis): mordicus, facessat, fissiculandis, oscinibus, affatim, inpresentiarum, oppipare (sic).
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scripts are sparse in comparison to his long marginal note in his Metamorphoses codex. It is unusual in length as well as in content. The use he made of the rare words he found in Apuleius can be seen in his letters and his other literary works, when he sometimes quotes passages from Apuleius or cites, marked and unmarked, Apuleius’ rarer words. For example, in one letter28 he employs the word gurgustiolo with the Metamorphoses in mind.29 Similarly, in a letter to a certain Giovanni, dating from ca. 1397,30 he alludes to Apuleius in one marked and one possible unmarked quotation: Lacrimabilem, ne dicam inanem et iniustam, querimoniam tuam, qua, ut exotico verbo Madaurensis utar, erumnoso queritatu de musis flebiliter lamentaris, nuper relegi, frater optime. ‘your tearful, if not to say empty and unjust complaint, in which, if I may use the exotic word of the man from Madaurus [i.e. Apuleius], in a wretched complaint you dolefully wail about the Muses, I recently read again, dearest brother.’ The marked erumnoso is taken from De Mundo,31 whilst exotico itself is an Apuleian word.32 Salutati refers only once explicitly to Apuleius’ Met., when in De Laboribus Herculis he writes, whilst in a passage on Medusa:33 Hec ultima pulcrior est reliquis, decore presertim in crinibus, quoniam ornamentis (que per crines significantur, qui sunt, ut demonstrat Apulegius, precipuum mulierum decus. Nam si tollantur, nulla fuerit adeo pulcra quin turpissima videatur) et circumstantiis rhetorica florescat oratio et ipsa ceteris est pulcrior… ‘hair, … as Apuleius demonstrates, is the principal ornament of women’. ————— 28 29 30 31 32
33
Epistolario vol. 1,10, line 1. It is probably taken from Apul. Met. 1,23 or 4,10, cf. Ullman 1973, 201. Epistolario vol. 3,221. Mund. 35,4. Exoticus: found in our prologue to the Metamorphoses, and twice more in Apuleius (Apol. 8,8 and Met. 10,16). It is a rare word, otherwise again in Pliny Nat. 13,24 and Gellius 13,5,5 (two of Salutati’s favourite authors, cf. Ullman 1963, 229 and 246), and in Plautus, Epid. 232, Men. 236 and Most. 42. The latter two plays were not available to Salutati. For the Plautine connotations of the word cf. Zimmerman 2000, 234. The marginal note in Harley 4838 ad loc. is very likely not by Salutati but by Sozomeno (cf. appendix). Lab. Herc. 3,42,11 (p. 417 Ullman).
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This must refer to the elaborate ekphrasis of women’s hair in the Metamorphoses where the narrator describes the hair of the girl Photis.34 In the same work, he also quotes repeatedly from Plautus, but only from Amphitruo,35 an appropriate source, as it touches comically upon the wondrous conception and birth of Hercules. He also cites Terence ‘very often’;36 his knowledge of both playwrights demonstrates that Salutati was familiar with comic and tragic iambic metres. Salutati claims in the margin of Harley that he has also read the Apologia, for which so far there has been no proof. But his statement is problematic, since Salutati claims that Apuleius’ wife was the one accused of magical practices, and that Apuleius defended her. In the Apologia, however, it is Apuleius who is accused of being a wizard. This slip of memory, together with one brief and doubtful reference to the Florida, may indicate that Salutati merely concentrated on the Metamorphoses.37 Important for our purposes is a letter to Frà Giovanni Dominici from 1406 (Epistolario vol. 4, 239) in the context of Salutati’s defence of poetry especially in connection with religion.38 Here Salutati seems to indicate that Apuleius, though primarily writing in continuous prose, was capable of writing poetry. There are indeed verses in the Apologia and two verse passages ————— 34
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36 37
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Met. 2,8 f. (on this famous passage see Schmeling–Montiglio in the present volume). Boccaccio uses the same passage of Apuleius in his Ameto. Cf. Moreschini 1977, 470, referring to the edition of the Ameto by N. Bruscoli. Bari 1940, 31. In Harley 4838, 141 recto, marginalia mark this famous passage as de Fotide and de capillis. The hand could be Sozomeno’s rather than Salutati’s. Amphitruo 99, 100 ff., 185 ff. etc. He owned the first 8 plays in his ms 10 – cf. Ullman 1963, 246 and Zintzen–Ecker–Riemer 1992, s.v. Ullman 1963, 252. References to Apuleius according to Zintzen–Ecker–Riemer 1992: Apuleius is mentioned in Epistolario vol. 3: 82, 221, Socr. is quoted in Epistolario vol. 4: 139. Flor. may be referred to in Epistolario vol. 2: 187 (although this seems doubtful, since there is only a reference to a rather wide-spread idea, and no direct quotation from the Florida), Met. 2,8 f. in Hercules p. 417 Ullman, Mund. 5 in De Fato et Fortuna p. 11 Bianca, Mund. 16 in De Fato et Fortuna p. 14, Plat. 1,5,6 in Hercules p. 349, Plat. 12 in De Fato et Fortuna p. 24, Ascl. 14 in Hercules p. 4, Ascl. 37 in Hercules p. 78, Ascl. 39 in De Fato et Fortuna p. 25, Ascl. 40 in De Fato et Fortuna p. 26 and p. 46. Ut non immerito primi theologicantes, sicut testatur Aurelius, dicti fuerint Museus, Orpheus et Linus, imo theologi, quoniam deos suos carminibus celebrarent. et quoniam poetica, non dico semper, sed, ut superius diffinivi, sepenumero versibus alligat si quid refert, prosam siquidem non recusat sive continuam, ut Apuleius, sive intercisam, ut Marcianus Capella, Alanus; et, si patiare, Torquatus. Cf. the discussion in Witt 2000, 335 f.
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in the Metamorphoses (the two oracles Met. 4,33 and 9,8). Given his patchy knowledge of the content of the Apologia, a reference to that work seems unlikely. He may well have referred to what he thought of as a metrical prologue to the prose novel, the Metamorphoses, since it (arguably) also has a theological-philosophical content. Salutati’s marginal notes to Harley 4838 It is time now to take a look at those marginal notes to Harley 4838 in closer detail. The manuscript comprises several codices of different ages, bound together into one volume.39 The various other works contained in this codex are primarily theological, and at the time of Salutati’s and Sozomeno’s ownership the Apuleius formed a single codex of its own, as the distribution of the press marks and ex libris on folios 135 and 191, as well as Sozomeno’s Arabic numerals, demonstrate. Since we are now able tentatively to date the marginalia to Salutati’s middle period (1370’s), this gives us a terminus ante quem for the two hands in which the text of Apuleius is written. The manuscript itself is contemporary with Salutati’s entry. It was written on parchment in Italy in the third quarter of the 14th century.40 As for Salutati’s marginalia, they consist of three elements: (a.) a prologue in metre, (b.) a note on Apuleius being a comic writer and a philosopher, which to my knowledge has not been edited yet, and (c.) on the facing page a comment on the metre of the prologue. As already mentioned, there is ————— 39
40
Codex membranaceus, vel potius codices varii, diversae aetatis, in unum volumen compacti. According to the Catalogue of the Harleian Manuscripts 1808, Harley 4838 contains the following: 1. Caesarii Episcopi, Admonitiones, Sermones, homeliae, &c.; numero 44, quorum tamen 41 et 43 sunt Augustini, 44 S. Ambrosii: folia 53 XII. 2. Libri 4 Dialogorum Papae Gregorii I, deest aliquid ad finem. fol. 55. 3. Petri Damiani Epistola de die mortis, cum Epistola Bonaventurae, excitatoria ad amorem Dei fol. 131. Bonaventurae Epistola, in fine vocatur. ‘De balneo regio, multum utilis et devota.’ XIV 4. ‘Lucii Apuleij platonici Madaurensis Metamorphoseon.’ libri XI. Super folia 47. Scripturâ plane diversa et forsan recentiore, a fol. Ib usque ad fol. 18a. Prooemium bis datur: semel in versibus Jambicis, manu, ut crederem, adhuc antiquiore. Ordinem versuum, quia de hac re neque Editiones, neque virorum doctorum conjecturae consentiunt, infra exhibemus. De la Mare 1973, 42.
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no accurate transcription of the marginalia. I take this opportunity to offer my own transcription of the metrical prologue and the marginal notes. (a.) The Prologue in Metre The text in the left column is my transcription of the prologue to the Metamorphoses as written in Salutati’s own hand. The variations found in the prose prologue on folio 135 recto, in the hand of the original scribe of the manuscript, are given in the right column: prohemium Et ego tibi sermone isto Milesio Varias fabulas conseram, auresque tuas Benivolas lepido susurro permulceam. Modo si papirum egiptia argutia Nilotici calami inscriptam non spreveris Inspicere, et figuras fortunasque hominum In alias ymagines conversas, et in Se rursum mutuo nexu refectas, ut Mireris exordior. Quis ille? Paucis. Ymetos athica et hitmos epyrea Et thenedos spartiaca, glebe felices Aeternum libris felicioribus Conditae, mea vetus prosapia est. Ibi linguam athidem primis pueritie Stipendys merui, mox in urbe latia Advena studiorum quiritium indigenum Sermonem erumnabili labore, nullo Magistro preeunte aggressus excolui Et certe prefamur veniam, si quid Exotici, atque forensis sermonis rudis Locutor offendero, jam hec equidem ipsa Vocis immutatio desultorie Scientiae, stilo quem accessimus Respondet, fabulam grecam incipimus,
(prose: at)
(prose: imagines) (prose: no question mark) (prose: Ymettos attica et istomos [h add. s.l.] epyrea) (prose: tenedos [h add. s.l.])
(prose: atridem; corr. s.l.)
(prose: en ecce) (prose: ac)
(prose: grecanicam, cam deleted)
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Lector intende, letaberis.41 Explicit prohemium, incipit tractatus Tessaliam nam et illic originis [add. s. l. maternae nostrae fundamenta etc.]. (This is the beginning of Met. 1,2). (b.) Salutati’s notes on Apuleius, comic writer and Platonic philosopher Below follows my transcription and translation of Salutati’s notes on Apuleius being a comic writer and a philosophus Platonicus, for which he used the testimonies of Macrobius and Augustinus: Macrobius
Augustinus
Hic autem autor comicus fuit. unde M. [‘acrobius’ add. s.l.] in primo libro commentarij super Somnio Scipionis inquit vel argumenta fictis casibus amatorum referta, quibus vel multum se Arbiter exercuit vel Apuleium non numquam lusisse miramur. Argumentum autem comicorum fabulas esse. Cicero testis est ad Herennium, ubi dicit. Argumentum est ficta res. quae tamen fieri potuit, velut argumenta comediarum. In libro autem inventionum primo dixit idem Arpinas: Argumentum est res ficta quae tamen fieri potuit. Huius modi apud Terentium. Nam is postquam excessit ex ephebis Sosia Ut satis constare possit eum comicum extitisse. Fuit autem et phylosophus imitatione et professione platonicus ut testatur pater Augustinus. Libro viij de Civitate Dei. Ubi inquit. Recentiores tamen philosophi nobilissimi quibus
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Compare the translation of Harrison & Winterbottom (2001, 9–15) of the Apuleian text of the Prologue: ‘But let me join together different stories in that Milesian style, and let me soothe your kindly ears with an agreeable whispering, if only you do not scorn to glance at an Egyptian papyrus inscribed with the sharpness of a reed from the Nile. I begin a tale of men’s shapes and fortunes transformed into different appearances and back again into themselves by mutual connection, that you may wonder at it. ‘Who is this?’ Hear in brief. Attic Hymettus and the Corinthian Isthmus and Spartan Taenarus are my origin of old, ever fertile regions recorded in even more fertile books. There it was that I acquired the Attic tongue in the first campaigns of boyhood; thereafter in the Latin city as a foreigner to the studies of Rome I took on and developed the local language with laborious effort and without the lead of a master. Look then, I ask your pardon at the beginning, if I commit any offence, being an inexperienced speaker of the language of the forum which is foreign to me. Indeed, this very change of language corresponds to the style of switchback lore [?] which I have approached [?]: I begin a story of Greek origin. Reader, pay attention: you will be pleased.’
