Dionysus in "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man"

Author(s): Joseph S. O'Leary

Source: Journal of Irish Studies, Vol. 24 (2009), pp. 66-74
Published by: IASIL-JAPAN
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Dionysus in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Joseph S. O'Leary

At the beginning of the last century, Joyce, like several other Modernist writers,
underwent the influence of Nietzsche, the strong enchanter' as Yeats called him, who
was then a fresh and intoxicating voice. In 1903-4, 'he expounded to his friends a
neo-paganism that glorified selfishness, licentiousness, and pitilessness, and
denounced gratitude and other "domestic virtues'" (Ellmann 1983: 142). This
Nietzschean pose was tinged with self-mockery, shown in the jocose signature 'James
Overman to a postcard asking for a loan {ib., 162). In Ulysses, it is Mulligan (Oliver
Gogarty) who is flamboyantly and self-mockingly Nietzschean (1:708-9). In 'Oxen of
the Sun' the style of Thus Spake Zarathustra is parodied as it deserves (14:362-3;
1431-2, 1467).
One text of Nietzsche well known in literary circles is The Birth of Tragedy from
the Spirit of Music (1872). Its opposition of the Apollonian and Dionysian principles,
associated with the arts of sculpture and music respectively (Nietzsche 1969: 21, 38),
was a cliche in aesthetic discussion, notably in Mann's Death in Venice (1913), a
Kilnstlerroman that influenced Joyce in the last stages of composition of A Portrait of
the Artist as a Young Man (1916). Other sources for Joyce's lore about Dionysus
probably included the work of Nietzsche's friend Erwin Rohde (1845-1898), whose
Psyche (1894; translated into English only in 1925) associated the cult of Dionysus
with the birth of Greek notions of the soul and its immortality, a viewpoint rejected
by scholars since W E Otto (1923). Given the elaborate soul-motifs in A Portrait, it is
unlikely that Joyce neglected this famous book and its chapter on Dionysus. Jane E.
Harrison (1850-1928) is another likely source; Dionysus figures prominently in her
Prolegomena (1903) and Themis (1912) (see Carpentier).
Joyce and Mann used myth not only to give their narratives depth, but with the
ambition of forging a 'new mythology' such as the German Romantics envisaged, for
the benefit of the individual and the race. Stephen Dedalus confers mythic status on
the artist, called to a sacred task of transforming the universe. He would agree with
Novalis that 'poetry is the authentic absolute real' (Frank 1982: 194), and would seek
with Nietzsche (40) 'the aesthetic justification of life.' The explicit reference to
Daedalus and the labyrinth has provided a structural key to the novel, but the equally
important key provided by the implicit allusions to Dionysus has not been noticed.
All the characteristics of the cult of Dionysus occur: dithyrambic verse, abandoned
dance, primitive and exciting music, glossolalia, intoxication, carnivalesque misrule,

