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Title: The collected works of Henrik Ibsen, Vol. 05 (of 11)

Author: Henrik Ibsen

Editor: William Archer

Release date: September 8, 2021 [eBook #66240]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: William Heinemann, 1907

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THE COLLECTED WORKS OF

HENRIK IBSEN

VOLUME V

EMPEROR AND GALILEAN

(1873)

THE COLLECTED WORKS OF

HENRIK IBSEN

Copyright Edition.       Complete in 11 Volumes.

Crown 8vo, price 4s. each.

ENTIRELY REVISED AND EDITED BY

WILLIAM ARCHER

Vol. I. | Lady Inger, The Feast at Solhoug, Love’s Comedy
Vol. II. | The Vikings, The Pretenders
Vol. III. | Brand
Vol. IV. | Peer Gynt
Vol. V. | Emperor and Galilean (2 parts)
Vol. VI. | The League of Youth, Pillars of Society
Vol. VII. | A Doll’s House, Ghosts
Vol. VIII. | An Enemy of the People, The Wild Duck
Vol. IX. | Rosmersholm, The Lady from the Sea
Vol. X. | Hedda Gabler, The Master Builder
Vol. XI. | Little Eyolf, John Gabriel Borkman, When We Dead Awaken

London: WILLIAM HEINEMANN

21 Bedford Street, W.C.

THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
HENRIK IBSEN

Copyright Edition

VOLUME V

EMPEROR AND

GALILEAN

A WORLD-HISTORIC DRAMA

WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY

WILLIAM ARCHER

LONDON

WILLIAM HEINEMANN

1911

First printed September 1907

Second Impression April 1911

Copyright 1907 by William Heinemann

CONTENTS

| PAGE
Introduction | vii
Caesar’s Apostasy | 1
    Translated by William Archer
The Emperor Julian | 225
    Translated by William Archer

EMPEROR AND GALILEAN.

INTRODUCTION.

In a speech delivered at Copenhagen in 1898, Ibsen said: “It is now thirty-four years since I journeyed southward by way of Germany and Austria, and passed through the Alps on May 9. Over the mountains the clouds hung like a great dark curtain. We plunged in under it, steamed through the tunnel, and suddenly found ourselves at Miramare, where the beauty of the South, a strange luminosity, shining like white marble, suddenly revealed itself to me, and left its mark on my whole subsequent production, even though it may not all have taken the form of beauty.” Whatever else may have had its origin in this memorable moment of revelation, Emperor and Galilean certainly sprang from it. The poet felt an irresistible impulse to let his imagination loose in the Mediterranean world of sunshine and marble that had suddenly burst upon him. Antiquity sprang to life before his mental vision, and he felt that he must capture and perpetuate the shining pageant in the medium of his art. We see throughout the play how constantly the element of external picturesqueness was present to his mind. Though it has only once or twice found its way to the stage,[1] it is nevertheless—for good and for ill—a great piece of scene-painting.

It did not take him long to decide upon the central figure for his picture. What moved him, as it must move every one who brings to Rome the smallest scintilla of imagination, was the spectacle of a superb civilisation, a polity of giant strength and radiant beauty, obliterated, save for a few pathetic fragments, and overlaid by forms of life in many ways so retrograde and inferior. The Rome of the sixties, even more than the Rome of to-day, was a standing monument to the triumph of mediævalism over antiquity. The poet who would give dramatic utterance to the emotions engendered by this spectacle must almost inevitably pitch upon the decisive moment in the transition—and Ibsen found that moment in the reaction of Julian. He attributed to it more “world-historic” import than the sober historian is disposed to allow it. Gaetano Negri[2] shows very clearly (what, indeed, is plain enough in Gibbon) that Julian’s action had not the critical importance which Ibsen assigns to it. His brief reign produced, as nearly as possible, no effect at all upon the evolution of Christianity. None the less is it true that Julian made a spiritual struggle of what had been, to his predecessors, a mere question of politics, one might almost say of police. Never until his day did the opposing forces confront each other in full consciousness of what was at stake; and never after his day had they even the semblance of equality requisite to give the struggle dramatic interest. As a dramatist, then—whatever the historian may say—Ibsen chose his protagonist with unerring instinct. Julian was the last, and not the least, of the heroes of antiquity.

Ibsen had been in Rome only two or three months when he wrote to Björnson (September 16, 1864): “I am busied with a long poem, and have in preparation a tragedy, Julianus Apostata, a piece of work which I set about with intense gusto, and in which I believe I shall succeed. I hope to have both finished next spring, or, at any rate, in the course of the summer.” As regards Julianus Apostata, this hope was very far astray, for nine years elapsed before the play was finished.[3] Not till May 4, 1866, is the project again mentioned, when Ibsen writes to his friend, Michael Birkeland, that, though the Danish poet, Hauch, has in the meantime produced a play on the same theme, he does not intend to abandon it. On May 21, 1866, he writes to his publisher, Hegel, that, now that Brand is out of hand, he is still undecided what subject to tackle next. “I feel more and more disposed,” he says, “to set to work in earnest at Kejser Julian, which I have had in mind for two years.” He feels sure that Hauch’s conception of the subject must be entirely different from his; and he does not intend to read Hauch’s play. On July 22, 1866, he writes from Frascati to Paul Botten-Hansen that he is “wrestling with a subject and knows that he will soon get the upper hand of the brute.” His German editors take this to refer to Emperor and Galilean, and they are probably right; but it is not quite certain. The work he actually produced was Peer Gynt; and we know that he had a third subject in mind at the time. We hear no more of Julian until October 28, 1870, when, in his autobiographic letter to Peter Hansen, he writes from Dresden: “... Here I live in a tediously well-ordered community. What will become of me when at last I actually reach home! I must seek salvation in remoteness of subject, and think of attacking Kejser Julian.”

This was, in fact, to be his next work; but two years and a half were still to pass before he finally “got the upper hand of the brute.” On January 18, 1871, he writes to Hegel: “Your supposition that Julian is so far advanced that it may go to the printers next month arises from a misunderstanding. The first part is finished; I am working at the second part; but the third part is not even begun. This third part will, however, go comparatively quickly, and I confidently hope to place the whole in your hands by the month of June.” This is the first mention we have of the division into three parts, which he ultimately abandoned. If Hegel looked for the manuscript in June, he looked in vain. On July 12 Ibsen wrote to him: “Now for the reason of my long silence: I am hard at work on Kejser Julian. This book will be my chief work, and it is engrossing all my thoughts and all my time. That positive view of the world which the critics have so long been demanding of me, they will find here.” Then he asks Hegel to procure for him three articles on Julian by Pastor Listov, which had appeared in the Danish paper, Fædrelandet, and inquires whether there is in Danish any other statement of the facts of Julian’s career. “I have Neander’s German works on the subject; also D. Strauss’s; but the latter’s book contains nothing but argumentative figments,[4] and that sort of thing I can do myself. It is facts that I require.” His demand for more facts, even at this stage of the proceedings, shows that his work must still have been in a pretty fluid state.

Two months later (September 24, 1871) Ibsen wrote to Brandes, who had apparently been urging him to “hang out a banner” or nail his colours to the mast: “While I have been busied upon Julian, I have become, in a way, a fatalist; and yet this play will be a sort of a banner. Do not be afraid, however, of any tendency-nonsense: I look at the characters, at the conflicting designs, at history, and do not concern myself with the ‘moral’ of it all. Of course, you will not confound the moral of history with its philosophy; for that must inevitably shine forth as the final verdict on the conflicting and conquering forces.” On December 27 (still from Dresden) he writes to Hegel: “My new work goes steadily forward. The first part, Julian and the Philosophers, in three acts, is already copied out.... I am busily at work upon the second part, which will go quicker and be considerably shorter; the third part, on the other hand, will be somewhat longer.” To the same correspondent, on April 24, 1872, he reports the second part almost finished. “The third and last part,” he says, “will be mere child’s play. The spring has now come, and the warm season is my best time for working.” To Brandes, on May 31, he writes, “I go on wrestling with Julian”; and on July 23 (from Berchtesgaden) “That monster Julian has still such a grip of me that I cannot shake him off.” On August 8 he announces to Hegel that he has “completed the second part of the trilogy. The first part, Julian and the Philosophers, a play in three acts, will make about a hundred printed pages. The second part, Julian’s Apostasy, a play in three acts, of which I am now making a fair copy, will be of about equal length. The third play, Julian on the Imperial Throne, will run to five acts, and my preparations for it are so far advanced that I shall get it out of hand very much quicker than the others. What I have done forms a whole in itself, and could quite well be published separately; but for the sake of the complete impression I think it most advisable that all three plays should appear together.”

Two months later (October 14) the poet is back in Dresden, and writes as follows to a new and much-valued friend, Mr Edmund Gosse: “I am working daily at Julianus Apostata, and ... hope that it may meet with your approval. I am putting into this book a part of my own spiritual life; what I depict, I have, under other forms, myself gone through, and the historic theme I have chosen has also a much closer relation to the movements of our own time than one might at first suppose. I believe such a relation to be indispensable to every modern treatment of so remote a subject, if it is, as a poem, to arouse interest.” In a somewhat later letter to Mr. Gosse he says: “I have kept strictly to history.... And yet I have put much self-anatomy into this book.”

In February 1873 the play was finished. On the 4th of that month Ibsen writes to his old friend Ludvig Daae that he is on the point of beginning his fair copy of what he can confidently say will be his “Hauptwerk,” and wants some guidance as to the proper way of spelling Greek names. Oddly enough, he is still in search of facts, and asks for information as to the Vita Maximi of Eunapius, which has not been accessible to him. Two days later (February 6) he writes to Hegel: “I have the great pleasure of being able to inform you that my long work is finished—and more to my satisfaction than any of my earlier works. The book is entitled Emperor and Galilean, a World-Drama in Two Parts. It contains: Part First, Caesar’s Apostasy; play in five acts (170 pp.); Part Second, The Emperor Julian, play in five acts (252 pp.).... Owing to the growth of the idea during the process of composition, I shall have to make another fair copy of the first play. But it will not become longer in the process; on the contrary, I hope to reduce it by about twenty pages.... This play has been to me a labour of Hercules—not the actual composition:composition: that has been easy—but the effort it has cost me to live myself into a fresh and visual realisation of so remote and so unfamiliar an age.” On February 23, he writes to Ludvig Daae, discussing further the orthography of the Greek names, and adding: “My play deals with a struggle between two irreconcileable powers in the life of the world—a struggle which will always repeat itself. Because of this universality, I call the book ‘a world-historic drama.’ For the rest, there is in the character of Julian, as in most that I have written during my riper years, more of my own spiritual experience than I care to acknowledge to the public. But it is at the same time an entirely realistic piece of work. The figures stood solidly before my eyes in the light of their time—and I hope they will so stand before the readers’ eyes.”

The book was not published until the autumn (October 16, 1873). On September 8, Ibsen wrote to Brandes that he was daily expecting its appearance. “I hear from Norway,” he went on, “that Björnson, though he cannot know anything about the book, has declared it to be ‘Atheism,’ adding that it was inevitable it should come to that with me. What the book is or is not I won’t attempt to decide; I only know that I have energetically seen a fragment of the history of humanity, and what I saw I have tried to reproduce.” On the very day of the book’s appearance, he again writes to Brandes from Dresden: “The direction public affairs have taken in these parts gives this poem an actuality I myself had not foreseen.”

A second edition of Emperor and Galilean appeared in December 1873. In the following January Ibsen writes to Mr. Gosse, who had expressed some regret at his abandonment of verse: “The illusion I wished to produce was that of reality. I wished to leave on the reader’s mind the impression that what he had read had actually happened. By employing verse I should have counteracted my own intention.... The many everyday, insignificant characters, whom I have intentionally introduced, would have become indistinct and mixed up with each other had I made them all speak in rhythmic measure. We no longer live in the days of Shakespeare.... The style ought to conform to the degree of ideality imparted to the whole presentment. My play is no tragedy in the ancient acceptation. My desire was to depict human beings and therefore I would not make them speak the language of the gods.” A year later (January 30, 1875) he thus answers a criticism by George Brandes: “I cannot but find an inconsistency between your disapproval of the doctrine of necessity contained in my book, and your approval of something very similar in Paul Heyse’s Kinder der Welt. For in my opinion it comes to much the same thing whether, in writing of a person’s character, I say ‘It runs in his blood’ or ‘He is free—under necessity.’”