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Plato sectandus placuit, noluerunt se dici perhypatheticos aut achademicos sed Platonicos. Ex quibus sunt ualde nobilitati p [del. auctor] Greci Plotinus, Iamblichus, Porphyrius; in utraque autem lingua, id est et Graeca et Latina, Apuleius Afer extitit nobilis Platonicus. Et non multum post inquit: Apuleius tamen Madaurensis Platonicus. De hac re sola unum scripsit librum, cuius titulum esse uoluit ‘de deo Socratis’. Haec inter alia a dyvo Augustino sumspisse sufficiat, ex quibus autoris nomen Gens patria atque professio declarantur. Licet in re clarissima testes adhibendi non sunt. Et eo maxime quia et ipse quidem Madaurensem affirmat cognomine Lucium. Ut Lucium Apuleium Madaurensem Afrum hunc autorem fuisse manifestum sit. Fuit etiam orator eximius. Cuius orationes de magia legimus. In defensionem uxoris compositas quando de magiae artis ministerio fuerat accusata. Viginti quinque autem versus praemittit autor. Etc. ‘He was moreover a comic author, whence Macrobius in his first book of his commentary on the Dream of Scipio (1,2) [states]: ‘or argumenta full of fictitious fortunes of lovers, with which [Petronius] Arbiter much busied himself, and Apuleius (we are amazed at this!) sometimes toyed.’ Argumentum can also refer to the plays of comic playwrights. Cicero is our witness in Ad Herennium, where he says (1,13): ‘Argumentum is a fictitious thing, which however could happen, like the argumenta of comedies.’ In the first book of his De Inventione the man from Arpinum [= Cicero] says the same (1,27): ‘Argumentum is a fictitious thing, which however could happen.’ Thus it is in Terence: ‘because he, after he left the ephebes, Sosia’ (Ter. Andr. 51). Thus it can be firmly established that he appeared to be a comic writer. He was moreover also a philosopher by imitation and by profession a Platonist, as the church father Augustine gives evidence in his eighth book of De Civitate Dei, where he says (8,12): ‘The more recent and most noble philosophers, however, who were pleased to follow Plato, did not want to be called Peripatetics or Academics, but Platonists. Amongst these are most excellent the Greeks Plotinus, Iamblichus, and Porphyrius; but in both languages, that is Greek and Latin, Apuleius from Africa appeared an excellent Platonist.’ And not much further down (8,14) he
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says: ‘Apuleius, furthermore, from Madaurus, a Platonist. About this topic alone he wrote a book, the title of which he wanted to be De deo Socratis’. It may suffice to have taken this amongst other things from the divine Augustine, from which the author’s [i.e. Apuleius’] name, family, native land and profession are made known. It may be permitted not to bring forth witnesses for this very obvious matter. And specially since he himself confirms that Lucius has the cognomen Madaurensis (cf. Met. 11,27). Thus it is manifest that Apuleius from Madaurus in Africa was this author. He also was an exceptional orator. I read his speeches on magic.42 They were composed for the defence of his wife when she was accused of the practise of the magical art. The author sets twenty-five verses before his book.’ This passage on Apuleius shows a remarkable learnedness on the part of Coluccio Salutati. He was able to gather more or less all the ancient testimonia on the life of the author; he also claims in its juxtaposition with his metrical prologue that Apuleius was a comic writer, which is original indeed. It is very unlikely that Salutati knew of Apuleius’ adaptation of Menander into Latin verse,43 and he makes his proof by association: indeed, he leaves out that part of Macrobius’ quotation which makes the connection between comedy and Apuleius’ prose text much clearer (auditum mulcent vel comoediae, quales Menander eiusve imitatores agendas dederunt, ‘Also, comedies please the hearing, such as Menander and his imitators had staged’). This precedes the quotation from Macrobius provided by Salutati. It is clear that Salutati knows this part of the comparison, because he proceeds to argue that argumentum (as he, like Macrobius, terms Apuleius’ prologue in a marginal note) can also mean ‘comedies’ (comicorum fabulas). The evidence he cites from Cicero’s theoretical discussions and the practical example from Terence suffices, he says, to demonstrate that Apuleius was a comicus. The story is fictitious, but could have happened. This idea may have been the reason why Salutati decided to rewrite the prologue in comic metre: follow————— 42
43
The Apologia sive Pro se de magia was transmitted in a two-book version in F, a format nowadays mostly ignored by editors. On the doubtful veracity of this claim cf. Salutati’s statement that it is Apuleius’ wife who is under attack in the Apologia, discussed above (with n. 37). Cf. Harrison 1992, 83–89 for an edition, and May 2002b and 2006 for the latest discussions.
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ing this particular logic of Apuleius being a playwright, he has to be shown to be able to compose in the normal dramatic metre: iambics. (c.) Salutati’s comment on the metre of the Prologue The problem of the prologue, however, is evident: we know that it was not written in verse, and in order to turn it into verse, Salutati has to allow many poetical licences, which he explains painstakingly in the last marginal note on fol. 135r: Viginti quinque versus praemittit autor. Genus carminis trimetrum iambicum. constans ex sex pedibus. Excipit autem poeta licentiose pedes. Et eos etiam ubi communiter non solent ut in fine spondeum. hoc autem carmen admittit jambum unde et dicitur omnibus locis. Precipue paribus. Dactilum. Spondeum. Anapestum. Tribracum et pyrichium atque trocheum. Metra autem alia suis pedibus et sillabis constant et dicuntur achatalectica. Aliquando sillaba una deficiunt et dicuntur catalectica. Aliquando duabus et dicuntur brachicatalectica. Pro maiori igitur parte sunt trimetra acatalectica. Ita tamen (‘quod’ add. s.l.) prima dictio duodecimi versus per ae diptongum scribenda dividatur. Ut illa dispartita diptongus iambum pedem efficiat. Et in sequenti versu penultima sillaba quae est a de metro non abiciatur. Insuper sciendum versum xviij esse (‘yponactum trimetrum’ add. s.l.) catalecticum quia una deficit sillaba. In antepenultimo vero versu dividitur etiam diptongus in fine illius dictionis scientie ut scribi debeat scientiaë. Penultimus autem versus (‘etiam’ add. s.l.) catalecticus est una videlicet sillaba deficiens. Ultimus vero versus dimeter est iambicus ypercatalecticus. Constans quatuor (‘sillab’ del. auctor) pedibus et una sillaba qui et alchaicus dicitur. ‘The author sets twenty-five verses before [his book]. The poem is in iambic trimeters, consisting of six feet, but the poet makes exceptions about feet in licentious manner [i.e. he allows himself licences]. Those even where they universally do not do this, as at the end the spondee. This kind of poem admits the jambus (whence it also receives its name) in all positions, especially the even ones, the dactyl, spondee, anapaest, tribrachys, pyrrichius and trochee. But other metres consist of the appropriate number of feet and syllables, and are called acatalectica. Some-
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times they lack one syllable and are called catalectica. Sometimes they lack two syllables and are called brachycatalectica. Therefore, for the most part they are acatalectic trimeters. Thus, moreover, the first word of line twelve has to be divided and must be written with ‘ae’ as a diphthong, so that this ‘split’ diphthong forms an iambic foot. And in the following verse the last but one syllable, which is ‘a’, forms a hiatus. Furthermore one must know that line eighteen is a hipponactean catalectic trimeter, because it lacks one syllable. But in the last but two line also the diphthong is split up at the end of the word scientiae, or, as it should be spelled, scientiaë. But the last but one line is also catalectic because it lacks one syllable. But the last line is an iambic hypercatalectic dimeter, consisting of four feet and one syllable, which is also called alcaicus.’ As I said, we know that Apuleius’ prologue was written in prose – or, at least, that is what modern editions tell us. Let us just for a moment pause, however, and take a look at some of the lines Salutati singles out for comment. In Apuleius’ prose rhythm, hiatus is indeed admitted,44 but the kinds of licences supposed by Salutati (e.g. the splitting of the diphthong in line 23 scientiae) are not common in Apuleius’ time, although they might be allowed in Lucretius’. Divided up into cola, the prologue offers a perfect display of prose rhythms, but not of iambic dimeters or senarii. It includes too many licences to be comic verse. Salutati knew comic verse well; he owned a manuscript of Plautus, no. 10 (Laurent. 36, 47) in the list by Ullman.45 It was perhaps written for Salutati himself, and belongs to the so-called Palatine recension, which places Bacchides after Epidicus. Salutati’s manuscript has only the first eight plays, breaking off at l. 668 of Epidicus. Copies of that particular recension of Plautus, but not particularly good texts, are not rare in Renaissance Italy.46 The fact that he had the manuscript copied for himself shows his vivid interest in Plautus and perhaps his metres. Salutati is interested in ancient poetry and Latin metres: some of his own compositions, mainly in elegiacs, are inspired by Ovidian metres. On the ————— 44 45 46
Cf. Nisbet 2001, esp. 19 f.; Hijmans 1978, 189–209. Ullman 1963, 144. Tarrant 1983, 302.
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whole, Salutati’s poetry scans smoothly according to classical rules, with only a few aberrations.47 Salutati’s sources for these metrical annotations I have not been able to trace them to any particular ancient author, Salutati’s comments are most likely his own; they are based on widely available school knowledge on metre. Salutati’s sources for these remarks can however be traced in more detail. Salutati, who often relies on Servius’ commentaries on Virgil, occasionally cites Servius’ De centum metris in his De Laboribus Herculis.48 One assumes that Salutati is heavily relying on Servius’ analysis of metres, although there is no exact verbal parallel between his marginal notes and Servius, who indeed does not mention Plautus, and whose metrical analysis is very basic.49 The section on iambics contains several phrases picked up in Salutati’s note: Metra iambica locis imparibus quinque recipere possunt pedes, iambum tribrachum spondeum dactylum anapaestum, locis autem paribus tantum iambum vel tribrachum, et apud comicos frequenter anapaestum, ita ut ————— 47
48
49
Cf. Jensen 1968, 116–123, esp. 115. For other editions of Salutati’s poetry cf. Jensen 1976, 109–115; Jensen & Bahr-Volk 1976, 162–175; Hankey 1959, 363–365; Miglio 1983. I found Jensen’s statement to be true on the whole. Cf. Ullman 1963, 251. He refers to Servius’ De centum metris in Epistolario vol. 3,226: iam centum, ut docet Servius, metrorum differentie reperte deque viginti octo pedum variatione confecte sunt. (letter to a certain Giovanni, Florence, December 15th, 1397). This is the same letter which at its beginning quotes erumnoso and exotico from Apuleius, which may be significant. Cf. Keil vol. 4 (1864) 457 f. Other treatises on metre Salutati owned are Atilius Fortunatianus (no. 26 Ullman), which seems to be another source. Fortunatianus’ chapter ‘de pedibus’ contains phrases like acatalectum est, quando plenum metrum sive versus est: aut catalecticum, quando syllaba deest, aut brachycatalecticum, quando pes deest: aut (hypercatalectum) quando pes et syllaba deest (Keil vol. 6 [1874] 281). Again, this seems to be common knowledge and varies only little from Servius’ treatise. Salutati owned a copy of Marius Victorinus’ commentary on Cicero (no. 92 Ullman), but never quotes or refers to him. It is also uncertain whether he had access to a copy of his metrical works, which are very detailed. He also owned the grammar of Priscianus, which he heavily annotated (cf. Ullman 1963, 44). There is no evidence, however, for his ownership of Priscianus’ treatise De metris comicorum, and having looked at it, I think there is no evidence for any use of it by Salutati.
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multarum brevium iunctura vitetur. ‘Iambic metres can in odd positions take up five feet, iambus, tribrachys, spondee, dactyl, anapaest; but in even positions only iambus or tribrachys, and amongst the comic writers frequently the anapaest, so that the juncture of many short syllables may be avoided.’ Salutati’s interest in metre also appears in his Catullus manuscripts.50 Salutati owned two manuscripts of Catullus,51 both of which have metrical notes.52 Salutati’s gloss at the start of one on fol. 1 reads: Genus metri. Faleuticum endecasillabum constans ex quinque pedibus primo spondeo secundo dactilo et tribus trocheis…53 ‘type of metre. A faleutic hendecasyllabic consisting of five feet, at first a spondee, then a dactyl, and then three trochees…’ The similarity in style with the marginal notes of Harley 4838 is evident. This analysis of Apuleius’ so-called metrical prologue must be Salutati`s original work. He knows Plautus, Terence and Seneca and thus knows about iambics. He obviously knows his metrical terminology from several treatises on metre that he owned and used frequently, and as his own compositions show, is capable of writing poetry in the adequate Latin metres varying between the proper amount of long and short syllables. There is a further detail that suggests this metrical composition is Salutati’s own work: the prose prologue contains some gallows-like nota-marks inserted into the lines of text. This type of mark also appears in his annotations. Obviously, Salutati has added these little gallows notes into the prose text to indicate suggested separation between the lines of poetry. This serves to confirm that the versification of the prologue was Salutati’s intervention and invention.
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52 53
According to Ullman 1963, 144, there are no Salutati notes in his Plautus manuscript. Vat. Ottob. Lat. 1829 (no. 96 Ullman) and perhaps Paris Bibl. Nat. 14137 (no. 101 Ullman). Cf. Ullman 1963, 22. Further bibliography on no. 96: ibid. p. 193. In marg. of Ottob. Lat. 1829. Cf. Pellegrin 1975 s.v.
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Salutati’s influence Why are Salutati’s marginal notes important? The idea of a prologue in verse is an innovation. There is no versified prologue in the Laurentian manuscript, nor in its immediate copies.54 Salutati’s manuscript is the first we know of which contains a metrical prologue to the Metamorphoses, in addition to the prose prologue (on 135 recto) in the scribal hand. Despite this being so evident, so far no scholar seems to have stated that it is Salutati to whom we owe the metrical prologue to the Metamorphoses. He is, however, not the only Renaissance scholar to rewrite part of a prose text into metre. Another example is the turning of Livy 1,34,8 into hexameters,55 and Boccaccio wrote iambic prefaces to his works. In antiquity, literary works in other metres had hexametric or iambic prologues, or were rephrased into iambics.56 Still, the choice of iambic senarii (or what at Salutati’s time must have been considered as such) is to my knowledge unique and must have been inspired by his approaching Apuleius through Plautus. Salutati’s remarks about Apuleius being a philosopher are gleaned from ancient authors all known to us. Although this compilation may in itself be interesting for Salutati scholars, it is not really surprising. It confirms however that Salutati had some fresh and original approaches to classical scholarship. His attempt to present Apuleius as a comic writer has considerable interest. In Apuleian scholarship, the prologue to the Met. is a mystery: in a recent book, 24 papers, including one by Maaike Zimmerman, deal with the problems of the prologue’s addressee, speaker, and literary intertexts.57 ————— 54 55
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A (Ambrosianus N. 180 sup.) and φ (Laurent. 29.2). Hildebrand 1842, 4: Quantum vero interpretes in versibus apud prosaicos pangendis genio suo dederint, exemplum est notissimum Rhenani [Beatus Rhenanus 1485–1547], qui Liv. 1,34 § 8, ubi poetae cuiuspiam verba latere sibi persuaserat, locum in versus hexametros cogebat et recte a Drakenb. [Arnold Drakenborch, 1684–1748] vituperatus est, qui verum hac ratione, inquit, addendo, demendo, mutando integer Livius in numeros poeticos cogi potest. Drakenborch (1738) ad loc. actually identifies the author of the verses as ‘Clariss. Clericus’. Augustus’ Res gestae had a metrical ‘prescript’ (cf. Koster 1978); Servius ad Aen. 10,388–389 remarks that Avienus rewrote the whole of Livy (totum Livium) in iambics (pace Murgia 1970, who assumes it may have been Virgil rather than Livy), whilst Livy’s preface was rewritten into hexameters by ancient readers, cf. Moles 1993, especially 141 with notes 2 and 3, and 157 f. for references, extensive bibliography and discussion. Other hexametrical examples in historiography include Thuc. 1,21,1, Sallust Iug. 1,5 and 5,1, Tac. Ann. 1,1,1. Kahane–Laird (edd.) 2001, Zimmerman 2001.
