Possession, Demoniacal And Other

by T K Oesterreich

  But Porphyry says with reference to other oracles:

  For the gods have declared that Christ was very pious, and has become immortal, and that they cherish his memory: that the Christians, however, are polluted, contaminated, and involved. And many other such things … do the gods say against the Christians…. But to some who asked Hecate whether Christ were a God, she replied…. The soul you refer to is that of a man foremost in piety: they worship it because they mistake the truth.”1

  Belief in the demoniacal character of the Pythoness’ inspirations has also found defenders in later centuries, amongst the number being Petrarch.2 We even find similar ideas in recent Catholic literature, for example in F. X. Knabenhauer3 and Stützle,4 whom we have often quoted. These authors cannot escape the impression that true prophecies were given at Delphi, and profess themselves unable to explain it otherwise than by the influence of diabolic powers.

  In this connection it should be noted that we have a very detailed poetic description of the Pythoness dating from the early days of the Roman Empire. It is to be found in Lucan’s Pharsalia,5 where he relates how the seeress was forced against her will by the General Appius to give an oracle. The text of this description,6 which is naturally of no historic value, shows obvious traces of the fact that the author had in mind a similar description by another poet, that which Virgil in the fourth book of the Æneid gives of the Sibyl of Cumæ and with which we shall become acquainted later. Lucan’s picture is yet rougher. True it admits that abnormal phenomena accompanied the enthusiasm of the seeress, but the “mighty hole”in the Adyton of the temple of which the poet speaks is pure imagination. There is, moreover, a grave contradiction: the oracles of the Pythoness are at first represented according to tradition as confused words, whereas the one which occurs later in the poem is in perfectly consecutive speech.

  Beside the Pythoness there are other seeresses of whom we unfortunately know still less. These are the Sibyls. What remains of the sibylline oracles is really mere literary fabrication in which several authors have had a share. The Greek forgeries passed through Jewish hands and suffered yet further modification in the process. A great number of Sibyls are mentioned, first one, then more and more up to a dozen. To what extent the beliefs surrounding them are merely imaginary is indicated by the fact that their alleged age is reckoned by centuries.

  Did Sibyls ever really exist? We must admit that they did. Such figures are not created by the imagination; wherever they appear they have a foundation in reality, even when it can no longer be associated with individual cases.

  The literature concerning the Sibyls is very rich,1 but unfortunately the psychological content of these works is slight and has not repaid the time and labour which I have expended in perusing them. Similarly there is not much to be gleaned from the descriptions of antiquity, which are, moreover, all of a poetic nature and thus of merely secondary value.

  The close relationship existing between the Sibyls and the Pythoness is already attested by the title of “Sibyl” which Heraclitus confers on the seeress of Delphi. According to Bergk the word derives from in Æolian dialect , in old Latin sibus, persibus. The Sibyl of Samos is called , which Bergk regards as a noun signifying a raving or inspired woman.2

  The later conception of these Sibyls is again reflected in Virgil’s description of the Sibyl of Cumæ who was questioned by Æneas,3 and side by side with this poetic narrative stand the Oracula sibyllina themselves. From them we gather the surprising fact that it is not as a rule the god who speaks by the mouth of the seeress. Already in Virgil the Sibyl says quite simply what will happen in the future. In the Oracula also no divine “ego”speaks through her mouth; she proclaims herself inspired but without losing her own identity.

  Here is the opening of the first book of the Oracula:

  Beginning with the earliest race of men

  Even to the latest, I will prophesy

  Of all things past, and present, and to come

  In the world through the wickedness of men.

  And first, God bids me utter how the world

  Came into being.1

  It appears from several other passages that the form in which the Sibyl, when not possessed, professes to have received her inspiration should be regarded as at least partly auditive.

  The second book begins:

  Now when my song of wisdom God restrained

  Much I implored, and in my heart again

  He put the charming voice of words divine.

  Trembling at every form I follow these,

  For what I speak I do not comprehend,

  But God commands each thing to be declared.2

  Also in the third book:

  And then a message from the mighty God

  Pressed on my heart, and bade me prophesy

  On all the earth, and in the minds of kings

  These things deposit which are yet to be.3

  The following words show how inspiration was felt as a constraint:

  Now, when my soul had ceased from hallowed song,

  And I prayed the great Sire to be released,

  Again a message of Almighty God

  Rose in my heart, and he commanded me

  To prophesy o’er all the earth and place

  In royal minds the things which are to be.4

  Similarly in another passage of the same book:

  Now when my soul had ceased from hallowed song,

  Again a message of Almighty God

  Rose in my heart, and He commanded me

  To utter prophecies upon the earth.5

  In another place she says that she will be called mad: and the true seeress of the oracle: 6

  More than once she complains of the heavy burden which inspiration lays upon her.

  The third book begins:

  Thou blessed One, loud Thunderer of the heavens,

  Who holdest in their place the cherubins,

  I pray thee give me now a little rest,

  Since I have uttered what is all so true.

  For weary has my heart within me grown.

  Why should my heart be quivering now again,

  And my soul, lashed as with a whip, be forced

  To utter forth its oracle to all?