An expression in the same letter throws light on the idea which may be called the keystone of the arch of thought erected in this play. “Only entire nations,” Ibsen writes, “can join in great intellectual movements. A change of front in our conception of life and of the world is no parochial matter; and we Scandinavians, as compared with other European nations, have not yet got beyond the parish-council standpoint. But nowhere do you find a parish-council anticipating and furthering ‘the third empire.’” To the like effect runs a passage in a speech delivered at Stockholm, September 24, 1887: “I have sometimes been called a pessimist: and indeed I am one, inasmuch as I do not believe in the eternity of human ideals. But I am also an optimist, inasmuch as I fully and confidently believe in the ideals’ power of propagation and of development. Especially and definitely do I believe that the ideals of our time, as they pass away, are tending towards that which, in my drama of Emperor and Galilean, I have designated as ‘the third empire.’ Let me therefore drain my glass to the growing, the coming time.”

The latest (so far as I know) of Ibsen’s references to this play is perhaps the most significant of all. It occurs in a letter to the Danish-German scholar Julius Hoffory, written from Munich, February 26, 1888: “Emperor and Galilean is not the first work I wrote in Germany, but doubtless the first that I wrote under the influence of German spiritual life. When, in the autumn of 1868, I came from Italy to Dresden, I brought with me the plan of The League of Youth, and wrote that play in the following winter. During my four years’ stay in Rome, I had merely made various historical studies, and taken sundry notes, for Emperor and Galilean; I had not sketched out any definite plan, much less written any of it. My view of life was still, at that time, National-Scandinavian, wherefore I could not master the foreign material. Then, in Germany, I lived through the great time, the year of the war, and the development which followed it. This brought with it for me, at many points, an impulse of transformation. My conception of world-history and of human life had hitherto been a national one. It now widened into a racial conception; and then I could write Emperor and Galilean.”

I have now brought together those utterances of Ibsen’s which relate the external history of the great double-drama, and give us some insight into the spiritual influences which inspired and shaped it. We have seen that, at the time of its completion, he confidently regarded it as his masterpiece. It is the habit of many artists always to think their last work their best; but there is nothing to show that this was one of Ibsen’s foibles. Moreover, even towards the end of his life, when the poet was asked by Professor Schofield, of Harvard, what work he considered his greatest, he replied, Emperor and Galilean. If this was his deliberate and lasting opinion, we have here another curious instance of the tendency, so frequent among authors, to capricious over-valuation of one or another of their less successful efforts. Certainly we should be very sorry to miss this splendid fresco of the decadent Empire from the list of Ibsen’s works; but neither technically nor intellectually—unless I am very much mistaken—can it rank among his masterpieces.

Of all historical plays it is perhaps the most strictly historical. Apart from some unimportant chronological rearrangements, the main lines of Julian’s career are reproduced with extraordinary fidelity. The individual occurrences of the first play are for the most part invented, and the dialogue freely composed; but the second play is a mere mosaic of historical or legendary incidents, while a large part of the dialogue is taken, almost word for word, either from Julian’s own writings, or from other historical or quasi-historical documents. I will try to distinguish briefly between the elements of history and fiction in the first play: in the second there is practically no fiction save the fictions of Gregory and the ecclesiastical historians.

The details of the first act have no historical foundation. Gallus was not appointed Caesar on any such occasion as Ibsen describes; and there seems to be no hint of any intrigue between him and Helena. The character of Agathon is fictitious, though all that is related of Julian’s life in Cappadocia is historical. The meeting with Libanius is an invention; and it was to Nicomedia, not to Pergamus, that Julian was sent shortly after the elevation of his brother to the second place in the Empire.

The chronological order of the events on which the second and third acts are founded is reversed by Ibsen. Julian fell under the influence of Maximus before ever he went to Athens. Eunapius relates his saying, “I go where torches light themselves, and where statues smile,” or words to that effect; but they were spoken at Pergamus to Chrysantius, a Neo-Platonist, who, while deprecating the thaumaturgic methods of Maximus, averred that he himself had witnessed this marvel. For the details of the symposium at Ephesus there is no foundation, though Gregory and others relate weird legends of supernatural experiences which Julian underwent at the instance of Maximus. Not till after the disgrace and death of Gallus did Julian proceed to Athens, where he did not study under Libanius. Indeed, I cannot discover that he ever personally encountered Libanius before his accession to the throne. It is true that Gregory and Basil were his fellow students at Athens; but the tender friendship which Ibsen represents as existing between them is certainly imaginary.

All the military events at Paris, and the story of Julian’s victory over Knodomar, are strictly historical. Helena, however, did not die at Paris, but at Vienne, after her husband had assumed the purple. Her death was said to have been indirectly due to a jealous machination of the Empress Eusebia; but the incident of the poisoned fruit is quite fictitious, and equally so are the vague enormities revealed in the dying woman’s delirium. From the fact that Julian is strangely silent about his wife, we may conjecture that their marriage was not a happy one; but this is all the foundation Ibsen had to build upon.[5]

For the scene in the Catacombs at Vienne there is nothing that can fairly be called a historic basis. It is true that, after assuming the purple, Julian did at one time endanger his position by shutting himself away from his soldiery; it is true, or at least it is related, that Julian “brought from Greece into Gaul the high priest of the mysteries—the Hierophant, as he was called [not Maximus]—and did not decide to rebel until he had, with the greatest secrecy, accomplished the prescribed sacred rites.” There is also a vague, and probably mythical, report of his having gone through some barbarous ceremony of purification, in order to wipe out the stain of his baptism. On such slight suggestions did Ibsen build up the elaborate fabric of his fifth act. The character of Sallust, like that of Oribases, is historical: but of any approach to double-dealing on the part of the excellent Sallust there is no hint. As there is no foundation for the infidelity of the living Helena, so there is no foundation for the part played by Helena dead in determining Julian’s apostasy.

While Ibsen invents, however, he does not falsify; it is when he ceases to invent (paradoxically enough) that falsification sets in. In all essentials, this first play is a representation of the youth of Julian as just as it is vivid. His character is very truly portrayed—his intellectual and moral earnestness, his superstition, his vanity, his bravery, his military genius. The individual scenes are full of poetic and dramatic inspiration. There may be some question, indeed, as to the artistic legitimacy of the employment of the supernatural in the third act; but of its imaginative power there can be no doubt. The drama progresses in an ever-ascending scale of interest, from the idyllic-spectacular opening, through the philosophic second act, the mystic third act, the stirring and terrible fourth act, up to the magnificent poetic melodrama of the fifth. In a slightly old-fashioned, romantic style, the play is as impressive to the imagination as it is, in all essentials, faithful to historic fact.

When Julian has ascended the throne, a wholly different method of treatment sets in. We could almost guess from internal evidence, what Ibsen’s letters prove to be the fact—that he underwent a decisive change of mental attitude during the process of composition. The original first part, we see (that is to say the three-act play which was to have been called Julian and the Philosophers), was finished some time before January 18, 1871, on which date he tells Hegel that he is already at work on the second part. But January 18, 1871, was the very day on which, at Versailles, the King of Prussia was proclaimed German Emperor; so that the first part must have been written before the Imperialisation of Germany was even to be foreseen. While the poet was engaged upon the second part of the “trilogy” he then designed, he was doubtless brooding over the great event of January 18, and gradually realising its nature and consequences. That change in his mental attitude was taking place, which in his letter to Hoffory (p. xvi.) he described as the transition from a national to a racial standpoint. While in January he “confidently hopes” to have the whole play finished in June, July finds him, to all appearance, no further advanced, and (very significantly) asking for “facts,” documents of detail, whereof, in writing the first play, he had felt no need. At the same time he tells Hegel that the critics will find in the play that positive view of the world for which they have long been clamouring—a Weltanschauung, we may fairly conjecture, at which he has arrived during the six months’ interval since his last letter.

What, then, was that “positive view”? It can have been nothing else than the theory of the “third empire,” which is to absorb both Paganism and Christianity, and is to mark, as it were, the maturity of the race, in contrast to its Pagan childhood and its Christian adolescence. (Compare the scene between Julian and Maximus at the end of Part II. Act III.) The analogy between this theory and the Nietzschean conception of the “Overman” need not here be emphasised. It is sufficient to note that Ibsen had come to conceive world-history as moving, under the guidance of a Will which works through blinded, erring, and sacrificed human instruments, towards a “third empire,” in which the jarring elements of flesh and spirit shall be reconciled.

It may seem like a play on the word “empire” to connect this concept with the establishment in January 1871 of a political confederation of petty States, compared with which even Julian’s “orbis terrarum” was a world-empire indeed. But there is ample proof that in Ibsen’s mind political unification, the formation of large aggregates inspired by a common idea, figured as a preliminary to the coming of the “third empire.” In no other sense can we read the letters to Hoffory and Brandes cited above (p. xv.); and I give in a footnote[6] a reference to other passages of similar tenor. “But Julian,” it may be said, “represented precisely the ideal of political cohesion which was revived in the unification of Germany; why, then, should Ibsen, in writing the second play, have (so to speak) turned against his hero?” The reason, I think, was that Ibsen had come to feel that a loose political unity could be of little avail without the spiritual fusion implied in a world-religion; and this fusion it was Julian’s tragic error to oppose. He was a political imperialist by inheritance and as a matter of course; but what he really cared for, the point on which he bent his will, was the restoration of polytheism with all its local cults. And here Ibsen parted company with him. He sympathised to the full with Julian’s rebellion against certain phases of Christianity—against book-worship, death-worship, other-worldliness, hypocrisy, intolerance. He had himself gone through this phase of feeling. During his first years in Rome, he had seen the ruins of the ancient world of light and glory sicklied o’er with the pale cast of mediaevalism; and he had ardently sympathised with Julian’s passionate resentment against the creed which had defamed and defaced the old beauty in the name of a truth that was so radically corrupted as to be no longer true. In this mood he had conceived and in great measure executed the First Part, as we now possess it. But further study of detail, in the light of that new political conception which had arisen out of the events of 1870-71, had shown him that the secret of Julian’s failure lay in the hopeless inferiority of the religion he championed to the religion he attacked. That religion, with all its corruptions, came to seem a necessary stage in the evolution of humanity; and the poet asked himself, perhaps, whether he, any more than Julian, had even now a more practical substitute to offer in its place. In this sense, I take it, we must read his repeated assertion that he had put into the play much of his own “spiritual experience.” In the concept of the “third empire” he found, I repeat, the keystone to his arch of thought, to which everything else must be brought into due relation. He re-wrote (it seems probable) the scene of the symposium (Part I. Act III.) in order to emphasise this idea; and it entirely dominated and conditioned the whole of the second play.

But what was the effect of the concept? It was to make Julian a plaything in the hands of some power, some implicitly-postulated World-Will, working slowly, deviously, but relentlessly, towards a far-off, dimly-divined consummation. Christianity, no doubt, was also an instrument of this power; but it was an instrument predestined (for the moment) to honourable uses, while its opponent was fated to dishonour. Thus the process of the second part is a gradual sapping of Julian’s intelligence and power of moral discrimination; while the World-Will, acting always on the side of Christianity, becomes indistinguishable from the mechanical Providence of the vulgar melodramatist.

Whatever we may think of the historical or philosophical value of the theory of the “third empire,” there can be little doubt that its effect upon the play has been artistically disastrous. It has led Ibsen to cog the dice against Julian in a way from which even a Father of the Church might have shrunk. He has not only accepted uncritically all the invectives of Gregory, and the other Christian assailants of “Antichrist,” but he has given to many historic events a fictitious twist, and always to Julian’s disadvantage.[7]

It would need a volume to apply to each incident of the Second Part the test of critical examination. I must be content with a rough outline of the distorting effect of the poet’s preoccupation with his “world-historic” idea.

In the first place, he makes Julian much more of a persecutor than even his enemies allege him to have been. Nothing is more certain than that Julian was sincerely convinced of the inefficacy of violence as a means of conversion, and keenly alive to the impolicy of conferring upon his opponents the distinction of martyrdom. Tried by the standards of his age, he was a marvellously humane man. Compared with his uncle, Constantine, his cousin Constantius, his brother Gallus—to go no further back among wearers of the purple—he seems like a being of another race. It is quite true, as his enemies allege, that his clemency was politic as well as humane; but, whatever its motives, it was real and consistent. Gregory, while trying to make him out a monster, explicitly and repeatedly complains that he denied to Christians the crown of martyrdom. Saint Jerome speaks of his “blanda persecutio”—persecution by methods of mildness. The worst that can be alleged against him is a lack of diligence in punishing popular outrages upon the Christians (generally of the nature of reprisals) which occurred here and there under his rule. That he incited to such riots is nowhere alleged; and it is difficult to judge whether his failure to repress them was due to malicious inertia or to actual lack of power. The policing of the empire cannot have been an easy matter, and Julian was occupied, during the whole of his brief reign, in concentrating his forces for the Persian expedition. It cannot be pretended that his tolerance rose to the pitch of impartiality. He favoured Pagans, and he more or less oppressed Christians; though a considerable part of his alleged oppression lay in the withdrawal of extravagant privileges conferred on them by his predecessors. In his attempt to undo some of the injustices that Christians had committed during their forty years of predominance—such as the seizure of temple glebes and so forth—he was doubtless guilty, on his own account, of more than one injustice. Wrong breeds wrong, and, in a time of religious dissolution and reconstruction, equity is always at the mercy of passion, resentment and greed. There was even, in some of Julian’s proceedings, a sort of perfidy and insolence that must have been peculiarly galling to the Christians. It would not be altogether unjust to accuse him of having instituted against the new religion a campaign of chicanery; but that is something wholly different from a campaign of blood. The alleged “martyrdoms” of his reign are few in number,[8] are recounted by late and prejudiced authorities, are accompanied by all the manifestly fabulous details characteristic of such stories, and are none of them, with the smallest show of credibility, laid to the account of Julian himself.