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Smith, Winkler58 and myself59 have demonstrated the intertextuality of the prologue with the conventions of a Plautine prologue as well as with Plautine language. It is interesting, to say the least, that Salutati, working with a much smaller corpus of Plautine plays than ours, and with their texts in much worse condition than ours, seems to have realised the similarities between the prologues of Plautus and Apuleius, inspired by his reading of Macrobius. Salutati seems to have been tricked by one of Apuleius’ stylistic games: Apuleius, especially in the Met., weaves Plautine plot elements as well as Plautine archaic language into his story, and Salutati, interested in archaic and rare words, picked them up together with the plot elements with remarkable intuition. It is noteworthy that Terence, whom he mentions as part of his citation of Cicero in his biographical note on Apuleius, cannot have formed his term of comparison. Terence’s prologues are of quite a different nature to Plautus’, and they do not share the similarities between Apuleius’ and Plautus’ prologues. I shall list only a few: Exoticus (prologue l. 20) is only one example of Apuleius’ usage of Plautine language. The question: quis ille? recalls similar questions in Plautine prologues,60 Amph. 50 ff., Cas. 67 ff. Accipe paucis verbis is paralleled e.g. in Aul. 1 (ne quis miretur qui sim, paucis eloquar), Capt. 53, Men. 6. Lector intende; laetaberis resembles the usual appeal to the audience at the end of the prologue to sit back and enjoy the play, as found in Merc. 14 f., Trin. 11, or Asin. 4. Similarly, the prologue speaker turning in and out of his role within story and prologue is arguably parallel to Plautus’ technique as exemplified in Merc. 1 f. and Amph. 53 ff. These parallels between Plautus and Apuleius might have contributed to Salutati’s identification of Apuleius’ prologue as comic. Salutati, however, takes these remarkable similarities one step further, in assuming a Plautine metre as well as Plautine language to be fundamental to Apuleius’ prologue. Finally, scholars interested in the Nachleben of Apuleius throughout the Renaissance should be interested in the repercussions of Salutati’s playful iambics: Salutati’s marginal note, the prologue rewritten in comic metre, proved highly influential on Renaissance scholarship. The epithet autor comicus is not mentioned in connection with Apuleius again, but the versification of the prologue remains important throughout the Renaissance, al————— 58 59 60
Smith 1972 = 1999, Winkler 1985, 200 ff. Cf. May 2002b, 112 ff. Cf. Winkler 1985, 195 note 25 for further examples for this and other phenomena.
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though the amount of verse discovered in the prologue as well as the metrical setting and admission of poetical licences vary. The metrical treatment of the Prologue after Salutati Hildebrand61 lists an impressive number of scholars who treat the prologue to the Metamorphoses as iambics, and one other manuscript, Sangallensis 483,62 from St. Gallen Stadtbibliothek (Vadiana) (Sangallensis = Robertson’s H).63 The prologue is on p. 7 recto. It contains, amongst other texts, Lucius Ampuleius (sic), Metamorphoses (pp. 7–259) and De deo Socratis (pp. 271–293). The hand of the Apuleius text is dated to 1424 on p. 308,64 and this (crucial) part of the manuscript at least was thus written after Salutati’s death and long after our marginalia from the 1370’s. Variations in metrical versions include: l. 1: at, l. 3 sermone post lepido, del. auctor(?), l. 4: papiro egiptiarum,65 l. 7: immagines; l. 10: hitimos ephirea (corr. in marg. prima manus: isthmios) ephirea; l. 11: teneros spartica; l. 19: en ecce; l. 24: grecanicam; l. 25: lectaberis(?). The verses are distributed in exactly the same way that they are distributed in Salutati’s hand, but the text is closer to the prose version of Harley 4838, as e.g. at ego, grecanicam and en ecce demonstrate. This may perhaps indicate that the scribe had Harley 4838 before him; Sangallensis certainly dates about seventy years later than Salutati’s hand, and is thus likely to be an apograph of it.
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63 64
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Hildebrand 1842, 3. Harl. 4838 (Robertson’s ‘B3’) does not seem to have a sigle in Hildebrand 1842 at all. Robertson lists ca. 40 manuscripts of Apuleius: Robertson 1924; cf. Robertson 1940, vol. I, xxxviii. For a description of the manuscript St. Gallen cf. Scherer 1864, 135 (no. 483), and Scarpatetti 1991, no. 52. Cf. Robertson 1924. Cf. Scarpatetti 1991, 20: ‘Die datierende Hand schreibt p. 1 und 308 f. in flüchtiger Kursive. Es ist nicht auszuschliessen, dass der Hauptteil des Bandes von der gleichen Hand stammt. Von dieser 1. Hand p. 7–293, von einer 2. Hand p. 295–297.’ My list of readings, after checking a copy of the manuscript, varies only slightly from the list given in Hildebrand 1842, 3, which he has second-hand from Orellius, who reads papiron egiptiam in l. 4 and omits some variants, since they are not important variants between Sangallensis and F.
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Harley 4838 belongs to Robertson’s class II b,66 but H, the Sangallensis, belongs to a mixed group.67 I have not been able to check the Sangallensis other than for its metrical prologue, but it seems clear from Robertson’s description, although he is only interested in the supplementa in the gap of F, that Sangallensis is an apograph of Harley, since it has been copied originally from a Florentine manuscript and emended with the help of phi. All (traceable) manuscripts with metrical prologues thus ultimately derive from Salutati. There are also several early printed editions which print the prologue in metre. Carver discusses the question of the prologue as verse which seems to have been the most pressing problem for Renaissance commentators.68 Without mentioning Salutati’s manuscript, which he apparently does not know, he lists the efforts of Beroaldus, in whose edition the text is given as prose, but in whose commentary it is indicated that the novel exorditur ab epigrammate iambico bimembri, with the first half of the proem (up to Hymetos [sic] Attica) being in iambics: At ego sermone. Lusurus asinum aureum exorditur ab Epigrammate Iambico bimembri,69 ‘When about to start playing with his Golden Ass, he begins with an iambic epigram consisting of two heterogeneous parts’ Beroaldus in 1501 identifies the addressee of the prologue with Apuleius’ son Faustinus, to whom his philosophical works may be dedicated, whilst keeping up the idea of a metrical prologue. Beroaldus approves of the supposed verses, as Oudendorp states, who wrongly thinks that Beroaldus is the first to do so.70 ————— 66
67
68 69 70
Cf. Robertson 1924, 37 f. The II b manuscripts contain some or all of the long supplementa, ‘with plain traces that these have been inserted at some period, in a text originally lacking them’, plus some traces of the short supplementa to phi in the the textual gap of F fol. 160 (Met. 8,7–9), from which manuscript ultimately all copies of the Met. as we have them derive. It has examples of both classes and was heavily influenced by phi, but only at second instance. See Carver 2001, 163–174, esp. 165–167. Oudendorp 1786, quoting Beroaldus ad loc. Milesiarum principium versibus conceptum fuisse primus observavit vir, patrum nostrorum memoria doctissimus, Philippus Beroaldus (‘the first to observe that the beginning of the Milesian tale was composed in verse was the man most learned in the generation of our forefathers, Philippus Beroaldus’).
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Strangely enough Beroaldus, a Neoplatonist philosopher, who usually finds learned references to Plato in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, favours the metrical reading of the prologue and its Plautine associations. He does not seem to be concerned that his text then is at the same time light-hearted comedy and a Platonic allegory of the journey of the soul, a literary creation full of contradictions. This may be a surprisingly modern interpretation, but ex silentio.71 Marianus Tuccus in 1512, and Franciscus Asulanus (the Aldine edition from 1521) set the text accordingly into verse, changing into prose after hic exordior in an emended and rephrased version of Salutati’s text (note at instead of et, fabellas instead of fabulas, and the word order atque aures tuas). Joseph Justus Scaliger (1540–1609, his Apuleius edition was published in 1600), thinking the prologue was written in senarii, even rewrites the prologue up to paucis accipe into verse, while Johannes Rutgers (1589–1625) argues that vocis immutatio refers to the change from verse to prose within the prologue. Given the problematic nature of that particular phrase, it is a natural, but still erroneous, conclusion. Translators, such as William Adlington (1566) and his French forerunners, followed this tradition and translated the prologue into verse, thus leaving the impression of a Plautine prologue, in vocabulary and metre, with a large part of Renaissance readers. In all these editions and translations the prologue to the Metamorphoses is much shorter than Salutati’s version. One particularly interesting case of a defender for the verse prologue is Gebhardt Elmenhorst (1580–1621). He in 1621 prints a more faithful version of the text, but set into twenty-five lines of verse. According to him, this is an interlinear gloss directly copied from a codex he calls F, but Carver points out that Hildebrand found this to derive from unpublished manuscript annotations by Lindenbrogius (Friedrich Lindenbrog, 1573–1648).72 I have not been able to check these annotations by Lindenbrog, but the codex F, Laurent. 68.2, has no marginalia of a metrical kind.
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Boccaccio (cf. above, n. 34) offers a similar ‘double’ perception of the Met., for he interpreted it both as a comic novel (using it as a source for his Decamerone) and as a philosophical-religious allegory (using Cupid and Psyche as a source for his De genealogiis deum gentilium). I am grateful to Wytse Keulen for drawing my attention to this. Carver 2001, 166 with n. 2.
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I suspect, however, that Elmenhorst73 or perhaps Lindenbrog used Salutati’s manuscript, too. From the beginning, Elmenhorst states his source clearly as a manuscript which is easily recognised as Harley 4838: it is a vellum codex written in Lombard script (whilst F is in Beneventan script): Principium hujus libri membranae Florentinae Longobardis literis scriptae (Gothicas eas vocat Bernardus Aldreta Canonicus Cordubensis in Commentario de Origine Linguae Hispanicae libro III. pagin. 252.254 et specimen ponit ex lapide antiquo) versibus constituunt, quod et Beroaldus et Aldus adverterunt, quos jure hic sequimur, nec eos audimus, qui contra sentiunt, qui nihil sentiunt. De istis autem ita glossa interlinearis praedictarum membranarum: ‘The beginning of this Florentine vellum codex written in Lombard script (Bernardus Aldreta, a canon of Cordoba calls it ‘Gothic’ in his Commentary on the Origin of the Spanish Language III p. 252.254, and offers an example from an antique stone) consists of verses, which both Beroaldus and Aldus observed, too. I rightly follow them here, nor do I listen to those, who think the opposite, or who understand nothing. About these (verses) there is also an interlinear gloss in the aforementioned vellum codex.’74 Hildebrand, one of the oldest commentators still used by Apuleian scholars, adds to the confusion. He rightly states that the metre does not scan properly, and that the metrical prologue can be attributed to a scholar, not to Apuleius. He is not so lucky with his analysis of the origin of the metrical prologue. Hildebrand turns to the editor of Cicero, Orellius,75 who found the ‘Apuleian verses’ in the Sangallensis, too, and also dates their origin correctly to the fourteenth or fifteenth century, but considers him to be in error: ‘Quantis vero erroribus metricis hi versus scateant, nemo est quin intellegat, ut cum Orellio l.c. recte statuamus, ingenii lusu commotum esse grammaticum quendam vel librarium, qui multa verba in iambos redigi posse viderat, ut omnia per numeros efferret. In eo tamen erravit Orellius, quod grammatico Italo saec. XIV. vel. XV. hunc errorem attribuit, ————— 73 74 75
Again, quoted in Oudendorp 1786 ad loc. Here the gloss from Harley 4838 is quoted verbatim. Iohannes Caspar Orellius, the editor of M. Tulli Opera qui supersunt omnia (Leipzig 1830).
