The Greco-Egyptian Magical

Formularies: Libraries, Books, and

Individual Recipes Christopher Faraone
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The Greco-​Egyptian Magical Formularies
 NEW TEXTS FROM ANCIENT CULTURES

Founding Editor
Traianos Gagos†

Edited by
Francesca Schironi, The University of Michigan
Luigi Battezzato, Scuola Normale Superiore

Settling a Dispute: Toward a Legal Anthropology of Late Antique Egypt

by Traianos Gagos and Peter van Minnen

Women of Jeme: Lives in a Coptic Town in Late Antique Egypt

by T. G. Wilfong

Wine, Wealth, and the State in Late Antique Egypt:

The House of Apion at Oxyrhynchus
by T. M. Hickey

New Literary Papyri from the Michigan Collection:

Mythographic Lyric and a Catalogue of Poetic First Lines
by Cassandra Borges and C. Michael Sampson

Materia Magica:
The Archaeology of Magic in Roman Egypt, Cyprus, and Spain
by Andrew T. Wilburn

Honor Among Thieves:

Craftsmen, Merchants, and Associations in Roman and Late Roman Egypt
by Philip F. Venticinque

Getting Rich in Late Antique Egypt

by Ryan E. McConnell

Recording Village Life: A Coptic Scribe in Early Islamic Egypt

by Jennifer A. Cromwell

Ancient Latin Poetry Books: Materiality and Context

by Gabriel Nocchi Macedo

Confiscation or Coexistence: Egyptian Temples in the Age of Augustus

by Andrew Connor

The Greco-Egyptian Magical Formularies: Libraries, Books, and Individual Recipes

by Christopher A. Faraone and Sofía Torallas Tovar
The Greco-​Egyptian
Magical Formularies
Libraries, Books, and
Individual Recipes

Edited by
Christopher A. Faraone and
Sofía Torallas Tovar

University of Michigan Press

Ann Arbor
 Copyright © 2022 by Christopher A. Faraone and Sofía Torallas Tovar
All rights reserved

For questions or permissions, please contact um.press.perms@umich.edu

Published in the United States of America by the

University of Michigan Press
Manufactured in the United States of America
Printed on acid-​free paper
First published November 2022

A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library.

Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication data has been applied for.

ISBN 978-​0-​472-​13327-​7 (hardcover: alk. paper)

ISBN 978-​0-​472-​22078-​6 (e-​book)

Research funded by the Neubauer Collegium at the University of Chicago

Cover: Ouroboros from GEMF 74/PGM VII traced by Raquel Martín Hernández
 Preface

This volume is one of the three publications titled The Greco-​Egyptian Magical
Formularies –​a companion volume, so to speak –​arising from a research
project entitled “The Transmission of Magical Knowledge,” directed by us and
funded by the Neubauer Collegium for Culture and Society at the University of
Chicago. At the center of this project is a large and energetic group of colleagues
from Europe, Australia, and North America who have worked tirelessly toward
the common goal of creating a new edition and English translation of the
Greek-​Egyptian magical formularies produced in Roman and Late Antique
Egypt.1 The collegiality of this group has been infectious and is well illustrated
by the four co-​authored essays collected below and by several other chapters
whose ideas and premises were tested during our editorial meetings over the
last four years in Chicago, Paris, Barcelona, and Athens. We would like to thank
the Neubauer Collegium, our principal sponsor, and especially Joe and Jeanette
Neubauer for endowing their new research center and providing a precious
meeting point for humanists and social scientists and a home for many
innovative research projects in the heart of the University of Chicago. We are
also grateful to its director, Jonathan Lear, and his staff, for their patience and
hard work in dealing with an international project of this size and complexity,
especially Elspeth Carruthers, Carolyn Ownbey, Jessica Musselwhite, and
Mark Sorkin, with whom we have worked most closely. We have also received
important financial and logistical support from the University of Chicago’s Paris

1. Greek and Egyptian Magical Formularies, 2 vols., California Classical Studies (Faraone and Torallas
Tovar 2022).
 vi    Preface

Centre and its director Sebastian Greppo, the Benedictine Abbey of Montserrat
and Father Pius Tragan, the Universitat Pompeu Fabra in Barcelona and its
associate dean Alberto Nodar, and the Norwegian Institute of Archaeology in
Athens and its director Jorunn Økland, and we have benefitted much from our
ongoing and fruitful collaboration with two other important research projects:
“Coptic Magical Papyri” based in Würzburg and led by Korshi Dosoo, and the
“Leyendo vidas: Religión, derecho y sociedad en los papiros de las colecciones
españolas” based in the Universidad Complutense de Madrid led by Raquel
Martín Hernández and José Domingo Rodríguez Martín. We would finally like
to thank various individuals who in one way or another helped us with these
meetings or with the three publications associated with them: Sergio Carro
Martín, Anna Darden, Ethan Della Rocca, Karen Donohue, Jack Fanikos,
Hannah Halpern, Jodi Haraldson, Kelly Holob, Jordan Johansen, Thomas Keith,
Michael Kriege, Kate Miller, David Orsbon, Charles Ro, Eva Schons Rodrigues,
Lauren Scott, Walter Shandruk, and Huaxi Zhou.
 Contents

Concordancesix
List of Contributors xiii
List of Figures xvi
List of Tables xx
Introduction (Christopher A. Faraone and Sofía Torallas Tovar) xxii

I. Libraries, Codices, and Rolls 1

Chap ter 1. Anatomy of the Magical Archive
Korshi Dosoo and Sofía Torallas Tovar 3
Chap ter 2. Roll vs. Codex: The Format of the Magical Handbook
Korshi Dosoo and Sofía Torallas Tovar 64
Chap ter 3. The Paleography and Dating of the Magical Formularies
from Roman Egypt
Alberto Nodar 121
II. Compositional and Redactional Patterns 167
Chap ter 4. Compositional Patterns in the Paris Magical Codex
(GEMF 57 =​PGM IV)
Lynn R. LiDonnici 169
Chap ter 5. The Composition of the Demotic Magical Papyrus of
London and Leiden (GEMF 16 =​PDM/PGM XIV)
Korshi Dosoo 193
 viii    Contents

Chap ter 6. GEMF 60 (= PGM XIII): A Study of Material, Scribal,

and Compositional Issues
Richard Gordon and Rachel Yuen-​Collingridge 232
III. Distribution of Texts and Their History 287
Chap ter 7. GEMF 74 (= PGM VII): Reconstructing the Textual
Tradition
Richard Gordon and Raquel Martín Hernández289
Chap ter 8. GEMF 15 (=​PDM/PGM XII): Production and Use
of a Bilingual Magical Formulary
Panagiota Sarischouli 318
IV. Individual Recipes 365
Chap ter 9. The Composite Recipes in GEMF 57 (=​PGM IV) and
How They Grew: From Practical Instructions to
Literary Narratives
Christopher A. Faraone 367
Chap ter 10. The Rationale of Multi-​Purpose Praxeis in the
Formulary Tradition
Richard Gordon 395
Chap ter 11. The Traffic in Magical Recipes: Single-​Sheet Formularies
as Prompts for Oral Performance
Christopher A. Faraone 420
Abbreviations 454
Bibliography 457
Subject Index 515
Index Locorum 529

Papyri and Manuscripts Index 531

Digital materials related to this title can be found on the Fulcrum platform via
the following citable URL: https://doi.org/10.3998/mpub.12227202
 Concordances

Concordance of GEMF numbers

GEMF 1 PGM CXI; SM II 70 GEMF 20 P.Mich s/n ZPE 194 (2015)
GEMF 2 PGM CXVII; no. 3
SM II 71 GEMF 21 P.Duke inv. 729
GEMF 3 PGM XX GEMF 22 P.Bingen 13
GEMF 4 PGM CXXII; SM II 72 GEMF 23 PGM XIc
GEMF 5 P.Oxy. LXV 4468 GEMF 24 PGM XCVII; SM II 78
GEMF 6 PGM LII GEMF 25 P.Oxy III 433
GEMF 7 PGM CIII GEMF 26 GMA 32
GEMF 8 PGM LVII +​LXXII GEMF 27 Kernos 23
GEMF 9 SM II 74 GEMF 28 PGM CXXVII
GEMF 10 SM II 75 GEMF 29 PGM LXIII
GEMF 11 PGM LXIX GEMF 30 PGM VI +​PGM II
GEMF 12 PGM LXXVII GEMF 31 PGM I
GEMF 13 PGM CX GEMF 32 PGM XIXb
GEMF 14 BM EA10808 GEMF 33 PGM XIb
GEMF 15 PDM/PGM XII GEMF 34 PGM LXII
GEMF 16 PDM/PGM XIV GEMF 35 SM II 79
GEMF 17 PDM Suppl. GEMF 36 PGM LXXXVI; SM II 80
GEMF 18 PDM/PGM LXI GEMF 37 PGM CXXIX; SM II 81
GEMF 19 PGM XVIIb GEMF 38 PGM CXIXa–​b; SM II 82
 x    Concordances

GEMF 39 P.Oxy. LXXXII 5303 GEMF 64 P.Kellis I 85 a–​b

GEMF 40 P.Oxy. LXXXII 5304 GEMF 65 PGM LXXXI
GEMF 41 P.Oxy. LXXXII 5305 GEMF 66 PGM XXIIa
GEMF 42 P.Mich. inv. 3404 GEMF 67 SM II 89
GEMF 43 PGM XXI GEMF 68 PGM XXXVI
GEMF 44 P.Oxy. LXVIII 4672 GEMF 69 PGM XXXVIII
GEMF 45 PGM XXa GEMF 70a PGM LVIII
GEMF 46 SM II 86 GEMF 70b PGM CXXVI a–​b
GEMF 47 P.Oxy. LVIII 3931 GEMF 71 PSI XV 1496
GEMF 48 P.Mich. inv. 1560 GEMF 72 PGM VIII
GEMF 49 PGM XLIV GEMF 73 PGM IX
GEMF 50 PGM LXVII GEMF 74 PGM VII
GEMF 51 P.Berol. inv. 11734 GEMF 75 PGM XIa
GEMF 52 PGM XXIVa GEMF 76 PGM X
GEMF 53 PGM LXXIX GEMF 77 P.Berol. inv. 17202
GEMF 54 PGM LXXX GEMF 78 P.Mich. inv. 4451
GEMF 55 PGM III GEMF 79 SM II 58
GEMF 56 PGM LXX GEMF 80 PGM XCIV; SM II 94
GEMF 57 PGM IV GEMF 81 PGM XLVI
GEMF 58 PGM V GEMF 82 PGM CXXIIIa–​f
GEMF 59 PGM Va GEMF 83 PGM CXXIV; SM II 97
GEMF 60 PGM XIII GEMF 84 PGM CXXV a–​f; SM II 98
GEMF 61 PGM XXIIb GEMF 85 PGM XCV; SM II 99
GEMF 62 PGM CII; SM II 90 GEMF 86 P.Rainer Cent. 39
GEMF 63 PSI IV 407; P.Coles 12 GEMF 87 P.Oxy. XI 1384

Reverse Concordance

P.Berol. inv. 11734 GEMF 51 P.Mich. inv. 1560 GEMF 48

P.Berol. inv. 17202 GEMF 77 P.Mich. inv. 3404 GEMF 42
P.Bingen 30 GEMF 22 P.Mich. inv. 4451 GEMF 78
P.Coles 12 GEMF 63 P.Oxy III 433 GEMF 25
P.Duke inv. 729 GEMF 21 P.Oxy. LVIII 3931 GEMF 47
P.Kellis I 85 a–​b GEMF 64 P.Oxy. LXVIII 4672 GEMF 44
 Concordances    xi

P.Oxy. LXXXII 5303 GEMF 39 PGM XXXVIII GEMF 69

P.Oxy. LXXXII 5304GEMF 40 PGM XLIV GEMF 49
P.Oxy. LXXXII 5305 GEMF 41 PGM XLVI GEMF 83
P.Oxy. XI 1384 GEMF 87 PGM LII GEMF 6
P.Oxy. LXV 4468 GEMF 5 PGM LVII/​LXXII GEMF 8
P.Rainer Cent. 39 GEMF 86 PGM LVIII GEMF 70a
PDM/PGM XII GEMF 15 PGM LXII GEMF 34
PDM/PGM XIV GEMF 16 PGM LXIII GEMF 29
PDM/PGM LXI GEMF 18 PGM LXIX GEMF 11
PDM Suppl. GEMF 17 PGM LXVII GEMF 50
PGM I GEMF 31 PGM LXX GEMF 56
PGM II + VI GEMF 30 PGM LXXII/​LVII GEMF 8
PGM III GEMF 55 PGM LXXVII GEMF 12
PGM IV GEMF 57 PGM LXXIX GEMF 53
PGM V GEMF 58 PGM LXXX GEMF 54
PGM Va GEMF 59 PGM LXXXI GEMF 65
PGM VI + II GEMF 30 PGM LXXXVI GEMF 36
PGM VII GEMF 74 PGM XCIV GEMF 80
PGM VIII GEMF 72 PGM XCV GEMF 85
PGM IX GEMF 73 PGM XCVII GEMF 24
PGM X GEMF 76 PGM CII GEMF 62
PGM XIa GEMF 75 PGM CIII GEMF 7
PGM XIb GEMF 33 PGM CX GEMF 13
PGM XIc GEMF 23 PGM CXI GEMF 1
PGM XIII GEMF 60 PGM CXVII GEMF 2
PGM XVIIb GEMF 19 PGM CXIXa–​b GEMF 38
PGM XIXb GEMF 32 PGM CXXIIIa–​f GEMF 82
PGM XX GEMF 3 PGM CXXIV GEMF 83
PGM XXa GEMF 45 PGM CXXV a–​f GEMF 84
PGM XXI GEMF 43 PGM CXXVI a–​b GEMF 70b
PGM XXIIa GEMF 66 PGM CXXVII GEMF 28
PGM XXIIb GEMF 61 PGM CXXIX GEMF 37
PGM XXIVa GEMF 52 PSI IV 407 GEMF 63
PGM XXXVI GEMF 68 PSI XV 1496 GEMF 71
 xii    Concordances

SM II 58 GEMF 79 SM II 89 GEMF 67
SM II 70 GEMF 1 SM II 90 GEMF 62
SM II 71 GEMF 2 SM II 94 GEMF 80
SM II 72 GEMF 4 SM II 97 GEMF 83
SM II 74 GEMF 9 SM II 98 GEMF 84
SM II 75 GEMF 10 SM II 99 GEMF 85
SM II 78 GEMF 24 BM EA10808 GEMF 14
SM II 79 GEMF 35 P.Mich s/n ZPE 194 GEMF 20
SM II 80 GEMF 36 (2015) no. 3

SM II 81 GEMF 37 GMA 32 GEMF 26

SM II 82 GEMF 38 Kernos 23 GEMF 27

SM II 86 GEMF 46
 List of Contributors

Korshi Dosoo received his doctorate in Ancient History from Macquarie

University in 2015 after completing his thesis, “Rituals of Apparition in the
Theban Magical Library,” which examined the material features of the Greek
and Demotic magical papyri from Roman Egypt, and the divination rituals
contained within them. He has worked as a doctoral researcher on the project
“Scribal Practice in Duplicate Documents on Papyrus from Graeco-​Roman
Egypt” (Macquarie University, Sydney), as a postdoctoral researcher on the
project “Les mots de la paix” (Labex RESMED, Paris), and as a lecturer at the
University of Strasbourg. He is currently team-​leader of the project “The Coptic
Magical Papyri: Vernacular Religion in Late Roman and Early Islamic Egypt” at
the Julius Maximilian University of Würzburg.

