“Seeing Witches

Everywhere.”Apuleius’ Lucius at Hypata.

Brock University Archaeological Society,” St.

Catherine’s ON

14 March 2009.

If you want to know about

ancient magic, there is no

better author to study than

Apuleius. He was prosecuted

in the 150s in Africa on the

charge of having bewitched his

wife to marry him. His defence

speech on the charges (Apologia,

also known as De Magia) tells

us much about the world in

which he moved, and how the

acts of an intellectual could

be misinterpreted (“ I

collected those fishes for my

scientific research, not as

ingredients for a spell.”)

But the work that I really

want to talk about is his

Metamorphoses, or Transformations.

St. Augustine knew the work as

Asinus Aureus, or the Golden Ass. The

premise of the story is that a

young man called Lucius gets

turned by a witch into an ass;

he then has a set of ass’s

point of view experiences of

the world, before he is

transformed back into a human

being by the intervention of

the Goddess Isis. The ending,

with his account of his

literal and psychological

conversion, is one of the most

moving expressions of what we

used to call paganism –

ancient polytheism, if you

will. Because the story is

told in the first person,

many, including St. Augustine,

have assumed that “Lucius” is

“Apuleius” and the story-

teller actually was

transformed.

To make the story work,

Apuleius needs his audience to

buy into the idea that this

can happen, to suspend their

disbelief, as we like to say;

the assumption of Augustine

and others that the story is

“true,” suggests that

Apuleius’ attempt worked.

What I want to do today is

explore how he does this,

through his portrayal of

Lucius, willing to imagine

anything – until in the

crucial scene, his imaginings

become reality. I’ve supplied

you with a copy of the Latin

text, because that is a large

part of the pleasure: look at

the last passage on the final

page of the handout “although

I was a complete ass.” The

Latin is “quamquam perfectus

asinus,” a past participle –

“having made a perfect ass of

myself,” and asinus has all

the connotations of English

“ass” and “donkey” – stupid,

stubborn, with the addition of

“lecherous.”

Apuleius or “I,” the

speaker of the prologue who

may be either Apuleius, or

Lucius, or neither, or both,

asks the reader to accept that

people can be transformed; the

prologue ends with a promise

that the reader will be

delighted with the story.

Lucius takes a trip to

Thessaly – on business, we are

told, but never what the

business is. On the way, he

hears to people arguing, and

has to butt in “Please let me

in; I just have to know

everything.”

The story that his fellow-

travelers are discussing is a

story of witches; Aristomenes

(“good counsellor”) is telling

it to someone who doesn’t

believe a word. Aristomenes

tells us that he met an old

friend called Socrates, who

was really in a bad way

because of witches; the third

passage is Socrates describing

the witch who has attacked

him. Aristomenes helps Socrates

out, but they are attacked by

witches in their inn; the

witches steal Socrates’ heart

and replace it with a sponge.

When Socrates drinks from a

stream, the sponge falls out,

and Socrates dies.

Aristomenes assumes that he

will be accused of killing

him, and runs away from home,

never to return. The second

person doesn’t believe a word,

but Lucius drinks it all in:

“Anything’s possible,” he

says, in the 4th passage

“nihil impossibile arbitror.”

See what has happened;

Aristomenes’ story may just be

that, a story told on the

road. The “other traveller,”

the sceptic, is ignored; but

Lucius, who accepts it all, is

maybe (maybe!) just a little

too credulous. You’ve been

drawn into a story about

witches, but you don’t have to

believe them; but because the

story is focussed through

Lucius, you probably find

yourself going along.

In Book II, Lucius is in

Hypata, the city in Thessaly

where the story is set. He

knows all the literary

traditions about Thessaly, and

has heard Aristomenes’ story.

In that city, given his state

of mind, nothing “seemed to be

what it was,” but the Latin is

even clearer “id esse crederem

quod esset.”

He is, by his own admission,

“in a state of shock or rather

dumbfounded” – not the Latin,

attonitus, and stupidus.

Stupidus is important – Lucius

is a perfectus asinus even before

he’s actually perfectus. Notice

also that he admits he finds

no rational evidence, and that

he is filled with desire and

longing (desiderio and

cupidinis); his interest in

magic is sexualised. In this

too, he is acting in an

asinine manner

He stays with a friend

called Milo, who has a servant

Photis and a wife Pamphile.