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quum codex F., quem pervetustum nominat Lindenbrogius, his certe saeculis prior sit, ut a saeculo inde undecimo vel duodecimo hic error profluisse videatur. Oud. teste Morianus Tuccius clericus Florentinus in ed. Iuntina a. 1512 primus versibus vere Iambicis omnia constituit Francisco Asulano in Aldin. edit. a. 1521 aliisque sequentibus.’ ‘Everyone can see that these verses do not scan because of so many metrical errors, as we might state rightly with Orellius loc. cit. that some grammarian or scribe was moved to do this in a thought game, who had seen that many words can be turned into iambics, so that he set out everything in metre. Orellius, however, erred in this, when he attributed this error to an Italian grammarian of the 14th or 15th century, because codex F, which Lindenbrog declares to be very old, is certainly earlier than these centuries, so that this error seems to issue from the eleventh or twelfth century. According to Oud., Morianus Tuccius, a clergyman from Florence, was the first who in the Iuntine edition of 1512 set everything properly out in verses, and Franciscus Asulanus in the Aldine edition of 1521 and others followed.’ Hildebrand assumes the metrical prologue is much older and found in F. He seems to have been confused by the fact that there are several Florentine manuscripts, all of which could be referred to as F. He himself admits in a different context to this confusion: ‘Itaque non clare apparet, quinam sint Codd. Florentini, quorum variae lectiones ab Elmenhorstio et Lindenbrogio citantur: nam complures extant Florentiae auctoris nostri Codices.’,76 ‘Because of this it does not appear clearly, which these Florentine codices are, out of which the variant readings are quoted by Elmenhorst and Lindenbrog: for several Florentine codices of our author (i.e. Apuleius) are extant.’ Orellius has dated the versified prologue correctly to the fourteenth century. Hildebrand assumes that Florentinus must indicate the modern-day F Laurentianus 68.2 which is indeed the manuscript stolen from Monte Cassino and our only manuscript of the Metamorphoses from the eleventh century. The whole scholarly confusion is based on a siglum, on Hildebrand confusing Harley and F, based on Elmenhorst’s or Lindenbrog’s reading of ————— 76
Hildebrand 1842, lxxi.
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Harley 4838, since both the verses of the prologue as well as the metrical marginal note that is quoted in the variorum edition of Oudendorp under Elmenhorst’s name vary only insignificantly from the marginalia by Salutati, but more from the variations in the Sangallensis. Since Harley 4838 was doubtlessly written in Florence, with marginalia in a typical Florentine handwriting, and at the time only lately brought out of Florence to join the Harley collection, it can easily be mistaken for F, the Laurentianus from Montecassino. It is Harley 4838, and thus Salutati, to which all versifications found in Renaissance texts, from Beroaldo’s Neoplatonist commentary to Adlington’s light-hearted translation, ultimately go back. There are yet other Renaissance and early modern commentators who vie with each other in rewriting and resetting Apuleius’ iambics. Rutgersius’ version is metrical down to Exotici ac forensis sermonis rudis offendero locutor, and varies significantly both from the transmitted text (as also noted by himself, since he states that he wrote fabellas instead of the transmitted fabulas, just as Beroaldus had done) and the text of Harley 4838, e.g. in ‘l. 2 f.’, where he writes varias fabellas conseram atque aures tuas / lepido susurro benevolas permulceam. or ‘l. 6’, where he writes Inspicere. Figuras formasque hominum imagines. Still, as he admits himself, he has been inspired by a codex into writing his own verses. He states that Atqui haec quidem sunt, quae partim auctoritate codicum, partim ex ingenio mutavimus (‘anyway, these are those verses which I changed partly on the authority of the codices, partly on my own accord’). Thus variations on the text of the metrical prologue are a response to Salutati, not independent of him, and Renaissance scholars again and again point out that in printing or re-writing a metrical prologue they rely on the authority of manuscripts, which seem to be Harley 4838 and its apograph Sangallensis 483. Salutati’s metrical prologue sets free a wild goose, that the whole of the Renaissance scholarship has to chase – for even if scholars denied the prologue to be in metre, they still noted the problem or even discussed it in detail. There were a few early editions which supported the prose prologue, notably the editio princeps from 1469, which is most rare. Of 275 copies ever printed, only one copy survived the Inquisition undefaced, and is now in the John Rylands Library Manchester (Deansgate). It was printed in Rome by Giovanni Andrea Bussi, Bishop of Aleria, who stresses the Neo-Platonist
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elements in the Metamorphoses.77 Unlike Beroaldus, he is not taken in by the temptingly Plautine prologue and seems to prefer the straightforward Platonic and ultimately Christianised perspective of contemporary Neoplatonism. Its distribution obviously was not as wide as that of the Aldine, which does print the prologue in verse. One can thus assume that with the publication of the Aldine, most Renaissance readers of Apuleius assumed an iambic, and thus quintessentially Plautine, prologue. Still, strong support amongst the printed books against this versification of the prologue includes Bernardus Philomathes in 1522 in the Second Juntine edition, and Petrus Colvius (1567–1594) in 1588, who argues rightly (Notae Vberiores p. 3, quoted after Carver 2001, 166): Non bene illi, qui proloquium hoc versibus ab Apuleio scriptum arbitrati sunt, et in numeros reponere conati. Nam fere tota hujus scriptoris sic fluit oratio, et in Milesio hoc lusu praecipue, ut saepius comicum genus scribendi, et Plauti numeros innumeros agnoscas.78 ‘Those have not done well, who believe that this prologue was written in verse by Apuleius, and try to reorder it into metre. For almost the whole speech of this writer flows in this manner and particularly in this Milesian entertainment [in Milesio hoc lusu], so that you may quite often recognize the comic style of writing and the unscannable metres [numeros innumeros] of Plautus.’ The prologue shows remarkable affinity with Plautine metre, without ever becoming such. This may partly be derived from the fact that iambics in antiquity were considered to be the metre closest to prose, an argument used by the supporters of the prose-prologue, as e.g. voiced by Cicero, Orat. 191,2 sunt enim qui iambicum putent, quod sit orationis simillimus (‘for there are some people who believe iambics [sc. to be useful in oratory], because they are most similar to normal speech’). Finally, Oudendorp 1786 writes in the notae that the verse prologue is based on the authority of a Florentine codex:
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Cf. D’Amico 1984, 351–392, esp. 365. Cf. Oudendorp 1786 ad loc. who quotes this passage. See Carver 2001, 166.
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Hoc libri principium ad ea usque verba ‘Thessaliam (nam et illic, &c)’ multi in versiculos tribuunt, auctoritate nixi Florentini codicis: sed, cum multi alii extent mss codices, in quibus aliter se habet, et revera hi versus tam licentiosi sint, totque pedum genera admittant, ut quaevis prosa oratio, ipsaeque adeo Ciceronis orationes in versus similes digeri possint, melius visum est, neglecta metrorum ratione, haec omnia uno tenore excudi, auctoribus Wowerio (1606), Pricaeo (James Price, 1600–1676; published his Apologia in 1635), et Scriverio (1624). ‘Many distribute this beginning of the book up to these words ‘Thessaliam (nam et illic, &c)’ into verses, relying on the authority of a Florentine codex. But, since many other manuscript codices are extant in which the situation is otherwise, and since these verses are in truth so free with metrical rules and allow so many types of foot, so that a prose speech of any kind, and to the same degree even the speeches of Cicero can be rendered into similar verses, it appears to be better, to neglect the reason for the metres and to print all this uninterruptedly [i.e. in prose], following the authority of Wower, Pricaeus and Scriverius.’ Again, we find a reference to a Florentine manuscript which must be Harley 4838. It seems that all references to earlier editions, unpublished marginal notes or apograph manuscripts go back without exception to the same codex with its marginalia, namely our Harleianus with its annotations by Salutati. Especially to early Renaissance scholars, working with a corrupt text of Plautus, Plautine metre must have been very difficult to make out. Extant manuscripts ‘testify to a carelessness about the metres of Republican drama evidenced elsewhere in the record of late antiquity.’79 Only the generation after Salutati, that of Poggio and Niccolo Niccoli, was able to access the better manuscripts of the Palatine recension and the missing twelve plays.80 This lack of a reliable text may be the reason why the idea of a metrical prologue full of licences and hiatus as found in their own corrupt Plautine editions, might have had such an enduring appeal to Renaissance scholars. In 1588, Petrus Colvius, with a learned reference to Gellius’ quotation of Plau-
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Thus Jocelyn 2002, 5, with further literature. (I am very grateful to my colleague John Briscoe for supplying me with a copy of this article). With the arrival of D = Vatican. Lat. 3870 in Italy.
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tus’ funeral epigram,81 could still call the metres of Plautus ‘unscannable’ (Plauti numeros innumeros). It has taken the effort of many modern scholars and much better Plautus editions to create a text of the comedies good enough to be subjected to metrical analysis which does not include the understandable errors found in Salutati’s marginalia. Similarly, Apuleius’ wilful reproduction of Plautine prologue elements, and the substantially higher frequency of Plautine language in the prologue may have strengthened the hand of those arguing their case for a versified prologue: prologues were delivered in iambic senarii, and Plautus’ text seems to allow a considerable amount of metrical licences. Furthermore, the remarks of the venerated Macrobius in the marginal note to Harley 4838 associated Plautus with Apuleius. This seductive combination of isolated facts fooled important scholars from Beroaldus to Scaliger to Adlington. Conclusion Harley 4838 and Salutati’s remarks are the reason for the Renaissance confusion on whether, and if, how, and how long, the prologue of the Met. is to be read as verse: Salutati’s influence on Apuleius’ tradition is larger than hitherto assumed. Salutati has heavily influenced Renaissance scholarship, perhaps even restrained it from studying other issues of Apuleian interest, by giving them a metrical prologue to analyse and rewrite according to their own taste and knowledge of metre. Generations of humanist and Renaissance readers conceived of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses as a prose novel with a metrical prologue. These readers include, through the early French and English translations, most readers up until modern times, and certainly prominent writers such as Shakespeare. Whilst no one nowadays associates Salutati’s name with Apuleian scholarship, it is time for this scholar to be recognised as an important influence on the textual transmission of Apuleius.82 Salutati anticipated the comic interpretation of the Metamorphoses prologue and its intertextuality with Plautus, and in that respect, I would like to argue, he has added uniquely to our un————— 81
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Gellius 1,24: Epigramma Plauti, quod dubitassemus, an Plauti foret, nisi a M. Varrone positum esset in libro de poetis primo: postquam est mortem aptus Plautus, Comoedia luget, / scaena est deserta, dein Risus, Ludus Iocusque / et Numeri innumeri simul omnes conlacrimarunt. Senecan scholars usually mention him in a footnote at least.
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derstanding of this novel-comedy relationship. Even if he is not right in the matter of Apuleius’ iambics, he nevertheless has surprisingly easily recognised Plautine words and elements in this Latin novel. Therefore, I would like to argue, Salutati should be added to the list of important literary critics of Apuleius from the Renaissance. Appendix: Sozomeno of Pistoia and the Nonius Marginalia in Harley 4838 In the context of this paper it is interesting that Plautus is occasionally mentioned in marginalia, which also name Nonius as their source for these Plautine words. It is worth considering whether it was Salutati or Sozomeno, the subsequent owner of the manuscript, who wrote these marginalia. For the idea of the prologue being seen as Plautine, influencing the other Renaissance scholars, this is an academic question: they saw the finished product, with the Plautine references in the margin, very likely oblivious to the problem whether it was Salutati or Sozomeno who wrote them. Sozomeno certainly seems to have decided to continue Salutati’s interest in Plautine elements in Apuleius, and is the more likely source of them: No references in marg. to Nonius can derive from Salutati, who did not manage to obtain a copy of Nonius’ text. Ullman83 states that Salutati was unable to obtain a copy of Nonius Marcellus, although he tried at least five times: cf. the note to Epistolario vol. 3,616 (Salutati’s letter to Ser Guido Manfredi of Pietrasanta, Florence 1402) and Epistolario vol. 3,291: Leonardo Bruni writes a letter from Siena to Niccoli in 1407: De bibliotheca Papiensi curavi equidem diligenter ut quantum librorum ibi sit et quid certior fiam utque Nonius Marcellus, quem Colucius habere numquam potuit, meo nomine transcribatur. ‘Nonius Marcellus, whom Coluccio was never able to get’. These marginal notes mainly consist of corrections or explanations of difficult words, but some entries derived from Nonius mention Plautus, e.g. the marginale fol. 135r on exoticus: dicit (?) peregrinum plautus in epidico ————— 83
Ullman 1963, 119 n. 3 and p. 238.
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basilicum aut exoticum. Nonius M. 104. Sozomeno’s distinctive method of cross-referencing indicates that this entry was written by him, in his most common style for indicating the lemma. He has the habit of underlining his Arabic numerals with a semicircle when he uses them as part of a crossreference.84 Other notes from Nonius mention Plautus: 143 recto ad impendio in Met. 2 (impendio excusarem): Nonius M. 32. Ad superbos (Met. 2) 144v (just before the resurrection of the dead husband): Plautus in Amphitrione. Veteres mortuos S. dixerunt. Plaut. – 6. At. ref. to Nonius M. 41. These numerals must refer to pages in Sozomeno’s Nonius manuscript and show these entries to be his, indicating a continued interest in the link between Plautus and Apuleius after Salutati’s death.85 Bibliography Billanovich, G. 1953. I primi umanisti e le tradizioni dei classici latini, Friburgo: Edizioni Universitarie. Carver, R.H.F. 1991. The Protean Ass. The Metamorphoses of Apuleius from Antiquity to the English Renaissance, D.Phil. Thesis Oxford. Carver, R.H.F. 2001. ‘Quis ille? The Role of the Prologue in Apuleius’ Nachleben’, in: Kahane–Laird 2001, 163–174. Catalogue of the Harleian Manuscripts, in the British Museum. With indexes of Persons, Places, and Matters. 1808. Vol. III, London. D’Amico, J. 1984. ‘The Progress of Renaissance Latin Prose. The Case of Apuleianism’, Renaissance Quarterly 37, 351–392. De la Mare, A.C. 1973. The Handwriting of Italian Humanists. Vol. I Fasc. I, Oxford: OUP. De Rosa, D. 1980. Coluccio Salutati. Il cancelliere e il pensatore politico, Firenze: La Nuova Italia. Fubini, R. 1992. ‘All’uscita dalla Scolastica medievale: Salutati, Bruni, e i “Dialogi ad Petrum Histrum”’, Archivio Storico Italiano, 150, 1065–1103. Hankey, Th. 1959. ‘Salutati’s Epigrams for the Palazzo Vecchio’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 22, 363–365. Harrison, S.J. 1992. ‘Apuleius eroticus: Anth. Lat. 712 Riese’, Hermes 120, 83–89.