But what is the impression we receive from Ibsen? We are given to understand that Julian drifted into a campaign of sanguinary atrocity, full of horrors as great as those recorded or imagined of the persecutions under Decius or Diocletian. It is made to seem, moreover, that he was personally concerned in some of the worst of these horrors. We are asked to conceive his life as being passed with the mingled shrieks and psalms of his victims ringing in his ears. He is made to gloat in imagination over their physical agonies. (“Where are the Galileans now? Some under the executioner’s hands, others flying through the narrow streets, ashy pale with terror, their eyes starting from their heads,” &c. &c.; p. 314). He is haunted in his last hours by ghastly visions of whole troops of martyrs. Moreover, his persecutions are made particularly hateful by the fact that they either fall upon or threaten his personal friends. The companion of his childhood, Agathon (a fictitious personage), is goaded by remorseless cruelty to that madness which eventually makes him the assassin of Antichrist. Gregory of Nazianzus is first made (what he never was) Julian’s most cherished comrade, and is then shown as doing what he never did—playing a noble and heroic part in personally defying the tyrant. Mad and monstrous designs are attributed to Julian, such as that of searching out (with the aid of tortures) and destroying all the writings of the Christians. This trait appears to be suggested by a letter from Julian to the Prefect of Egypt enjoining him to collect and preserve all the books which had belonged to George, Bishop of Alexandria: “He had many of them concerning philosophy and rhetoric, and many of them that contained the doctrines of the impious Galileans. I would willingly see the last named all destroyed, if I did not fear that some good and useful books might, at the same time, be destroyed by mistake. Make, therefore, the most minute search concerning them. In this search the secretary of George may be of great help to you.... But if he try to deceive you in this affair, submit him immediately to the torture.” It is needless to remark upon the difference between a rhetorical wish that all the Christian books in a particular library might be destroyed, and an actual attempt to annihilate all the Christian writings in the world. Thus not only are the clearest evidences of Julian’s abstention from violence disregarded, but all sorts of minor incidents are misrepresented to his disadvantage.

A particularly grave injustice to his character meets us almost on the threshold of the Second Part. The execution of the Treasurer, Ursulus, by the military tribunal which Julian appointed on coming to the throne, is condemned by all historians and was regretted by Julian himself. No doubt he was culpably remiss in not preventing it; but Ibsen, without the slightest warrant, gives his conduct a peculiarly odious character in making it appear that he deliberately sacrificed the old man to his resentment of a blow administered to his vanity in the matter of the Eastern Ambassadors. There is nothing whatever to connect Ursulus with this incident.

The failure of Julian’s effort to rebuild the Temple of Jerusalem is a matter of unquestioned history. It is impossible now to determine, though it is easy to conjecture, what natural accidents were magnified by fanaticism into supernatural intervention. But what does Ibsen do? He is not even content with the comparatively rational account of the matter given by Gregory within a few months of its occurrence. He adopts Ammian’s later and much exaggerated account; he makes Jovian, who had nothing to do with the affair, avouch it with the authority of an eye-witness; and, to give the miracle a still more purposeful significance, he represents it as the instrument of the conversion of Jovian, who was to be Julian’s successor, and the undoer of his work. Under ordinary circumstances, this would be a quite admissible re-arrangement of history, designed to save the introduction of another character. But the very fact that the poet is, throughout the play, so obviously sacrificing dramatic economy and concentration to historic accuracy, renders this heightening of the alleged miracle something very like a falsification of evidence. It arises, of course, from no desire to be unjust to Julian, for whom Ibsen’s sympathy remains unmistakable, but from a determination to make him the tragic victim of a World-Will pitilessly using him as an instrument to its far-off ends.

But this conception of a vague external power interfering at all sorts of critical moments to baffle designs of which, for one reason or another, it disapproves, belongs to the very essence of melodrama. Therefore the incident of the Temple of Jerusalem brings with it painful associations of The Sign of the Cross; and still more suggestive of that masterpiece is the downfall of the Temple of Apollo at Daphne which brings the second act of the Second Part to a close. Here the poet deliberately departs from history for the sake of a theatrical effect. The temple of Apollo was not destroyed by an earthquake, nor in any way that even suggested a miracle. It was simply burnt to the ground; and though there was no evidence to show how the conflagration arose, the suspicion that it was the work of Christians cannot be regarded as wholly unreasonable.

An incident of which Ibsen quite uncritically accepts the accounts of Julian’s enemies is his edict imposing what we should now call a test on the teachers in public (municipal) schools. This was probably an impolitic act; but an act of frantic tyranny it certainly was not. Homer and Hesiod were in Julian’s eyes sacred books. They were the Scriptures of his religion; and he decreed that they should not be expounded to children, at the public expense, by “atheists” who (unless they were hypocrites as well) were bound to cast ridicule and contempt on them as religious documents. It is not as though Christians of that age could possibly have been expected to treat the Olympian divinities with the decent reverence with which even an agnostic teacher of to-day will speak of the Gospel story. Such tolerance was foreign to the whole spirit of fourth-century Christianity. It was nothing if not intolerant; and the teacher would have been no good Christian who did not make his lessons the vehicle of proselytism. There is something a little paradoxical in the idea that tolerance should go the length of endowing the propagation of intolerance. It is quite false to represent Julian’s measure as an attempt to deprive Christians of all instruction, and hurl them back into illiterate barbarism. He explicitly states that Christian children are as welcome as ever to attend the schools.

As the drama draws to a close, Ibsen shows his hero at every step more pitifully hoodwinked and led astray by the remorseless World-Will. He regains, towards the end, a certain tragic dignity, but it is at the expense of his sanity. “Quos deus vult perdere prius dementat.” Now, there is no real evidence for the frenzied megalomania, the “Cäsarenwahn,” which the poet attributes to Julian. It is not even certain that his conduct of the Persian expedition was so rash and desperate as it is represented to be. Gibbon (no blind partisan of Julian’s) has shown that there is a case to be made even for the burning of the fleet. The mistake, perhaps, lay, not so much in burning it, as in having it there at all. Even as events fell out, the result of the expedition was by no means the greatest disaster that ever befell the Roman arms. The commonplace, self-indulgent Jovian brought the army off, ignominiously indeed, but in tolerable preservation. Had Julian lived, who knows but that the burning of the ships might now have ranked as one of the most brilliant audacities recorded in the annals of warfare?

It would be too much, perhaps, to expect any poet to resist the introduction of the wholly unhistoric “I am hammering the Emperor’s coffin,” and “Thou hast conquered, Galilean!” They certainly fell in too aptly with Ibsen’s scheme for him to think of weighing their evidences. But one significant instance may be noted of the way in which he twists things to the detriment either of Julian’s character or of his sanity. In the second scene of the fifth act, he makes Julian contemplate suicide by drowning, in the hope that, if his body disappeared, the belief would spread abroad that he had been miraculously snatched up into the communion of the gods. Now Gregory, it is true, mentions the design of suicide; but he mentions it as an incident of Julian’s delirium after his wound. Gregory’s virulence of hatred makes him at best a suspected witness; but even he did not hold Julian capable of so mad a fantasy before his intellect had been overthrown by physical suffering and fever.

Thus from step to step, throughout the Second Part, does Ibsen disparage and degrade his hero. It is not for me to discuss the value of the conception of the “third empire” to which poor Julian was sacrificed. But one thing we may say with confidence—namely, that the postulated World-Will does not work by such extremely melodramatic methods as those which Ibsen attributes to it. So far as its incidents are concerned, the Second Part might have been designed by a superstitious hagiologist, or a melodramatist desirous of currying favour with the clergy. Nay, it might almost seem as though the spirit of Gregory of Nazianzus—himself a dramatist after a fashion—had entered into Ibsen during the composition of the play. Certainly, if the World-Will decreed that Julian should be sacrificed in the cause of the larger Imperialism, it made of Ibsen, too, its instrument for completing the immolation.

In translating Kejser og Galilæer I was enabled (by arrangement) to avail myself of occasional aid from Miss Catherine Ray’s version of the play, published in 1876. To Miss Ray belongs the credit of having been the first English translator of Ibsen, as Mr. Gosse was his first expositor. The text of my earlier rendering has been very carefully revised for the present edition.

One difficulty has encountered me at every turn. The Norwegians use only one word—Riget (German das Reich)—to cover the two ideas represented in English by “empire” and “kingdom.” In most cases “empire” is clearly the proper rendering, since it would be absurd to speak in English of the Roman or the Byzantine Kingdom. But it would be no less impossible to say, in the Lord’s Prayer, “Thine is the empire and the power and the glory.” In the scene with Maximus in Ephesus, and in several other passages, I have used the word “empire” where “kingdom,” in its Biblical sense, would have been preferable, were it not necessary to keep the analogy or contrast between the temporal and the spiritual “empire” clearly before the reader’s mind. But at the end of the fifth act of Caesar’s Apostasy, where the Lord’s Prayer is interwoven with the dialogue, I have been forced to fall back on “kingdom.” The reader, then, will please remember that these two words stand for one word—Riget—in the original.

The verse from Homer quoted by Julian in the third act of the second play occurs in the twentieth book of the Odyssey (line 18). Ibsen prints the sentence which follows it as a second hexameter line; but either he or one of his authorities has apparently misread the passage in the treatise, Against the Cynic Heraclius, on which this scene is founded. No such line occurs in Homer; and in the attack on Heraclius, the phrase about the mad dog appears as part of the author’s text, not as a quotation. I have ventured, therefore, to “render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,” and print the phrase as Julian’s own.

1. It was acted at the Leipzig Stadttheater, December 5, 1896, and at the Belle-Alliance Theater, Berlin, on the occasion of the poet’s seventieth birthday, in March 1898. It must, of course, have been enormously cut down.

2. Julian the Apostate. 2 vols. London, 1905.

3. The poem was never finished at all. It is doubtless that of which a fragment has been recovered and is about to be published (1907).

4. It was, in fact, a pamphlet aimed at Frederick William IV. of Prussia, and entitled A Romanticist on the Throne of the Caesars.

5. I may, perhaps, be excused for quoting at this point an extract from a review of Negri’s Julian the Apostate, in which I tried to summarise the reasons of Julian’s hatred of Christianity: “Firstly, he was unmoved by the merits of the Christian ethic, even where it coincided with his own, because he saw it so flagrantly ignored by the corrupt Christianity of his day. A puritan in the purple, he was morally too Christian to be a Christian of the fourth-century Church. Secondly, he hated the pessimism of Christianity—that very throwing-forward of its hopes to the life beyond the grave which so eminently fitted it to a period of social catastrophe and dissolution. He found its heaven and hell vulgar and contemptible, and regarded the average Christian as a sort of spiritual brandy-tippler, who rejected, for a crude stimulant and anodyne, the delicate lemonade of Neo-Platonic polytheism. Thirdly, he resented what he called the ‘atheism’ of Christianity, its elimination of the divine from Nature, leaving it inanimate and chilly. Fourthly, like the earlier Emperors, he deemed Christianity anti-social, and the Christian potentially and probably, if not actually, a bad citizen of the Empire. Fifthly, he hated the aggressive intolerance of Christianity, its inability to live and let live, its polemical paroxysms, and iconoclastic frenzies.... These were the main elements in his anti-Christianity; and yet they are not, taken together, quite sufficient to account for the measureless scorn with which he invariably speaks of ‘Galileans.’ One cannot but feel that Christianity must have done him some personal injury, not clearly known to us. Was he simply humiliated by the hypocrisy he had had to practise in his boyhood and youth? Or was Ibsen right in divining some painful mystery behind his certainly unsatisfactory relations with his Christian consort, Helena?”