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 67

confusion of gender identity, orgies, sexual transgression and perversion, dreams and
hallucinations, trance and mystical darkness. These are not merely atmospheric but
constitute a phenomenology of the role of the Dionysian in life and art. The
Dionysian is championed as the fertile breeding ground of freedom and creativity;
but it needs the restraint and balance of the Apollonian to redeem it, to channel its
powers for art. The pendular or tidal alternation of the two forces builds the
macrostructure of the novel. As Joyce would have learned from Harrison, the two
gods are intimately connected (see Otto 202-8); the cult of Dionysus found an
honoured place at Apollo's Delphi; Dionysus is portrayed sitting on the omphalos
itself, which he has brought from Delphi to Eleusis, and which is identified as his
tomb (Harrison 1962: 556-7).
Note that the Daedalus story has connections with Dionysus. Theseus slew the
Minotaur with Ariadne's help, then abandoned her on the island of Naxos, where
Dionysus, an obvious double of Theseus according to Harrison (1963: 322), made
her his own. Kerenyi talks of'the Cretan core of the Dionysos myth' (52-125), and
Joyce would have found similar information in Harrison (1962: 482; 1963: 50-2),
who also tells that the Sun-God of Crete in Bull-form wooed the moon-goddess,
herself a cow; their child is the young bull-god, the Minos-Bull, the Minotaur' (1963:
449).
A Portrait effects a neo-pagan transcription of Christianity into Dionysian
terms, in a Nietzschean transvaluation of values.' The association of Christ with
Dionysus is suggested by some motifs in the Fourth Gospel; the wine-miracle at Cana
(Jn 2: 1-11) may proclaim the superiority of Christ to Dionysus, revered in nearby
Sephoris (see Eisele). The German Romantics made much of Dionysus, who is even
identified with Christ in Holderlin's 'Bread and Wine.' Some went so far as to
compare the annunciation to Mary and Zeus's visitation of Semele in the form of a
thunderbolt, incinerating her and causing the premature birth of Dionysus (Frank
1982: 15). Such traditions lie behind the way in which A Portrait uses the
Annunciation ('In the virgin womb of the imagination the word was made flesh,'
236) and the Eucharist ('a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread
of experience into the radiant body of everliving life,' 240) as metaphors for the
miracle of art. But the play of irony cannot be underestimated in this novel; to some
extent Joyce is 'sending up' the Apollonian and Dionysian aesthetic poses of his
protagonist as well as his neo-pagan enthusiasms. The interplay of the two principles
help Joyce to order his material, but he perhaps takes the Nietzschean pattern no
more seriously than the Viconian one that orders Finnegans Wake.

The Apollonian Boy (Chapter One)

The boy Stephen's imagination is structured in Apollonian clarity and symmetry,
though troubled by strange words and sexual hints at its margins, foreshadowing his

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68

Dionysian puberty. The otherness and diversity of the boys at Clongowes are his first
exposure to the foreign. Dionysus was always perceived as an alien, his origins being
variously ascribed to Thrace, Phrygia, Syria. As Marcel Detienne observes: 'The god
who comes is a foreigner and remains so, carrying within him the most unwavering
strangeness (Encyclopedia of Religion, 2nd ed., IV, 2358).
One Dionysian image that may be noted is that of ivy. The celebrant of
Dionysian rites carried an ivy-wreathed thyrsus (a staff of giant fennel). A dream of
Stephens becomes something of a Dionysian riot: 'There were holly and ivy round
the pierglass and holly and ivy, green and red, twined round the chandeliers' (18).
Nietzsche, perhaps over-schematically, correlates dream, in which the sculptor sees
superhuman forms, with Apollo, and intoxication with Dionysus. Joyce portrays the
young artist swaying from one to the other. Note that the beauty of a word tends to
usurp the place of an Apollonian image, while intoxication with words or a sense of
their strangeness is the first Dionysian trait in Joyce's imagination. The 'ivytwined
branches of the chandeliers' duly appear at the Christmas dinner scene (26).
The other Dionysian plant is the vine. Stephen is awed when the boys whisper
about the stolen altar wine; the sacrilegious crime acquires an erotic overtone: 'But to
drink the wine out of the press and to be found out by the smell was a sin too' (47).
'The word was beautiful: wine. It made you think of dark purple because the grapes
were dark purple that grew in Greece outside houses like white temples' (47). Here
again Apollonian daydreaming takes on a Dionysian hue.
The chapter ends with a moment of Apollonian attainment, but one senses its
fragility and transience in 'the sound of the cricket bats: pick, pack, pock, puck: like
drops of water in a fountain falling softly in the brimming bowl' (61). The serenely
triumphant schoolboy is destined to vanish, replaced by a troubled adolescent.