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Cf. De la Mare 1973, 101. I would like to thank Dr. David Rundle, the participants in the Corpus Christi College Classics Seminar at Oxford and the University of Manchester Classics Seminar for their comments, and especially the librarians of the John Rylands Library Deansgate, the Manuscript Room at the British Library and the Vadiana in St. Gallen for their support and help in obtaining copies of manuscripts. I would also like to thank Peter Robinson (British Library), Clifford Webb and Rosa Vidal-Doval for helping me with the images of the manuscript.
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Harrison, S.J. & M. Winterbottom 2001. ‘The Prologue to Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. Text, Translation and Textual commentary’, in: Kahane–Laird 2001, 9–15. Hijmans, B.L. 1978. ‘Asinus numerosus’, in: B.L. Hijmans (jr.) & R.Th. van der Paardt (edd.), Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Groningen: Bouma’s Boekhuis, 189–209. Hildebrand, G.F. (ed., comm.) 1842. L. Apuleii opera omnia ex fide optimorum codicum aut primum aut denuo collatorum recensuit notas Oudendorpii integras ac ceterorum editorum excerptas adiecit perpetuis commentariis illustravit prolegomenis et indicibus instruxit Dr. G.F. Hildebrand. 2 vols. Leipzig: Cnobloch (repr. Hildesheim: G. Olms 1968). Jensen, R.C. 1968. ‘Conquestio Phyllidis’, Studies in Philology 65, 116–123. Jensen, R.C. 1976. ‘Coluccio Salutati’s Lament of Phyllis’, Studies in Philology 73, 109–115. Jensen, R.C. & M. Bahr-Volk 1976. ‘The Fox and the Crab. Coluccio Salutati’s Unpublished Fable’, Studies in Philology 73, 162–175. Jocelyn, H.D. 2002. ‘The Text of Plautus’ Pseud. 173–184 and the Copyists and Grammarians of Late Antiquity’, in: A. Isola (ed.), Curiositas. Studi di cultura classica e medievale in onore di Ubaldo Pizzani, Napoli: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane. Kahane, A. & A. Laird (edd.) 2001. A Companion to the Prologue to Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, Oxford: OUP. Keil, H. (ed.) 1855–1880. Grammatici Latini. 7 vols., Leipzig: Teubner. Klibansky, R. 1939. The Continuity of the Platonic Tradition during the Middle Ages. London: The Warburg Institute. Koster, S. 1978. ‘Das “Präskript” der Res Gestae Divi Augusti’, Historia 27, 241–246. Lowe, E.A. 1920. ‘The Unique Manuscript of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (Laurentian. 68.2) and its Oldest Transcript (Laurentian. 29.2)’, CQ 14, 150–155. Lowe, E.A. 21980. The Beneventan Script. A History of the South Italian Minuscule. By E.A. Loew. 2nd ed. prepared and enlarged by Virginia Brown, Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura. Magnaldi, G. & G.F. Gianotti (edd.) 2000. Apuleio. Storia del testo e interpretazioni, Turin: Edizioni dell’Orso. May, R. 2002a. Review of Magnaldi–Gianotti 2000, CR 52, 79–80. May, R. 2002b. A Comic Novel? Roman and New Comedy in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. D Phil Thesis Oxford. May, R. 2006. Apuleius and Drama. The Ass on Stage, Forthcoming Oxford: OUP. Miglio, L. 1983. ‘Un nome per tre epitaffi. Coluccio Salutati e gli elogi funebri dei Corsini’, Italia Medioevale e Umanistica 26, 361–374. Moles, J. 1993. ‘Livy’s Preface’, PCPS 39, 141–168. Moreschini, C. 1977. ‘Sulla fama di Apuleio nel medioevo e nel rinascimento’, in: Studi filologici letterari e storiche in memoria di Guido Favati, Padua: Antenore, 457–476 (Medioevo e Umanesimo 29) Murgia, C.E. 1970. ‘Avienus’ supposed iambic version of Livy’, CSCA 3, 185–197. Newton, F. 1999. The Scriptorium and Library at Monte Cassino 1058–1105, Cambridge: CUP. Nisbet, R.G.M. 2001. ‘Cola and Clausulae in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses I.1’, in: Kahane– Laird, 16–26. Novati, F. (ed.) 1891–1905. Epistolario di Coluccio Salutati. 4 vols. Rome: Fonti per la storia d’Italia. Oliver, R.P. 1940. ‘Plato and Salutati’, TAPhA 71, 315–334.
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Notes on Contributors
ANTON BITEL is Lecturer in Classics at Oriel College, Oxford, and a freelance film critic. Rumour has it he is preparing two books on Apuleius’ Golden Ass. KEN DOWDEN is Professor of Classics, and Director of the Institute of Archaeology and Antiquity, at the University of Birmingham. He has published widely on the ancient novel, particularly Apuleius, often looking at its religio-philosophical context and at issues of metrics. He is also known for his work on Greek mythology and religion, and on Homer. He has recently published Zeus (Routledge 2006), and is currently writing on religion and rhetoric, and on many ‘historians’ for the Brill New Jacoby Fragmente der griechischen Historiker. ELLEN FINKELPEARL is the author of Metamorphosis of Language in Apuleius (University of Michigan Press 1998) and, with Carl Schlam, of a survey of Apuleian scholarship in Lustrum 42 (2000) as well as other articles on literary aspects of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. She is Professor of Classics at Scripps College, Claremont. LUCA GRAVERINI is Assistant professor at the University of Siena-Arezzo. He has published extensively on Apuleius; two books are forthcoming, a general survey on the ancient novel (together with Wytse Keulen and Alessandro Barchiesi), and a monograph on Apuleius. STEPHEN HARRISON is Fellow and Tutor in Classics at Corpus Christi College, Oxford and Professor of Classical Languages and Literature in the University of Oxford. He has collaborated with Maaike Zimmerman in the Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius (in the Cupid and Psyche volume, GCA 2004) and has written widely on Apuleius, especially Apuleius: A Latin Sophist (Oxford, 2000).
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BENJAMIN LODEWIJK HIJMANS studied Classics at Utrecht University; meanwhile he translated and produced Euripides’ Medea (music composed by his brother) for his old grammar school. He taught at Cape Town, where he wrote his doctoral thesis on Epictetus; then at Winnipeg (Canada); Tallahassee (USA), writing a book on Seneca’s prose rhythm and writing and producing a verse translation in English of Aeschylus’ Prometheus (music by John Reich). Back in the Netherlands (teaching at Groningen University), he translated and produced Euripides’ Ion (music by Wim Aerts; scene designed by Marianne Kleibrink). Ovid’s Metamorphoses, text and translation, is to appear before the year is out. VINCENT HUNINK, is associate professor of Latin and Early Christian Latin at the Radboud Universiteit Nijmegen. He published widely on Apuleius, both as a member of the Groningen Apuleius Group (since 1991) and individually. Among his publications are numerous translations, mainly in Dutch. His latest book in English is: Tertullian, De Pallio, a commentary (Amsterdam 2005). WWW.VINCENTHUNINK.NL PAULA JAMES is Senior Lecturer in the Open University Classical Studies Department. She has written and published on Apuleius, Ovid and later Latin authors Claudian and Prudentius. She has also published on the appearance of myth, mythemes and ancient narrative strategies in the movies. She is further pursuing Pygmalion’s ivory statue and its metaphorical and material descendants in popular culture more generally with a focus on perfect women and their cyborg sisters. WYTSE KEULEN is a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Groningen. His commentary on Apuleius’ Metamorphoses Book I is due to appear in the Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius in 2006. His current project is called The Latin Sophistic. Constructions of the Intellectual in Antonine Rome, focusing on Gellius and Apuleius in their literary-historical context. DANIELLE VAN MAL-MAEDER is professor of Latin at the University of Lausanne. Author of a commentary on Book II of Apuleius Metamorphoses, she published several articles on the ancient novel. Specializing in rhetoric and discourse analysis, she prepares a book on the Latin Declamations.
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315
REGINE MAY has taught at Manchester and Durham, and is now Fixed Term Fellow and Tutor in Classics at Merton College, Oxford. Her research covers Greek and Latin drama, especially comedy, and the novel. She is currently preparing her Oxford DPhil thesis for publication for OUP as Apuleius and Drama: The Ass on Stage. THOMAS D. MCCREIGHT teaches Greek, Latin and Classical literature in translation in the Classics Department at Loyola College in Baltimore, Maryland. His research focuses primarily on Apuleius. He has published articles on magic, intertextuality, rhetoric and religion in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Apology, and contributed to the Groningen publications on Apuleius. SILVIA MONTIGLIO is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Wisconsin, Madison. She is the author of Silence in the Land of Logos (Princeton 2000) and Wandering in Ancient Greek Culture (University of Chicago 2005). RUURD NAUTA is Professor of Latin at Groningen University. He is the author of Poetry for Patrons. Literary Communication in the Age of Domitian (2002), and co-editor of two recent volumes on Catullus (2005) and on Flavian Poetry (2006). Another collection of studies on Apuleius’ Metamorphoses edited by him, Desultoria scientia, is due to appear in 2006. STELIOS PANAYOTAKIS is Assistant Professor in Classics at the University of Crete. His research interests include Greek and Latin fiction, and riddles. He is co-author of the Groningen commentary on Apuleius’ Tale of Cupid and Psyche (Groningen, 2004), and is currently preparing for publication a commentary on the anonymous Story of Apollonius, king of Tyre. MAEVE O’BRIEN lectures in the Department of Ancient Classics, National University of Ireland Maynooth. She has published on Latin Literature, especially Apuleius. She is now researching the reception of the Classics in eighteenth-century English poetry written in Ireland. MARIA PLAZA wrote her Ph.D. dissertation, Laughter and Derision in Petronius’ Satyrica. A Literary Study, in 2000. She has also published several articles on Petronius, Apuleius, and Horace’ Sermones. During her post-
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graduate years she completed a study on Roman satirical humour, The Function of Humour in Roman Verse Satire: Laughing and Lying (Oxford University Press, 2006). At present she is Junior Research Fellow at the Classics Department of Göteborg University. BRYAN REARDON MA Glasgow 1951, BA Cantab. 1953, DU Nantes 1968; taught in Canada, U.K., U.S.A., France 1956-1994. Publications: Lucian: Selected Works (tr.), Indianapolis 1965; Courants littéraires grecs des IIe et IIIe siècles après J.-C., Paris 1971; Collected Ancient Greek Novels (ed.), Berkeley, L.A. 1989; The Form of Greek Romance, Princeton 1991 ; Chariton, Callirhoe (ed.), Leipzig, Teubner 2004. Organized 1st ICAN, Bangor (Wales), 1976 (Erotica Antiqua, Bangor 1977). GARETH SCHMELING is Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Classics at the University of Florida. He is the author of books on Chariton, Xenophon of Ephesus, a bibliography of Petronius, the editor of a critical edition of the Historia Apollonii (Leipzig 1988), The Novel in the Ancient World (Leiden 1996; 2nd edtion 2003), and is the founder of the infamous Petronian Society. JAMES TATUM was one of the organizers of ICAN II (1989) and is the Arron Lawrence Professor of Classics at Dartmouth College. His most recent book is The Mourner’s Song (Chicago).