  Yet once more I will speak aloud all things

  Which God impels me to proclaim to men.1

  Also the tenth (twelfth) book ends:

  And now, King of the world, of every realm

  The monarch, pure, immortal, for thou hast

  Into my heart set the ambrosial strain,

  Cease thou the word, for I am not aware

  Of what I say; for all things thou to me

  Dost ever speak. But give me a brief rest,

  And place thou in my heart a charming song.

  For weary has my heart within me grown

  Of words divine, foretelling royal power.2

  It is obvious that these expressions reflect genuine experiences of inspiration, if not on the part of the author himself, on that of some other person. From the psychological standpoint it is comprehensible that in a civilization like that of antiquity where poetic creation was held, at least in part, to be veritably inspired by the divine powers, such experiences of involuntary inspiration must have been much more frequent than to-day, simply by reason of the autosuggestive influence of the belief.

  The states described in the Oracula Sibyllina cannot, on the other hand, be regarded as true possession. We have never admitted this except when a second personal consciousness has manifested itself either in place of or side by side with the first. A case where the “I”who speaks professes to be a god would be slightly indicative of this, as shown by the glossolalia;3 but it is not necessarily so, for the glossolalia may appear in simple inspiration. In the absence of any more detailed description we cannot form an opinion; the two introductory verses are inadequate for the purpose.

  Only once, so far as I know, does the god apparently speak directly through the Sibyl in the Oracula Sibyllina, an
d this one case concerns a copy of the above-quoted Delphic oracle vouchsafed to Cræsus.

  In the eighth book there is—brusquely interpolated—a passage in the “I”style:

  All these things to my mind did God reveal,

  And all that has been spoken by my mouth

  Will He fulfil. The number of the sands,

  And measured spaces of the sea I know:

  I know the secret places of the earth

  And Gloomy Tartarus, and men who are

  And who shall be hereafter, and the dead.

  I know the numbers of the stars and trees

  And all the species of the quadrupeds,

  And swimming things, and birds that fly aloft

  For I myself the forms and minds of men

  Have fashioned, and right reason have bestowed,

  And taught them knowledge. I who see and hear

  Formed eyes and ears; …

  For I alone am God, and other God

  There is not.1

  The fact that with the exception of this passage the god never speaks directly by the mouth of the Sibyl in the Oracula Sibyllina seems to me to indicate with irresistible cogency that in the later days of antiquity it was no longer known by experience how these seeresses had really spoken in former times, for the substitution of the personal ego by that of a god was surely its most characteristic feature. The phenomena described in the Oracula are states of inspiration of a milder nature similar to those manifested in highly civilized times; unlike true possession they do not show any transformation of the personality. Under the influence of general progress this latter must have disappeared gradually; Virgil himself clearly never saw an authentic Sibyl.

  It should be noted that Cicero classes two seers, the Bæotian Bakis and Epimenides of Crete, with the Sibyl.2

  The third phenomenon which claims our attention is the cult of Dionysos. Here too the information is scanty, although slightly more abundant than in the subject already dealt with.

  The following passage from Erwin Rohde may serve to describe the Thracian cult:

  The ceremony took place on mountain heights at dead of night, by the flickering light of torches. Loud music resounded; the clashing of brazen cymbals, the deep thunder of great hand-tympani and in the intervals the “sounds luring to madness”of the deep-toned flutes whose soul was first awakened by the Phrygian Auletes. Excited by this wild music the crowd of revellers dances with piercing cries. We hear nothing of any song; the fury of the dance leaves no breath for it. For this is not the measured dance-step with which Homer’s Greeks swung rhythmically forward in the Pæan, but in a frenzied, whirling, and violent round the ecstatic crowd hastens upwards over the mountain-sides. It is mostly women who turn to the point of exhaustion in this giddy dance. Strangely clothed: they wear “basseren,” long flowing garments made, it seems, from fox-skins sewn together; over these roebuck skins, and horns upon their heads. Their hair flies wild, their hands grasp snakes, sacred to Sabazios, they brandish daggers or thyrsi with hidden lance-heads under the ivy. So they rage until every emotion is excited to the highest pitch and in the “holy madness”they fling themselves upon the animals destined for sacrifice, seize and dismember the assembled booty and with their teeth tear the bloody flesh which they swallow raw.1

  Unhappily we have no first-hand evidence concerning the cult. It is not surprising that the participants were almost exclusively women; nevertheless there has come down to us at least one poem in which there appear male as well as female participants in the Dionysiac cult: it is the Bacchœ of Euripides. Having passed the latter years of his life in Thrace the poet had the opportunity of observing the Thracian cult very closely. The meaning of the play is much debated, as it is not free from difficulties and these persist even in the most recent interpretation by Norwood.