6. For the letter to Hoffory, see Correspondence, Letter 198. The letter to Brandes is numbered 115. See also letters to Hegel (177) and to Brandes (206). I may also refer to an extract from Ibsen’s commonplace book, published in the Die neue Rundschau, December 1906, in which he says, “We laugh at the four-and-thirty fatherlands of Germany: but the four-and-thirty fatherlands of Europe are equally ridiculous. North America is content with one, or—for the present—with two.” For a somewhat fuller treatment of this subject, see the Nineteenth Century and After, February 1907.

7. He has also, I think, taken too seriously Julian’s ironic self caricature in the Misopogon.

8. Between fifteen and twenty are enumerated by Allard (Julien l’Apostat), a writer who gravely reproduces the most extravagant figments of the hagiographers.

CAESAR’S APOSTASY

CHARACTERS.

The Emperor Contstantius.

The Empress Eusebia.

The Princess Helena, the Emperor’s sister.

Prince Gallus, the Emperor’s cousin.

Prince Julian, Gallus’s younger half-brother.

Memnon, an Ethiopian, the Emperor’s body-slave.

Potamon, a goldsmith.

Phocion, a dyer.

Eunapius, a hairdresser.

A Fruit-seller.

A Captain of the Watch.

A Soldier.

A Painted Woman.

A Paralytic Man.

A Blind Beggar.

Agathon, son of a Cappadocian vine-grower.

Libanius, a Philosopher.

Gregory of Nazianzus.

Basil of Caesarea.

Sallust of Perusia.

Hekebolius, a Theologian.

Maximus the Mystic.

Eutherius, Julian’s chamberlain.

Leontes, a Quaestor.

Myrrha, a slave.

Decentius, a Tribune.

Sintula, Julian’s Master of the Horse.

Florentius,
Severus, } Generals.

Oribases, a Physician.

Laipso,
Varro, } Subalterns.

Maurus, a Standard-bearer.

Soldiers, church-goers, heathen onlookers, courtiers, priests, students, dancing girls, servants, the Quaestor’s retinue, Gallic warriors.

Visions and voices.

The first act passes in Constantinople, the second in Athens, the third in Ephesus, the fourth in Lutetia in Gaul, and the fifth in Vienna [Vienne] in the same province. The action takes place during the ten years between A.D. 351 and A.D. 361.

CAESAR’S APOSTASY.

PLAY IN FIVE ACTS.

ACT FIRST.

Easter night in Constantinople. The scene is an open place, with trees, bushes, and overthrown statues, in the vicinity of the Imperial Palace. In the background, fully illuminated, stands the Imperial Chapel. To the right a marble balustrade, from which a staircase leads down to the water. Between the pines and cypresses appear glimpses of the Bosphorus and the Asiatic coast.

Service in the church. Soldiers of the Imperial Guard stand on the church steps. Great crowds of worshippers stream in. Beggars, cripples, and blind men at the doors. Heathen onlookers, fruit-sellers, and water-carriers fill up the place.

Hymn of Praise.

[Inside the church.]

Never-ending adoration

To the Cross of our salvation!

The Serpent is hurled

To the deepest abyss;

The Lamb rules the world;

All is peace, all is bliss.

Potamon the Goldsmith.

[Carrying a paper lantern, enters from the left, taps one of the soldiers on the shoulder, and asks:] Hist, good friend—when comes the Emperor?

The Soldier.

I cannot tell.

Phocion the Dyer.

[In the crowd, turning his head.] The Emperor? Did not some one ask about the Emperor? The Emperor will come a little before midnight—just before. I had it from Memnon himself.himself.

Eunapius the Barber.

[Rushes in hastily and pushes a Fruit-seller aside.] Out of the way, heathen!

The Fruit-seller.

Softly, sir!

Potamon.

The swine grumbles!

Eunapius.

Dog, dog!

Phocion.

Grumbling at a well-dressed Christian—at a man of the Emperor’s own faith!

Eunapius.

[Knocks the Fruit-seller down.] Into the gutter with you!

Potamon.

That’s right. Wallow there, along with your gods!

Phocion.

[Beating him with his stick.] Take that—and that—and that!

Eunapius.

[Kicking him.] And this—and this! I’ll baste your god-detested skin for you!

[The Fruit-seller hastens away.

Phocion.

[With the evident intention of being heard by the Captain of the Guard.] It is much to be desired that some one should bring this scene to our blessed Emperor’s ears. The Emperor has lately expressed his displeasure at the way in which we Christian citizens consort with the heathen, just as if no gulf divided us——

Potamon.

You refer to that placard in the market-places? I too have read it. And I hold that, as there is both true and false gold in the world——

Eunapius.

——we ought not to clip every one with the same shears; that is my way of thinking. There are still zealous souls among us, praise be to God!

Phocion.

We are far from being zealous enough, dear brethren! See how boldly these scoffers hold up their heads. How many of this rabble, think you, bear the sign of the cross or of the fish on their arms?

Potamon.

Not many—and yet they actually swarm in front of the Imperial Chapel——

Phocion.

——on such a thrice-sacred night as this——

Eunapius.

——blocking the way for true sons of the Church——

A Painted Woman.

[In the crowd.] Are Donatists true sons of the Church?

Phocion.

What? A Donatist? Are you a Donatist?

Eunapius.

What then? Are not you one?

Phocion.

I? I? May the lightning blast your tongue!

Potamon.

[Making the sign of the cross.] May plague and boils——!

Phocion.

A Donatist! You carrion! You rotten tree!

Potamon.

Right, right!

Phocion.

You brand for Satan’s furnace!

Potamon.

Right! Give it him; give it him, dear brother.brother.

Phocion.

[Pushing the Goldsmith away.] Hold your tongue get you behind me. I know you now;—you are Potamon the Manichæan!

Eunapius.

A Manichæan? A stinking heretic! Faugh, faugh!

Potamon.

[Holding up his paper lantern.] Heyday! Why, you are Phocion the Dyer, of Antioch! The Cainite!

Eunapius.

Woe is me, I have held communion with falsehood!

Phocion.

Woe is me, I have helped a son of Satan!

Eunapius.

[Boxing his ear.] Take that for your help!

Phocion.

[Returning the blow.] Oh, you abandoned hound!hound!

Potamon.

Accursed, accursed be ye both!

[A general fight; laughter and derision among the onlookers.

The Captain of the Guard.

[Calls to the soldiers.] The Emperor comes!

[The combatants are parted and carried with the stream of other worshippers into the church.

Hymn of Praise.

[From the high altar.]

The Serpent is hurled

To the deepest abyss;—

The Lamb rules the world,—

All is peace, all is bliss!

The Court enters in stately procession from the left. Priests with censers go before; after them men-at-arms and torch-bearers, courtiers and bodyguards. In their midst the Emperor Constantius, a man of thirty-four, of distinguished appearance, beardless, with brown curly hair; his eyes have a dark, distrustful expression; his gait and whole deportment betray uneasiness and debility. Beside him, on his left, walks the Empress Eusebia, a pale, delicate woman, the same age as the Emperor. Behind the imperial pair follows Prince Julian, a not yet fully developed youth of nineteen. He has black hair and the beginnings of a beard, sparkling brown eyes with a rapid glance; his court-dress sits badly upon him; his manners are notably awkward and abrupt. The Emperor’s sister, the Princess Helena, a voluptuous beauty of twenty-five, follows, accompanied by maidens and older women. Courtiers and men-at-arms close the procession. The Emperor’s body-slave, Memnon, a heavily-built, magnificently-dressed Ethiopian, is among them.

The Emperor.

[Stops suddenly, turns round to Prince Julian, and asks sharply.] Where is Gallus?

Julian.

[Turning pale.] Gallus? What would you with Gallus?

The Emperor.

There, I caught you!

Julian.

Sire——!

The Empress.

[Seizing the Emperor’s hand.] Come; come!

The Emperor.

Conscience cried aloud. What are you two plotting?

Julian.

We?

The Emperor.

You and he!

The Empress.

Oh, come; come, Constantius!

The Emperor.

So black a deed! What did the oracle answer?

Julian.

The oracle! By my Holy Redeemer——

The Emperor.

If any one maligns you, he shall pay for it at the stake. [Draws the Prince aside.] Oh, let us hold together, Julian! Dear kinsman, let us hold together!

Julian.

Everything lies in your hands, my beloved lord!

The Emperor.

My hands——!

Julian.

Oh, stretch them in mercy over us!

The Emperor.

My hands? What was in your mind as to my hands?

Julian.

[Grasps his hands and kisses them.] The Emperor’s hands are white and cool.

The Emperor.

What else should they be? What was in your mind? There I caught you again!

Julian.

[Kisses them again.] They are like rose-leaves in this moonlight night.

The Emperor.

Well, well, well, Julian!

The Empress.

Forward; it is time.

The Emperor.

To go in before the presence of the Lord! I—I! Oh, pray for me Julian! They will offer me the consecrated wine. I see it! It glitters in the golden chalice like serpents’ eyes—— [Shrieks.] Bloody eyes——! Oh, Jesus Christ, pray for me!

The Empress.

The Emperor is ill——!

The Princess Helena.

Where is Caesarius? The physician, the physician—summon him!

The Empress.

[Beckons.] Memnon, good Memnon!

[She speaks in a low voice to the slave.

Julian.

[Softly.] Sire, have pity, and send me far from here.

The Emperor.

Where would you go?

Julian.

To Egypt. I would fain go to Egypt, if you think fit. So many go thither—into the great solitude.

The Emperor.

Into the great solitude? Ha! In solitude one broods. I forbid you to brood.

Julian.

I will not brood, if only you will let me——Here my anguish of soul increases day by day. Evil thoughts flock around me. For nine days I have worn a hair shirt, and it has not protected me; for nine nights I have lashed myself with thongs, but scourging does not banish them.

The Emperor.

We must be steadfast, Julian! Satan is very busy in all of us. Speak with Hekebolius——

The Slave Memnon.

[To the Emperor.] It is time now——

The Emperor.

No, no, I will not——

Memnon.

[Seizing him by the wrist.] Come, gracious lord;—come, I say.

The Emperor.

[Draws himself up, and says with dignity.] Forward to the house of the Lord!

Memnon.

[Softly.] The other matter afterwards——

The Emperor.

[To Julian.] I must see Gallus.

[Julian folds his hands in supplication to the Empress behind the Emperor’s back.

The Empress.

[Hastily and softly.] Fear nothing!

The Emperor.

Remain without. Come not into the church with those thoughts in your mind. When you pray before the altar, it is to call down evil upon me.—Oh, lay not that sin upon your soul, my beloved kinsman!

[The procession moves forward towards the church. On the steps, beggars, cripples, and blind men crowd round the Emperor.

A Paralytic.

Oh, mightiest ruler on earth, let me touch the hem of thy garment, that I may become whole.

A Blind Man.

Pray for me, anointed of the Lord, that my sight may be restored!

The Emperor.

Be of good cheer, my son!—Memnon, scatter silver among them. In, in!

[The Court moves forward into the church, the doors of which are closed; the crowd gradually disperses, Prince Julian remaining behind in one of the avenues.

Julian.

[Looking towards the church.] What would he with Gallus? On this sacred night he cannot think to——! Oh, if I did but know—— [He turns and jostles against the blind man, who is departing.] Look where you go, friend!

The Blind Man.

I am blind, my lord!

Julian.

Still blind! Can you not yet see so much as yonder glittering star? Fie! man of little faith! Did not God’s anointed promise to pray for your sight?

The Blind Man.

Who are you, that mock at a blind brother?

Julian.

A brother in unbelief and blindness.

[He is about to go off to the left.

A Voice.

[Softly, among the bushes behind him.] Julian, Julian!

Julian.

[With a cry.] Ah!

The Voice.

[Nearer.] Julian!

Julian.

Stand, stand;—I am armed.armed. Beware!

A Young Man.

[Poorly clad, and with a traveller’s staff, appears among the trees.] Hush! It is I——

Julian.

Stand where you are! Do not come near me, fellow!

The Young Man.

Oh, do you not remember Agathon——?

Julian.

Agathon! What say you? Agathon was a boy——

Agathon.

Six years ago.—I knew you at once.

[Coming nearer.

Julian.

Agathon;—by the holy cross, but I believe it is!

Agathon.

Look at me; look well——

Julian.

[Embracing and kissing him.] Friend of my childhood! Playmate! Dearest of them all! And you are here? How wonderful! You have come all the long way over the mountains, and then across the sea,—the whole long way from Cappadocia?

Agathon.

I came two days ago, by ship, from Ephesus. Oh, how I have sought in vain for you these two days. At the palace gates the guards would not let me pass, and——

Julian.

Did you speak my name to any one? or say that you were in search of me?