General Index Adlington, William 302, 305 Aesop 100–2 allegory, allegoresis 68, 98–9, 102, 104 anaphora 155 anilis fabula ancient authors on 88–99, 104 ‘Cupid and Psyche’ as 88, 102–5 Met. as 105–7 animals Apuleius on (in Flor.) 219–20 breeding of 268–9, 276–7 distinctions with humans blurred 203–13, 218–20 language of 203, 213–20 Plutarch on 218–9 Antonine culture (as context of Met.) 163, 175–6, 196–8 Antonius Diogenes 45 anus (narratrix of ‘Cupid and Psyche’) 17–26, 51, 53–4, 102–3 Apollo and Cupid 21–2 deus Milesius 16, 20, 25–6 oracles of 16–26 speaking Latin 16–7, 19, 25–6 Apuleius and Lucius 175–6 hair of 29, 248 knowledge of medicine of 125–6 on daemons 249 trilingual 26 Aristeides – see Milesian tales Aristomenes (character in Met.) 48, 54, 222–31 Asinius Marcellus (character in Met.) 81–2 ass – see animals, Lucius Ass – see Onos
asyndeton bimembre 60–3 in medical Latin 154–5 Athenaeus 189 author, hidden 13–4 Bakhtin, Mikhail Mikhailovich 86 baldness – see Lucius beauty female 29–31, 180, 242–4 male 29, 175, 178, 180, 185–91, 195–8, 242–4 Beroaldus 301–2 Boccaccio 271, 282, 287, 298, 302 Boethius 269 Book 11 (see also end, Isis, Osiris) 51– 7, 120, 204, 212, 217–8, 252–63 Borges, Jorge Luis 4–14 Botticelli 31 Byrrhena (character in Met.) 169–99, 237–8 Charite (character in Met.) 44, 51, 128–9 Cicero, M. Tullius author of Met. 6–12 on dignitas 242–3 Somnium Scipionis 99 compounds, unusual 135 Conte, Gian Biagio 13–4 contextual modulation 145–7 credibility of narrative 47–8, 174, 198, 225–31 Cupid 21–5, 51, 55–6, 141–2, 153, 159, 163–4 ‘Cupid and Psyche’ as anilis fabula 88, 102–5 place within structure of Met. 50–6 prologue to 93, 103–5 curses, cursedness 66, 184–96
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description and ecphrasis 257–8 and enargeia (euidentia) 260 and narration 252–63 by Lucius 260–3 functions of 254 tenses in 259 dialogue 42–3, 95–6, 102, 107, 257 dignity 234–47 Diotime 51, 53–4 doctors hostile stereotypes of 145–61 professional competition among 150–3 Psyche’s sisters as 123–64 ears 115–22 ecphrasis (see also description) 29, 252, 257–8, 263 elegy 19–20, 112, 127, 148, 156–7 Elmenhorst, Gebhardt 302–3 enargeia (euidentia) – see description end (of Met). 38–9, 56–7, 120, 247–50 Eros (see also Cupid, love, Plato) 46, 50–5 etymological play 30, 136–7, 190 F – see manuscripts fable 100–2 Favorinus 175 fish, trampling on 72–3 food animal and human 206–11 as metaphor for sex 31–6 Fotis – see Photis Galen 146–61 gaze 168–99 Gellius, Aulus 64, 66, 170, 175–7 Graecisms 274, 276 hair – see Apuleius, Isis, Lucius, Photis, women Homer – see Odyssee Horace 77–8, 94–5 humour 78–9, 183–4 Hypata 171–2, 183–4, 196
Icarianism 240–1 inserted tales 44–5, 50–3 intellectual – see Lucius Isis (see also Book 11) and Lucius 36–9, 55, 61, 71, 196–7, 217–8, 245–9 and Photis 36–8, 258 and Venus 38, 56 hair of 37–8 καλὸς κἀγαθός 179–80 κανών 181–2 Latin – see Apollo, Lucius laughter – see humour, Risus festival lector doctus, lector scrupulosus – see reader Lindenbrog, Friedrich 302–3 love (see also Cupid, Plato, Venus) as theme in Met. 44–51 metaphors for 127–8 sea of 34 ship of 34 symptoms of 127, 152, 154–5 Lucian (see also Onos) 44–6 Lucius (see also Isis, Photis, Risus festival, etc.) and Apuleius 175–6 and Catiline 12–3 and Hippolytus 186 as ass 206–22, 244 as intellectual 170–1, 175–7, 183, 194, 198, 248–50, 260–3 as narrator 78, 93, 174–5, 216–7, 223–4, 228–9, 268 baldness of 38–9, 56, 241–2, 245– 50 credulity of 174, 227–8, 231 curiosity of 79, 174, 248 hair of 29, 38 horse of 68–71 humiliated 236–8 knowledge of Latin of 18, 214–5 physiognomised 168–99, 243–4, 262 Lucretius 206
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Macrobius (on Met.) 89, 99, 105, 291–3 magic 35–7, 74–7 manuscripts F (Laur. 68.2) 18, 30, 59–67, 81–2, 130, 177–8, 205–18, 222, 229, 271–2, 282, 302–4 H (Sangallensis 483) 300–1 Harley 4838 280–310 L1 (Laur. 54.32) 271 φ (Laur. 29.2) 271 Vat. Lat. 2194 187 Martianus Capella 97–9 medical terminology and imagery (see also doctors, metaphor) in general 124, 140–1 in Met. 126–44, 154–61 medicine – see doctors, medical terminology and imagery Meroe (character in Met.) 53, 74 metamorphosis 81, 203–6, 239–40 metaphor architectural and sculptural 176–7, 180–1 culinary 31–6 medical 126–8, 132–6, 140–2, 158– 9 military 23, 141–2, 151, 157–9 self-reflective 196 turned into narrative reality 23, 33, 68, 73–7, 118, 127–8, 136 visibility of literal meaning of 28 Metiochos and Parthenope 49–50 Milesian tales 18–9, 25–6, 45–7 Milo (character in Met.) 169–71 mirror 198–9 mise en abyme 51, 254, 258 narrative instantiation of verbal expressions (see also metaphor) 68– 83, 103 narrative tempo 255–7 narrators, identity of 222–31 neniae 88, 99–102 Nepos, Cornelius 7–10 obscenity (avoided by Apul.) 276–7 Odyssee, Odysseus 36, 45, 224–5 old wives’ tales – see anilis fabula
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Onos and Met. 44–5, 73–4, 80, 120, 214, 239 end of 111–20, 245–6 Osiris 56, 71, 245–7 Ovid 21–5 Pamphile (character in Met.) 36, 186–8 Pan (in Met.) 155–6 Peirce, Charles Sanders 53 Perry, Ben Edwin 1 Petronius 13–4, 33, 35, 43–4, 49, 68, 74–5, 89, 114, 292 Phaedrus (fabulist) 100 Photis and Isis 36–8, 258 beauty of (see also hair of) 243–4 body movements of 32–8 hair of 29–34, 37–8, 241 physiognomy 168–76, 179, 184, 189, 195–7, 248 Plato on dialogue 42–3 on god and man 55–6, 249 on old wives’ tales 89–91 on soul 71 Symposium 46–57, 94–6 Platonism 31, 55–6, 83, 173, 194, 198, 249 Plautus 4–5, 298–9 Plutarch 171, 173, 183, 194, 198, 218–9 Polycleitus 181–2 power and gaze 172, 175, 184, 188–97 of reader 192, 197 progymnasmata 263 prologue to Aristomenes’ tale 222–4, 230 to ‘Cupid and Psyche’ 93, 103–5 to Met. 4–5, 18, 45–8, 93, 105, 223–4, 229, 290–309 proverbs, proverbial expressions 74–81, 116 Psyche and soul 51, 128–9, 163–4 counterpart of Lucius 105 reaction to oracle 22–5 wounded by love 126–9
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Psyche, sisters of 22–5, 123–64 Pythias (character in Met.) 72–3 Rabelais, François 106 reader (of Met.) 54, 86–7, 103–7, 172, 192–9, 247–50, 275 riddles 70–1 Risus festival 6, 19, 75–9, 183–4, 236–8, 244 Rohde, Erwin 1, 55 Salutati, Coluccio annotated MS Harley 4838 284–97 influence of 298–309 knowledge of Apul. 284–8, 291–3 life 282–4 on Apul. as comic author 292–3, 308–9 on prologue being in iambic trimeters 290–1, 294–7 used Servius 296–8 satire 43–4, 86, 94–6, 102, 106 self-irony 94, 96–7, 99, 102 Septimius Severus (on Met.) 88, 105 sequences 50–3 seriocomic 43, 86, 100–7 Sisenna – see Milesian tales snakes 21–5 Socrates (character in Met.) 48–9, 53–4, 74, 227 Socrates (philosopher) 42, 48–9, 53–4, 56, 170, 176–7, 194 Sophocles 189–90 Sozomeno of Pistoia 283–4, 309–10
species differentiation, species identity – see animals spoudogeloion – see seriocomic spurcum additamentum 266–79 sub-narrators – see anus, narrators symposium 48–50, 94 theme and variations 44 Tlepolemos (character in Met.) 230–1 triadic relationships 53–4 Varro 176 Venus 34–8, 52, 56 vision – see gaze Vollgraff, Carl Wilhelm 4–8 Vorlage of Met. 44–7, 80, 111, 118–20 waves 28–39 Winkler, John J. 4–9, 13, 47–8, 87, 107, 238, 246–7, 268–70 women hair of (see also Isis, Photis) 29–32, 241 old – see anilis fabula, anus, Diotime stereotypes about 147–8 wounds (literal and metaphorical) 126– 8, 134 Zanobi da Strada 271, 282 Zimmerman, Maaike 1–3, 5–6, 15, 28, 42, 52, 59, 86, 111, 123, 127, 172–3, 185–6, 199, 203, 206, 216, 231, 234–5, 250, 252, 266– 7, 280
Index of Latin Words actor 5–10 actutum 64 adamussim see amussis aerumnosus 286 alacer 217–8 amussis 176–80 anilis see General Index asellus 33 asinus 81–2 auctor 5–10 cachinnare 63 catomizari 114 collega 208 congruens 178–9 coniunx 209 conserere 47 deterere 130–8 deterrere 130–1 dignitas 234–6, 240–5 examussim 66, 176 execrabiliter 184–94 exoticus 286, 299 exsecrabilitas 193–4 exulcerare 134 frutectum 64
frutex 64 gannitus 216 genuinus 215 graculari 63 gratulari 63 hypate lichanos mese paramese nete 271–2 illigatissimus 207–9 inhumanus 212 inominalis 66 inordinatus 30 inornatus 30 Milesius 16–20, 25–6 neniae 88, 99–100 nimius, nimietas 143–4, 155 pastus 206–7 perfricare 142 pressura 143–4 Quirites 9–10 raptim 136–8 redulcerare 132–5 senilis 98 turgidus 133 uasculum 32, 38 uenus 142
Index locorum Achilles Tatius 1,2,2 50, n. 25 1,4 30, n. 12 1,4,2–3 190, n. 87 1,19 30, n. 12 3,12,2 113 5,16,2–8 34 Aelianus, NA 5,1 114, n. 6 Ammianus 19,4,2 144 25,4,22 183, n. 64; 184, n. 68 25,10,14 183, n. 64 29,2,16 195, n. 109 Anthologia Palatina 7,561,5–6 30, n. 9 9,323,3 30, n. 9 Apollodorus 2,5,11 113 Apuleius, Apol. 4 248 4,6 175, n. 34 4,9 175, n. 34 4,11–13 29 10,6 83, n. 28 12 50–51, n. 26 14,7 180, n. 54 15,4–6 194, n. 107 40 125, n. 5 42–52 125, n. 5; 129, n. 21; 151, n. 106 49–51 129, n. 21 57,6 66
Apuleius, Flor. 2,1 177, n. 41 3,8 29 3,10 29 7,6 180, n. 54; 181, n. 57 7,9–10 175, n. 31 12 219 13 219, n. 41 15,7 29 w. n. 5 16 8; 181, n. 61 17 219, n. 41 18,37 26, n. 36; 125, n. 5 19 125, n. 5 23,3–5 125, n. 5 Apuleius, Met. 1,1 43; 281; 290 ff. 1,1,1 105; 229, n. 12 bis 1,1,3 197; 223 ter; 229, n. 12 ter 1,1,5 62 1,1,6 229, n. 12 1,2 43; 47 1,2,1 171; 229, n. 12 1,2,2 71 1,2,3 142, n. 69 1,2,5 225 1,2,6 193, n. 102; 194, n. 107 1,3,1 197; 225 1,3,1–4,4 225 1,3,2 228 1,3,2–4,5 228, n. 8 1,3,3 174 1,4 103, n. 51 1,4,4 62; 193, n. 103 1,4,5 26, n. 36 1,4,6 226 bis; 228 w. n. 8 1,5,1 227; 229, n. 12 bis 1,5,1–2 222 1,5,1–19,12 225