Christopher A. Faraone is the Edward Olson Distinguished Professor of Greek

at the University of Chicago. His work focuses on primarily three areas: ancient
Greek magic, religion, and poetry. His two recent books, Vanishing Acts: Deletio
Morbi as Speech Act and Visual Design on Ancient Greek Amulets (2013) and
The Transformation of Greek Amulets in Roman Imperial Times (2018) are the
product of a decade’s work on the design and transformation of amulets in
the Greek-​speaking world. Two of his co-​edited works (both with D. Obbink)
are Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion (1991) and The Getty
Hexameters: Poetry, Magic, and Mystery in Ancient Greek Selinous (2013). He
is one of the principal researchers of the project “Transmission of Magical
Knowledge.”
 xiv    List of Contributors

Richard Gordon is Honorary Professor in the Department of Religious Studies

(Religionsgeschichte der Antike) and Associate Fellow of the Max-​Weber-​
Kolleg at the University of Erfurt, Germany. His main research area is the social
history of Greco-​Roman religion and magic. Together with the papyrologist
Rachel Yuen-​Collingridge (Macquarie), he is currently preparing the re-​edition
of P.Leid I 395 (GEMF 60 =​PGM XIII) for the Chicago “Transmission of
Magical Knowledge” project.

Lynn R. LiDonnici, Associate Professor Emerita of Religion at Vassar College,

has interests in early Christianity, Judaism, and magic, and is the author of
The Epidaurian Miracle Inscriptions and several influential articles on the
Greek magical papyri, including the game-​changing article republished here
as Chapter 4.

Raquel Martín Hernández is Associate Professor of Classics at the Universidad

Complutense of Madrid and is a member of the Institute of Religious Studies
at the same institution. She received her Ph.D. in 2006 with a doctoral
dissertation on magic and Orphism. Her research has mainly focused on the
study of mystery religions and ancient magic with a philological approach.
She specializes in papyrology and is a member of the DVCTVS research team
devoted to the study and conservation of papyrus collections in Spain. Her
current line of research focuses on the study of Greco-​Egyptian magic and the
transmission of magical knowledge in papyrus.

Alberto Nodar Domínguez is Associate Professor in Classics at the Universitat

Pompeu Fabra, Barcelona. He obtained his doctorate in Greek Papyrology from
the University of Oxford, where he subsequently worked on the project “The
Oxyrhynchus Papyri.” He has conducted research at the Institut für Papyrologie
in the Ruprecht-​Karls-​Universität Heidelberg as an Alexander von Humboldt
scholar, and at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven, within the “Catalogue of
Paraliterary Papyri” project, focusing on several aspects of the transmission of
ancient literature in antiquity, such as the use of lectional signs and the quality
standards in ancient book production. Since 2005, he has been curator of the
Palau-​Ribes papyrus collection.

Panagiota Sarischouli is Professor of Ancient Greek and Papyrology in

the Department of Classics at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. She
 List of Contributors    xv

obtained her Ph.D. (1994) in Classics from the Freie Universität Berlin with a
thesis on Berlin papyri. From 1995 to 1998, she held a research post at Berlin’s
Egyptian Museum and Papyrus Collection; since 1999, she has been working as
an external research fellow at Berlin’s Papyrus Collection. The edition of Greek
literary, sub-​literary, and documentary papyri forms the core of her research
interests. Her current research focuses on questions of religion and magic in
post-​pharaonic Egypt.

Sofía Torallas Tovar is Professor in the departments of Classics and Near

Eastern Languages and Civilizations at the University of Chicago. She obtained
her PhD in Classics in 1995 at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. Her
research mainly focuses on Greek and Coptic papyri, both documentary and
literary texts, and more widely on aspects of Greco-​Roman Egypt, including
language contact, administration of Roman Egypt and early Christianity and
monastic developments. She is currently interested in scribal practice, the
development of book formats and readership in Late Antiquity. She is one of
the principal researchers of the “Transmission of Magical Knowledge” project.

Rachel Yuen-​Collingridge is an Associate Lecturer in History and post-

doctoral Research Fellow in the Department of History and Archaeology at
Macquarie University where she carries out research on scribal practice, magic
in the papyri, forgery, cognitive history, the history of the disciplines, cultural
heritage, and the reception of ancient literature. She has worked on the Australian
Research Council Discovery Projects “Forging Antiquity: Authenticity,
Forgery, and Fake Papyri” and “Ancient Egyptian Papyri: Unlocking Secrets to
the History of Writing” at Macquarie University. She received her doctorate for
the thesis “Historical Lexicology and the Origins of Philosophy: Herodotus’
Use of φιλοϲοφέειν, ϲοφιϲτήϲ, and Cognates” at Macquarie University in 2013.
 List of Figures

1.1 Hypothetical model of the circulation of magical texts. 11

2.1 Language use in formularies in Greco-​Roman Egypt. 67
2.2 Material change in Egyptian formularies. 69
2.3 Formats of magical formularies. 71
2.4 Formats of magical formularies excluding sheets. 73
2.5 Widths of magical horizontal rolls. 81
2.6 Heights of rotuli. Grey bars indicate “narrow” rotuli (under
20 cm in width), while black bars indicate “broad” rotuli
(over 20 cm in width). 87
2.7 Codices of the Theban Magical library: chosen pages as sample
of the five codices at scale: in the following order: PGM IV, PGM V,
PGM XIII, P.Leid. X, and P.Holm. 91
2.8 Top of p. 16 of P.Holm, where it is evident that the page numbers
had been copied before the text. 95
2.9 Dimensions of complete sheets. 102
3.1 P.PisaLit. 36, 3rd–​4th cent. CE, containing Il. 2.187–​192. 124
3.2 P.Col. VIII 195, 3rd cent. CE (detail), containing Il. 2.188–​203. 125
3.3 Marginal annotation preserved both in PGM VI (left) and
II (right). 126
3.4 London section of GEMF 30 (=​PGM VI), col. i. ll. 40–​46. 127
3.5 Berlin section of GEMF 30 (=​PGM II), col. ii. ll. 39–​45. 128
3.6 GEMF 30 (=​PGM II). Marginal annotation, col. iii. 128
3.7 GEMF 30 (=​PGM II). Marginal annotation, col. v. 129
3.8 GEMF 30 (=​PGM II). Marginal annotation, col. v detail l. 1. 129
 List of Figures    xvii

3.9 GEMF 30 (=​PGM II), col. v. Marginal annotation, l. 3 detail: β. 129

3.10 GEMF 30 (=​PGM II), col. ii. l. 38 detail: β. 129
3.11 GEMF 30 (=​PGM VI), col. i. l. 7 detail: β. 130
3.12 GEMF 30 (=​PGM II), col. v. annotation below drawing,
l. 1 detail: η. 130
3.13 GEMF 30 (=​PGM VI), col. i l. 5 detail: η. 130
3.14 GEMF 74 (=​PGM VII), cols. xxix and xxx, to the left of the
main body of the text on the verso. 131
3.15 GEMF 74 (=​PGM VII), col. xiii ll. 6–​10. Note the κ drawn in
two movements. Especially those in l. 9 are similar to those
in col. xxx below. 132
3.16 GEMF 74 (=​PGM VII). Line beginnings of col. xxx ll. 4–​6. 132
3.17 GEMF 74 (=​PGM VII). Detail of col. xxix ll. 16–​17. 133
3.18 GEMF 74 (=​PGM VII). Detail of col. v l. 25. 133
3.19 GEMF 74 (=​PGM VII). Detail of col. xxx l. 9. 133
3.20 GEMF 74 (=​PGM VII). Detail of col. x. l. 24. 133
3.21 GEMF 74 (=​PGM VII). Detail of col. xxix l. 24. 133
3.22 GEMF 74 (=​PGM VII). Detail of col. vii l. 31. 134
3.23 GEMF 74 (=​PGM VII). Detail of col. ix l. 24. 134
3.24 GEMF 2 (=​PGM CXVII), fr. a. 137
3.25 GEMF 4 (=​PGM CXXII), col. ii ll. 1–​5. 137
3.26a GEMF 57 (=​PGM IV) fol. 2v ll. 1–​5. 139
3.26b GEMF 57 (=​PGM IV) fol. 32v ll. 25–​30. 139
3.27 GEMF 28 (=​PGM CXXVII), col. iv ll.1–​4. 141
3.28 GEMF 28 (=​PGM CXXVII), col. vi and agraphon. 142
3.29 BGU VII 1572, petition of the guild of weavers of Philadelphia
to the strategos, 139 CE. 143
3.30 P.Oxy. XVII 2104, rescript of Severus Alexander, after 222 CE. 144
3.31 GEMF 55 (=​PGM III), col. iv r. ll. 10–​26 (line ends). 145
3.32 GEMF 18 (=​PGM LXI), recto col. iv detail. 147
3.33 GEMF 72 (=​PGM VIII). Detail of col. ii 16–​19. 148
3.34 GEMF 72 (=​PGM VIII). Detail of ll. 28–​32 of col. ii. 148
3.35 GEMF 73 (=​PGM IX), ll. 1–​7 detail. 149
3.36 P.Herm. 4, letter to Theophanes. 151
3.37 GEMF 60 (=​PGM XIII), p.11 ll. 1–​10. 152
3.38 GEMF 58 (=​PGM V). 152
3.39 GEMF 61 (=​PGM XXIIb). 153
 xviii    List of Figures

3.40 GEMF 68 (=​PGM XXXVI), col. 3 ll. 3–​6. 154

3.41 BGU II 405. 154
3.42 GEMF 65 (=​PGM LXXXI) ll. 5–​6. 155
3.43 GEMF 70a (=​PGM LVIII), recto ll. 8–​11. 155
3.44 GEMF 74 (=​PGM VII), col. vi ll. 6–​8. 156
3.45 GEMF 76 (=​PGM X), col. ii ll. 1–​3. 156
3.46 GEMF 75 (=​PGM XIa), col. ii ll. 10–​15. 157
3.47 Details of (left) GEMF 76 (=​PGM X), col. ii l. 6; (right)
GEMF 75 (=​PGM Xia), col. i l. 18. 157
3.48 P.Oxy. XI 1384 ll. 27–​30. 159
3.49 Detail, P.Oxy. XI 1384 ll. 6–​13. 159
3.50 GEMF 83 (=​PGM CXXIV) ll. 1–​3. 160
3.51 PGM LXXI. 160
3.52 GEMF 81 (=​PGM XLVI) ll. 1–​7. 161
5.1 Divinatory rituals of apparition in Block 1. 200
5.2 Manipulation of relationships in Block 2. 205
5.3 Love and favor rituals in Block 4. 208
5.4 Healing rituals in Block 6. 213
5.5 Cursing and poisoning in Block 8. 215
5.6 Divinatory rituals of apparition in Blocks 9 and 10. 218
5.7 Blocks α and β. 219
5.8 Block δ. 222
5.9 Block η. 225
5.10 Types of recipes in the different phases of the writing of
GEMF 16. 228
5.11 The structure of PDM XIV. 230
6.1 Possible guiding dots for column width and position. 238
6.2 Possible marks coinciding with indented lines. 240
6.3 Distinct letter formations. 250
6.4 Comparison samples and transition. 251
6.5 Michela Zago’s scheme of the organization of the two
“macrosections” and the subunits of “The Eighth Book of Moses.” 274
6.6 The end-​title of Version A (GEMF 60 p. 8 ll. 29–​31 =​341–​343)
in the form of an address to the implied reader. 278
6.7 The end-​title of Version B (GEMF 60 p. 16 ll. 35–​38 =​731–​734),
abbreviating the title given at p. 8 ll. 32–​33 =​343–​344. 280
 List of Figures    xix

6.8 The enigmatic final three lines of GEMF 60 p. 25 ll. 33–​35

=​ 1076–​1078). 281
7.1 Drawing of Bes: GEMF 72 (=​PGM VIII). 309
7.2 Drawing of a daemon and his victim: GEMF 73 (=​PGM IX). 310
7.3a Ornament used to fill in blank spaces: GEMF 76,
col. i (=​PGM X). 312
7.3b Ornaments used to fill in blank spaces: GEMF 74, l. 896
(=​ PGM VII 739). 312
7.3c Ornaments used to fill in blank spaces: GEMF 74, l. 966
(=​ PGM VII 808). 312
8.1 GEMF 15 (=​PDM/PGM XII) col. xv. 342
8.2 Schematic illustration of the layout of GEMF 15
(=​ PDM/PGM XII). 347
9.1 Drawing of the gold foil “Sword” from Tunisia after that
of Reinach and Babelon 1886. 385
9.2a Photograph of the obverse of the magnetite gemstone in the
Archaeological Museum of Perugia. 388
9.2b Photograph of the reverse of the magnetite gemstone in the
Archaeological Museum of Perugia. 388
11.1 Lead tablet from Selinous inscribed with dactylic hexameters
(obverse). 442
11.2 Lead tablet from Selinous inscribed with dactylic hexameters
(reverse). 443
11.3 Inscribed lead tablet from Phalasarna. 445
11.4 Fragment of an inscribed lead tablet from Epizephyrian Locri. 447
11.5 Inscribed copper foil from Acre. 448
 List of Tables