Agathon.

No, I dared not, because——

Julian.

There you did right; never let any one know more than you needs must——.

Come hither, Agathon; out into the full moonlight, that I may see you.—How you have grown, Agathon;—how strong you look.

Agathon.

And you are paler.

Julian.

I cannot thrive in the air of the palace. I think it is unwholesome here.—’Tis far otherwise at Makellon. Makellon lies high. No other town in Cappadocia lies so high; ah, how the fresh snow-winds from the Taurus sweep over it——! Are you weary, Agathon?

Agathon.

Oh, in no wise.

Julian.

Let us sit down nevertheless. It is so quiet and lonely here. Close together; so! [Draws him down upon a seat beside the balustrade.]—“Can any good thing come out of Cappadocia,” they say. Yes—friends can come. Can anything be better?

[Looks long at him.

How was it possible that I did not know you at once? Oh, my beloved treasure, is it not just as when we were boys——?

Agathon.

[Sinking down before him.] I at your feet, as of old.

Julian.

No, no, no——!

Agathon.

Oh, let me kneel thus!

Julian.

Oh, Agathon, it is a sin and a mockery to kneel to me. If you but knew how sinful I have become. Hekebolius, my beloved teacher, is sorely concerned about me, Agathon. He could tell you——

How thick and moist your hair has grown; and how it curls.—But Mardonius—how goes it with him? His hair must be almost white now?

Agathon.

It is snow-white.

Julian.

How well Mardonius could interpret Homer! I amHomer! I am sure my old Mardonius has not his like at that.—Heroes embattled against heroes—and the gods above fanning the flames. I saw it all, as with my eyes.

Agathon.

Then your mind was set on being a great and victorious warrior.

Julian.

They were happy times, those six years in Cappadocia. Were the years longer then than now? It seems so, when I think of all they contained——

Yes, they were happy years. We at our books, and Gallus on his Persian horse. He swept over the plain like the shadow of a cloud.—Oh, but one thing you must tell me. The church——?

Agathon.

The church? Over the Holy Mamas’s grave?

Julian.

[Smiling faintly.] Which Gallus and I built Gallus finished his aisle; but I——; mine never fully prospered.—How has it gone on since?

Agathon.

Not at all. The builders said it was impossible as you had planned it.

Julian.

[Thoughtfully.] No doubt, no doubt. I wronged them in thinking them incapable. Now I know why it was not to be. I must tell you, Agathon;—Mamas was a false saint.

Agathon.

The Holy Mamas?

Julian.

That Mamas was never a martyr. His whole legend was a strange delusion. Hekebolius has, with infinite research, arrived at the real truth, and I myself have lately composed a slight treatise on the subject—a treatise, my Agathon, which certain philosophers are said, strangely enough, to have mentioned with praise in the lecture-rooms——

The Lord keep my heart free from vanity! The evil tempter has countless wiles; one can never know——.

That Gallus should succeed and I fail! Ah, my Agathon, when I think of that church-building, I see Cain’s altar——

Agathon.

Julian!

Julian.

God will have none of me, Agathon!

Agathon.

Ah, do not speak so! Was not God strong in you when you led me out of the darkness of heathendom, and gave me light over all my days—child though you then were!

Julian.

All that is like a dream to me.

Agathon.

And yet so blessed a truth.

Julian.

[Sadly.] If only it were so now!—Where did I find the words of fire? The air seemed full of hymns of praise—a ladder from earth to heaven—[Gazes straight before him.] Did you see it?

Agathon.

What?

Julian.

The star that fell; there, behind the two cypresses. [Is silent a moment, then suddenly changes his tone.] Have I told you what my mother dreamed the night before I was born?

Agathon.

I do not recall it.

Julian.

No, no, I remember—I heard of it after we parted.

Agathon.

What did she dream?

Julian.

My mother dreamed that she gave birth to Achilles.

Agathon.

[Eagerly.] Is your faith in dreams as strong as ever?

Julian.

Why do you ask?

Agathon.

You shall hear; it concerns what has driven me to cross the sea——

Julian.

You have a special errand here? I had quite forgotten to ask you——

Agathon.

A strange errand; so strange that I am lost in doubt and disquietude. There is so much I should like to know first—about life in the city—about yourself—and the Emperor——

Julian.

[Looks hard at him.] Tell me the truth, Agathon—with whom have you spoken before meeting me?

Agathon.

With no one.

Julian.

When did you arrive?

Agathon.

I have told you—two days ago.

Julian.

And already you want to know——? What would you know about the Emperor? Has any one set you on to——? [Embraces him.] Oh, forgive me, Agathon, my friend!

Agathon.

What? Why?

Julian.

[Rises and listens.] Hush!—No, it was nothing—only a bird in the bushes——

I am very happy here. Wherefore should you doubt it? Have I not all my family gathered here? at least—all over whom a gracious Saviour has held his hand.

Agathon.

And the Emperor is as a father to you?

Julian.

The Emperor is beyond measure wise and good.

Agathon.

[Who has also risen.] Julian, is the rumour true that you are one day to be the Emperor’s successor?

Julian.

[Hastily.] Speak not of such dangerous matters. I know not what foolish rumours are abroad.—Why do you question me so much? Not a word will I answer till you have told me what brings you to Constantinople.

Agathon.

I come at the bidding of the Lord God.

Julian.

If you love your Saviour or your salvation, get you home again. [Leans over the balustrade and listens.] Speak softy; a boat is coming in——

[Leads him over towards the other side.

What would you here? Kiss the splinter of the holy cross?—Get you home again, I say! Know you what Constantinople has become in these last fifteen months? A Babylon of blasphemy.—Have you not heard—do you not know that Libanius is here?

Agathon.

Ah, Julian, I know not Libanius.

Julian.

Secluded Cappadocian! Happy region, where his voice and his teaching have found no echo.

Agathon.

Ah, he is one of those heathen teachers of falsehood——?

Julian.

The most dangerous of them all.

Agathon.

Surely not more dangerous than Aedesius of Pergamus?

Julian.

Aedesius!—who now thinks of Aedesius of Pergamus? Aedesius is in his dotage——

Agathon.

Is he more dangerous than even that mysterious Maximus?

Julian.

Maximus? Do not speak of that mountebank. Who knows anything certain of Maximus?

Agathon.

He avers that he has slept three years in a cave beyond Jordan.

Julian.

Hekebolius holds him an impostor, and doubtless he is not far wrong——

No, no, Agathon—Libanius is the most dangerous. Our sinful earth has writhed, as it were, under this scourge. Portents foretold his coming. A pestilential sickness slew men by thousands in the city. And then, when it was over, in the month of November, fire rained from heaven night by night.night. Nay, do not doubt it, Agathon! I have myself seen the stars break from their spheres, plunge down towards earth, and burn out on the way.

Since then he has lectured here, the philosopher, the orator. All proclaim him the king of eloquence; and well they may. I tell you he is terrible. Youths and men flock around him; he binds their souls in bonds, so that they must follow him; denial flows seductively from his lips, like songs of the Trojans and the Greeks——

Agathon.

[In terror.] Oh, you too have sought him Julian!

Julian.

[Shrinking back.] I!—God preserve me from such a sin. Should any rumours come to your ears, believe them not. ’Tis not true that I have sought out Libanius by night, in disguise. All contact with him would be a horror to me. Besides, the Emperor has forbidden it, and Hekebolius still more strictly.—All believers who approach that subtle man fall away and turn to scoffers. And not they alone. His words are borne from mouth to mouth, even into the Emperor’s palace. His airy mockery, his incontrovertible arguments, his very lampoons seem to blend with my prayers;—they are to me like those monsters in the shape of birds who befouled all the food of a pious wandering hero of yore. I sometimes feel with horror that my gorge rises at the true meat of the Word—— [With an irrepressible outburst.] Were the empire mine, I would send you the head of Libanius on a charger!

Agathon.

But how can the Emperor tolerate this? How can our pious, Christian Emperor——?

Julian.

The Emperor? Praised be the Emperor’s faith and piety! But the Emperor has no thoughts for anything but this luckless Persian war. All minds are full of it. No one heeds the war that is being waged here, against the Prince of Golgotha. Ah, my Agathon, it is not now as it was two years ago. Then the two brothers of the Mystic Maximus had to pay for their heresies with their lives. You do not know what mighty allies Libanius has. One or other of the lesser philosophers is now and then driven from the city; on him no one dares lay a finger. I have begged, I have implored both Hekebolius and the Empress to procure his banishment. But no, no!—What avails it to drive away the others? This one man poisons the air for all of us. Oh, thou my Saviour, if I could but flee from all this abomination of heathendom! To live here is to live in the lion’s den——

Agathon.

[Eagerly.] Julian—what was that you said?

Julian.

Yes, yes; only a miracle can save us?

Agathon.

Oh, then listen! That miracle has happened.

Julian.

What mean you?

Agathon.

You shall hear, Julian; for now I can no longer doubt that it is you it concerns. What sent me to Constantinople was a vision——

Julian.

A vision, you say!

Agathon.

A heavenly revelation——

Julian.

Oh, for God’s pity’s sake, speak!—Hush, do not speak. Wait—some one is coming. Stand here, quite carelessly;—look unconcerned.

Both remain standing beside the balustrade. A tall, handsome, middle-aged man, dressed, according to the fashion of the philosophers, in a short cloak, enters by the avenue on the left. A troop of youths accompanies him, all in girt-up garments, with wreaths of ivy in their hair, and carrying books, papers and parchments. Laughter and loud talk among them as they approach.

The Philosopher.

Let nothing fall into the water, my joyous Gregory! Remember, what you carry is more precious than gold.

Julian.

[Standing close beside him.] Your pardon,—is aught that a man may carry more precious than gold?

The Philosopher.

Can you buy back the fruits of your life for gold?

Julian.

True; true. But why, then, do you entrust them to the treacherous waters?

The Philosopher.

The favour of man is more treacherous still.

Julian.

That word was wisdom. And whither do you sail with your treasures?

The Philosopher.

To Athens.

[He is about to pass on.

Julian.

[With suppressed laughter.] To Athens! Then, oh man of wealth, you do not own your own riches.

The Philosopher.

[Stops.] How so?

Julian.

Is it the part of a wise man to take owls to Athens?

The Philosopher.

My owls cannot endure the church-lights here in the imperial city. [To one of the young men.] Give me your hand, Sallust.

[Is about to descend the steps.

Sallust.

[Half-way down the steps, whispers.] By the gods, it is he!

The Philosopher.

He——?

Sallust.

On my life, ’tis he! I know him;—I have seen him with Hekebolius.

The Philosopher.

Ah!

[He looks at Julian with furtive intentness; then goes a step towards him and says:

You smiled just now. At what did you smile?

Julian.

When you complained of the church-lights, I wondered whether it were not rather the imperial light of the lecture-halls that shone too bright in your eyes.

The Philosopher.

Envy cannot hide under the short cloak.

Julian.

What cannot hide shows forth.

The Philosopher.

You have a sharp tongue, noble Galilean.

Julian.

Why Galilean? What proclaims me a Galilean?

The Philosopher.

Your court apparel.

Julian.

There is a philosopher beneath it; for I wear a very coarse shirt.—But tell me, what do you seek in Athens?

The Philosopher.

What did Pontius Pilate seek?

Julian.

Nay, nay! Is not truth here, where Libanius is?

The Philosopher.

[Looking hard at him.] H’m!—Libanius? Libanius will soon be silent. Libanius is weary of the strife, my lord!

Julian.

Weary? He—the invulnerable, the ever-victorious——?

The Philosopher.

He is weary of waiting for his peer.

Julian.

Now you jest, stranger! Where can Libanius hope to find his peer?

The Philosopher.

His peer exists.

Julian.

Who? Where? Name him?

The Philosopher.

It might be dangerous.

Julian.

Why?

The Philosopher.

Are you not a courtier?

Julian.

And what then?

The Philosopher.

[In a lower voice.] Would you be foolhardy enough to praise the Emperor’s successor?

Julian.

[Deeply shaken.] Ah!

The Philosopher.

[Hastily.] If you betray me, I shall deny all!

Julian.

I betray no man; never fear, never fear!—The Emperor’s successor, you say? I cannot tell whom you mean; the Emperor has chosen no successor.—But why this jesting? Why did you speak of Libanius’s peer?

The Philosopher.

Yes or no—is there at the imperial court a youth who, by force and strict commandment, by prayers and persuasions, is held aloof from the light of the lecture-halls?

Julian.

[Hastily.] That is done to keep his faith pure.

The Philosopher.

[Smiling.] Has this young man so scant faith in his faith? What can he know about his faith? What does a soldier know of his shield until he has proved it in battle?