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1,5,2 229, n. 12 1,5,3 222 ff. 1,5–6 48 1,6,2 62 1,6,4 50; 223; 226 bis; 228 bis 1,7 48; 49 1,7,1 226 1,7,3 142, n. 69 1,7,5–10 226 1,7,8 149, n. 97 1,8,2 226 1,8,4 53; 54; 226 1,8,6–10,6 226 1,9,3 211 1,9,5 135 1,11,1–3 227 1,11,4 48 1,12,1 223; 226 1,12,4–8 226 1,12,7 223; 226; 231 1,13,3 226; 227 1,13,5 140, n. 60 1,13,6 74 1,13,7 226 1,15,2 226 1,15,4 62; 226 1,17 217 1,17,1 226 1,17,2 226 1,17,3 65 1,17,6 226 1,18,1 60 1,18,6–7 226 1,20,1 223; 226 1,20,1–2 197–198 1,20,1–4 225 1,20,2 174, n. 25 1,20,3 227 1,20,5 227 1,20,6 117, n. 14 1,21,3 169, n. 2 1,23,1–3 169, n. 3 1,23,3 155, n. 125 1,23,4 171, n. 12; 286, n. 29 1,23,6 186, n. 78 1,24–25 72 1,24,5 262, n. 35 1,24,6 228
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1,25,4 72 1,25,6 72 2,1 78; 258 w. n. 25 2,1,2 174, n. 29; 223; 226 2,2 ff. 168 ff. 2,2 237–238; 248 2,2,7–9 169 2,2,7 188, n. 80 2,2,8 248; 262 w. n. 37 2,2,8–9 237–238 2,2,9 29 w. n. 8; 38; 173, n. 18; 184 2,3,1 184 2,3,2 171, n. 13; 178 2,4,4 211 2,4,10 168, n. 1; 206 2,5,7 82, n. 26 2,7 184, n. 68 2,7–8 174 2,7–9 29 ff. 2,7–10 276, n. 28 2,8–9 287, n. 34 2,8,1 174, n. 27 2,8,2 38 2,8,5 31–32; 62 2,9,5 241 2,9,7 34 bis; 36 2,10 33 2,10,2 262, n. 35 2,11–15 33 2,11 49 2,11,3 34 2,11,4 188, n. 80 2,12,3–5 170, n. 9 2,12,5 181, n. 61; 262 (n. 38) 2,15 33 2,16–17 34–35; 276, n. 28 2,16 276, n. 30 2,16,3 211, n. 22 2,16,4 189, n. 82 2,16,6 143–144 2,17 189, n. 83 2,17,1 38; 137, n. 49 2,17,4 38 2,19 49 2,19,1 169, n. 2 2,19,4 183, n. 65 2,20,1 196, n. 113
324
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2,22,6 62 2,23 34, n.21 2,26,3 62 2,27,6–8 114 2,30 247, n. 18 2,30,6 176, n. 36 2,31 75 2,31,2–3 183 2,32 75
3,26,2 62 3,26,4 208 3,26,5 207 3,26,6–8 207–209 3,27,1 208 3,28,3 62 3,28,4 137, n. 49 3,29,2–3 213–215 3,29,8 209–210
3,2–10 262 (n. 36) 3,2,1 63 3,2,2 63 3,2,4 192, n. 98 3,6 78 3,7 78 3,7,4 63 3,9 75 3,9,9 75 3,10,1 63 3,11 197, n. 116; 239 3,11,1 223, n. 4 3,11,4 78; 185 3,11,5 181, n. 61 3,12,5 184, n. 67 3,13,1 137, n. 49 3,13,2 137, n. 50 3,15–18 76 3,15,4 175; 243 3,15,5 37 3,18,2 36, n. 27 3,18,7 76 3,19–20 184, n. 68 3,19,4–6 36 3,19,5 184, n. 68 3,20,4 36, n. 26 3,21,4–5 36; 174 3,22,1 36 3,22,5 239 3,22,6 64 3,23,1–2 240 3,23,2 36 3,24 238, n. 4 3,24,2 62 3,24,3 64 3,24,6 276, n. 29 3,25,1 203; 213, n. 26 3,26 219
4,1,4 210 w. n. 17 4,1,6 64 4,2,5 61 4,3 244 4,4,5 62 4,5 219 4,5,2 116, n. 10 4,6,1–2 262, n. 34 4,7 17, n. 5 4,7–8 49 4,7,4 62 4,8–21 49 4,8,2 60 4,8,4 138, n. 53 4,9,6 62 4,10,4 286, n. 29 4,11,2 137, n. 49 4,12,5 64 4,12,8 62 4,18,4 176, n. 36 4,20,5 62 4,21,1 62 4,22,5 82, n. 26 4,24–27 51 4,24,3–4 20 4,24,5 62 4,25 17, n. 5 4,25,1 65; 128, n. 19; 129 4,25,4 128 4,26,1 131, n. 25 4,26,4 62 bis 4,27,4 65 4,27,5–7 17, n. 6 4,27,6 62 4,27,8 88; 102, n. 50; 105 4,30 21 4,30,4 21, n. 26; 22; 23, n. 27 4,30,5 22; 129, n. 20
IN D EX LO C O R U M
4,31 22 4,31,1 126, n. 8; 133, n. 35; 137, n. 48 4,31,4 62 4,32,2 180 4,32,4 127; 137 4,32,5 16, n. 4 4,32,6 16; 18, n. 9; 105, n. 59 4,33,1–2 21; 104; 288 4,33,2 159 4,33,3 21 4,34,6 21; 23; 26, n. 36 5,1,2 62 5,1,3 62 5,1,4 132, n. 30 5,1,6 30, n. 9; 62 5,4,6 131, n. 26 5,5,2 141 5,5,3 141 5,8,1 212, n. 24 5,8,2 150 5,8,3 62; 160 5,8,5 147 5,9,1 147 5,9,6–7 160 5,9,8 35; 149; 246, n. 18 5,9,8–5,10,2 149, n. 98 5,10,1–2 139 5,10,1 35, n. 24; 62 5,10,2 35; 145 5,10,6 157 5,11 123 ff. 5,11,1–2 130 5,11,1 148 5,11,2 153, n. 116; 157 5,12,3 142 5,12,4–6 157 5,12,6 153, n. 116 5,13,3 34, n. 21 5,14,1 131, n. 26 5,14,3 157 5,15,3 160 5,17,1 131, n. 26; 143; 144 5,17,3 24–25 5,17,4 21; 24 5,18,4 24 5,20–23 159
5,20,1 153, n. 116; 159, n. 143 5,20,2 23 5,20,5 19 5,20,6 148 5,21,1 132, n. 30; 157 5,21,1–2 131, n. 26 5,21,4 154 5,22,2 62 5,22,3 131, n. 25 5,22,5 34, n. 21 5,22,7 51 w. n. 28 5,23,4 127 5,23,6 142, n. 68 5,24,5 64 5,25,1 128–129 5,25,5 154–156; 191, n. 95 5,25,6 51 5,26,5 65; 135 5,26,6 159 5,26,7 152, n. 113 5,27,1 149 5,27,3 18, n. 11 5,28,1 128, n. 15; 142, n. 68 5,28,3 142, n. 68; 159 5,29,1 128, n. 15 5,29,2 178, n. 45 5,29,4 26, n. 36 5,30,3 23; 25, n. 33; 25, n. 35 5,30,5 23, n. 27; 128 5,31,1 128, n. 17; 184, n. 68 5,31,2 61 6,1,5 61 6,2,1 62 6,2,4 25 6,3,2 62 6,8,7 64 6,9,1 62 6,9,4 133, n. 34 6,10,3 62 6,10,5 51, n. 28 6,10,7 62 6,14–15 26 6,15,1 24 6,15,5 24; 26, n. 37 6,18,2 26, n. 38; 65 6,20,1 65 6,21 55, n. 32
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IN D EX LO C O R U M
6,21,1 66 6,22,1 25, n. 35 6,22,4 25; 82, n. 26 6,23,4 223, n. 4 6,25,1 102, n. 50; 103 6,25,3 137, n. 49 6,27,1 216 6,28 216 bis 6,28,6 61 6,29,2 181, n. 61 6,29,5 205 6,30 17, n. 5 7,2,1 71 7,3,4 215 7,3,5 209; 213 7,5,6 223, n. 3; 230 7,6,1 65 7,6,2–8,3 230 7,9,1 49 7,10,3 62 7,10,4 231 7,12,1 230 7,12,4 65 7,13,3 216 7,13,6 62 7,20,3 62 7,21,1 62 7,21,2 62 7,21,4 62 7,21,5 62 ter 7,23,4 64 7,25,1 62 7,28,2 62 8,1,2 62 8,1,5 63 8,2,5 223, n. 4 8,5,1 131, n. 25 8,6,1 137, n. 50 8,6,2 137, n. 50 8,7–9 301, n. 66 8,7,5 64 8,8,9 82, n. 26 8,9,6 67 8,11,3 62 8,11,4 62 8,13,4 82, n. 26
8,16,2 217, n. 36 8,17,4 137, n. 49 8,20,1 62 8,20,2 64 8,20,4 62 8,22 52 8,22,5 63 8,23,3 217, n. 36 8,24 270 8,24,2 34, n. 21; 258, n. 27 8,25 270 8,25,3 62 8,26,6 66 8,27 258, n. 27 8,27,5 34, n. 21 8,29 52; 213 8,29,5 215 8,29,6 64 8,31,4 64 9,1,1 136, n. 46 9,1,2 137 9,2,1 62 9,2,6 62; 138, n. 54 9,5–7 52 9,7,2 64 9,7,3 62 9,8,2 20 w. n. 20; 288 9,13,1–2 134 9,16 52 9,17,4 61 9,18,1 62–63 9,18,3 63 bis 9,20,4 137, n. 49 9,21,3 133 9,21,4–5 131, n. 25 9,21,6 63 9,23 52 9,26 52 9,27,7 82, n. 26 9,28,2 114, n. 7 9,30,1 185, n. 72 9,33,4 215 9,35,3 223, n. 4 9,36,1 118–119 9,36,4 6*2 9,37,3 135 9,37,7 62
IN D EX LO C O R U M
9,39 17; 18, n. 9 9,39,7 66 9,41,4 61 9,42 79; 83 9,42,2 79 9,42,4 80 10,1,1 132, n. 30; 273, n. 15 10,2–12 127; 152 10,2 52; 186; 192 10,2,1 61; 137, n. 50; 186, n. 78 10,2,6 137, n. 48; 176, n. 36 10,2,7 126, n. 6 10,2,8 192, w. n. 99 10,4,5 185 10,5,6 63 10,7,10 66 10,11,2 126, n. 6 10,15,2 206 10,16,5 286, n. 32 10,18 270 w. n. 11 10.18,1 223, n. 3; 223, n. 4 10,19 52 10,19,3 149, n. 99; 192, n. 98 10,21 266 ff. 10,21,1 66 10,22,1 33 10,22,2 216 w. n. 35; 275, n. 25; 276 w. n. 28 10,23–28 149 10,24,4 273, n. 15 10,25,1 126, n. 6 10,26,6 126, n. 6 10,27,1 63 10,27,2 63 10,27,3 62 10,28,1 135 10,28,3 63; 126, n. 6 10,28,5 18, n. 11; 273, n. 15 10,29 210 10,31 52 10,32,3 38 10,33 219 10,33,3 42 10,34 219 11,1–3 213, n. 25 11,1,4 42; 217
327
11,2 257, n. 21 11,2,4 257, n. 22 11,3 70 11,3,2 38; 259 11,3,3 260 11,3,4 37 11,4 37 11,4,1 37 11,5–6 37; 257, n. 21 11,6,2 66; 195, n. 111 11,6,7 39, n. 35 11,7,1 218 11,7,4 63 11,7,5 212 11,8 19; 72, n. 7; 259 11,8,1 19, n. 17; 259 11,8,2 38 11,10 259 11,10,1 259 11,10,2 247 11,10,3 37 11,10,6 38 11,11 204; 259 11,11,1 259 11,14,1 36 11,14,5 212 11,15 50; 55; 102, n. 47 ; 257, n. 21 11,15,1 175; 195, n. 110; 245 11,15,4 71 11,16,2 63 11,16,4 71, n. 6 11,18,3 63 11,19 246, n. 16 ; 257, n. 22 11,19,3 39, n. 35 11,20,1–7 69–71; 82 11,20,3–5 71 11,21,1–2 257, n. 22 11,21,4–9 257, n. 21 11,22 257, n. 22 11,23,5 39; 261 11,23,7 261 11,24 36; 181, n. 61 11,24,1 262 11,24,4 192, n. 98 11,24,5–6 256, n. 17 11,25,1–6 257, n. 21 11,25,6 37 11,26,1 137, n. 49; 256 w. n. 14
328
IN D EX LO C O R U M
11,26,2 256 w. n. 12 11,26,4 256 w. nn. 13, 15; 257, n. 22 11,27,1 63 11,27,4 257, n. 19 11,27,7 66; 81; 176, n. 36 11,27,8 257, n. 19 11,28 246, n. 16 ; 257, n. 22 11,28,5 257, n. 19 11,28,6 256 (n. 16) 11,29 246, n. 16 11,29,1 256, n. 17 11,29,1–3 257, n. 22 11,29,4–5 257, n. 21 11,30 56 11,30,1 257, n. 19 11,30,2 256 w. n. 16; 261 11,30,3 256, n. 17 11,30,4 256 w. n. 16 Apuleius, Mun. 2 30, n. 9 17 26 35,4 286, n. 31 Apuleius, Plat. 1,1 42; 170 1,3 42 2,16 193–194 2,22 248 bis Apuleius, Socr. prol. 3 176, n. 38 2 249 3 249 4,3 55 6,2 55 11–12 249 16,2 55 17 42; 198, n. 124 23 194–195; 223, n. 4 Aristophanes, Nub. 842 177, n. 40 Aristophanes, Pl. 312 115
Athenaeus 13, 564b 189 Augustinus, Civ. 8,12 291–292 8,14 292–293 8,19 83, n. 28 M. Aurelius, Epist. ad Front. 5,41,2 132 Ausonius, Eclogae 14,20 194, n. 108 Ausonius, Parentalia 10,5,8 195, n. 109 Boethius, de Inst. music. 1,20 269 Caelius Aurelianus, Chron. 2,13,162 133 Cato, frag. at Prisc. 77,94 146, n. 84 Celsus Proemium 41 154 ,, 48 155 2,8,39 142 3,12,2 141, n. 64 3,15,4 141, n. 64 6,6,31A 141, n. 64 6,6,37A 141, n. 64 Chariton 1,1,3 180, n. 56 5,5,3 185, n. 73 Cicero, Att. 5,12,2 128 15,1–3 146, n. 82 Cicero, Brut. 1,6 146, n. 82 Cicero, Clu. 40 146, n. 82
IN D EX LO C O R U M
Cicero, de Orat. 2,236 78, n. 19 2,80 258, n. 23 2,190–194 260, n. 31 Cicero, Div. 2,12 155, n. 126 2,50 19, n. 16 2,116 16; 19 Cicero, Fam. 13,20 146, n. 82 16,4 146, n. 82 16,9 146, n. 82 Cicero, Font. 45 65 Cicero, Inv. 1,27 292 1,104 260, n. 30 Cicero, Mil. 30 65 Cicero, N.D. 3,12 92 Cicero, Off. 1,35,126 242 1,36,130 242; 243 Cicero, Orat. 191,2 306 Cicero, pro Sestio 61 6 CIL 3,3345 157 6,37965,17 30, n. 8 Columella 6,27,10 269 7,5,8 133 8,5,11 269
329
