Imaginary interview with Bastet
by Charactorium · Bastet · Mythology · 6 min read
The naos has just opened in the perfumed dimness of the great temple of Bubastis. A gray cat passes between the columns while in the distance rises the tinkling of a sistrum. She is there, seated, the basket on her arm, half-cat half-woman, and she agrees to speak of her long reign over the hearts of Egypt.
—Today you are known as a graceful house cat, but it is said that you were something quite different originally?
Long ago, when my father Ra's sun burned higher, I roared. I was a lioness, claws out, blood sister of terrible Sekhmet, and I was not prayed to, but feared. Then, as the temples of Thebes and Memphis multiplied my images, my face softened: my fangs became whiskers, my roar a purr. Around the time they call the New Kingdom, I became the seated cat, the one who watches by the cradle rather than the one who rends. Do not be fooled, though: under the softness of the fur, the wild beast still sleeps. They split me from Sekhmet, but we remain two faces of the same fire — that is what your scribes call syncretism; I call it my true nature.
My fangs became whiskers, my roar a purr — but under the softness of the fur, the wild beast still sleeps.
—This dual nature, gentleness and fury, how do you bear it?
Look at the aegis that hangs around the necks of the faithful: that little collar topped with a feline head. It protects, it soothes — and yet it shows the jaws. That is my secret. I rock the sick child and I claw the demon lurking at the door. The mother giving birth invokes me for gentleness, but it is my lioness part that wards off death. The Egyptians understood this better than anyone: they never fully domesticated me. They kept, in the cat curled up on the threshold, the memory of the solar beast. A goddess too tender protects nothing; a goddess too fierce consoles no one. I am the in-between, the caress that keeps its claw.
A goddess too tender protects nothing; a goddess too fierce consoles no one.
—Let us speak of your nights. What happens, in the sky, when the great serpent threatens your father the sun?
Every night, chaos rises from the depths of the waters in the form of Apophis, the serpent who would swallow my father. And every night, I station myself near the sacred sycamore, at Heliopolis, the city of Ra. I am then the great cat who watches — the one of whom your funerary scrolls say she sits by the Persea on the night the battle was fought. My eyes cut through the darkness like two blades, and when the reptile rears up, I strike. In the morning, if the sun rises, it is because I have prevailed. Men think dawn is a given; they do not know it is won each night, claw against scale. I am the Eye of Ra, the feline sentinel between order and the abyss.
Men think dawn is a given; they do not know it is won each night, claw against scale.
—You say you are the Eye of Ra. What does it mean to bear such a title?
The Wedjat, that eye engraved in faience and worn as an amulet, is a fragment of me. To be the Eye of Ra is not only to see: it is to act for him, to be his wrath sent afar and his light brought back home. My father sees the world through my pupils, and when he wishes to punish, he unleashes me like a beast. But the eye that departs in fury must also know how to return appeased — that is the whole difficulty of the myths that your priests have handed down since the Middle Kingdom. I leave as a lioness, I return as a cat. Between the two lies all the mystery of divine anger, which, without the gentleness that calls it back, would burn the whole world.
—It is said that once a year, a whole people sails up the Nile to celebrate you. Tell us about this great festival.
Ah, the festival of Bubastis! No joy equals it in all of Egypt. People come from everywhere, crowded on boats, men and women mingled, and they sail down the river singing, hands beating time, sistra crackling like a rain of metal. On that day, I am told, more wine is drunk than on any other occasion of the year — libations flow, bodies dance, laughter rises to my temple lined with canals, my island of trees amid the waters. A Greek traveler, Herodotus, was so amazed that he spoke of seven hundred thousand pilgrims. I am also the goddess of happy drunkenness, the one who loosens tongues and hips. Joy, you see, is a prayer I gladly receive.
Joy, you see, is a prayer I gladly receive.
—Why do music and dance hold such an important place in your worship?
Because the sistrum drives away what solemn prayers cannot reach. When my priestesses shake that arched rod with its moving rings, its tinkling splits the air and scatters evil spirits as the wind scatters dust. It is not an ornament; it is a joyful weapon. In the morning, it is shaken to wake me in my naos; in the evening, to lull me to sleep; and during the great nights of Bubastis, it never falls silent. Nile fish on the tables, beer, the song of harps — all of this pleases me, for I am not a goddess who demands silence and fear. I prefer that they dance for me. A temple where people laugh loudly is a well-protected temple.
—Cats hold a unique place with you. Where does this sacred bond come from?
The cat is my living reflection on earth. It sees in the dark as I see Apophis; it hunts the snakes and rats that threaten the granary; it guards the house without being asked. How could it not be held sacred? In Egypt, whoever kills a cat, even by accident, pays with his life — I have seen crowds rush upon the careless one. And when my little protégés die, they are not thrown away: they are embalmed like princes. At Saqqara, at Bubastis, there are entire cemeteries of mummified cats, offered by faithful who hope, through this gift, to win my favor. Millions of small bodies wrapped in linen, each a prayer placed between my paws.
Millions of small bodies wrapped in linen, each a prayer placed between my paws.
—In temples and tombs, countless figurines in your likeness are found. What do they represent to you?
These are my ex-votos, the gifts of my people. I am cast in bronze, seated and dignified, sometimes with a collar around the neck, rings in the ears, a basket on the arm. The faithful who desire my protection deposit this statuette in my offering hall and leave lighter. In the Late Period, they were produced by the thousands — they are found even on the distant shores of the Mediterranean, carried by merchants and sailors who took me with them. Each figurine is a pact: you give me your form, I give you my protection. Bronze does not decay, you see, and that is how my cult traveled, from hand to hand, far beyond the banks of the Nile that I thought was my entire kingdom.
—Beyond the great temples, you are said to be present even in the humblest homes. How do you watch over them?
My true domain is not only the temple with canals: it is the threshold of every dwelling. Look at this woven basket I carry on my arm — it is not a simple object, it is the home itself, the household I hold close to me. In the houses of Egypt, a small niche, a cat statuette is enough to call me. The mother who fears for her newborn, the woman who hopes for a child, the man who dreads illness: all invoke me at home, without priest, without procession. I am the goddess prayed to in a low voice, between mud walls, near the fire. I am hung around children's necks in the form of a Wedjat or a little faience cat. Intimate guardian, that is my sweetest office.
I am the goddess prayed to in a low voice, between mud walls, near the fire.
—You protect women and children. What, in this role, matters most to you?
The cat gives birth to whole litters and defends them with all claws out — that is why women in labor call upon me. Fertility, birth, milk, the first cry: these are my tenderest domains. They carry the aegis with a cat's head as a shield against what threatens the fragile. I do not judge men by their great deeds or their conquests; I guard them in their most vulnerable hour, at the cradle and at the bedside. Many gods demand temples of stone and victories. For me, it is enough that a mother sleeps peacefully and that a child breathes in the night. To protect the small, the weak, the living — that is where all my power lies, and I want no other.
To protect the small, the weak, the living — that is where all my power lies.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Bastet's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.