Julian.

True, true;—but they are loving kinsmen and teachers, I tell you——

The Philosopher.

Phrases, my lord! Let me tell you this: it is for the Emperor’s sake that his young kinsman is held aloof from the philosophers. The Emperor has not the divine gift of eloquence. Doubtless the Emperor is great; but he cannot endure that his successor should shine forth over the empire——

Julian.

[In confusion.] And you dare to——!

The Philosopher.

Ay, ay, you are wroth on your master’s account, but——

Julian.

Far from it; on the contrary—that is to say——

Listen; my place is somewhat near that young prince. I would gladly learn——

[Turns.]

Go apart, Agathon; I must speak alone with this man.

[Withdraws a few steps along with thethe stranger.

You said “shine forth”? “Shine forth over the empire?” What do you know, what can any of you know, of Prince Julian?

The Philosopher.

Can Sirius be hidden by a cloud? Will not the restless wind tear a rift in it here or there, so that——

Julian.

Speak plainly, I beg you.

The Philosopher.

The palace and the church are as a double cage wherein the prince is mewed up. But the cage is not close enough. Now and then he lets fall an enigmatic word; the court vermin—forgive me, sir—the courtiers spread it abroad in scorn; its deep meaning does not exist for these gentlefolk—your pardon, sir—for most of them it does not exist.

Julian.

For none. You may safely say for none.

The Philosopher.

Yet surely for you; and at any rate for us.——

Yes, he could indeed shine forth over the empire! Are there not legends of his childhood in Cappadocia, when, in disputation with his brother Gallus, he took the part of the gods, and defended them against the Galilean?

Julian.

That was in jest, mere practice in rhetoric——

The Philosopher.

What has not Mardonius recorded of him? And afterwards Hekebolius! What art was there not even in his boyish utterances—what beauty, what grace in the light play of his thoughts!

Julian.

You think so?

The Philosopher.

Yes, in him we might indeed find an adversary to fear and yet to long for. What should hinder him from reaching so honourable an eminence? He lacks nothing but to pass through the same school through which Paul passed, and passed so unscathed that, when he afterwards joined the Galileans, he shed more light than all the other apostles together, because he possessed knowledge and eloquence! Hekebolius fears for his pupil’s faith. Oh, I know it well; the fear is his. Does he forget then, in his exceeding tenderness of conscience, that he himself, in his youth, has drunk of those very springs from which he would now have his pupil debarred? Or think you it was not from us that he learned to use the weapons of speech which he now wields against us with such renowned dexterity?

Julian.

True, true; undeniably true!

The Philosopher.

And what gifts has this Hekebolius in comparison with the gifts which declared themselves so marvellously in that princely boy, who, it is said, in Cappadocia, upon the graves of the slain Galileans, proclaimed a doctrine which I hold to be erroneous, and by so much the more difficult to instil, but which he nevertheless proclaimed with such fervour of spirit that—if I may believe a very widespread rumour—a multitude of children of his own age were carried away by him, and followed him as his disciples! Ah, Hekebolius is like the rest of you—more jealous than zealous; that is why Libanius has waited in vain.

Julian.

[Seizes him by the arm.] What has Libanius said? Tell me, I conjure you, in the name of God?

The Philosopher.

He has said all that you have just heard. And he has said still more. He has said: “Behold yon princely Galilean; he is an Achilles of the spirit.”

Julian.

Achilles! [Softly.] My mother’s dream!

The Philosopher.

There, in the open lecture-halls, lies the field of battle. Light and gladness encompass the fighters and the fray. Javelins of speech hurtle through the air; keen swords of wit clash in the combat; the blessed gods sit smiling in the clouds——

Julian.

Oh, away from me with your heathendom——

The Philosopher.

——and the heroes go home to their tents, their arms entwined, their hearts untouched by rancour, their cheeks aglow, the blood coursing swiftly through every vein, admired, applauded, and with laurels on their brows. Ah, where is Achilles? I cannot see him. Achilles is wroth——

Julian.

Achilles is unhappy!—But can I believe it? Oh, tell me—my brain is dizzy—has Libanius said all this?

The Philosopher.

What brought Libanius to Constantinople? Had he any other end than to achieve the illustrious friendship of a certain youth?

Julian.

Speak the truth! No, no; this cannot be true. How reconcile it with the scoffs and jibes that——? Who scoffs at one whose friendship he would seek?

The Philosopher.

Wiles of the Galileans to build up a wall of wrath and hate between the two champions.

Julian.

Yet you will not deny that it was Libanius——?

The Philosopher.

I will deny everything to the uttermost.

Julian.

The lampoons were not his?

The Philosopher.

Not one of them. They have all been hatched in the palace, and spread abroad under his name——

Julian.

Ah, what do you tell me——?

The Philosopher.

What I will avouch before all the world. You have a sharp tongue—who knows but that you yourself——

Julian.

I——! But can I believe this? Libanius did not write them? Not one of them?

The Philosopher.

No, no!

Julian.

Not even those infamous lines about Atlas with the crooked shoulders?

The Philosopher.

No, no, I tell you.

Julian.

Nor that foolish and ribald verse about the ape in court dress?

The Philosopher.

Ha, ha; that came from the church, not from the lecture-hall. You disbelieve it? I tell you it was Hekebolius——

Julian.

Hekebolius!

The Philosopher.

Yes, Hekebolius, Hekebolius himself, to breed hatred between his enemy and his pupil——

Julian.

[Clenching his fists.] Ah, if it were so!

The Philosopher.

If that blinded and deceived young man had known us philosophers, he would not have dealt so hardly with us.

Julian.

Of what are you speaking?

The Philosopher.

It is too late now. Farewell, my lord!

[Going.

Julian.

[Seizes his hand.] Friend and brother, who are you?

The Philosopher.

One who sorrows to see the God-born go to ruin.

Julian.

What do you call the God-born?

The Philosopher.

The Uncreated in the Ever-changing.

Julian.

Still I am in the dark.

The Philosopher.

There is a whole glorious world to which you Galileans are blind. In it our life is one long festival, amid statues and choral songs, foaming goblets in our hands, and our locks entwined with roses. Airy bridges span the gulfs between spirit and spirit, stretching away to the farthest orbs in space——

I know one who might be king of all that vast and sunlit realm.

Julian.

[In dread.] Ay, at the cost of his salvation!

The Philosopher.

What is salvation? Reunion with the primal deeps.

Julian.

Yes, in conscious life. Reunion for me, as the being I am!

The Philosopher.

Reunion like that of the raindrop with the sea, like that of the crumbling leaf with the earth that bore it.

Julian.

Oh, had I but learning! Had I but the weapons to use against you!

The Philosopher.

Take to yourself weapons, young man! The lecture-hall is the armoury of intellect and talent——

Julian.

[Recoiling.] Ah!

The Philosopher.

Look at those joyous youths yonder. There are Galileans among them. Errors in things divine cause no discord among us.

Farewell! You Galileans have sent truth into exile. See, now, how we bear the buffets of fate. See, we hold high our wreath-crowned heads. So we depart—shortening the night with song, and awaiting Helios.

[He descends the steps where his disciples have waited for him; then the boat is heard rowing away with them.

Julian.

[Gazes long over the water.] Who was he, that mysterious man?

Agathon.

[Approaching.] Listen to me, Julian——?

Julian.

[In lively excitement.] He understood me! And Libanius himself, the great, incomparable Libanius——! Only think, Agathon, Libanius has said—— Oh, how keen must the heathen eye not be!

Agathon.

Trust me, this meeting was a work of the Tempter!

Julian.

[Not heeding him.] I can no longer endure to live among these people. It was they, then, who wrote those abominable lampoons! They make a mockery of me here; they laugh behind my back; not one of them believes in the power that dwells in me. They ape my gait; they distort my manners and my speech; Hekebolius himself——! Oh, I feel it—Christ is deserting me; I grow evil here.

Agathon.

Oh, though you know it not—you, even you, stand under special grace.

Julian.

[Walks up and down beside the balustrade.] I am he with whom Libanius longs to measure swords. How strange a wish! Libanius accounts me his peer. It is me he awaits——

Agathon.

Hear and obey: Christ awaits you!

Julian.

What mean you, friend?

Agathon.

The vision that sent me to Constantinople——

Julian.

Yes, yes, the vision; I had almost forgotten it. A revelation, you said? Oh, speak, speak!

Agathon.

It was at home in Cappadocia, a month ago or a little more. There went a rumour abroad that the heathens had again begun to hold secret meetings by night in the temple of Cybele——

Julian.

How foolhardy! Are they not strictly forbidden——

Agathon.

Therefore all we believers arose in wrath. The magistrates ordered the temple to be pulled down, and we broke in pieces the abominable idols. The more zealous among us were impelled by the Spirit of the Lord to go still further. With singing of psalms, and with sacred banners at our head, we marched through the town and fell upon the godless like messengers of wrath; we took from them their treasures; many houses were set on fire, and heathens not a few perished in the flames; still more we slew in the streets as they fled. Oh, it was a marvellous time for the glory of God!

Julian.

And then? The vision, my Agathon!

Agathon.

For three whole nights and days the Lord of Vengeance was strong in us. But at last the weak flesh could no longer keep pace with the willing spirit, and we desisted from the pursuit——

I lay upon my bed; I could neither wake nor sleep. I felt, as it were, an inward hollowness, as though the spirit had departed out of me. I lay in burning heat; I tore my hair, I wept, I prayed, I sang;—I cannot tell what came over me——

Then, on a sudden, I saw before me by the wall a white and shining light, and in the radiance stood a man in a long cloak. A glory encircled his head; he held a reed in his hand, and fixed his gaze mildly upon me.

Julian.

You saw that!

Agathon.

I saw it. And then he spoke and said: “Agathon; arise, seek him out who shall inherit the empire; bid him enter the lion’s den and do battle with the lions.”

Julian.

Do battle with the lions! Oh, strange, strange!—Ah, if it were——! The meeting with that philosopher—A revelation; a message to me—; am I the chosen one?

Agathon.

Assuredly you are!

Julian.

Do battle with the lions!—Yes, I see it;—so it must be, my Agathon! It is God’s will that I should seek out Libanius——

Agathon.

No, no; hear me out!

Julian.

——worm from him all his arts and his learning—smite the unbelievers with their own weapons—fight, fight like Paul—conquer like Paul, in the cause of the Lord!

Agathon.

No, no! that was not the intent.

Julian.

Can you doubt it? Libanius—is he not strong as the mountain lion, and is not the lecture-hall——?

Agathon.

I tell you it is not so; for the vision added: “Proclaim to the chosen one that he shall shake the dust of the imperial city from his feet, and never more enter its gates.”

Julian.

Are you sure of that, Agathon?

Agathon.

Absolutely sure.

Julian.

Not here, then! Do battle with, the lions? Where, where? Oh, where shall I find light?

Prince Gallus, a handsome, strongly-built man of five-and-twenty, with light curly hair, and fully armed, enters by the avenue on the left.

Julian.

[Rushing up to him.] Gallus!

Gallus.

What now? [Points to Agathon.] Who is that man?

Julian.

Agathon.

Gallus.

What Agathon? You have so many strange companions——Ah, by heaven, it is the Cappadocian! You have grown quite a man——

Julian.

Do you know, Gallus—the Emperor has asked for you.

Gallus.

[Anxiously.] Just now? To-night?

Julian.

Yes, yes; he wanted to speak with you. He seemed greatly angered.

Gallus.

How know you that? What did he say?

Julian.

I did not understand it. He asked what some oracle had answered.

Gallus.

Ah!

Julian.

Hide nothing from me. What is the matter?

Gallus.

Death or banishment is the matter.

Agathon.

Gracious Saviour!

Julian.

I feared as much! But no, the Empress spoke hopefully. Oh, say on, say on!

Gallus.

What shall I say? How should I know more than you? If the Emperor spoke of an oracle, a certain messenger must have been intercepted, or some one must have betrayed me——

Julian.

A messenger?—Gallus, what have you dared to do?

Gallus.

How could I live any longer this life of doubt and dread? Let him do with me as he pleases; anything is better than this——

Julian.

[Softly, leading him some paces aside.] Have a care, Gallus! What is this about a messenger?

Gallus.

I have addressed a question to the priests of Osiris in Abydus——

Julian.

Ah, the oracle! The heathen oracle——!

Gallus.

The heathenism might be forgiven me; but—well, why should you not know it?—I have inquired as to the issue of the Persian war——

Julian.

What madness!—Gallus—I see it in your face: you have asked other questions!

Gallus.

No more; I have not asked——

Julian.

Yes, yes; you have inquired as to a mighty man’s life or death!

Gallus.