Demosthenes, contra Aristog. 1,25,95 158, n. 138 Digesta 50,13,3 161 Dio Cassius 44,17,1 113 59,22,4 157, n. 132 Dio Chrysostomus, Or. 64,14 113 Ennius, Ann. 167 19–20, n. 18 Ennodius, Opusc. 3,109 195, n. 109 Epicharmus fr. 166 75, n. 14 Kassel-Austin Eunicus, Anteia frg. 1 117 Euripides F 663 Kannicht 20, n. 21 Fronto, Epist. 4,3,2 18, n. 13 Fulgentius, Myth. prol. 105, n. 58 1 98 1,3–5 99 3,117 99 Galenus, ad Glaucum de method. med. 1,4 158, n. 134 Galenus, de Cristibus 3,5 158, n. 134 Galenus, de Loc. affect. 1,1 161, n. 146 5,8 158, n. 134
330
IN D EX LO C O R U M
Galenus, de Plac. Hipp. et Plat. 5,3,15–16 181, n. 58
Historia Apollonii 46 RA 119
Galenus, de Praecog. 1,1–4 151, n. 105 1,5–9 151, n. 106 1,7–10 156, n. 127 1,9 157, n. 132 1,9–10 151, n. 107 2,1 ff. 156, n. 130 4,5–10 151, n. 108 4,13–15 152, n. 109 6,6–16 152, n. 111
Historia Augusta Clod. Alb. 12,12 88
Galenus, de Temp. 566 K. 181, n. 58 Garg. Mart. Med. 30 134, n. 38 Gellius praef. 11 177, n. 39 1,4,1 176, n. 36 1,9,1–2 155, n. 125 1,9,2 170 1,24 308, n. 81 2,29,1 101 w. n. 45 5,17,3 66 9,2,2–6 175, n. 31 9,4,5 198, n. 123 9,12 186, n. 77 10,12,4 198, n. 123 11,13,5 198, n. 123 13,5,5 286, n. 32 15,4,3 142, n. 69 15,30,1 132 19,8,15 176, n. 37 19,12,9 64 Heliodorus 3,1–4 263, n. 40 3,4 30; 31 10,39 102, n. 47 Herodotus 4,94 114
Homerus, Il. 1,197 29 2,673–674 29 6,357–358 185, n. 74 14,477 115 15,133 29 Homerus, Od. 7,237–238 225 8,547–586 225 9,19–20 225 9,355–356 225 9,366–367 225 10,220 36, n. 26 10,472 36, n. 26 13,399 29 23,203–204 34 Horatius, Ars 333 ff. 97 w. n. 32 Horatius, Carm. 2,11,23–24 31, n. 13 Horatius, Epist. 1,16,14–15 97, n. 32 Horatius, Sat. 1,1 97, n. 31 1,4,34 ff. 97, n. 30 2,1,82–86 77–78 2,2 96, n. 29 2,6 94–96 2,6,77–79 94, n. 25 Iamblichus, Vit.Pyth. 17,71 170, n. 6 17,74 170, n. 6 23,105 104 w. nn. 55, 56 32,227 104, nn. 55, 56
IN D EX LO C O R U M
Iuvenalis 9,92 33 Livius 1,7,10 223, n. 3 1,34,8 298 Longus Prologue 3–4 50, n. 25 1,15,1 50, n. 25 Lucianus, Alex. 29 20, n. 19 Lucianus, Amores 1 19, n. 14 [Ps. Lucian.]; 45–46 5 47 Lucianus, Anacharsis 28 113 Lucianus, DMeretr. 3,2 117, n. 16 Lucianus, Dem. 2 180, n. 53 Lucianus, Icar. 3–4 117 Lucianus, Scyth. 11 117, n. 14 Lucianus, Ver. Hist. 1,4 101 w. n. 46 [Lucianus] Asin. vide Onos Lucretius 6,1127 206 Macrobius, Somn. 1,2 291–292 1,2,7–8 18, n. 12 1,2,8 89; 99 Martialis 3,65,2 66
11,71 149 Martianus Capella 9,997,1 97–98 Menander fr.189 80, n. 23 Kassel-Austin Onos 6 74 13 239 16 214 17 210, n. 17 19 116 29 113 34 45 37 113 41 113 45 80 48 113 50–51 112 55 223, n. 3 56 112 Origenes, Cels. 4,36 ff. 104, n. 56 Ovidius, Amores 1,1 21, n. 26 Ovidius, Ars 3,133–168 30 Ovidius, Met. 1,452 ff. 21 1,497–498 30, n. 9 3,8 ff. 24 3,34 24 3,41 25, n. 31 3,49 25, n. 32 3,97–98 24 3,581–582 223, n. 3 5,365 22 5,446 ff. 25 5,460–461 25, n. 34 6,114 25 7,150 24
331
332
IN D EX LO C O R U M
15,553 ff. 19, n. 16 15,637 ff. 17 Ovidius, Tr. 2,413 18 Paul. Fest. p. 6 178, n. 43 Petronius, Sat. 24,7 33 42,4 75 92,9 33 109,8–10 29, n. 5 126,2–3 172, n. 15 132 114 136,4–6 75 140,7–9 35 Phaedrus 1, prol. 3–4 100 3, prol. 10 100, n. 43 4,2,1–7 100, w. n. 42 Philo, praem. 8 113 Philostratus, Eikones/Imagines 1,15 91 1,17 189, n. 86 Philostratus, Heroicus 7,10 91 Philostratus, Vit. Apoll. 2,30 170, n. 8 5,14,1 91; 101 5,14,2 101 5,14,3 101 Photius, Bibl. 111b fin. 45 129 18, n. 12; 47, n. 14; 111 Plato, Alcib. I 132c–d 194, n. 107
Plato, Charmides 154b 177, n. 39 154c 180 164c–165b 194, n. 107 Plato, Crito 45c 49 53d 49 53e 49 Plato, Epistulae 7,341b 42 7,341c–d 42 7,344b 43 Plato, Gorgias 523a–526d 90 527a 89, n. 11; 90 527e 90 Plato, Hippias Maior 285e–286a 89, n. 11 Plato, Ion 535c 260, n. 31 Plato, Leges 10,887c–e 89, n. 11; 90 Plato, Lysis 205d 89, n. 11 Plato, Phaedo 116a 48 118a 49 Plato, Phaedrus 229e–230a 194, n. 107 230d 94, n. 26 237a 49 239c–d 193, n. 100 246a–b 71 247b 71 250e–251a 249, n. 21 253d–255a 71 255b–e 191, n. 91 276c 47
IN D EX LO C O R U M
Plato, Respublica 350e 89, n. 11 377a–378d 90 380d 56 389d–390c 249, n. 21 Plato, Symposium 172b 47 174a 48 178a 51 201d 51; 53 202e 53, n. 30 203a 55 210a 249, n. 21 212a 249, n. 22 212d 49 223d 48 Plato, Theaetetus 149a ff. 98, n. 38 176b 55; 89; 90 n. 11 Plato, Timaeus 26b–c 89, n. 11; 90; 98, n. 37 Plautus, Amph. 50ff. 299 53ff. 299 Plautus, Asin. 4 299 666–668 118 Plautus, Aul. 1 299 Plautus, Capt. 53 299 Plautus, Cas. 67ff. 299 Plautus, Cist. 149 103, n. 53 Plautus, Curc. 76–77 103, n. 53
Plautus, Men. 6 299 Plautus, Merc. 1–2 299 14–15 299 634 223, n. 4 Plautus, Mil. 632 179, n. 52 Plautus, Poen. 375 118, n. 19 Plautus, Trin. 11 299 Plinius, Epist. 8,20,4 64 8,23,5 134, n. 40 9,9,3 134, n. 40 Plinius, Nat. 8,173 269 26,6,10–26,8 146, n. 85 29,1,1–29,8,28 146, n. 85 29,5 146, n. 84 29,8,20 149 30,80 134, n. 38 34,55 181, n. 60 92,8,18–19 161, n. 149 Plutarchus, Crass. 32 19 w. n. 14 Plutarchus, de Iside et Osiride 382E–F 55 383A–384C 55, n. 31 Plutarchus, Moralia 13B 113, n. 6 38C 117, n. 15 122D–123 146, n. 82 403A 20 405E 20, n. 21 412A 16 421B 16 536A 116
333
334
IN D EX LO C O R U M
622C 20, n. 21 705DE 116–117 780B 194, n. 106 802D 116 807D 194, n. 106 986F–987B 219 991D–992A 219 Plutarchus, Sollertia 961C–F 219 973A 219 Plutarchus, Sulla 5,5–6 170, n. 9 Polybius 1,81,6–8 158, n. 138 30,20,9 116, n. 12 Porphyrius, Vit. Plotin. 23 55 Porphyrius, Vit.Pyth. 13 170, n. 6 54 170, n. 6 Priapea 52,9–10 33 Quintilianus, Inst. 1,4,4 91, n. 15 1,8,19 92, n. 16 1,8,21 92, n. 18 2,4,2 92 4,3,1–17 258, n. 23 6,2,29–36 260, n. 31 8,3,6–7 255, n. 8 Rhet. Her. 1,13 292 4,51 260, n. 30 4,68–69 260, n. 30 Sallustius, Iug. 1,5 298, n. 56 5,1 298, n. 56
Scribonius Largus 2 158 9 161 Seneca, Ben. 1,3,5 92, n. 21 1,3,8 92 1,4,5–6 93 3,35,4 146, n. 82 6,5–16 146, n. 82 Seneca, Dial. 11,1,3 134 Seneca, Phaedr. 379–380 191, n. 92 Servius, ad Aen. 10,388–389 298, n. 56 Sophocles F474 Radt 190 Sophron fr. 4,43 75, n. 14 Kassel-Austin Strabo 17,1,43 21 Suetonius, Aug. 79 183, n. 64 Suetonius, Dom. 18 29, n. 5 Suetonius, Tib. 68,1 178, n. 47 Tacitus, Annales 1,1,1 298, n. 56 2,54 16 w. n. 2 Terentius, Ad. 822–823 155, n. 125 Terentius, Phorm. 506–507 116, n. 12
IN D EX LO C O R U M
Theognis 541 176, n. 36 804–805 180, n. 53 Thucydides 1,21,1 298, n. 56 Tibullus 1,3,31 37, n. 29 2,3,25–26 30, n. 9 2,5,92 117 Varro, Quinquatrus frgg. 444–451 146, n. 87 frgg. 450–451 147, n. 90 Varro, RR 2,7,8 269 Vergilius, Aen. 2,475 26, n. 37
3,94 ff. 17 3,175–176 218 4,590 29 6,101 ff. 17 6,154 65 8,219–220 140, n. 61 Vergilius, Georg. 3,439 26, n. 37 Vulg. 1Ep.Cor. 11,15 29 1Ep.Tim. 4,7 104, n. 56. Xenophon, de Equit. rat. 6,9 115 Xenophon Ephesius 1,2 30 2,11,4 185, n. 73 5,5,5 185, n. 73
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Tabula gratulatoria
W.J. Aerts F. Akkerman Roelf Barkhuis Anne Benneker-Sanders Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit Groningen Anton Bitel Bea Blokhuis Jan den Boeft Ewen Bowie Jan N. Bremmer Shannon N. Byrne H.Th. Colenbrander Edmund P. Cueva Harm-Jan van Dam Riet en Joop Delmaar Ken Dowden Jan Willem Drijvers Ellen Finkelpearl Richard Fletcher Jaap-Jan Flinterman Stavros Frangoulidis Patrizia Liviabella Furiani Marília P. Futre Pinheiro Philippa Goold Els de Graaf Hanneke de Graaf Luca Graverini Annette Harder Stephen Harrison
Benjamin Lodewijk Hijmans Marianne Hijmans-Kleibrink Carolien en Ton Hilhorst John Hilton Heinz Hofmann Niklas Holzberg Vincent Hunink Paula James Frederick Jones Jozef A.R. Kemper Atze en Maaike Keulen-Hoitinga Wytse Keulen David Konstan Heinrich Kuch Françoise Létoublon Danielle van Mal-Maeder Marko Marincic Zweder von Martels Hugh Mason Silvia Mattiacci Regine May Thomas D. McCreight Peter v. Möllendorff Silvia Montiglio John Morgan Marleen Mulder Hendrik Müller-Reineke Ruurd Nauta Stephen A. Nimis Maeve O’Brien
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Corrie Ooms Beck Rudi en Gé van der Paardt Costas Panayotakis Stelios Panayotakis Judith Perkins Harm Pinkster Maria Plaza Ilaria Ramelli Bryan Reardon Vítor Ruas Sonia Sabnis Klaus Sallmann Gerald Sandy David Scourfield Gareth Schmeling V. Schmidt Saundra Schwartz Niall W. Slater
Daniëlle Slootjes Warren S. Smith James Tatum Koen De Temmerman Thesaurus Linguae Latinae A. Elisabeth van Tuyll van Serooskerken Paul Visser Gea van der Vliet-Garming Evelyne Vos Annemarie H. de Vries Frits Waanders Berber Wesseling en Alex Klugkist Liuwe H. Westra Alfons Wouters Familie Zimmerman Kees Wouter Zimmerman
Ancient Narrative Supplementa 1. Paschalis, Michael & Stavros Frangoulidis (eds). Space in the Ancient Novel. 2002. ISBN 9080739022. 2. Jensson, Gottskálk. The Recollections of Encolpius. The Satyrica of Petronius as Milesian Fiction. 2004. ISBN 9080739081. 3. R. Bracht Branham (ed.). The Bakhtin Circle and Ancient Narrative. 2005. ISBN 9077922008 4. Stephen Harrison, Michael Paschalis, Stavros Frangoulidis (eds). Metaphor and the Ancient Novel. 2005. ISBN 9077922032 5. Shannon N. Byrne, Edmund P. Cueva, Jean Alvares (eds). Authors, Authority, and Interpreters in the Ancient Novel. Essays in Honor of Gareth L. Schmeling. 2006. ISBN 907792213X 6. W.H. Keulen, R.R. Nauta, S. Panayotakis (eds.). Lectiones Scrupulosae. Essays on the Text and Interpretation of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses in honour of Maaike Zimmerman. 2006. ISBN 9077922164