Dionysian Revels (Chapter Two)

For Stephen the 'dark avenger' in The Count of Monte Cristo is the epitome of 'the
strange and terrible' (64-5) - Dionysian attributes. The earlier reverie about wine and
Greece ripens into a warmer Mediterranean romance; he is Dantes spurning
Mercedes: 'Madam, I never eat muscatel grapes' (65). Gradually, this fantasy becomes
more Dionysian: 'a strange unrest crept into his blood' (67), and he anticipates an
initiation: 'Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that
magic moment' (67).
The threatening gender confusion in the Whitsuntide play scene is another
Dionysian element: 'Is this a beautiful young lady or a doll that you have here, Mrs
Tallon?' (78), the castratory surname recalling 'the eagles will come and pull out his
eyes' (4). Pentheus, in the Bacchae, Euripides' dramatization of the power of
Dionysus, is clothed as a woman and is torn asunder by women, led by his crazed
mother, Semele's sister.

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 69

Dionysian madness is in the air as well: 'Pride and hope and desire like crushed
herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening incense before the eyes of his
mind... They streamed upwards before his anguished eyes in dense and maddening
fumes' (91). The verbal repetitions in such passages, like the simpler ones in the
preceding chapter, suggest an exercise of style, the ongoing presence of the Apollonian
principle; both gods are watching over the formation of the artist's mind. Of the
fantasies that plague him he wonders 'where they came from, from what den of
monstrous images' (96). The force behind them, the disruption of Dionysus, will
finally be accepted and thus partly tamed.
Stephen struggles 'to build a breakwater of order and elegance against the sordid
tide of life without him and to dam up ... the powerful recurrence of the tides within
him' (104). Nietzsche (34) also uses the image of damming in connection with the
Apollonian. The breakdown of this order, seemingly catastrophic at the time, saves
Stephen from sterility. Again and again, when Stephen's soul has attained Apollonian
harmony, the mould is shattered by Dionysian intrusions that bring his soul alive in a
new way. His mind feeds on Dionysian 'secret riots ... dark orgiastic riot' (105). He
tries to recover the innocent Mercedes romance: 'The verses passed from his lips and
the inarticulate cries and the unspoken brutal words rushed forth from his brain to
force a passage' (106). The Apollonian verses are overborne by the cries and the still
unspoken brutal utterances of Dionysus.
Stephen is moving toward an epiphany of Dionysus: 'He felt some dark
presence moving irresistibly upon him from the darkness, a presence subtle and
murmurous as a flood filling him wholly with itself (106). Recalling the young
Joyce's cult of epiphanies,' it is not unlikely that he knew of Dionysus as the Greek
god most associated with such manifestations. Like Pentheus, Stephen is mastered,
unmanned, by the god, and is forced to speak the language the god dictates: 'His
hands clutched convulsively and his teeth set together as he suffered the agony of its
penetration... and the cry that he had strangled for so long in his throat issued from
his lips'(106).
All this builds up to the initiation that follows, as he wanders into a maze of
narrow and dirty streets' (106), perhaps straying 'into the quarter of the jews' (107) -
the first specifically Oriental foreignness in the book. The scene suggests ancient rites
such as those of Eleusis, often associated with a labyrinthine journey to the
underworld. The centre of this cult was a symbolic vision of the birth of Dionysus
(Harrison 1962: 540-51). 'Women and girls dressed in long vivid gowns traversed the
street from house to house ... Before the doors and in the lighted halls groups were
gathered arrayed as for some rite. He was in another world: he had awakened from a
slumber of centuries' (107). These 'centuries' are those of the Christian era; Stephen is
making contact with ancient paganism. The scene recalls the orgia of Dionysus,
which became the Roman Bacchanalia, in which at first only women could

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70

participate; Livy (Bk. 39.8-19) gives a vivid account of them on the eve of the
repression by the Roman Senate in 186 BCE. Harrison has illustrations of the long
gowns of the Maenads and mentions their torches. cHe stood still in the middle of the
roadway his heart clamouring against his bosom in a tumult (107). 'Tumult' is a
Dionysian word, suggesting the cries of the worshippers.
Mystery rituals are occasions of rebirth, and Stephen here attains a new
confidence in himself: 'In her arms he felt that he had suddenly become strong and
fearless and sure of himself (107). The kiss is a moment of communion: 'He closed
his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind' (108). Etymologically, 'mystery'
comes from muein, to close one's eyes. Stephen's surrender of body and mind is that
of the true devotee.