But he discovers that his aunt

Byrrhena lives in the city;

Byrrhena invites him to

dinner, and warns him that his

hostess is a witch; she also

tells him that she uses her

arts on sexually attractive

young men. Lucius’ response to

the warning is to jump right

in: “in ipsum barathrum

praecipitare.” But it would

be bad manners to seduce his

host’s wife; instead, he

decides to get involved with

the servant Photis, who seems

to be an accomplice of

Pamphile. Lucius, and the

story, get diverted into, or

by, sex with Photis. 14

chapters later, Lucius goes to

dinner with his aunt again,

who asks him politely how he

feels about Hypata;

“Wonderful,” he says, “but I’m

terrified by magic. “ That’s

the fourth passage; Lucius,

you probably have realised by

now, is an accomplished liar –

he’s not terrified by witches,

he’s turned on by them. He

hasn’t yet seen one at work,

though.

Byrrhena has a dinner guest

tell his story. Thelyphon,

“soft in the head,” tells how

he stayed up all night

guarding a corpse – and

witches stole popular body

parts (nose and ears) from him

instead of the corpse. This is

more real: Thelyphron is

actually maimed – debilis ac

ridiculus. Like Aristomenes,

he has left home and ended up

in Hypata. And in Hypata, it

appears, this is just the

cause for a dinner-party story

and a good laugh. In Hypata,

like Lucius, they all believe

in witches.

It’s laughter day tomorrow,

says Byrrhena; I hope you can

contribute (chapter 31). He

does indeed.

Lucius leaves the party

quite inebriated, and tripping

over his own feet. He fights

what appear to be “three

robust fellows,” tres quidem

vegetis et vastulis

corporibus, beating down the

doors of Milo’s house. He

kills them all.

Next morning, the city

magistrates come and arrest

him; he is given a huge trial

in the city theatre, gives a

wonderful boasting speech

about his brave defense of the

city against robbers – but

when what seems to be a

mourning widow shows him the

mutilated bodies of the three

men, they turn out to have

been tres utres inflati, three

inflated wine-skins. The city

breaks out in hoots of

laughter, and Lucius, please

note “cannot give a rational

account of the new vision” He

still is trying to be

rational, but it’s getting

very thin.

Photis tells him what has

happened; she was supposed to

get the hair of a young youth

Pamphile wanted, so she could

draw him to her by putting a

spell on the youth’s hair. But

Photis was caught in the act

by the barber, and had to

substitute some goat hair;

when Pamphile did her magic on

them, she brought to her house

three goat skins, whom Lucius,

as she wittingly remarks, cut

down like Ajax. Ajax was

insane, and Lucius must begin

to feel that he is too. I want

you to realize what has

happened; for Lucius to be put

up in this elaborate trial as

a Laughter-Day prank,

everybody in the city has to

know what Pamphile does, how

Photis messed up, and that

Lucius was going to be stoned

(crapula madens) and totally

out of it. Everybody not only

knows about magic, they revel

in it.

And so, maybe, do we. Do

you “believe” yet? Lucius

certainly does.

Photis comes to apologise,

and we get into kinky sex; “I

messed with you, please beat

me,” she says. I’m not into

that stuff, says Lucius, but

now you MUST show me Pamphile

transformed. He now believes

the whole thing. Pamphile

does the spell, uses the

special cream, and fit bubo

Pamphile. It really does

happen, Lucius realizes.

“Is this real?” he asks. He’s

totally stunned; but finally

he is “reversus ad sensum

praesentium,” “returned to an

awareness of present reality”

(or “returned to my senses).

Wide awake, not stoned, he

turns on the sexual come on

with Photis; “I beg you by

your breasts, my honey, let me

have some ointment.”

After a lot of sexual

interplay, she does – but

brings the wrong ointment, and

he becomes, as we said at the

beginning, a perfectus asinus.

The sex continues to the very

end; at least my natura

crescebat.

But look what Apuleius has

done – he’s gotten us into

Lucius’ head – and because

Lucius is pro Lucio iumentum,

a dumb animal not Lucius, he’s

managed somehow to persuade us

that what in the beginning of

Book 2 was “all in the mind,

you know,” part of an

overheated imagination can

become reality – at least in a

weird city in the heart of

Thessaly where witches are

perfectly normal, and people

losing their noses and

strangers fighting animated

goat-skins are what they do

for fun