1.1 A proposed model for interpreting the features of manuscripts

within archives. 9
1.2 Magical texts and possibly related material from Kellis. 44
2.1 Codices of the Theban Magical Library. 90
2.2 Disposition of the folios of PGM IV, presented in two rows. 93
2.3 Construction pattern of PGM V. 93
2.4 Construction pattern of PGM XIII. 93
2.5 The construction pattern of P.Holm. 93
2.6 Formats of the papyrus manuscripts of the Berlin Library. 106
4.1 Overview of text blocks. 170
4.2 Average number of characters per line. 174
5.1 Early blocks in GEMF 16/​PDM XIV. 199
5.2 Later blocks in GEMF 16/​PDM XIV. 220
6.1 Reclamantes. 241
6.2 Magical names with and without tallies. 248
6.3 Dieterich’s representation of the contents of an archetype
of GEMF 60. 270
6.4 Morton Smith’s list of parallel passages between Versions
A, B, and C. 271
6.5 Condensed chart correlating the principal ritual elements
of Versions B and A. 276
7.1 Correspondence of columns GEMF 74 and PGM VII. 317
8.1 GEMF 15: Division into sections and blocks and distribution
of content topics. 321
 List of Tables    xxi

8.2 GEMF 15, Section B: Blocks, contents, rubrics, lectional signs. 358
9.1 Examples of pseudepigraphy outside of GEMF 57. 374
9.2 Examples of pseudepigraphy within GEMF 57. 374
9.3 Comparison of the Three “Swords.” 386
9.4 Repeated motifs of Eros and “soul bending” 391
10.1 The multi-​purpose praxeis in GEMF/​PGM. 398
10.2 Multiple praxeis in formularies at one time owned by Anastasy. 399
10.3 Occurrence of multiple praxeis in the relevant primarily Greek
formularies (with percentages). 400
10.4 Requests for a divine paredros among the multi-​purpose praxeis. 400
 Introduction
Christopher A. Faraone and Sofía Torallas Tovar

This collection of essays was an unintended, but very welcome outcome

of our multiyear project to re-​edit and translate into English the Greek and
bilingual Greek-​Egyptian magical handbooks.1 This project generated many
new thoughts about these formularies, especially with regard to how they differ
from one another and how the scribes developed different ways of presenting
their recipes. We thought that it would be difficult to scatter these wide-​ranging
discussions in various places in the commentary and have decided to present
them here as a kind of companion volume to the larger project.
These papyri have had a curious history of discovery, purchase and study. In
the nineteenth century, a series of magical formularies on papyrus made their
way to various European libraries and universities, where they were catalogued
and then slowly edited and translated by the likes of Charles Goodwin, Gustav
Parthey, Carl Wessely and Frederic Kenyon.2 By the start of the twentieth
century, the magical formularies had indeed become a sensation, thanks to the
interest of Albrecht Dieterich, who began teaching a regular seminar on them
in Heidelberg, which caught the attention of various scholars of the history of
religions, a discipline that was then in its infancy. Suddenly researchers had at

1. The first volume of Greek and Egyptian Magical Formularies was published by California Classical
Studies in 2022, containing 54 formularies. The second volume will appear in 2024, containing the
remaining 34. We refer to it as GEMF.
2.. For the purchase and distribution of these formularies in the nineteenth century, see Chapter 1 of
this volume; for a brief discussion of the earlier, pre-​Preisendanz editions, see Betz, GMPT xliii–​iv
and Chapters 4–​8 of this volume, which treat five of the longest handbooks.
 Introduction    xxiii

their fingertips detailed instructions for a variety of complex rituals of both

Egyptian and Greek background. They were, as the late J. Z. Smith once put
it, “one of the largest collections of functioning ritual texts … produced by
religious specialists that has survived from late antiquity.”3 Tragedy, however,
repeatedly delayed the appearance of a full scholarly edition: Dieterich himself
died in 1908 and then a decade later his top students were killed in World War I.
Another of his students, Karl Preisendanz, took over the project and in 1928–​31,
finally produced the first full edition of these papyri with a facing German
translation, although misfortune struck again, when the printing plates of the
third volume were destroyed during World War II. Preisendanz’s edition would
prove to be extremely influential and in 1974, Albert Henrichs oversaw the
publication of the second edition, making only minor changes to the existing
texts, but adding additional texts, including those from Preisendanz’s lost third
volume. The 1974 edition, in turn, became the basis for the authoritative English
translation edited in 1986 by our colleague Hans Dieter Betz for the University
of Chicago Press. Betz and his team used Preisendanz’s Greek text and in many
cases followed the German translations closely; they, too, changed the corpus,
by removing the Christian texts and including, for the first time, translations
of texts in Demotic and other Egyptian languages that had traditionally been
excluded. They also continued to cite these texts by the same “PGM” numbers,
thus preserving the somewhat randomly organized German collection, which
began with the longest, the strangest, and often the chronologically latest of
these formularies.4
In 1990–​92, Daniel and Maltomini published two volumes of additional
magical papyri in their magisterial Supplementum Magicum, which provided
a full papyrological edition and commentary of each text and an English
translation. In Volume 2, they included 31 handbook texts, some of which
seem to be single-​sheet formularies, but most of which are fragments of much
longer rolls or codices. Moreover, they arranged these texts in chronological
order. This last point is important, because by failing to arrange his texts
in chronological order, Preisendanz created (and the Chicago translation

3. Smith 1995, 21; cf. also p. 23: “Of all the documents from late antiquity, I know of none more filled
with the general and technical terminology and the praxis of sacrifice, than those texts collected by
modern scholars under the title Greek Magical Papyri.”
4. The PGM numbers refer to both Preisendanz’s original numbering (i.e., PGM I–​LXXXI) and to
the papyri added to the collection in GMPT (PGM LXXXII–​CXXX). For references to the earlier
publications of this second group, readers can consult GMPT, pp. xxvii–​xxviii or introductory matter
to the editions contained in GEMF (Faraone and Torallas Tovar 2022).
 xxiv    Introduction

perpetuated) the commonplace misperception that all of these papyri are

vaguely of Late Antique date, come from Upper Egypt and can be discussed
generally as the “Greek” or “Greco-​Egyptian Magical Papyri,” even though
they come from different places in Egypt, including the Delta and the Faiyum
and have been dated, in some cases, as early as the first century BCE or CE.
The longest and latest formularies, in short—​and those composed the furthest
from the Mediterranean—​became the model for what magical handbooks were
supposed to look like throughout Egypt and, by extension, throughout the
Roman Empire. By arranging their handbook texts in chronological order—​
and with a keen eye to their provenience—​Daniel and Maltomini encouraged
us to think about how the form of the handbook developed over time and how
each handbook differed from the next according to region, content, and textual
individuality. Growing dissatisfaction with Preisendanz’s edition, therefore,
encouraged us to re-​edit all of the formularies, using the Betz translation
as our model for the inclusion of both Greek and Egyptian texts, and using
Supplementum Magicum as our model for the form of the edition—​that is,
individual introductions discussing paleography, scribal notations, dialect, etc.;
facing text and English translation; a full apparatus criticus, and (again like the
Betz) a commentary on the translation. Therefore, one of the central goals of
our new edition and one which is especially reflected in Chapters 4–​8 of this
volume, is to appreciate and describe each formulary, whether it is complete or
fragmentary, as a unique manuscript that is different from the others, in that it
reflects the historical and regional circumstances of its production.
Parsing the title of this book is also a helpful way to clarify its scope, its
content, and its major concerns. By “Greek-​Egyptian” we refer to the dynamic
and perhaps peculiar bi-​cultural transmission of magical knowledge that begins
in Egypt at the end of the Ptolemaic period and continues to be pursued until
Late Antiquity when, as was mentioned earlier, our evidence from the Theban
area of Upper Egypt is particularly rich. The adjective “Magical” in our title is
more controversial, perhaps, but equally practical. It is used solely as a modern,
etic, and convenient adjective to indicate a wide range of rituals and speech-​acts
(curses, amulets, divination, etc.) that are designated in nearly every modern,
western language as “magical.”5 In doing so, we are following the lead, of course,
of the earlier publications of Preisendanz and Betz. “Formularies,” the final
word in our title was likewise chosen as the apt description for texts that range

5. Versnel 1991.
 Introduction    xxv

from the long formal “handbooks”—​both papyrus rolls and codices—​that

come from Upper Egypt, to the more informal documents, for example, a single
sheet of papyrus or even an ostracon. By limiting this collection to formularies,
we exclude by design and again for practical reasons, the many examples of
“activated” texts, mainly amulets and curses, that have been discovered in
Roman Egypt and beyond. These texts, inscribed on metal sheets of gold, silver,
and lead, as well as papyri, sometimes preserve handbook language, but they
have for the most part already received excellent treatment in other corpora,
for example, Kotansky’s Greek Magic Amulets and Supplementum Magicum, in
ways that most of the formularies rarely have.
The first section of this volume contains three essays focused on the larger
questions of scribal practice, provenance, and date, and the degree to which we
can trace the relationships between handbooks. Many, if not most, of the longer
formularies had been sent from Egypt in the nineteenth century by the same
person, a diplomat of sorts named Jean d’Anastasy, who (it was assumed) had
purchased the contents of a single library from somewhere in Upper Egypt. This
early narrative generated two persistent and eventually misleading nicknames
for the group as the “Theban Library” or the “Anastasy papyri,” a problem taken
up by Korshi Dosoo and Sofía Torallas Tovar in Chapter 1, “Anatomy of the
Magical Archive,” in which they define the concept of a “magical archive,” and
present evidence for exploring the identity of the scribes and owners of those
archives beyond the alleged Theban one. Chapter 2, co-​written by the same two
scholars, is entitled “Roll vs. Codex: The Format of the Magical Handbook,” and
surveys the Greco-​Egyptian formularies as artifacts, within the context of book​
production in Egypt, in order to understand the specific traits of magical books
against the backdrop of the more general features of books in other genres,
especially during the critical transition period between the papyrus roll and the
codex. They argue, in fact, that magical books were not produced in isolation,
but as part of more general scriptorial trends and fashions, and that a fresh look
at the evidence helps understanding the conditions—​linguistic, literary, and
sociological—​in which they were produced. In the final essay in this section,
Chapter 3 (“The Paleography and Dating of the Magical Formularies from
Roman Egypt”), Alberto Nodar takes up the important question, often ignored
in the case of sub-​literary texts like these formularies, of paleography and
the crucial role it can play both in dating the formularies and in establishing
regional affinities between them. And indeed, in the course of re-​editing the
magical handbooks, we have with his help re-​dated a number of the most
 xxvi    Introduction

important magical formularies, a fact that has changed our view of both formats
and contents, and indeed the history of the genre.
The second section of this volume focuses on individual formularies and
on reconstructing how the recipes they include were assembled and copied.
They might well be called “biographies” of unique manuscripts. We begin in
Chapter 4 with a slightly abridged version of a classic article published by Lynn
R. LiDonnici in 2003, “Compositional Patterns in the Paris Magical Codex
(GEMF 57 =​PGM IV),” in which she showed that the famous Paris Codex, the
longest and most elaborate of the handbooks, was a carefully planned copy of
a previous collection of recipes that was itself comprised of related groups of
recipes that were presumably copied as a distinct and contiguous “blocks” from
some other and probably much smaller formularies. LiDonnici’s essay has, in
fact, been an inspiration to our group, as is revealed by the two essays that follow,
both of which deal with earlier papyrus rolls, not codices. In Chapter 5, “The
Composition of the Demotic Magical Papyrus of London and Leiden (GEMF
16 =​ PDM/PGM XIV),” Korshi Dosoo examines in a similar manner the process
of textual composition of the longest surviving magical papyrus roll, as revealed
by its physical layout and by the treatment of linguistic and para-​linguistic
markers. He argues that the author of this formulary was actively involved
in collecting blocks of recipes from a number of different sources, including
purely Egyptian material with a long local history, as well as translations of
recipes originally composed in the Greek language. Here, Dosoo argues, we
have good evidence of the author’s personal interests in divination rituals
and other evidence that points to the use of this papyrus roll in the quotidian
practice of the rituals it contains, unlike the Paris Codex, which reveals at
best a diligent and excellent scribe intent on producing a book. In Chapter 6,
“GEMF 60 (= PGM XIII): A Study of Material, Scribal, and Compositional
Issues,” Rachel Yuen-​Collingridge and Richard Gordon draw upon their new
edition of another Leiden papyrus, one that is somewhat unique among the
formularies as it contains two versions, one after the other, of the same long
recipe. Looking closely at both the form and content of these versions, they
first assess the contribution of the individual scribes to the reception of the text,
its intelligibility and fidelity to the tradition, and then move on to discuss the
different ways that modern scholars have attempted to render the relationship
between the two versions of the main ritual intelligible to the modern reader.
The two essays in the third section of the book also produce detailed
“biographies” of individual handbooks, albeit ones focused more tightly
 Introduction    xxvii