Dionysius Abased (Chapter Three)

The novel is structured as a labyrinth, and at its centre Stephen encounters 'if not a
Cretan Minotaur, at least "a bovine god'" (Fortuna 1972: 41; qtd in Calderwood
1997: 5). Disturbed by the first retreat sermons, he sees his sexual life in Dionysian
terms: 'His monstrous dreams, peopled by apelike creatures' (124). The last sermons
fill him with terror. Crossing the threshold of his bedroom becomes a step in a fearful
mystery ritual: 'He waited still at the threshold as at the entrance to some dark cave'
(147). In bed he broods on his sins: 'He desired with all his will not to hear or see. He
desired till the frame shook under the strain of his desire and until the senses of his

soul closed. They closed for an instant and then opened. He saw' (148). Terror is
developing the 'spiritual senses' celebrated by mystical writers in the wake of Origen.
The vision described in the next two paragraphs seems to be modeled on two
episodes in Death in Venice. Egri notes a general influence of Mann on the many
dreamlike episodes in A Portrait, but does not identify a direct influence of Mann's
novella on its composition. The final section of Chapter Three, after the Act of
Contrition and the three asterisks (146) is 'a very late piece of writing' (Gabler 1998:
88), belonging to the last stage of composition in 1914-5. Living quite near Venice, in
Trieste, Joyce cannot have missed Mann's story, which enjoyed immediate fame.
Aschenbach's yearning for travel, at the beginning of the novella, conjures up a
hallucinatory Oriental landscape: 'His desire became seeing. He saw, saw a landscape ,
a tropical marshy region under a densely vaporous (dickdunstigem) sky' with phallic
'hairy palm-trunks,' and at the climax the gleam of the tiger's eye; he felt his heart
beat with horror and an enigmatic longing' (Mann, I, 340). Compare the sentence
introducing Stephen's hallucination: 'He saw' (148).
Aschenbach's more elaborate dream in the last chapter, modelled on a passage in
Rohde, is again hallucinatory, 'a bodily-mental experience that befell him indeed in
deep sleep and complete independence and sensible presence' (Mann, I, 392); Mann
probably meant to write 'from sensible presence.' The noise of howling and the flute

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 71

announces the alien god,' and a lurching dance begins, involving humans and
animals, flames, tumult (Mann uses the German word Tumult). Moaning women in
long fur garments shake tambourines, brandishing torches and daggers and holding
hissing snakes. The snake was an emblem of the Dionysian cult, or an incarnation of
Dionysus (Harrison 1962: 431); it occurs in Stephen's meditation after his vision:
'Does that part of the body understand or what? The serpent, the most subtle beast of
the field ... His soul sickened at the thought of a torpid snaky life feeding itself out of
the tender marrow of his life' (151). 'Men with horns above their brows ... let brazen
cymbals sound and beat wildly on drums, while hairless boys were goading bucks
with leafy staffs' (Mann, 393). Joyce has: 'Goatish creatures with human faces,
hornybrowed' (148), 'a hell of lecherous goatish fiends' (149), based on the Dionysian
satyrs, who are goat-men (though Harrison tried unsuccessfully to link them to
horses, 1962: 387).
'Vapours (Diinste) pressed the sense, the acrid smell of the bucks, the odour of
panting bodies and a stench as of putrid waters' (Mann, 393). In Joyce, 'the reeking
odour pouring down his throat, clogging and revolting his entrails' causes Stephen to
vomit profusely (149). Aschenbach is not repelled; rather, 'his soul desired to join the
god's dance. The obscene symbol, gigantic, of wood, was uncovered and lifted up...
With frothing lips they were clamoring, inciting each other with lewd gestures...
They were himself, as they threw themselves on the beasts, biting and slaying, and
swallowed steaming shreds of flesh, and as on the rumpled mossy ground a boundless
mixing of bodies began, as a sacrifice to the God. And his soul tasted licentiousness
and the frenzy of downfall' (Mann, 394). The association of the Dionysian rites with
the growth, or in this case the degeneration of the soul, comes from Rohde and is
found in Joyce too. The clamourous pandemonium is reduced to 'rattling canisters' in
Joyce, and the feeding on raw flesh (omophagia) is another aspect of Dionysian terror
that he does not take up.
As terror subsides, a beautiful paragraph from Newman engineers a swing into
Apollonian calm. The chapter ends with a perfect Apollonian moment, like the end
of Chapter One: 'The ciborium had come to him' (158), contrasting with the
Dionysian communion of the kiss that closed the preceding chapter. The systole and
diastole movement pervading the entire novel suggests that the next chapter will bring
a swing back toward Dionysus.