  We are inclined to imagine the Dionysiac cult as a kind of Cologne or Munich carnival, a wild abandonment to the senses. It is indubitable that such an effect was not seldom produced, the excesses committed at Rome, and against which the Senate was obliged to take strong action in 186 B.C.,2 being of this kind. But on the other hand it would be entirely erroneous to regard the cult of Dionysos as a whole in this light; this is specifically contradicted by Euripides’ play, in which we find no indication of any tendency to excess. It is true that one of the characters in the play, Pentheus, king of Thebes, believes in something of the kind; he fears sexual excesses. But the partisans of the cult, as well as a disinterested eye-witness, formally deny the accusation and are to all appearances profoundly convinced to the contrary.

  A shepherd relates to the king:

  Thine herds of pasturing kine were even now

  Scaling the steep hillside, what time the sun

  First darted forth his rays to warm the earth,

  When lo, I see three Bacchant women-bands.…

  All sleeping lay, with bodies restful-strown;

  Some backward leaned on leafy sprays of pine,

  Some, with oak-leaves for pillows, on the ground

  Flung careless; modestly, not, as thou say’st,

  Drunken with wine, and the sighing of flutes

  Hunting desire through woodland shades alone.1

  And also the son of Tiresias, himself seized by the intoxication of the dance, explains to the king:

  Dionysus upon women will not thrust

  Chastity: in true womanhood inborn

  Dwells temperance touching all things evermore.

  This must thou heed: for in his Bacchic rites

  The virtuous-hearted shall not be undone.2

  Since Euripides the sceptic would not have depicted the Dionysiac cult which he had learned to know in Thrace as moral had he found it grossly licentious, we are also obliged to admit that the frenzied movements of the Mænads and the few male participants were really filled with earnest religious feeling. This assumption is supported by numerous other passages in the Bacchœ.

  The question which principally concerns us is to know whether the Dionysiac intoxication should be considered as a form of possession. The word possession, etc., served to designate it and moreover Erwin Rohde speaks of “a transient derangement of the psychic balance, a state in which the conscious mind is dominated, of ‘possession’ by outside forces (as it is described to us).”3

  But the problem is not solved by the mere use of the word “possession”; we should like more substantial proofs in order to decide up to what point the states are identical with those described in the first part of this work. A presumption in favour of identity is the fact, apparent from the statements collected by Rohde, that the consciousness was filled with the presence of the god; it was therefore as a direct result of the whole excitement into which the worshippers worked themselves up that contact with the god was established.

  The sense of this violently provoked intensification of feeling was religious. It was only by such tension and extension of his being that man seemed able to enter into relation and contact with creatures of a higher order, with the god and his spirit-legions. The god was present but unseen amidst his inspired worshippers or else was very near and the din of the festival served to bring the hoverer right to the spot.1

  But the main question is not yet answered. Was there simply a “consciousness of presence”of Dionysos, or was he felt within the worshippers, as vividly real as was the demon to the possessed?

  From Euripides we gather only the former, probably enhanced by hallucinatory phenomena.

  O trance of rapture, when, reeling aside

  From the Bacchanal rout o’er the mountains flying

  One sinks to the earth, and the fawn’s flecked hide Covers him lying.

  With its sącred vesture, wherein he hath chased

  The goat to the death for its blood—for the taste

  Of the feast raw-reeking, when over the hills

  Of Phrygia, of Lydia, the wild feet haste

  And the Clamour-king leads, and our hearts he thrills “Evoë!” crying!
<
br />   Flowing with milk is the ground, and with wine is it flowing, and flowing

  Nectar of bees; and a smoke as of incense of Araby soars;

  And the Bacchanal, lifting the flame of the brand of the fire, ruddy-glowing,

  Waveth it wide, and with shouts, from the point of the wand as it pours

  Challengeth revellers straying, on-racing, on-chasing, and throwing

  Loose to the breezes his curls, while clear through the chorus that roars

  Cleaveth his shout, “On, Bacchanal-rout,

  On, Bacchanal maidens, ye glory of Tmolus the hill gold-welling,

  Blend the acclaim of your chant with the timbrels thunder-knelling,

  Glad-pealing the glad God’s praises out

  With Phrygian cries and the voice of singing….”2

  These verses clearly show that the god was regarded as present, or was even felt and his voice heard. How is this to be explained?

  There remain only two possibilities: either the excitement

  of those taking part in the worship was so great that it ended in illusion and hallucination, even perhaps of a collective nature; or else, and this is a hypothesis which does not appear hitherto to have been considered, the god was personified by someone. Any participant, no matter who, played his part, somewhat as King Carnival is represented by a living man. In that case the personage styled “Dionysos”in Euripides would not be the god himself in the strict sense but the god-actor (who when intoxicated identified himself more or less with the god). That would probably resolve many difficulties in the play and foremost amongst these the fact that this personage alternately does and does not seem to be Dionysos himself and to proclaim himself as such. The probable historical connection of Carnival with the Dionysiac cult (in a debased form) and the historical identity of Prince Carnival with Dionysos render the truth of the conjecture extremely probable. Its proof in particular cases must be left to Philology.

  Let us now consider whether the god also entered into the souls of the Mænads and their possible male companions. The most important circumstance in favour of such a theory is the name of the participants: they are called that is to say they bear, as, moreover, in the cult of Cybele also, the name of the god Sabazios or Bacchus.1