on scribal practices and lectional signs. In Chapter 7, “GEMF 74 (= PGM

VII): Reconstructing the Textual Tradition,” Raquel Martín Hernández and
Richard Gordon reprise discoveries that they made independently about a Greek
papyrus roll in London, showing how thanks to the care that the meticulous
scribe took to replicate different styles of paragraphoi and format, we can see
clearly that GEMF 74 was composed by joining together four originally distinct
“blocks” of text which apparently came from four different formularies of earlier
date. In Chapter 8, “GEMF 15 (= PDM/PGM XII): Production and Use of a
Bilingual Magical Formulary,” Panagiota Sarischouli discusses another papyrus
roll, investigating the complex array of Greek, Demotic, and bilingual magical,
alchemical, and numerological procedures it contains. The handbook dates
to the mid–​late second century—slightly earlier than its “sister-​manuscript”
discussed by Dosoo in Chapter 5—​and was probably compiled, adapted, and
edited by a single individual trained in the traditional lore of native Egyptian
scribes and priests, who also found inspiration in Greek mythology and
Jewish magic.
The essays in our fourth and final section turn to discuss the types of
individual recipes collected in these formularies. In Chapter 9, “The Composite
Recipes in GEMF 57 (=​PGM IV) and How They Grew,” Christopher Faraone
argues that the composite and often disjointed recipes in the Paris Magical
Codex were not compiled as serious instructions for cursing or erotic seduction,
but should rather be considered as more “novelistic” works, that were based on
practical magical recipes, but produced primarily for the literary enjoyment
of educated Egyptians living in Upper Egypt in Late Antiquity. In Chapter 10,
“The Rationale of Multi-​purpose Praxeis in the Formulary Tradition,” Richard
Gordon addresses a series of omnibus procedures: 19 recipes, which claim that
a single invocation, text, or device can provide numerous benefits. All but two
of these recipes are preserved in Greek and seem to be part of the “ambitious”
formularies written in Greek in Late Antiquity, in which the pragmatic goal of
the practice of magic again disappears before the redactors’ sense of living in
a changing world, in so far as they attempt in their collections—​implicitly or
explicitly—​to preserve a dying or threatened tradition. These recipes, in short,
aimed at the preservation of the past rather than performances in the future.
The volume closes with Chapter 11, “The Traffic in Magical Recipes: Single-​
Sheet Formularies as Prompts for Oral Performance,” in which Faraone
begins with Galen’s newly discovered philosophic treatise De indolentia,
where the doctor reveals his practice of collecting and dispersing single drug
 xxviii    Introduction

recipes from and to fellow doctors, as well as travelers to distant lands. Galen’s
practice provides a model for reconstructing the dual processes—​centrifugal
and centripetal—​ whereby single-​sheet magical recipes from Egypt were
created, collected, and shared by scribes working in late Roman Egypt, mostly
as prompts for oral performance by the client whenever difficult situations
arose in their daily lives, for example, after a scorpion has stung or an angry
superior has entered the room.
We hope that this collection of essays will open new ways of approaching
the production, preservation and circulation of ancient magical recipes, with
an eye to integrating the world of magic into a larger realm of the circulation,
preservation, and transmission of other kinds of technical recipes and
handbooks, for example, of alchemy, medicine, or astrology.

Christopher Faraone and Sofía Torallas Tovar

Chicago, November 2021
 I

Libraries, Codices, and Rolls

 Chapter 1
Anatomy of the Magical Archive*
Korshi Dosoo and Sofía Torallas Tovar

The papyrological study of archives and libraries offers the tantalizing possibility
of bringing individual manuscripts together in order to reconstruct a fuller
picture of the individuals and groups who produced and used them. Within
the study of ancient magic, considerable attention has been focused on the
Theban Magical Library, a group of magical and alchemical texts from second-​
to fourth-​century Thebes in Upper Egypt, which have been used to produce
a model of the “typical” magical practitioner of Roman Egypt: a Hellenized
priest selling Egyptian rituals to a largely Greek-​speaking audience in the
centuries following the demise of the temples. Despite the value of this archive,
the scholarly focus on it has tended to produce a single, essentialized image of
magical practice, paradoxically diminishing the capacity of archives to produce
richer and more contextually sensitive understandings of bodies of texts.
This chapter, therefore, has three goals, intended to remedy this tendency.
The first is to define more clearly what is meant by the term “archive,” and
more specifically, “magical archive,” and how the relationship between archive,
manuscript, and text can be understood.1 The second goal is to suggest a shift in

* The authors would like to thank Mattias Brand, Nathan Carlig, Huw P. R. Twiston Davies, Iain
Gardner, Edward Love, Christopher Faraone, Jean Luc-​ Fournet, Angela Grimshaw, Federica
Micucci, Luigi Prada, Mark Smith, Peter Williams, Raquel Martín Hernández, Agnes Mihálykó, and
Naïm Vanthieghem, all of whom offered help and advice at various stages of writing.
1. For a definition and studies of papyrus archives, see van Beek 2007; Vandorpe 2009; Clarysse 2010.
On the distinctive use of the term “archive” in papyrology compared to other humanistic disciplines,
see Martin 1994, 569; van Beek 2007, 1033; Vandorpe 2009, 217–​218. The standard work on archives
in antiquity is Posner 1972, although it deals only cursorily with private papyrus archives.
3
 4    The Greco-Egyptian Magical Formularies

focus from “magical archives” to “archives with magical content,” that is, toward
seeing magical texts as one type of material that individuals might collect and
use, whose relationships with nonmagical material may be important for its
contextual understanding. This goal also relates to our conception of users
and scribes of magical texts. The fact that one and the same user could have
produced and possessed books of different kinds might have an impact on our
perception of the readership of magical texts. Rather than conceiving narrowly
of magicians or priests, we should instead consider the literate user more
broadly. For this reason, we will also discuss briefly the issue of the copyists of
magical handbooks. The third goal is to introduce a much larger corpus than
previously considered—​over twenty archives dating from Roman and Early
Islamic Egypt containing magical content—​and to provide brief examples of the
ways in which these diverse collections provide us with a deeper appreciation of
the potential of archives to offer richer views of the individuals who composed,
copied, studied, and used these texts. We will present in detail three specific
archives containing “magical” material from the Roman period: the well-​known
Theban Library, the Hermonthis Magical Archive, and the Kellis House 3
Archive. Our discussion, much of which is informed by bibliological and
paleographical studies presented in other chapters of this book, includes the
modern acquisition of these archives, as well as affinities of materiality and
content within them.

1. Defining a Magical Archive

The papyrological definition of an “archive” is a group of manuscripts brought

together by an ancient individual for a specific purpose,2 whose existence is
usually revealed by the documents being found together in an archeological
discovery as part of a larger archeological assemblage.3 This seemingly simple
definition has hidden complexities; most obvious is the fact that the majority
of papyri in collections outside Egypt have no record of their provenance or
circumstances of discovery. As a result, archives must often be reconstructed

2. This is the most basic definition; see van Beek 2007, 1034. For a stricter definition, see Pestman
(1990, 51; 1995, 91–​92), who distinguishes an archive, created by an individual or family with a
certain purpose, from a dossier reconstructed by modern scholars (see below).
3. For a papyrological definitions of archives, see Fournet 2018a; cf. n. 2. On ancient libraries, see
Houston 2014.
 Anatomy of the Magical Archive    5

by the process of museum archeology, which involves examining catalogues,

inventories, sale documents, and correspondence written by individuals
involved in acquisitions, or by tracing back the origin of the documents to a
site of production based on their codicological, paleographical, and lectional
characteristics.4
This is exactly what has been done in the case of the Theban Magical Library,
whose existence can be hypothesized based on the fact that its ten papyri were
all the property of Jean d’Anastasy (1765–​1860),5 who seems to have purchased
them from anonymous Egyptians within a short period of time, likely in the
early 1820s.6 This is, however, not exactly the same thing as saying that they
were found in a single archeological location; it would have been possible for
Anastasy to have purchased material from different sellers or locations, and
later sell them together, and he certainly did this, since his three sale catalogues
contain hundreds of items with several noted provenances.7 Likewise, even a
shared findspot does not always indicate the existence of an archive; papyri
were often disposed of in dumps that necessarily gathered together unrelated
material.8 In the case of the Theban Library, however, there are additional points
that suggest its coherence. First, all except two of the manuscripts are noted in
Anastasy’s catalogues as coming from Thebes, which probably means that they
were purchased from dealers in Luxor.9 Again, this point is not decisive, but it

4. Fournet 2018a, 186–​188. On the virtual reconstruction of libraries based on inventories, see
Houston 2014.
5. Jean d’Anastasy was a Greek merchant in Alexandria who served as the consul for Sweden and
Norway from 1828 to 1857. The original form of his name seems to have been Ἰωάννηϲ Ἀναϲταϲίου,
although after being made a knight of the Swedish Order of Vasa in 1824 he apparently began to
use the French form, d’Anastasy, which appears even on his grave in the cemetery of the Greek
community in Alexandria (including in the Greek form δ’Ἀναϲτάϲη). His surviving correspondence,
overwhelmingly in French, uses the form Jean d’Anastasy (followed here), although the tendency
of nineteenth-​century Europeans to change the form of names depending on the language being
spoken has resulted in several alternatives—​notably, Giovanni Anastasi, used by those in Livorno,
Italy, through which his sales passed. To add to the confusion w th his name, he is often mistakenly
described as an Armenian, and confused with Giovanni “Yanni” d’Athanasi (1798–​1854), a Greek
excavator who worked with Henry Salt. See Chrysikopoulos 2015; Parasyra 1938; Dawson 1949.
6. Dosoo 2016a, 252–​253.
7. See the sale catalogues, Rijksmuseum van Oudheden inv. 3.1.6; British Museum, Department of
Ancient Egypt and Sudan AES Ar.246; cf. Dosoo 2016a, 254.
8. See van Beek 2007, 1034; Clarysse 2010, 56. Paradigmatic cases are the Oxyrhynchus rubbish dump
and the “Cantina dei papyri” in Tebtunis. See also Martin 1994, for the circumstances of papyrus
accumulation in antiquity.
9. Dosoo 2016a, 264, 273–​274. For PGM VI, listed in Anastasy’s catalogue as coming from Memphis, but
identified as part of the same document as PGM II (together =​GEMF 30), from Thebes, see Chronopolou
2017. No attributed provenance is known for P.Holm., since it was not included in a sale catalogue, but t
shares the same hand as GEMF 60 (=​PGM XIII) and P.Leid. I 397, with Theban provenances.
 6    The Greco-Egyptian Magical Formularies

does make it more likely that they were the results of a single find. Second, the
papyri contain internal details and features that confirm both a Theban origin
(dialectal and religious features in the Demotic texts) and relationships with one
another: shared hands, similar formats, and—​although this cannot be taken as
definitive—​several individual recipes shared between manuscripts.10 Third, and
perhaps most important, we must note that magical texts are relatively rare.
Of the 70,000 or so published Greek papyri from Roman Egypt, only about
a hundred (less than 0.2 percent) are magical formularies of the type found
in the Theban Library.11 This rareness has resulted in the assumption among
papyrologists—​often unstated, but probably correct—​that when magical texts,
especially of similar date and format, are sold together, it is likely that they
originate from a single find.
While these principles have allowed us to reconstruct the Theban
Magical Library, and several other archives discussed below, there are certain
consequences resulting from their vagueness. First, we know that Egyptian and
international dealers often split up groups of papyri, so that it is possible, and
indeed likely, that some magical manuscripts that belong to different collections
originally had relationships to one another.12 This is a difficult problem to
resolve; again, museum archeology offers the possibility of recovering some
collections, but this has rarely been attempted for magical texts. One example
can be seen in the attempt to enlarge the Theban Magical Library by connecting
it to material from other sales: GEMF 55 (=​PGM III), sold by Jean François

10. On specifically Theban aspects of the library, most marked among the Demotic texts, see Johnson
1977; Tait 1995; cf. more generally Dosoo 2016a, 259, 262, 267 n. 57.
11. The figures here are taken from the Trismegistos (www.trism​egis​tos.org) and Kyprianos (www.cop​
tic-​magic.phil.uni-​wuerzb​urg.de/​index.php/​the-​datab​ase/​) databases, respectively, and are correct
for Greek-​language texts dating between 100 BCE and 700 CE as of April 24, 2022. The precise
number of texts from Trismegistos is 69,671, while the number of formularies from Kyprianos is 122.
12. One of the most notable examples of this is the so-​called Bodmer Library or “Dishna papers,”
distributed primarily between the Bodmer collection in Geneva and the Chester Beatty in Dublin,
but with some further pieces in Cologne, Montserrat, in the Duke University collection in North
Carolina, and in the Schøyen collection in Oslo. Robinson 2013 was the first to reconstruct and
claim this as the library of the monastery of Pbow (a claim that circulated among the traders of
these papyri). For opposing opinions, see Blanchard 1991 and Cribiore 2001, 200, w th n. 74, for the
argument that this hoard must have belonged to a Christian school of advanced learning. Turner
(1968, 51–​53) already connected it to Panopolis. The rolls of the Iliad in P.Bodm. 1 (3rd–​4th cent.)
are copied on the verso of a Panopolitan land register (dated to 208/​9); see Geens 2014, 80; Miguélez
Cavero 2008, 221–​222. See the codicological argument advanced by Fournet 2015a, 14. The most
recent approach is the monographic section of Adamantius 21 (2015) and Nongbri 2018, with an
extensive study on the acquisition of this hoard(s) and material features of these books. A full review
of the proposals for the nature of the Bodmer Library is given by Fournet (2015a, 15–​17).
 Anatomy of the Magical Archive    7

Mimaut (1774–​1837), French consul in Alexandria, in 1837;13 the manuscripts

sold to the British Museum in 1888 (discussed below as the Hermonthis Magical
Archive), and GEMF 68 (= PGM XXXVI), purchased for the University of
Oslo by Samson Eitrem in 1920.14 Korshi Dosoo has in the past expressed
skepticism about such endeavors; in each of these cases, there are no surviving
documents linking the manuscripts to Anastasy’s purchases, and, although
there are some similarities in the manuscript formats, it is not clear that these
are best understood as representing their context of production, rather than
the broader similarities we would expect between manuscripts belonging to the
genre that scholars call “magical.”15 Although there is evidence that the group
of manuscripts that we call here the Hermonthis Archive was also purchased
in Luxor, this occurred forty to sixty years later than Anastasy’s purchase of
the Theban Library. More research into the practices of Egyptian dealers is
necessary to provide a more fully informed answer to this question, but for
now we find a sale process lasting over half a century or more unlikely, and the
internal coherence of both archives suggests they do not belong together.16
More secure is the prospect of linking manuscripts from different sales
together by identifying matching hands. Again, this has rarely been attempted
for magical manuscripts, but this method, along with that of examining content
related to known individuals, is one manner by which papyrological dossiers are
compiled—​these dossiers being groups of documents linked by their relationship
to individuals and families.17 The clearest example of this where magical texts are
concerned is in the case of the archive of Dioskoros of Aphrodito (sixth century
CE), whose voluminous writings include an amuletic prayer (PGM 13a) copied
between two poems written on the verso of the remains of a contract.18 In our
discussion of the Hermonthis Archive, we will again highlight other magical
texts whose closeness of writing style may imply some relationship to this
archive, and more secure connections can occasionally be made between other
groups of magical texts based on very close similarities of hand and style.