Dionysus Resurgent (Chapter Four)

When Stephen's castle of ascetic piety breaks down, and he rejects the invitation to
become a Jesuit, he opens himself anew to Dionysian stirrings: 'He smiled to think
that it was this disorder, the misrule and confusion of his father's house and the
stagnation of vegetable life, which was to win the day in his soul' (176). Simon
Dedalus is a lord of misrule, Dionysian in his gregarious inebriation.

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72

Dionysian music springs up in the liberated Stephens mind as he strides toward

the Bull' (178) - the Clontarf seawall on the naturalistic level, a form of Dionysus on
the symbolic, an even more potent incarnation than snake or goat (see Harrison
1962: 431-6). The music grows wilder, 'like triplebranching flames leaping fitfully
(179); note the echo of the Christmas dinner scene with its flaming fire and
'ivytwined branches (25). The auditory illusion takes an animal turn: 'he seemed to
hear from under the boughs and grasses wild creatures racing (179). This Dionysian
music moves to a surprising Apollonian resolution: 'Their feet passed in pattering
tumult over his mind... the feet of harts and hinds and antelopes, until he heard
them no more and remembered only a proud cadence from Newman: Whose feet are
as the feet of harts and underneath the everlasting arms (179). Newman again functions
as a distinctively Apollonian voice.
The voices calling 'Bous Stephanoumenos! Bous Stephaneforos' (182) suggest a
Dionysian metamorphosis or apotheosis of the protagonist. The words means
'Crowned bull! Garland-bearing bull!' There is a suggestion of Dionysian revels,
recomposed in the fastidious prose of an aesthete, as he observes his fellow-students'
'medley of white nakedness,' while Ennis's 'scarlet belt with the snaky clasp' (182) is a
Dionysian accoutrement. The repeated cries of 'Stephaneforos' accompany a
Dionysian birth or resurrection: 'His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood,
spurning her graveclothes' (184). After the epiphany of the birdlike girl, a chthonic
note is struck: 'the earth that had borne him, had taken him to her breast' (187) - one
thinks of Demeter, the goddess of Eleusis - and the moon goddess, consort of the
Bull, appears: A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of sky' (187).