And if I had? What can be of more moment to both of us?

Julian.

[Throwing his arms around him.] Be silent, madman!

Gallus.

Away from me! You may cringe before him like a cur; but I have no mind to endure it longer. I will cry it aloud in all the market-places—— [Calls to Agathon.] Have you seen him, Cappadocian? Have you seen the murderer?

Julian.

Gallus! Brother!

Agathon.

The murderer!

Gallus.

The murderer in the purple robe; my father’s murderer, my step-mother’s, my eldest brother’s——

Julian.

Oh, you are calling down destruction upon us!

Gallus.

Eleven heads in one single night; eleven bodies; our whole house.—Ah, but be sure conscience is torturing him; it shivers through the marrow of his bones like a swarm of serpents.

Julian.

Do not listen to him! Away, away!

Gallus.

[Seizes Julian by the shoulder.] Stay;—you look pale and disordered; is it you that have betrayed me?

Julian.

I! Your own brother——!

Gallus.

What matter for that! Brotherhood protects no one in our family. Confess that you have secretly spied upon my doings! Who else should it be? Think you I do not know what people are whispering? The Emperor designs to make you his successor.

Julian.

Never! I swear to you, my beloved Gallus, it shall never be! I will not. One mightier than he has chosen me.—Oh, trust me, Gallus: my path is marked out for me. I will not go thither, I tell you. Oh, God of Hosts—I on the imperial throne! No, no, no!

Gallus.

Ha-ha; well acted, mummer!

Julian.

Ay, you may scoff, since you know not what has happened. Myself, I scarcely know. Oh, Agathon—if this head were to be anointed! Would it not be an apostasy—a deadly sin? Would not the Lord’s holy oil burn me like molten lead?

Gallus.

Were that so, then were our august kinsman balder than Julius Caesar.

Julian.

Beware how you speak! Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s——

Gallus.

My father’s blood——your father’s and your mother’s——!

Julian.

Oh, what know we of those horrors? We were children then. The soldiers were chiefly to blame; it was the rebels—evil counsellors——

Gallus.

[Laughing.] The Emperor’s successor rehearses his part!

Julian.

[Weeping.] Oh, Gallus, would I might die or be banished in your stead! I am wrecking my soul here. I ought to forgive—and I cannot. Evil grows in me; hate and revenge whisper in my ear——

Gallus.

[Rapidly, looking towards the church.] There he comes!

Julian.

Be prudent, my beloved brother!—Ah, Hekebolius!

The church door has meanwhile been opened. The congregation streams forth; some pass away, others remain standing to see the Court pass. Among those who come out is Hekebolius; he wears priestly dress.

Hekebolius.

[On the point of passing out to the left.] Is that you, my Julian? Ah, I have again passed a heavy hour for your sake.

Julian.

Alas! I fear that happens too often.

Hekebolius.

Christ is wroth against you, my son! It is your froward spirit that angers him; it is your unloving thoughts, and all this worldly vanity——

Julian.

I know it,it, my Hekebolius! You so often tell me so.

Hekebolius.

Even now I lifted up my soul in prayer for your amendment. Oh, it seemed as though our otherwise so gracious Saviour repulsed my prayer,—as though he would not listen to me; he suffered my thoughts to wander upon trifling things.

Julian.

You prayed for me? Oh, loving Hekebolius, you pray even for us dumb animals—at least when we wear court dress?

Hekebolius.

What mean you, my son?

Julian.

Hekebolius, how could you write those shameful verses?

Hekebolius.

I? I swear by all that is high and holy——

Julian.

I see in your eyes that you are lying! I have full assurance that you wrote them. How could you do it, I ask—and under the name of Libanius, too?

Hekebolius.

Well, well, my dearly beloved, since you know it, I——

Julian.

Ah, Hekebolius! Deceit, and lies, and treachery——

Hekebolius.

Behold, my precious friend, how deep is my love for you! I dare all to save the soul of that man who shall one day be the Lord’s anointed. If, in my zeal for you, I have had recourse to deceit and lies, I know that a gracious God has found my course well pleasing in his sight, and has stretched forth his hand to sanction it.

Julian.

How blind have I been! Let me press these perjured fingers——

Hekebolius.

The Emperor!

[The Emperor Constantius, with his whole retinue, comes from the church. Agathon has already, during the foregoing, withdrawn among the bushes on the right.

The Emperor.

Oh, blessed peace of heaven in my heart.

The Empress.

Do you feel yourself strengthened, my Constantius?

The Emperor.

Yes, yes! I saw the living Dove hovering over me. It took away the burden of all my sin.—Now I dare venture much, Memnon!

Memnon.

[Softly.] Lose not a moment, sire!

The Emperor.

There they both stand.

[He goes towards the brothers.

Gallus.

[Mechanically feels for his sword, and cries in terror.] Do me no ill!

The Emperor.

[With outstretched arms.] Gallus! Kinsman!

[He embraces and kisses him.]

Lo, in the light of the Easter stars, I choose the man who lies nearest my heart.—Bow all to the earth. Hail Gallus Caesar![9]

[General astonishment among the Court; a few involuntary shouts are raised.

The Empress.

[With a shriek.] Constantius!

Gallus.

[Amazed.] Caesar!

Julian.

Ah!

[He tries to seize the Emperor’s hands, as if in joy.

The Emperor.

[Waving him aside.] Away from me! What would you? Is not Gallus the elder? What hopes have you been cherishing? What rumours have you, in your blind presumption——? Away; away!

Gallus.

I—I Caesar!

The Emperor.

My heir and my successor. In three days you will set out for the army in Asia. I know the Persian war is much on your mind——

Gallus.

Oh, my most gracious sire——!

The Emperor.

Thank me in deeds, my beloved Gallus! King Sapor lies west of the Euphrates. I know how solicitous you are for my life; be it your task, then, to crush him.

[He turns, takes Julian’s head between his hands, and kisses him.

And you, Julian, my pious friend and brother—so it needs must be.

Julian.

All blessings on the Emperor’s will!

The Emperor.

Call down no blessings! Yet listen—I have thought of you too. Know, Julian, that now you can breathe freely in Constantinople——

Julian.

Yes, praise be to Christ and the Emperor!

The Emperor.

You know it already? Who has told you?

Julian.

What, sire?

The Emperor.

That Libanius is banished?

Julian.

Libanius—banished!

The Emperor.

I have banished him to Athens.

Julian.

Ah!

The Emperor.

Yonder lies his ship; he sails to-night.

Julian.

[Aside.] He himself; he himself!

The Emperor.

You have long wished it. I have not hitherto been able to fulfil your desire; but now——; let this be a slight requital to you, my Julian——

Julian.

[Quickly seizing his hand.] Sire, do me one grace more.

The Emperor.

Ask what you will.

Julian.

Let me go to Pergamus. You know the old Aedesius teaches there——

The Emperor.

A very strange wish. You, among the heathens——?

Julian.

Aedesius is not dangerous; he is a high-minded old man, drawing towards the grave——

The Emperor.

And what would you with him, brother?

Julian.

I would learn to do battle with the lions.

The Emperor.

I understand your pious thought. And you are not afraid——; you think yourself strong enough——?

Julian.

The Lord God has called me with a loud voice. Like Daniel, I go fearless and joyful into the lions’ den.

The Emperor.

Julian!

Julian.

To-night, without knowing it, you have yourself been his instrument. Oh, let me go forth to purge the world!

Gallus.

[Softly to the Emperor.] Humour him, sire; it will prevent his brooding on higher things.

The Empress.

I implore you, Constantius—set no bar to this vehement longing.

Hekebolius.

Great Emperor, let him go to Pergamus. I fear I am losing hold of him here, and now ’tis no longer of such moment.

The Emperor.

How could I deny you anything in such an hour? Go with God, Julian!

Julian.

[Kissing his hands.] Oh, thanks—thanks!

The Emperor.

And now to a banquet of rejoicing! My Capuan cook has invented some new fast-dishes, carp-necks in Chios wine, and—— Forward;—your place is next to me, Gallus Caesar!

[The procession begins to advance.]

Gallus.

[Softly.] Helena, what a marvellous change of fortune!

Helena.

Oh, Gallus, dawn is breaking over our hopes.

Gallus.

I can scarce believe it! Who has brought it about?

Helena.

Hush!

Gallus.

You, my beloved? Or who—who?

Helena.

Memnon’s Spartan dog.

Gallus.

What do you mean?

Helena.

Memnon’s dog. Julian kicked it; this is Memnon’s revenge.

The Emperor.

Why so silent, Eusebia?

The Empress.

[Softly, in tears.] Oh, Constantius—how could you make such a choice!

The Emperor.

Eleven ghosts demanded it.

The Empress.

Woe upon us; this will not appease the ghosts.

The Emperor.

[Calls loudly.] Flute-players! Why are the rascals silent? Play, play!

[All, except Prince Julian, go out to the left. Agathon comes forward among the trees.

Julian.

Gallus his successor; and I—free, free, free!

Agathon.

Marvellously are the counsels of the Lord revealed.

Julian.

Heard you what passed?

Agathon.

Yes, everything.

Julian.

And to-morrow, my Agathon, to-morrow to Athens!

Agathon.

To Athens? ’Tis to Pergamus you go.

Julian.

Hush! You do not know——; we must be cunning as serpents. First to Pergamus—and then to Athens!

Agathon.

Farewell, my lord and friend!

Julian.

Will you go with me, Agathon?

Agathon.

I cannot. I must go home; I have my little brother to care for.

Julian.

[At the balustrade.] There they are weighing anchor.—A fair wind to you, winged lion; Achilles follows in your wake.

[Exclaims softly.]

Ah!

Agathon.

What was that?

Julian.

Yonder fell a star.

ACT SECOND

In Athens. An open place surrounded by colonnades. In the square, statues and a fountain. A narrow street debouches in the left-hand corner. Sunset.

Basil of Caesarea, a delicately-built young man, sits reading beside a pillar. Gregory of Nazianzus and other scholars of the University stroll in scattered groups up and down the colonnades. A larger band runs shouting across the square, and out to the right; noise in the distance.

Basil.

[Looks up from his book.] What mean these wild cries?

Gregory.

A ship has come in from Ephesus.

Basil.

With new scholars?

Gregory.

Yes.

Basil.

[Rising.] Then we shall have a night of tumult. Come, Gregory; let us not witness all this unseemliness.

Gregory.

[Points to the left.] Look yonder. Is that a pleasanter sight?

Basil.

Prince Julian——; with roses in his hair, his face aflame——

Gregory.

Ay, and after him that reeling, glassy-eyed crew. Hear how the halting tongues babble with wine! They have sat the whole day in Lykon’s tavern.

Basil.

And many of them are our own brethren, Gregory; they are Christian youths——

Gregory.

So they call themselves. Did not Lampon call himself a Christian—he who betrayed the oil-seller Zeno’s daughter? And Hilarion of Agrigentum, and the two others, who did what I shudder to name——

Prince Julian.

[Is heard calling without on the left.] Aha! See, see—the Cappadocian Castor and Pollux.

Basil.

He has caught sight of us. I will go; I cannot endure to see him in this mood.

Gregory.

I will remain; he needs a friend.

Basil goes out to the right. At the same moment, Prince Julian, followed by a crowd of young men, enters from the narrow street. His hair is dishevelled, and he is clad in a short cloak like the rest. Among the scholars is Sallust of Perusia.

Many in the Crowd.

Long live the light of Athens! Long live the lover of wisdom and eloquence!

Julian.

All your flattery is wasted. Not another verse shall you have to-day.

Sallust.

When our leader is silent, life seems empty, as on the morning after a night’s carouse.

Julian.

If we must needs do something, let it be something new. Let us hold a mock trial.

The Whole Crowd.

Yes, yes, yes; Prince Julian on the judgment-seat!

Julian.

Have done with the Prince, friends——

Sallust.

Ascend the judgment-seat, incomparable one!

Julian.

How could I presume——? There stands the man. Who is so learned in the law as Gregory of Nazianzus?

Sallust.

That is true!

Julian.

To the judgment-seat, my wise Gregory; I am the prisoner at the bar.

Gregory.

I beg you, friend, let me stand out.

Julian.

To the judgment-seat, I say! To the judgment-seat. [To the others,] What is my transgression?

Some Voices.

Yes, what shall it be? Choose yourself!

Sallust.

Let it be something Galilean, as we of the ungodly say.

Julian.

Right; something Galilean. I have it. I have refused to pay tribute to the Emperor——

Many Voices.

Ha-ha; well bethought! Excellent!

Julian.

Here am I, dragged forward by the nape of the neck, with my hands pinioned——

Sallust.