13. Dosoo 2016a, 263–​264.

14. Zago 2010, 74; cf. Hickey, Maravela, and Zellmann-​Rohrer 2015.
15. Dosoo 2016a, 262, 267 n. 57. Cf. the further comments below in the discussion of the Hermonthis
Archive.
16. For a fuller treatment of this problem, see the discussion of the Hermonthis Archive below. Cf.
Hagen and Ryholt (2016, 64–​65), who note that dealers could often be very patient, and cite one case
where Muḥammad Muḥassib waited thirty years to get a satisfactory price for a group of papyri from
Gebelein.
17. Van Beek 2007; Fournet 2018a; Clarysse 2010; Martin 1994.
18. On this text, see MacCoull 1987; Jordan 2001a.
 8    The Greco-Egyptian Magical Formularies

The most secure archives with magical contents are those found in situ; this
is the case of the well-​known Ramesseum Papyri, a Middle Kingdom cache
of texts, also from Thebes.19 In the period studied here, magical texts have
been found in excavations in Kellis Area A House 3 (fourth century CE; see
further below) and Hermitage 44 in Naqlun (fifth century CE), to name two
examples.20 Later in this discussion, we will look at ways in which the first of
these provides us with details of the lives of magical practitioners, but for now
we may observe the important point that each of these includes other types of
texts—​literary, paraliterary, and above all, documentary—​alongside magical
texts. This implies that our reconstructed magical archives were probably also
parts of larger assemblages, but at present it remains very difficult to identify
nonmagical material that might have been found with them; again, our work
on the Hermonthis Archive offers a possible exception to this. We can only
hope that later studies of both magical and nonmagical papyrological material
will continue to pay greater attention to acquisition information and material
features, and in doing so, will discover connections that are for now invisible.
Before moving on to a more detailed discussion of individual archives
containing magical material, it is worthwhile to explore explicitly the type of
information that archives give us. According to the definition we are using
here, an archive is a collection of manuscripts deliberately brought together by
an ancient individual, whose relationship is made visible to historians by an
attested or reconstructed shared site of deposition. Strictly speaking, therefore,
an archive tells us only about the circumstances of an archive’s deposition. Before
the moment when the archive was abandoned, hidden, or forgotten, its texts
might have been composed, produced, and used either together or separately. An
archive may be the result of a great many possible situations, being composed,
for example, of manuscripts that were thrown away because they were no longer
useful, or alternatively of texts that were hidden away to be protected from
destruction. For this reason, we must be careful to clearly establish, rather than
merely assume, connections between the manuscripts belonging to archives, and
to interpret their pre-​deposition relationships with caution.

1.2 Archives, Manuscripts, and the Lives of Texts

We might conceptualize a text’s life as consisting of three broad stages that

are accessible to modern researchers: (1) its composition and later editing or

19. Meyrat 2019.

20. For each of these archives, see the respective entry in the Appendix.
 Anatomy of the Magical Archive    9

redaction; (2) its production as a material object, and subsequent copying into
later manuscripts;21 (3) its contexts of use, leading to its context of final use and
deposition. It is possible that some magical texts were composed, written, and
then deposited by a single individual (as may actually be the case with a few
idiosyncratic applied texts), but the complicated redactional histories that are
evident in many of the magical formularies make it clear that this is rarely the case;
most magical texts seem to have been copied (albeit with modifications) from
older copies. Again then, strictly speaking, the text—​its structure, vocabulary,
and intertextual relationships—​ reveals information about composition
and redaction; the physical manuscript—​ layout, handwriting, orthography,
paratextual features—​provides us with information primarily about the context
of manuscript production; and the archive—​the trends and relationships that
can be observed within and between the texts—​tells us about the context of the
manuscripts’ final use (Table 1.1). Again, we must stress that these distinctions are
not absolute; the contexts of composition, production, and use may be identical,
but such cases must be argued for rather than merely assumed.
Another feature of the nature of archives becomes clear when we consider
a hypothetical model for the circulation of recipes and their aggregation into
larger collections. The well-​known P.Kellis Copt. V 35 (discussed below) is a
letter from one individual to another containing a single separation procedure
requested by the recipient. As Paul Mirecki has observed, similar dynamics

Table 1.1. A proposed model for interpreting the features of manuscripts within
archives.
Object of study Sample features Stage of primary relevance
Text Structure, vocabulary, intertextual Composition and redaction
relationships
Manuscript Binding,1 layout, handwriting, Context of transmission and
orthography, paratextual features, production, intended use,
relationships between texts and more rarely, ownership2
Archive Trends and relationships within/​ Context of final use and
between manuscripts deposition
1
The binding can give indications on the production, but it can also carry marks of ownership. Cf. the case of
the Berlin Gnostic codex (TM/​LDAB 107765) which contains an ex-​libris; see Krutzsch and Poethke 1984, 37–​40.
2
Cf. n. 1 to this table.

21. Examples of evidence from antiquity for the copying of books: Cic. Ad Att. II 20–​22, for the
borrowing of books to be copied; P.Oxy. XVIII 2192, a letter requesting copies of books; Galen
De indolentia 31–​33. See Harris 1989, 224–​226, 298, on networks and copying of books; see also
Houston 2014, 13–​19.
 10    The Greco-Egyptian Magical Formularies

for the circulation of magical recipes are implied by the epistolary format
found in several of the more complex recipes,22 and these may represent a
fictionalized version of a real practice in which individual magical texts
circulated between correspondents around Egypt. Similarly, suggestive are the
sheets containing single recipes,23 a particularly important example of which
is SM I 5, a sheet containing brief instructions for creating an amulet against
tonsillitis to be sent to a certain Sarmates; as the original editors suggest, this
too was probably a letter.24
If recipes circulated individually, we know that they also circulated
in larger collections, and we can observe that these are of a wide variety of
lengths and types. Some are short, with only two, three, or four recipes;
others contain dozens. Some, like GEMF 57 (=​PGM IV), and the first stage
of GEMF 55 (=​PGM III) seem to have been planned copies from preexisting
exemplars.25 Others, like GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV), seem to have been
added to gradually over time from a small, original core.26 Lynn LiDonnici has
suggested that this latter model lies behind the sections she observes in GEMF
57 (=​ PGM IV)—​short collections, perhaps on rolls or small codices, which
had additional recipes added to their ends over time,27 a process observed in
both GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV) and GEMF 55 (=​PGM ΙΙΙ).28 Groups of
these opportunistically created formularies could then be copied into larger,
planned formularies, with the resulting sequences or blocks of recipes retaining
their originally idiosyncratic interests and characteristics (see Figure 1.1).29 This
implies that archives and multi-​recipe formularies represent two manifestations
of the same phenomenon—​the tendencies of individuals to bring together
individual magical recipes for their own purposes. Every archive represents, in

22. Mirecki 2013. Note that Mirecki considers the influence to run in the oppos te direction; he sees
an individual such as Ouales, the author of P.Kellis Copt. V 35, as following the tradition of priestly
scribes attested by the epistolary frames. But, as he notes (p. 142), the parallels are only general, and
some are questionable; when Ouales tentatively notes that, having not found the text requested,
“perhaps this [other text] is what [his correspondent] needs,” this seems less likely to be a comment
on the efficacy of the transmitted r tual text than a statement of uncertainty. Cf. Dieleman 2005, 269–​
270 on epistolary frames, and Gordon 2019a, 102–​102 on processes of circulation more broadly.
23. For this specific format for magical formularies, see Dosoo and Torallas Tovar, Chapter 2 in this
volume.
24. Parsons 1974, 161, no. 3068.
25. LiDonnici 2003, a slightly abridged version of which appears as Chapter 4 in this volume; Love 2017.
26. See Dosoo, Chapter 5 in this volume, p. 193–231.
27. LiDonnici, Chapter 4 in this volume, esp. pp. 170–171.
28. Love 2017 and Martín Hernández and Torallas Tovar forthcoming; Dosoo, Chapter 5 in this
volume, p. 193–231.
29. A similar process is reconstructed for medical texts in Reggiani 2019.
 Anatomy of the Magical Archive    11

SINGLE RECIPES

g
in
t
rp
exce

tion
colla
SHORT FORMULARIES

LARGE FORMULARIES

Fig. 1.1. Hypothetical model of the circulation of magical texts.

potentia, a formulary that might be copied into a single larger manuscript, and
each complex formulary may retain the traces of an earlier stage, in which its
recipes existed separately or in smaller groups as parts of an archive; as Lynn
LiDonnici puts it, the more complex handbooks are in effect “ ‘one-​volume’
libraries.”30 We should be clear, however, that there is no evolutionary ladder of
magical manuscripts, in which individual recipes inevitably coalesce into larger
formularies and archives; it is certain that in addition to these centripetal forces
tending towards accumulation, there were also inverse, centrifugal processes
at work, in which individual manuscripts might be removed from archives,
and recipes or groups of recipes were excerpted and copied, to produce smaller
formularies or to be sent in letters or notes of instruction.31

2. The Theban Magical Library

The most recent treatment of the Theban Magical Library is that published by
Dosoo in 2016,32 and while the discussion here will build upon and occasionally

30. LiDonnici 2003, 144, and Chapter 4 in this volume.

31. For the concept of “centripetal” and “centrifugal” forces in the compilation of manuscripts, see
Faraone, Chapter 11 in this volume.
32. Dosoo 2016a. For other treatments, see Zago 2010; Dieleman 2005, 14–​15; Brashear 1995, 3402–​
3404; Preisendanz 1933, 91–​95.
 12    The Greco-Egyptian Magical Formularies

correct it, we will not repeat in detail the information given there.33 The
Theban Library is a group of ten magical and alchemical texts whose shared
purchase history seems to imply that they constitute a coherent archive that
was purchased, found, and at least in part produced, in Thebes in Upper Egypt.
Below is a list of these ten papyri, divided into four groups, or “subarchives,”
based on their dating and material characteristics:

A. Second-​to third-​century bilingual Greek/​Demotic rolls

1. GEMF 15 (=​PDM/​PGM XII; TM 55954 +​55946)
2. GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV; TM 55955)
3. GEMF 17 (=​PDM Suppl.; TM 64218)
B. Second-​to third-​century Greek rolls
4. GEMF 31 (=​PGM I; TM 88396)
5. GEMF 30 (=​PGM II +​PGM VI; TM 88397 +​60673)
C. Fourth-​century Greek magico-​alchemical codices
6. P.Holm. +​ GEMF 59 (=​PGM Va; TM 64429)
7. GEMF 60 (=​PGM XIII; TM 64446)
8.  P.Leid. I 397 (TM 61300)
D. Fourth-​century Greek magical codices
9. GEMF 57 (=​PGM IV; TM 64343) Includes Old Coptic texts
10. GEMF 58 (=​PGM V; TM 64368)

These groups may be understood in different ways; they may represent, for
example, changing norms of production within a single community, or originally
separate archives which were brought together prior to the final deposition.34 We
should note that there are connections between the different groups: GEMF 57 (=​
PGM IV) in Group D, for example, contains Old Coptic texts with textual parallels
with Demotic material in GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV) in Group A,35 while GEMF

33. A notable correction concerns Anastasy 75a (1828), described by Dosoo (2016a, 257) as the second
part of GEMF 15 (=​PDM/​PGM XII) (Anastasy 75 [1828]); in fact it refers to fragments of GEMF
16 (=​ PDM/​PGM XIV; Anastasy 65 [1828]) found in the folds of GEMF 15 (=​PDM/​PGM XII); see
Dieleman 2005, 27; Reuvens 1830, 1ère lettre, p. 6; 3ème lettre, pp. 145–​146.
34. Cf. Love (2017, 9–​11), who notes the possibil ty that we might be dealing w th two archives, one
second/​third century, the other fourth century. Since it is fairly common for multigenerational
archives to span similar periods, the length of time does not seem to us to pose a serious challenge to
the un ty of the archive.
35. Most notably between GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV) 123–​131 and GEMF 57 (=​PGM IV) 11–​25,
two nearly identical invocations of Osiris; a shorter parallel may be found between the opening of
two narrative charms in GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV) 1220 and GEMF 57 (=​PGM IV) 94. For
discussions of these, see Love 2016, 16–​23, 31–​33.
 Anatomy of the Magical Archive    13

15 (=​ PDM/PGM XII) in Group A contains alchemical material that might suggest
a relationship to that in Group C.36 As we discuss in more detail below, however,
shared content can also be found between material that we know to come from
different geographical and temporal contexts, and so it is not clear how much
importance should be accorded to textual parallels in the absence of other indicators
of relationships between manuscripts. Nonetheless, we might imagine the Library
to represent an archive possessed by multiple generations (at least three, given
the time span covered), growing from an original core (perhaps Group A or B)
with the addition of other material; this would correspond to the model of the
“enriched dossier” proposed by Andrea Jördens for documentary texts—​that is, a
collection inherited and then supplemented by subsequent generations.37
As already suggested, it seems almost certain that the Theban Library as we
have it represents only part of what was once one or more larger archives, which
may have contained other documentary, literary, or magical material. Fairly
clear evidence of this may be found in GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV), whose
verso contains additions written over the course of the manuscript’s working
life, including notes consisting of Demotic explanations of Greek names for
plants and minerals.38 As with the other bilingual texts of GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​
PGM XIV), these imply a user whose primary written language was Demotic,
but who had access to and wanted to use Greek-​language magical texts.39 Many
of these ingredients are found in surviving magical or alchemical recipes,
implying that GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV) was used in conjunction with texts
written purely in Greek, but not all of the ingredients appear in the surviving
Greek texts from the Theban Library.40 These annotations thus point us toward
the existence of further Greek magical, and perhaps alchemical, recipes that
were consulted by the handbook’s copyist, but which do not survive in the
present-​day Library.41 Further work on re-​use attested in the Theban Library