The Apollonian Artist (Chapter Five)

Echoes of childhood occur in Stephen's mental ditty: 'The ivy whines upon the
wall/And whines and twines upon the wall' (193), in which we hear the sound 'wine'
and are reminded of the way ivy and vine grow together. Here is a pervasion of the
text by Dionysian elements at the subliminal level of sound and wordplay.
At the physics lecture there is another Dionysian revel, neither mystery (ch. 2),
nor nightmare (ch. 3), nor enthusiastic exaltation (ch. 4), but carnivalesque comedy,
as the 'limp priestly vestments' in Stephen's mind begin 'to sway and caper in a
sabbath of misrule' (208). His professors are fantasized cavorting in a Dionysian
dance, and one is compared to 'a giraffe cropping high leafage among a herd of
antelopes,' an echo of the Dionysian music of Chapter Four. The swishing fiends of
Chapter Three are replaced by the jolly dance of the professors 'tumbling and
capering, kilting their gowns for leap frog... smacking one another behind and
laughing at their rude malice' (208); contrast, 'the malice of evil glittered in their hard
eyes' (149), or Mann (394): 'With frothing lips they were clamoring, inciting each
other with lewd gestures and seducing hands.'

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 73

Stephen discourses on Apollonian sculpture, in which the mind is arrested and

raised above desire and loathing (222). The absurdity of this is shown when he
denounces 'unesthetic emotions not only because they are kinetic in character but also
because they are not more than physical' (223). Lynch, a satyr, provides corrective
counterpoint. Stephen traces a development from lyrical poetry - which Nietzsche
(36) sees as Dionysian and contrasts with Apollonian epic - to the objectivity of
dramatic form: 'The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood and
then a fluid and lambent narrative, finally refines itself out of existence' (233). This
triumph of the Apollonian is not the last word of Joyce's own esthetic vision, either in
theory or in practice. Rather he keeps the opposing forces thrusting against one
another, following Nietzsche's formula: 'The forward development of art is tied to the
duality of the Apollonian and the Dionysian, just as procreation depends on the
duality of the sexes, in continual battles and only periodically intervening
reconciliation (Nietzsche, 21).
The Villanelle episode vamps up the atmosphere of mystic ritual, which
oscillates between Apollonian dreams of beauty and Dionysian impulses such as the
'rude brutal anger' that 'broke up violently her fair image' (239). His relationship to
Emma has become another mould to break, as is indicated by the verbatim repetition
of the passage that marked her first appearance ten years earlier (72), followed by the
exclamation, 'Let be! Let be!' (241).
Dionysian touches in the final diary include 'a troubled night of dreams,' one
with 'pillars of dark vapours,' another in which 'strange figures advance from a cave'
(272). The old man with 'red-rimmed horny eyes' whom Stephen associates with the
theophany to Jacob in Genesis 32:24-30: 'It is with him I must struggle all through
this night' (274), is identified by Gifford (287) as a Yeatsian peasant, 'a violently
prejudiced bludgeon-man,' but this does not explain the numinous fear he inspires.
Think instead of the uncanny red-haired foreigners in Death in Venice, epiphanies of
'the alien God.' Joyce has his own gallery of grotesques: 'the mad nun' (189), the
consumptive man with the doll's face and the brimless hat... holding his furled
umbrella a span or two from him like a diviningrod' (191 - evoking Hermes, bearer
of a rod with two snakes and protector of the infant Dionysus?), and the dwarfish
captain, allegedly the offspring of incest (247-8). Dionysus was the god of masks, and
his presence may be detected in the mask-like faces that impinge on Stephen's
imagination, e.g. Cranly as 'a stern severed head of deathmask' (270); compare: A
skull appeared suspended in the gloom of the doorway' (71).
This diary has a terrific reality-effect, as a sort of objet trouve, capturing the
grimy quirks and bold spontaneity of youth, with suddenly a breath-taking prose
poem, which owes something to the Apollonian Newman in the way it logically
develops the themes of 'arms' and 'voices': 'The spell of arms and voices: the white
arms of roads... They are held out to say: We are alone. Come. And the voices say

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 74

with them: We are your kinsmen (275). These arms and voices have the Dionysian
allure of what is foreign and threatening, shaking the wings of their exultant and
terrible youth' (275). The sustaining power behind the young man's rebellion is
explicitly the old artificer' Daedalus (276), but the powers on which he draws are also
recognizably those of the god Dionysus.
Sophia University
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