36. This is found in GEMF 15 (=​PDM/​PGM XII) 193–​201; see Halleux 1981, 163–​166.
37. Jördens 2001; the “enriched legacy” is contrasted with “true legacy” dossiers.
38. These are found in lines 886–​910, 920–​929, 833–​952, 966–​969, the first five columns of the verso;
for discussions, see Dieleman 2005, 112–​113, 116–​117, 119–​120, 308–​311; Dosoo, Chapter 5 in this
volume, p. 222–223. See Chapter 2 on reuse and recycle of papyrus rolls and codices, pp. 111–118.
39. See Dieleman 2005, esp. 121–​138.
40. See, e.g., ἡλιόγονοϲ (safflower or cardamom) and ϲηληνόγονοϲ (peony), which are explained in
GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV) 889–​890, and which both appear in GEMF 55 (=​PGM III) 332, and
τιθύμαλλοϲ (spurge), found in GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV) 892, and in P.Holm. 1037.
41. Cf. the Formulae of “Praising Re in the Morning at his Rising” (nꜣ sẖ.w n dwꜣ rꜥ tp dwe m ḫꜥ⸗f ),
mentioned, but not provided, in GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV) 152. Dieleman suggests that this may
have been a hymn to the sun (Dieleman 2005, 55), which may imply access to temple texts. This idea
 14    The Greco-Egyptian Magical Formularies

may deepen this picture; GEMF 16 (=​PDM/​PGM XIV) has also been repaired
using (never edited) fragments of Demotic and Greek documentary texts,42
and a damaged text mentioning oil—​apparently either an account or a brief
recipe—​is written on the verso of GEMF 30 (=​PGM VI).43
Although the Theban Library texts—​in particular GEMF 57 (=​PGM IV)—​
have come to stand in for “typical” or “ideal” magical texts from Roman Egypt,
they are in many ways idiosyncratic. The size of the formularies marks them as
outliers among the surviving material—​although it is certainly possible that larger
and more carefully copied texts once existed. Likewise, the use of Demotic and Old
Coptic, prominent in several manuscripts, is unusual among surviving magical
texts.44 But just as the individual manuscripts are often understood as typical,
so the Theban Library’s reconstructed history is often taken as representing,
archetypically, the story of literate magic in Roman Egypt.
Broadly, the reconstructed history is as follows. The earliest text of the
Theban Library, the Demotic Myth of the Sun’s Eye written on the recto of the
document GEMF 15 (=​PDM/​PGM XII), dates from the second century CE, and
seems most at home within a priestly context, perhaps even a temple library.45
The other early texts, many of which are written partially in Demotic (Group A),
also seem to have been copied by someone with training in a temple priesthood,
since Demotic literacy in other contexts is unknown in the Roman period;46
the same seems to be true of Old Coptic, the range of nonstandard methods
of writing Egyptian in the Greek alphabet that preceded the third-​century

is complicated by the fact that parallel texts copied later in the manuscript seem to use a formula
consisting largely of voces magicae that are recited to the sun in the morning (lines 473–​474, 477–​479,
513–​515). Svenja Nagel (2019, 124–​125), on the other hand, argues that this formula replaces an older
hymn, borrowed from a longer invocation that was used in the original r tual for a different purpose.
42. Dieleman 2005, 36, 42; handcopies in Leemans 1839, pl. xiv, nos. 1–​2, 4–​7.
43. Transcriptions may be found in Wessely 1888, 150; Kenyon 1893, vol. 1, 83.
44. Three of the four manuscripts containing Demotic included in Betz, PDM/PGM XII, XIV, and Suppl.
(=​ GEMF 15, 16 and 17), belong the Theban Library; one (PDM LXI =​GEMF 18) probably does
not. Among the few other published magical formularies containing Demotic text, are O.Strasbourg
dem. inv. 1338 (1st BCE–​2nd CE cent.; TM 52204) and BM EA 10808 (2nd cent. CE; TM 108583).
Approximately 25 previously unpublished Demotic magical texts are currently being edited for
publication by Joachim Friedrich Quack, which will change our picture of the linguistic landscape of
Egyptian magic, although the total number will still be considerably lower than comparable Greek
material, especially in the 3rd and 4th cent. CE.
45. For the publication of this text, see Spiegelberg 1917. On the text and its position within the Theban
Library, see Tait 1995, 171–​173; Dieleman 2005, 30–​31.
46. Tait 1994; Depauw 2012, 494–​496, 500.
 Anatomy of the Magical Archive    15

standardization of Coptic in Christian contexts.47 These observations have

therefore been used to argue that the owners of the Theban Library were
Egyptian priests, who began to offer privatized versions of temple rituals to
clients following the economic collapse of the temple system in the third and
fourth centuries CE, and who began to translate or recompose texts in(to)
Greek, as their clientele shifted from Egyptians to urban Greek-​speaking elites.48
Here we can see a collapsing of the distinction between textual composition,
manuscript production, text use, and deposition: the entire archive, and all of
its texts, become the products and rituals of the Roman Egyptian priesthood.
We should note that this is not the only model that exists: Alexandr Khosroyev
used the Theban Library as evidence of the syncretistic religiosity of Hellenized
elites in Upper Egypt, without specific reference to the Egyptian priesthood,
suggesting an interest among the literati in religious texts that offer parallels to
the existence of the Nag Hammadi Library.49
Using the tripartite model for understanding the text–​manuscript–​archive
relationship, we will briefly examine the Theban Library in more detail and
suggest ways in which each of these models might be refined. We will work
backwards, considering the Library’s deposition, then its context of use, and
finally its compilation and composition.
Since the circumstances of Anastasy’s purchase of the Library are unrecorded,
we do not know where and how it was found. The fact that the manuscripts are
in generally good condition suggests that they were deliberately deposited, unlike
the abandoned texts from Kellis, discussed below. Like many manuscripts from
the Theban region, they may have been found in a tomb in the rocky slopes of the

47. Old Coptic refers to a range of alphabetic renderings of the Egyptian language that appeared in the
Early Roman period and used the Greek alphabet alongside a selection of Demotic characters. As
Richter (2008, 413) has pointed out, there is no sharp line between the Old Coptic efforts, situated in
the traditional temple context, and the early evidence of standard Coptic used in Christian milieus.
The differentiation is to some extent a modern scholarly construction. For Old Coptic, see Richter
2008, 410–​417; Love 2016; Quack 2017b; Fournet 2020a, 1–​39, esp. 5–​6.
48. The first author to suggest this theory seems to have been Charles Wycliffe Goodwin, who published
GEMF 58 (=​PGM V) in 1852 and proposed that the author was a “priest of Isis or Sarapis, addicted
to that kind of Theurgy which Porphyry … severely criticizes” (p. vi). For more recent arguments,
see R tner 1995a, 3361–​3371; Frankfurter 1997, 115–​135; Frankfurter 1998, 179–​184, 210–​237;
Dieleman 2005, 10 et passim; Gordon 2012, 156–​157, 162; Gordon 2013, 163–​186. For an alternative
possibility that some copyists may have been professional scribes without an inherent interest in the
material, see Dosoo and Torallas Tovar, Chapter 2 in this volume, p. 74–75.
49. Khosroyev 1995, 62, 98–​102; cf. Lundhaug and Jenott 2015, 74–​78 et passim; Piwowarczyk and
Wipszycka 2017.
 16    The Greco-Egyptian Magical Formularies

West Bank, although this may have been connected to a later re-​use of the tomb
unrelated to its original function.50 Even if this were the case, we would still need
more information, to understand whether its deposition there was opportunistic
or part of a planned ritual, and what kind of associated objects formed part of its
assemblage. Nonetheless, several possibilities can be suggested about the type of
archive that it represents: (1) that the archive was abandoned during the Roman
authorities’ persecution of the owners and users of the magical texts; (2) that it was
buried to conceal its secrets; (3) that it represents a funerary offering, and (4) that
it represents the remains of a temple library.51
The persecution model is perhaps the most commonly suggested model in
literature relating to the Theban Library, with Carl Wessely first implying it as
a possibility.52 As several authors, most notably Robert Ritner, have observed,
there seems to have been no systematic persecution of those activities we would
classify as “magic” during the pharaonic period,53 and there is no evidence
either for the Ptolemaic period, although some sources suggest that laws against
impiety may occasionally have been used against practitioners of “magic” in the
broader Greek-​speaking world.54 The Roman period marked a change in this
attitude; certain “magical” rituals were already forbidden under Republican law,
and the Roman attitude toward “magic,” as well as astrology and alchemy, seems
to have become more severe under Diocletian and his Christian successors.55
Several practices attested by the Theban Library—​the creation of curse tablets,
the use of erotic procedures, divination through the evocation of spirits, and
some healing practices—​could have provoked official punishment, up to and
including the death penalty. It appears that the official persecution of magic
became more intense in the fourth century, when the collection history of the
Theban Magical Library comes to an end—​a piece of circumstantial evidence in
favor of this model. We might imagine two scenarios, the first being that the users

50. But cf. Nongbri 2018, 91–​98; Tutty 2018.

51. Cf. Brashear 1992, 26–​29; Brashear 1995, 3405. Although these four models have been proposed
specifically for the Theban library, the most remarkable find of books of magic, they could be applied
to other archives.
52. Wessely 1888, 12.
53. Ritner 1995b.
54. Dickie 2001, 49–​60; Eidinow 2010; 2016; 2019.
55. Pharr 1932; Phillips 1991; Trombley 1993, vol. 2, 29–​45; Cramer 1996, 234–​238; Kippenberg 1997;
Dickie 2001, 141–​161; Lenski 2002, 218–​234 (on the magic trials under Valens); Sfameni Gasparro
2006 (the persecution attested by Zacharias’ Life of Severus); Rives 2006; Rodríguez Martín 2010;
Escribano Paño 2010; Marasco 2011; Rohmann 2016, 64–​69. For Christian condemnation of and
regulations against magic, see Dickie 2001, 251–​272; Rohmann 2016, 114–​116; Sanzo 2019b, 221–​
223; van der Vliet 2019.
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their main contentions—and justify the Kaiser’s lordly contempt of
the scrap of paper, are of a piece with every manifestation of the
political cult which has become one of Germany’s holiest
possessions. And it is because the British nation as a whole
obstinately refused to listen to those who apprised them of this
elemental movement, and of the dangers it concealed, that they
dispensed with a large land army, slackened the work of
shipbuilding, and trusted to a treaty which they are now surprised to
see dealt with as a mere scrap of paper.
In like manner the British people at first smiled sceptically at the
narratives of Belgians who witnessed and described the killing of
unarmed men, women, and children, the finishing of the wounded on
the battlefield, the living shields of women and girls with which they
protected their soldiers, the taking and shooting of hostages, and
other crimes against humanity. After all, it was argued, the Germans
are not quite so unlike ourselves as these stories would have us
believe. They, too, are men who have left wives, sisters, mothers,
and children at home, and the wells of human pity are not dried up
within them. They are incapable of such savagery. Those tales
evidently belong to the usual class of fiction which sprouts up on all
battlefields.
Yet, whatever the truth might be—and since the fiendish
passions of the soldiery were let loose against Louvain, Malines, and
Rheims we know that some of the narratives were based on
gruesome facts—the ground at first taken up was untenable. Nobody
possessing even a superficial acquaintance with Prussian history
had grounds for asserting that the German army was incapable of
such diabolical deeds. Its recorded doings in seasons of peace
demonstrated its temper. That the officers and the rank and file are
obedient to their commanders will not be gainsaid. To their Kaiser
they are, if possible, still more slavishly submissive. Well, the Kaiser,
when his punitive expedition was setting out for China, addressed
them thus: “When you encounter the enemy you will defeat him. No
quarter shall be given, no prisoners shall be taken. Let all who fall
into your hands be at your mercy. Just as the Huns a thousand years
ago, under the leadership of Etzel (Attila), gained a reputation in
virtue of which they still live in historical tradition, so may the name of
Germany become known in such a manner in China that no
Chinaman will ever again even dare to look askance at a German.”
The monarch who gave utterance to those winged words was not
conscious of saying aught that might shock or surprise his people.
His false conscience felt no qualms. The principle underlying this
behest was the foundation-stone of Prussian culture. And the
Kaiser’s wish is now realized. The name of Germany, whose love of
wanton destruction, delight in human torture, and breach of every
principle of manly and soldierly honour are now become proverbial,
will henceforward be bracketed in history together with that of the
Huns.
How British people who read and stigmatized these barbarous
behests, emphatically issued by the supreme ruler of the German
nation and the supreme head of the German Church, should have
held him who uttered or the troops that executed them incapable of
the crimes laid to their charge in Belgium is a mystery. Terrorism in
occupied countries has always been part of the Prussian method of
waging war. It is such an excellent substitute for numbers! The
examples of it given in the years 1814 and 1815 are still
remembered. Since then it has been intensified. During the Boxer
movement in China I witnessed illustrations of it which burned
themselves in my memory. The tamest of all was when the German
troops arrived in Tientsin. The nights were cool just then, and a knot
of soldiers were dismayed at the prospect of spending a night
without blankets. I happened to know where there was an
untenanted house with a supply of blankets, and out of sheer
kindness I took them to it. With a smile of gratitude the officer in
command set the blankets on one side. Every portable article of
value was next seized and appropriated. And then the soldiers took
to smashing vases, statues, mirrors, the piano, and other articles of
furniture. They laughed at my remonstrances, and reminded me of
the Kaiser’s orders. All at once they abandoned the spoil, and
rushed down to the courtyard to shoot some Chinese who were said
to be there. As luck would have it, however, the newcomers were
their own comrades, so there were no executions that first evening.
But the Kaiser’s men made up for it later.
 Germany’s necessity, as defined by her War Lord or any of her
high officials, knows no law. Stipulations and treaties are for non-
German States, which must be held strictly to their obligations. To
Teutons the Treaty of Bucharest and the neutrality of Belgium were
meaningless terms. But only to Teutons. The Japanese are to be
made to respect the neutrality of China. For the chosen people are a
law unto themselves. That is, and has long been, the orthodox
doctrine of the Pan-German Church. What more natural than its
application to the treaty of 1839, which Bismarck confirmed in writing
in the year 1870, and which the Kaiser and Herr von Bethmann
Hollweg, with the hearty approval of the whole articulate German
nation, have recently spoken of contemptuously as a scrap of paper?
If any doubt could be entertained as to the extent to which this
German theory of morality has spread, it will have been dispelled by
the body of eminent German theologians who have just issued their
appeal to Evangelical Christians abroad. They, at any rate, have no
fears that their eloquent appeal will be treated as a mere scrap of
paper. It is the word of their “good old God.”
 CHAPTER I
THE CAREFULLY LAID SCHEME

Europe’s tremendous tragedy, the opening scenes of which are now

unfolding themselves to horrified humanity, is no ordinary conflict
arising out of a diplomatic quarrel which timely concessions and soft
words might have settled with finality. In its present issues it is the
result of a carefully laid scheme of which the leaders of the German
people are the playwrights and the Kaiser the chief actor. It was
cleverly thought out and patiently prepared. The manifold forces let
loose by the Berlin Government for the purpose of leading up to a
coup de théâtre which involves the existence of cultured Europe had
long since got beyond the control even of those who were employing
them. All that was still possible was the choice of the moment for
ringing up the curtain and striking the first fell blow. And, sooth to
say, judging by the data in the hands of the Berlin Foreign Office, no
conjuncture could have been more propitious to Germany’s designs
than the present. For circumstance had realized most of the desired
conditions, and the Kaiser, without hesitating, availed himself of his
good fortune. It is useless to dissemble the fact that the copious
information accumulated in the Wilhelmstrasse warranted the belief
that there could not have been a more auspicious moment for the
realization of the first part of the Kaiser’s programme than the
present. If Germany be indeed set apart by Providence as the
people chosen to rule Europe and sway the world, the outcome of
the present conflict should be to sanction this inscrutable decree of
Fate. Certainly the hour has struck for which she has been waiting
and keeping her powder dry during the past forty years. It is now or
never.
 Of this ingeniously conceived scheme the Achilles tendon was its
diplomatic aspect. And here Prussian clumsiness asserted itself
irrepressibly, as is its wont. A worse case with which to go before the
world than that of Germany in the present struggle it would be hard
to imagine. She has deliberately brought about a crude, naked
might-struggle, in which war-lust and brute force are pitted against
the most sacred and imprescriptible rights that lie at the very roots of
organized society. And she calls on God to help her to effect her
purpose.
The British nation is loath to think evil of its neighbours. It
generously credits them with the best—or at any rate the least
wicked—motives, and, even when the evidence on the other side is
overwhelming, gives them the benefit of the doubt. How strong the
evidence was in this case I pointed out over and over again. In 1911,
for instance, I wrote: “Since Europeanism was killed at Sedan and
buried at Frankfurt-on-the-Main, over forty years ago, international
treaties have been steadily losing their binding force. Their
significance has been gradually transformed into that of historic
souvenirs, symbolizing a given political conjuncture. To-day they are
nothing more. The unique, solid foundation of peace that remains is
readiness on the part of the peace Powers to defend it on the
battlefield.”
Optimists in this country objected that the German people and
their Chancellor were peacefully disposed, and utterly averse to
letting loose the horrors of an unparalleled war. And I replied that
even if in a certain sense the optimists were right, the attitude of the
German nation was beside the question. Nobody ever wants war, but
only the spoils it brings. “Germany,” I explained, “having spent
fabulous sums of money and human labour in creating an army
greater in numbers and more formidable than that of any of her
rivals, would consider the military superiority which this weapon
bestows upon her as a title-deed to property belonging to her
competitors. She would, accordingly, demand a return for her outlay,
would call for the neighbour’s territory she coveted, and expect to
receive it as a propitiatory sacrifice. War would not be her main
object, but only the fruits of war, extorted by threats which are more
than mere words. She would virtually say to France, Belgium, or
Holland, ‘I have it in my power to take what I want from you, and to
ruin you over and above. But I trust I may receive amicably from your
sagacity what I should be forced to wrest violently from your
shortsightedness.’ That is at bottom a modified form of the line of
action pursued by the bandit barons of mediæval Germany, a robust
survival into the twentieth century.” And it is exactly what has since
happened. The White Paper tells the story of the German Kaiser’s
attempt to induce our Government to connive at the seizure of
France’s colonies, which Germany needed for her enterprising
people.
But although for years I and some few others had been
preaching the imminence of this danger which no diplomatic
arguments could exorcize, the bulk of the British nation hoped on,
refusing to impute to the German people the motives or the aims
3
which we knew it entertained. In the Contemporary Review I was
attacked by the celebrated Professor Hans Delbrück for affirming, as
I have done for over twenty years, that Germany was concentrating
all her efforts on the coming struggle between herself and this
country, and the learned Professor did me the honour to say that so
long as I was allowed to express my views on foreign politics in the
Contemporary Review there would and could be no entente between
Great Britain and Germany. “As long as Mr. Dillon is permitted,” this
German Professor and successor of Treitschke wrote, “to set forth in
the Contemporary Review his fantastic views, engendered by hatred
and suspicion, about German policy, all those will be working in vain
who believe that peace between our nations can be secured by
4
arbitration treaties.” I then summed up my opinions as follows:

When I read the smooth-tongued, plausible panegyrics on

Germany’s politics, which are served up to us here in England
every year, and contrast them with the systematic
aggressiveness which everybody with open eyes and ears sees
and hears in Berlin, I behold Germany rise before me in the form
of a cuttlefish, with many lasso-like arms, ever ready to seize
their unsuspecting prey, and also ready, when itself is in danger,
 to shed an ink-like fluid which blackens the water and hinders
effective pursuit.

Everything that has come to pass since then offers a pointed

illustration of that presentment. The attempt to obtain without a war a
return for her outlay on her army and navy by calling for coveted
territory as a propitiatory sacrifice was energetically made during the
Morocco crisis. But the spring of the Panther failed of its purpose.
Germany’s further experiences during the London Conference were
likewise discouraging. The loose ranks of the Entente Powers closed
up at the approach of herself and her ally, and Albania proved a
mere torso. Then the supreme effort was put forth a few weeks back,
and the Berlin Government, alive to the possibility of a like unfruitful
result, determined to abide by and prepare for the extreme
consequences, which, sooth to say, appeared to them less
formidable than they really were.
Congruously with this resolve every precautionary measure that
prudence prompted or circumstance suggested was adopted
betimes, some secret, others public.
For the behoof of the European public the former were flatly
denied, and the latter glibly explained away.
Method characterized all these preparations, towards which the
British nation was particularly indulgent. Foremost among them was
the increase of the German army and the levy of the non-recurring
war-tax. Now, if Russia had had recourse to a measure of this kind,
all Europe would have clamoured for explanations. Germany was
allowed to have her way unquestioned. Honi soit qui mal y pense.
And yet the German Chancellor dropped a hint of his real purpose
which ought to have been sufficient to put Europe on its guard. He
spoke of the coming conflict between the Teutons and the Slavs. And
in truth that was the keynote to the situation. In Russia it was heard
and understood. Whether it was also taken to heart and adequately
acted upon there is another matter. In these islands most people
listened, smiled, and went their way unheeding. Yet this was the first
step towards tackling the Entente Powers one by one, which
constituted the alpha and omega of the Kaiser’s policy.
Another of the timely precautions taken by Germany, who was
resolved to make ready for every contingency, however improbable
—and a general European war seemed even to her statesmen most
improbable—was the purchase of horses. She despatched agents to
Great Britain, and especially to Ireland, in search of mounts suitable
for cavalry service, and also draught-horses. And during the months
of March, April, and May large numbers of these animals were
exported from the four provinces of Ireland to Hamburg without
exciting protest or occasioning comment. For the British are a
trusting people. And now the French army is obliged to make an
effort to acquire a fresh supply of mounts, and may encounter very
serious difficulties. Corn was also laid in, and heavy shipments of it
went to Hamburg for the troops.
The German banking manœuvres were begun later. Enormous
sums of gold were garnered in by German financial institutions
through their influential agents in England, of whom several enjoyed
the friendship, but, one hopes, not the confidence, of some of our
eminent public men. And even since the war began large batches of
cheques and bills endorsed to London bankers by financial houses
of Sweden, Denmark, Holland, Portugal, Italy, have been forwarded
to London for discount and collection. Indeed, Germany appears to
have been paying for foodstuffs drawn from these neutral countries
in cheques and bills which, strange to say, were still being
discounted here. For in this respect, too, the British are a trusting
people. Even mobilization would seem to have been commenced
secretly long before the crisis had become acute. We learn from the
newspaper press that among the papers found on a captured
German general is a service letter disciplining him for not
immediately answering an order for mobilization dated July 10th,
when no one outside of Germany had a suspicion that war was
impending. This date enables us to gauge the sincerity of the
Kaiser’s efforts to “moderate” Austria’s “impetuosity.”
Whoever wishes to have an inkling of Germany’s method of
opening the diplomatic chess-game which preceded the war, and
was intended to “localize” it as far as seemed conducive to her
interests, must endeavour to get a glimpse of the action of the
smaller hidden wheels within the wheels of official diplomacy. For the
Berlin Foreign Office worked on various lines, keeping official, semi-
official, and absolutely secret agents, diplomatic and journalistic,
hard at work all the time. Thus in Russia there was the titular
Ambassador, Count Pourtalès, over whose head the Military
Ambassador, a German officer who had access to the Tsar, and was
kept posted about everything that was going on in Russia, was wont
to despatch messages direct to the Kaiser. And this personage was
better informed of what was being done, neglected, and planned by
the Russian Government than some of the Russian Secretaries of
State. He had direct access to the highest society, and indirect to
every local institution in the Empire. To my knowledge, this German
Aide-de-Camp in the suite of the Russian Emperor despatched
detailed reports about the intrigues which were spun to oust the
present War Minister, Sukhomlinoff, from his post, and have the
Assistant War Minister appointed in his place. And I am able to add a
piquant detail: in one of these reports he assured his chief that
although the Assistant Minister, Polivanoff, is in his opinion the better
man, his appointment at the then conjuncture would throw things
military out of gear for a considerable time in Russia. But the Tsar
was not to be tempted. General Sukhomlinoff, who is undoubtedly
the right man in the right place, remained at his post.
It is hardly an exaggeration to say that Russia had no secrets
whatever from the agents, diplomatic and military, of the German
Government. Every intrigue that was woven, every scheme that was
laid before the various State departments in Petrograd, every casual
remark dropped by the Tsar in the intimacy of private life to a
courtier, every real or supposed weakness in the Imperial defences,
was carefully reported, with all the local anecdotic embroidery, and
duly taken cognizance of in Berlin. Among high officials there were
some who, without evil intent, but solely in virtue of what they
honestly but foolishly regarded as the privilege of private friendship,
were wont to unburden themselves of momentous State secrets to
certain representatives of the Empire with which Russia is now at
war. These representatives were made aware of the advice tendered
to the Tsar by his Majesty’s trusted advisers in various critical
emergencies, and they announced it to their chiefs, the Tsar’s
present enemies. There was, for instance, a few years ago, one
influential Russian statesman without whose assent the Government
would undertake nothing of real importance, a patriot whose leanings
towards Austria and Germany were natural and frankly proclaimed.
In the interests of his country, which he identified with the triumph of
his own particular party, this Russian laid bare many matters to the
Austrian Ambassador, then Baron Aehrenthal, who, being himself an
Austrian of the same political school of thought, warmly sympathized
with his friend, and also took due note of his friend’s confidences.
That, it is asserted, was the main source of Aehrenthal’s spirited
policy. He believed he knew Russia’s weak points, and relied on their
handicapping the diplomacy of the Tsar. And then his countrymen
ascribed to military weakness the concessions which the Russian
Government made for the sake of European peace.
I can affirm that certain State documents, which I could, if
necessary, describe, were in this way conveyed to the future enemy,
and that one of these, together with all the facts and figures adduced
therein as proofs, contributed materially to Germany’s decision to
present her ultimatum to Russia, by convincing her that that Empire
would not venture to take up the challenge. I make this statement
with first-hand knowledge. Thus Russian ingenuousness and
candour have played their part—certainly a material part—in bringing
down a frightful calamity on that nation.
European and Asiatic Russia is positively weevilled with
Germans. Most of the foreign trade there is carried on through the
intermediary of German agents, almost every one of whom is in
touch with the German Consulate of the provincial chief town. In the
railway administration, too, there were numerous public servants,
some of whom, by education, tradition, religion, language, and
sympathy, are as German as Herr Bassermann or Admiral von
Tirpitz. And all these channels of information were so many
tributaries of the great stream which flowed unceasingly between the
Singers’ Bridge and the Wilhelmstrasse.
 For in the Berlin War Office they were informed of three matters
of supreme moment, which weighed heavy in the scales when war
and peace trembled in the balance. First, that the vaunted Russian
gold reserve had been immobilized, and was therefore not available
for war; second, that the army was unready; and third, that the Tsar,
for dynastic reasons, would on no account embark on another war.
In the Wilhelmstrasse and in the German War Office reports had
been received setting forth in detail that the Russian land forces had
been uniformly neglected in the interests of a short-sighted economy,
and that the wear and tear of the army during the Japanese
campaign had never been made good, could not, indeed, be made
good without an enormous outlay, whereas only a few paltry million
roubles had been spent on current needs in lieu of the milliards
without which reorganization was not feasible. Russia, therefore,
was not to be feared. And this inference was duly communicated to
the German Ambassador in Vienna, M. von Tschirschky, who worked
really hard and successfully to bring about the present conflict,
without, however, foreseeing its extent.
The other documents turned upon Russian finances. But the
burden of their message was the same. The line of reasoning and
the sequence of allegations was this: Russia’s gold reserve was
indeed large, but had been spirited away. For the State Bank had
lent out vast sums to the private banks, most of which are financed
by German institutions. And these loans had been given, not, as in
France and Berlin, for a maximum term of two months, but for six,
eight, twelve, fourteen months. The private banks in turn, thirsty for
profits, had distributed the money thus borrowed among private
individuals, who employed it in wild speculation. And the result was
that the gold reserve in Russia could not be made liquid in time
should hostilities break out this year; consequently a war in the year
1914 would entail a financial crash of unconceived dimensions. As
for the Russian money deposited in Berlin, it, too, was locked up
there, and would be commandeered by the German Government
were Russia to be forced into an armed conflict. The shock which
this revelation is supposed to have given the Tsar was also
described for the benefit of the Wilhelmstrasse. And the revelation
itself constituted another of the elements which decided Germany to
cross the Rubicon.
In France the Germans were nearly as much at home as in
Russia, one marked difference being that a larger percentage of
State secrets there was to be found in the newspapers. But whatever
the periodical prints failed to divulge was ascertained without
difficulty and reported without delay. It is a curious fact, but it is a
fact, that Germans had ready access to almost every man of mark in
the Republic, and statesmen there who would hum and haw before
receiving well-known Russian or British publicists were prepared to
admit them on the recommendation of Germans and Austrians who
made no secret of their nationality. I heard this statement in Paris,
and naturally hesitated to credit it. But as it was worth verifying, I
verified it. And this is what I found. Some eminent men in Paris had
refused to see a certain public man of European note, some on the
ground that they were too busy just then, others because it was
against their custom. The foreigner was advised to renew his
application at once, but through a private individual, a citizen of one
of the Powers now at war with the Republic. And he did. The result
was amazing. Within three days the doors of them all were thrown
open to him. But the quintessence of the irony lies in one piquant
detail: one of these French statesmen said to the intermediary who is
now inveighing against France and the French: “Let me see. Is not
that friend of yours a contributor to a periodical which is strongly pro-
German? If so, I had rather not meet him at all.” “By no means,” was
the answer. “He is very anglophile, and, of course, a great friend of
France.” “Ah, very well then, he can come.”
 CHAPTER II
THE MANY-TRACKED LINES OF GERMAN
DIPLOMACY

German diplomacy never contented itself with its one natural

channel. All its lines were many tracked. The Ambassador’s reports
were checked over his head by those of his secretaries, of the
consular agents, of the military and commercial attachés, of the
heads of great financial institutions and big business firms, who
enjoyed and abused the hospitality of Great Britain, France, and
Russia, and by the secret communications of professional spies and
the disclosures made by unwitting betrayers of secrets. During the
Morocco crisis the German Foreign Secretary, von Kiderlen
Waechter, was in direct and continuous telegraphic contact with the
first Secretary of the German Embassy in Paris, von Lanken, over
the head of the Ambassador, von Schoen. And here in London
Prince Lichnowsky, like his colleague Pourtalès in St. Petersburg,
shrank during the period of the crisis preceding the war to a mere
figure-head of the Embassy. Herr von Kuhlmann was the
Ambassador. His information was treated as decisive. His views
were listened to with respect. For he always strove and generally
contrived to repair to the source himself. Thus it was he who was
asked to visit Ireland and send in a report to the Wilhelmstrasse on
the likelihood of civil war breaking out there, and its probable
duration and general effect upon the country and the Government.
Herr von Kuhlmann’s communication, which was checked by the
accounts of German correspondents and of a number of spies who
were despatched independently to Belfast and other parts of Ulster,
made a profound impression on the Kaiser and his official advisers.
From the gist of it they derived their conviction, which was still strong
during the week that ended on July 30th, that England’s neutrality
was a foregone conclusion. For a time Herr von Kuhlmann’s
judgment was categorical. He had no misgivings. According to him
the die had already been cast, and the effect of the throw could not
be altered. The British Cabinet was bound hand and foot by the
sequel of its Home Rule policy. But even had it been otherwise, it
was committed to peace on other grounds. The Asquith Government
and the party it represented were firmly resolved not to be drawn into
a Continental war, whatever its origin or its issues. That was the
motive which had restrained Sir Edward Grey from contracting any
binding obligations towards France.
And so unhesitatingly was this view adopted in Berlin that when
on July 29th the German Ambassador terminated one of his
despatches with the expression of his personal impression—
founded, he confessed, on nothing more tangible than the manner,
intonation, looks of Sir Edward Grey—that if France were dragged
into war Great Britain would not remain neutral, his timid warning
failed to modify the accepted dogma that England was resolved to
stand by inactive and look on at the shock of mighty armies on the
Continent, satisfied to play the part of mediator as soon as victory
and defeat should have cleared the way for the readjustment of the
map of Europe.
This amazing misjudgment can be explained without difficulty.
Paradoxical though it may sound, the German Government suffered
from a plethora of information. It was too well informed of what was
going on in Russia, France, and Britain, and too little qualified to
contemplate in correct perspective the things revealed. Take, for
example, Russia. Every one of the influences to which the Tsar was
supposed to be accessible, every one of the alleged weak points of
the General Staff, the War Ministry, the Railway administration, the
Finances, were all entered in the records and weighed among the
motives for action. To the Austrian Foreign Office they were
communicated by the German Ambassador, von Tschirschky, with
whose own preconceived opinions of Russia’s inertness they
dovetailed to perfection. All these data were at the fingers’ ends of
the responsible leaders of the respective Governments, all the
inferences drawn were set down as highly probable, and the final
conclusion to which they pointed was that Russia would not fight
under present circumstances, even if from a military point of view
she could take the field, and that in any case she was sufficiently
aware of her impotence to recognize her inability and bend before
she was broken.
It is easy, in the light of recent events, to laugh at these
deductions and to deride the naïveté of German omniscience. But on
analysing the materials which Berlin statesmen had for a judgment,
one discerns the reasons which led them to believe that a good
prima facie case had been made out for its accuracy. One
characteristic and clinching argument was advanced with an air of
triumphant finality. These data, it was urged, are not theoretic
assumptions formed in Germany. They are the deliberate views of
competent Russians, arrived at in the conscientious discharge of
their duty and uttered for the welfare of their own country. Is not that
guarantee enough for the correctness of the facts alleged and the
sincerity of those who advance them?
The truth is, the Berlin authorities were too well supplied with
details, while lacking a safe criterion by which to measure their
worth. German diplomacy is many sided, and admirably well served
by a variety of auxiliary departments such as journalism, commerce,
educational establishments abroad, and espionage of a discreet and
fairly trustworthy character. But congruously with the tyrannical spirit
of system which pervades everything German, this paramount
organon for supplying the directors of the Empire’s policy with data
for their guidance and goals for their many converging movements
deals too exclusively in externals. Prussian diplomatists and
statesmen possess a vast body of information respecting the social
and political currents abroad, the condition of national defences and
party governments, the antagonisms of political groups, and other
obvious factors of political, military, naval, and financial strength and
weakness. But these facts nowise exhaust the elements of the
problem with which statesmanship is called upon to cope. There are
other and more decisive agencies which elude analysis and escape
the vigilant observation of the Prussian materialist. This superficial
observer is bereft of a sense for the soul-manifestations of a people,
for the multitudinous energies and enthusiasms stored up in its inner
recesses, for those hidden sources of strength which the wanton
violation of truth and justice set free, and which steel a nation to the
wrenches of real life and nerve it for a titanic struggle for the right.
Above all, he takes no account of a nation’s conscience, which,
especially in Anglo-Saxon peoples, is in vital and continuous contact
with their modes of feeling, thought, and action. He is a self-centred
pedant, capable indeed of close and thorough research and of
scrupulous loyalty to his own creed, but bringing to his work nothing
but the materialistic maxims of a cynically egoistic school,
impassioned by narrow aims, dissociated from humanity, blinded by
stupid prejudices, and bereft of innate balance. It is system without
soul.
Of the Russian army the Staffs of Berlin and Vienna thought
meanly. “A mob in uniform,” was one description. Less
contemptuous was this other: “A barracks of which only the bricks
have been got together, the cement and the builders being still
lacking.” Others there were—and these were the most serious
appraisers—who held that in another five or six years the Russian
land forces might be shaped into a formidable weapon of defence
and possibly of offence. But this opinion was urged mainly as an
argument against waiting. I once heard it supported tersely in the
following way. The army depends upon finances rather than
numbers. Without money you cannot train your soldiers. Ammunition
and guns, which are essential conditions to good artillery fire, involve
heavy expenditure. So, too, does rifle firing. Well, Russia’s army has
had no such advantages during the years that have elapsed since
her campaign against Japan. During all that time the salient trait of
her financial policy has been thrift. Grasping and saving, the State
has laid by enormous sums of money and has hoarded them miserly.
One effect of these precautions has been the neglect of the army
and the navy. At the close of the war Russia’s navy was practically
without ships and her diplomacy without backbone. And since then
little has been done to reinforce them.
 Two hundred and fifty millions sterling were borrowed by Russia
at the close of the war with Japan, it was argued. That sum may be
taken roughly to represent the cost of the campaign. But it did not
cover the wear and tear of the war material, the loss of the whole
navy, the destruction of fortresses, barracks, guns, private property,
etc., which would mount up to as much again. What was needed to
repair this vast breach in the land and sea forces was another loan
of at least three hundred millions sterling more. And this money was
not borrowed. Consequently the rebuilding of the damaged defences
was never undertaken. Only small annual credits, the merest
driblets, were allotted by the Finance Ministry to the War Office and
the Admiralty, and with these niggardly donations it had been
impossible to repair the inroads made by the war on the two imperial
services. But the Tsar’s Government, it was added, are about to turn
over a new leaf. Large war credits have been voted by the Duma.
Far-reaching reforms are planned for the army. Russia, awakened by
Germany’s preparations and warned by the Chancellor’s allusion to
the struggle between Slavs and Teutons, will make a strenuous effort
to fashion her vast millions into a formidable army. This work will
take at least from three to five years. We cannot afford to accord her
this time, nor can we blink the fact that she will never be less
redoubtable than she is to-day.
That was the theoretical side of the case. It was reinforced by
considerations of a concrete nature, the criticisms of Russian experts
of high standing and long experience whose alleged utterances were
said to bear out the conclusion that a war waged by Russia against
Germany, or even against Austria, at the present conjuncture would
be suicidal. Never before, it was urged, was the Tsardom less ready
from any point of view for a campaign than at the present moment.
And this, it was reiterated, is the ripe judgment of Russian competent
authorities whose names were freely mentioned. These men, it was
stated, had strongly urged the Tsar’s Government and the Tsar
himself to bear well in mind this deplorable plight of the army when
conducting the foreign business of the Empire.
That the Russian Government was aware of the view thus taken
in Berlin and Vienna may safely be assumed. For Russia kept her
eyes open and knew more about German machinations and the
assumptions on which they hinged than was supposed. Having had
an opportunity of picking up ideas on the subject, she had not let it
pass unutilized. Respecting one scheme she knew every detail; I
allude to the intention of Austria and Germany to declare the Treaty
of Bucharest a mere scrap of paper. Ever since that treaty was
signed, it had been the inflexible resolve of Austria and Germany to
upset it. I write this with first-hand knowledge. But even had I not had
this knowledge, it might have been taken for granted on a priori
grounds. The Balkan equilibrium as established by that instrument
was deemed lacking in stability. Count Berchtold admitted this to the
British Ambassador during the critical days. Its Servian elements
were particularly obnoxious to Austria, who had refrained from
annexing Turkish territory on the assumption that she would be
amply repaid for her self-restraint by political and economical
influence in the Peninsula.
Now, this assumption had been belied by events. Salonica was
under the dominion of Greece, whose leanings towards France and
Great Britain were notorious and fixed. Servia had waxed great, and
was striving to add further to her power and territory at Austria’s
expense. Bulgaria was sullen, and might become rebellious.
Roumania, estranged from the Dual Monarchy, had seemingly
moved within the political orbit of Russia. And even Turkey,
abandoned to herself among these prospective enemies of the
Teutonic Powers, was amenable to their suasion and to the pressure
of France and England. Such a state of affairs could not be brooked
by Austria-Hungary, who beheld her Slav possessions threatened in
Bosnia, Herzegovina, and Dalmatia, nor by Germany, who feared
that her road to the sea and to Asia Minor would be blocked.
Accordingly the two allies decided to apply the scrap of paper
doctrine to the Treaty of Bucharest, to cut up Greater Servia, bribe
Bulgaria with the Macedonian provinces which King Ferdinand had
lost by the treacherous attack on his allies, deprive Greece of the
islands and throw them as a sop to Turkey, win over Roumania by
intimidation and cajolery, and constrain her to make a block with
Bulgaria and Turkey against Servia and Greece.
 This preconcerted scheme had been questioned by easy-going
optimists in Great Britain before the outbreak of the war. But it has
been virtually acknowledged since then not only by the Austrian
Government but also by the “cream of Germany’s intelligence” in a
pamphlet entitled “Truth About Germany.” This statement of our
enemy’s case was drawn up for American consumption by a
committee which includes among its members Prince von Bülow,
Herr Ballin, Field-Marshal von der Goltz, Herr von Gwinner,
Professor Harnack, the theologian, Prince Hatzfeldt, Herr von
Mendelssohn, Professor Schmoller, and Professor Wundt. In the
chapter dealing with the last Balkan war as one of the causes of the
present conflict, these gentlemen argue that the outcome of that
struggle was a humiliation for the Habsburg Monarchy, and that it
had been so intended by the Ministers of the Tsar. And then comes
their important admission that ever since the Treaty of Bucharest, the
two Teutonic allies had been diligently preparing for war.

As soon as the Balkan troubles began (they write), Austria-

Hungary had been obliged to put a large part of her army in
readiness for war, because the Russians and Serbs had
mobilized on their frontiers. The Germans felt that what was a
danger for their ally was also a danger for them, and that they
must do all in their power to maintain Austria-Hungary in the
position of a great Power. They felt that this could only be done
by keeping with their ally perfect faith and by great military
strength, so that Russia might possibly be deterred from war and
peace be preserved, or else that, in case war was forced upon
them, they could wage it with honour and success. Now, it was
clear in Berlin that, in view of the Russian and Servian
preparations, Austria-Hungary, in case of a war, would be
obliged to use a great part of her forces against Servia, and
therefore would have to send against Russia fewer troops than
would have been possible under the conditions formerly
prevailing in Europe. Formerly even European Turkey could
have been counted upon for assistance, but that, after her recent
defeat, seemed very doubtful. These reasons and
considerations, which were solely of a defensive nature, led to
 the great German military Bills of the last two years. Also
Austria-Hungary was obliged to increase its defensive strength.

These preparations, America is informed, “were merely meant to

protect us against, and to prepare us for, the attacks of Moscovite
barbarism.” But Russia’s incipient army reorganization—which
cannot have been very thorough, seeing that in spite of it the
German Government regarded the Russian army as incapable of
5
taking the field—is cited as evidence of malice prepense.
Disingenuousness could hardly go further.
Any experienced European statesman would have divined this
plan even without a concrete clue. I knew it, and exposed it in the
columns of the Daily Telegraph.