[To Gregory.] Blind judge—I mean since Justice is blind—behold this desperate wretch; he has denied to pay tribute to the Emperor.

Julian.

Let me throw one word into the scales of judgment. I am a Greek citizen. How much does a Greek citizen owe the Emperor?

Gregory.

What the Emperor demands.

Julian.

Good; but how much—answer now as though the Emperor himself were in court—how much has the Emperor a right to demand?

Gregory.

Everything.

Julian.

Answered as though the Emperor were present indeed! But now comes the knotty point; for it is written: Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s—and unto God the things that are God’s.

Gregory.

And what then?

Julian.

Then tell me, oh sagacious judge—how much of what is mine belongs to God?

Gregory.

Everything.

Julian.

And how much of God’s property may I give to the Emperor?

Gregory.

Dear friends, no more of this sport.

The Scholars.

[Amid laughter and noise.] Yes, yes; answer him.

Julian.

How much of God’s property has the Emperor a right to demand?

Gregory.

I will not answer. This is unseemly both towards God and the Emperor. Let me go.

Many Voices.

Make a ring round him!

Julian.

Hold him fast! What, you most luckless of judges, you have bungled the Emperor’s cause, and now you seek to escape? You would flee? Whither, whither? To the Scythians? Bring him before me! Tell me you servants that-are-to-be of the Emperor and of wisdom—has he not attempted to elude the Emperor’s power?

The Scholars.

Yes, yes.

Julian.

And what punishment do you award to such a misdeed?

Voices.

Death! Death in a wine-jar!

Julian.

Let us reflect. Let us answer as though the Emperor himself were present. What limit is there to the Emperor’s power?

Some of the Crowd.

The Emperor’s power has no limits.

Julian.

So I should think. But to want to escape from the infinite, my friends, is not that madness?

The Scholars.

Yes, yes; the Cappadocian is mad!

Julian.

And what, then, is madness? How did our forefathers conceive of it? What was the doctrine of the Egyptian priests? And what says Maximus the Mystic and the other philosophers of the East? They say that the divine enigma reveals itself in the brainsick. Our Gregory—in setting himself up against the Emperor—is thus in special league with Heaven.—Make libations of wine to the Cappadocian; sing songs to our Gregory’s praise;—a statue of honour for Gregory of Nazianzus!

The Scholars.

[Amid laughter and glee.] Praise to the Cappadocian! Praise to the Cappadocian’s judge!

The Philosopher Libanius, surrounded by disciples, comes across the square.

Libanius.

Ah, see—is not my brother Julian dispensing wisdom in the open market-place?

Julian.

Say folly, dear friend; wisdom has departed the city.

Libanius.

Has wisdom departed the city?

Julian.

Or is on the point of departing; for are not you also bound for the Piraeus?

Libanius.

I, my brother? What should I want at the Piraeus?

Julian.

Our Libanius, then, is the only teacher who does not know that a ship has just arrived from Ephesus.

Libanius.

Why, my friend, what have I to do with that ship?

Julian.

It is loaded to the water’s edge with embryo philosophers——

Libanius.

[Scornfully.] They come from Ephesus!

Julian.

Is not gold equally weighty whencesoever it may come?

Libanius.

Gold? Ha-ha! The golden ones Maximus keeps to himself; he does not let them go. What sort of scholars is Ephesus wont to send us? Shopkeepers’ sons, the first-born of mechanics. Gold say you, my Julian? I call it lack of gold. But I will turn this lack of gold to account, and out of it I will mint for you young men a coin of true and weighty metal. For may not a precious lesson in life, set forth in ingenious and attractive form, be compared to a piece of full-weighted golden currency?—

Hear then, if you have a mind to. Was it not said that certain men had rushed eagerly down to the Piraeus? Who are they, these eager ones? Far be it from me to mention names; they call themselves lovers and teachers of wisdom. Let us betake ourselves in thought to the Piraeus. What is passing there at this moment, even as I stand here in this circle of kindly listeners? I will tell you what is passing. Those men who give themselves out as lovers and dispensers of wisdom, are crowding upon the gangway, jostling, wrangling, biting, forgetting all decorum, and throwing dignity to the winds. And why? To be the first in the field,—to pounce upon the best dressed youths, to lead them home, to entertain them, hoping in the end to make profit out of them in all possible ways. What a shamefaced, empty awakening, as after a debauch, if it should presently appear—ha-ha-ha!—that these youths have scarcely brought with them the wherewithal to pay for their supper of welcome! Learn from this, young men, how ill it becomes a lover of wisdom, and how little it profits him, to run after good things other than the truth.

Julian.

Oh, my Libanius, when I listen to you with closed eyes, I seem lapped in the sweet dream that Diogenes has once more arisen in our midst.midst.

Libanius.

Your lips are princely spendthrifts of praise, beloved of my soul!

Julian.

Far from it. And yet I had almost interrupted your homily for in this case, one of your colleagues will scarce find himself disappointed.

Libanius.

My friend is jesting.

Julian.

Your friend assures you that the two sons of the governor, Milo, are on board.

Libanius.

[Grasping his arm.] What do you say?

Julian.

That the new Diogenes who secures them as his pupils will scarce need to drink out of the hollow of his hand for poverty.

Libanius.

The sons of the Governor Milo! That noble Milo, who sent the Emperor seven Persian horses, with saddles embroidered with pearls——?

Julian.

Many thought that too mean a gift for Milo.

Libanius.

Very true. Milo ought to have sent a poem, or perhaps a well-polished speech, or a letter. Milo is a nobly-endowed man; all Milo’s family are nobly-endowed.

Julian.

Especially the two young men.

Libanius.

No doubt, no doubt. For the sake of their beneficent and generous father, I pray the gods that they may fall into good hands. After all, then, you were right, my Julian; the ship brought real gold from Ephesus. For are not intellectual gifts the purest of gold? But I cannot rest; these young men’s welfare is, in truth, a weighty matter; so much depends on who first gains control of them. My young friends, if you think as I do, we will hold out a guiding hand to these two strangers, help them to make the wisest choice of teacher and abode, and——

Sallust.

I will go with you!

The Scholars.

To the Piraeus! To the Piraeus!

Sallust.

We will fight like wild boars for Milo’s sons!

[They all go out, with Libanius, to the right; only Prince Julian and Gregory of Nazianzus remain behind in the colonnade.

Julian.

[Following them with his eyes.] See how they go leaping like a troop of fauns. How they lick their lips at the thought of the feast that awaits them this evening. [He turns to Gregory.] If there is one thing they would sigh to God for at this moment, it is that he would empty their stomachs of their breakfasts.

Gregory.

Julian——

Julian.

Look at me; I am sober.

Gregory.

I know that. You are temperate in all things. And yet you share this life of theirs.

Julian.

Why not? Do you know, or do I, when the thunderbolt will fall? Then why not make the most of the bright and sunlit day? Do you forget that I dragged out my childhood and the first years of my youth in gilded slavery? It had become a habit, I might almost say a necessity to me, to live under a weight of dread. And now? This stillness as of the grave on the Emperor’s part;—this sinister silence! I left Pergamus without the Emperor’s permission; the Emperor said nothing. I went of my own will to Nicomedia; I lived there, and studied with Nikokles and others; the Emperor gave no sign. I came to Athens, and sought out Libanius, whom the Emperor had forbidden me to see;—the Emperor has said nothing to this day. How am I to interpret this?

Gregory.

Interpret it in charity, Julian.

Julian.

Oh, you do not know——! I hate this power without me, terrible in action, more terrible when at rest.

Gregory.

Be frank, my friend, and tell me whether it is this alone that has led you into all these strange ways?

Julian.

What mean you by strange ways?

Gregory.

Is the rumour true, that you pass your nights in searching out the heathen mysteries in Eleusis?

Julian.

Oh, pooh! I assure you there is little to be learnt from those riddle-mongering dreamers. Let us talk no more about them.

Gregory.

Then it is true! Oh, Julian, how could you seek such shameful intercourse?

Julian.

I must live, Gregory,—and this life at the university is no life at all. This Libanius! I shall never forgive him the great love I once bore him! At my first coming, how humbly and with what tremors of joy did I not enter the presence of this man, bowing myself before him, kissing him, and calling him my great brother.brother.

Gregory.

Yes, we Christians all thought that you went too far.

Julian.

And yet I came here in exaltation of spirit. I saw, in my fancy, a mighty contest between us two,—the world’s truth in pitched battle against God’s truth.—What has it all come to? Libanius never seriously desired that contest. He never desired any contest whatever; he cares only for his own interest. I tell you, Gregory—Libanius is not a great man.

Gregory.

Yet all enlightened Greece proclaims him great.

Julian.

A great man he is not, I tell you. Once only have I seen Libanius great: that night in Constantinople. Then he was great, because he had suffered a great wrong, and because he was filled with a noble wrath. But here! Oh, what have I not seen here? Libanius has great learning, but he is no great man. Libanius is greedy; he is vain; he is eaten up with envy. See you not how he has writhed under the fame which I—largely, no doubt, owing to the indulgence of my friends—have been so fortunate as to acquire? Go to Libanius, and he will expound to you the inward essence and the outward signs of all the virtues. He has them ready to hand, just as he has the books in his library. But does he exercise these virtues? Is his life at one with his teaching? He a successor of Socrates and of Plato—ha-ha! Did he not flatter the Emperor, up to the time of his banishment? Did he not flatter me at our meeting in Constantinople, that meeting which he has since attempted, most unsuccessfully, to present in a ludicrous light! And what am I to him now? Now he writes letters to Gallus, to Gallus Caesar, to the Emperor’s heir, congratulating him on his successes against the Persians, although these successes have as yet been meagre enough, and Gallus Caesar is not distinguished either for learning or for any considerable eloquence.—And this Libanius the Greeks persist in calling the king of the philosophers! Ah, I will not deny that it stirs my indignation. I should have thought, to tell the truth, that the Greeks might have made a better choice, if they had noted a little more closely the cultivators of wisdom and eloquence, who of late years——

Basil of Caesarea.

[Entering from the right.] Letters! Letters from Cappadocia!

Gregory.

For me too?

Basil.

Yes, here; from your mother.

Gregory.

My pious mother!

[He opens the paper and reads.

Julian.

[To Basil.] Is it your sister who writes to you?

Basil.

[Who has entered with his own letter open.] Yes, it is Makrina. Her news is both sad and strange.

Julian.

What is it? Tell me.

Basil.

First of your noble brother Gallus. He rules sternly in Antioch.

Julian.

Yes, Gallus is hard.—Does Makrina write “sternly.”

Basil.

[Looking at him.] Makrina writes “bloodily”——

Julian.

Ah, I thought as much! Why did the Emperor marry him to that dissolute widow, that Constantina?

Gregory.

[Reading.] Oh, what unheard-of infamy!

Julian.

What is it, friend?

Gregory.

[To Basil.] Does Makrina say nothing of what is happening in Antioch?

Basil.

Nothing definite. What is it? You are pale——

Gregory.

You knew the noble Clemazius, the Alexandrian?

Basil.

Yes, yes; what of him?

Gregory.

He is murdered, Basil!

Basil.

What do you say? Murdered?

Gregory.

I call it murdered;—they have executed him without law or judgment.

Julian.

Who? Who has executed him?

Gregory.

Yes, who? How can I say who? My mother tells the story thus: Clemazius’s mother-in-law was inflamed with an impure love for her daughter’s husband; but as she could not move him to wrong, she gained some back-stairs access to the palace——

Julian.

What palace?

Gregory.

My mother writes only “the palace.”

Julian.

Well? And then——?

Gregory.

It is only known that she presented a very costly jewel to a great and powerful lady to procure a death-warrant——

Julian.

Ah, but they did not get it!

Gregory.

They got it, Julian.

Julian.

Oh, Jesus!

Basil.

Horrible! And Clemazius——?

Gregory.

The death-warrant was sent to the governor, Honoratus. That weak man dared not disobey so high a command. Clemazius was thrown into prison and executed early next morning, without being suffered, my mother writes, to open his lips in his own defence.

Julian.

[Pale, in a low voice.] Burn these dangerous letters; they might bring us all to ruin.

Basil.

Such open violence in the midst of a great city!city! Where are we; where are we?

Julian.

Aye, you may well ask where we are! A Christian murderer, a Christian adulteress, a Christian——!

Gregory.

Denunciations will not mend this matter. What do you intend to do?

Julian.

I? I will go no more to Eleusis; I will break off all dealings with the heathen, and thank the Lord my God that he spared me the temptations of power.

Gregory.

Good; but then?

Julian.

I do not understand you——

Gregory.

Then listen. The murder of Clemazius is not all, believe me. This unheard-of infamy has descended like a plague on Antioch. All evil things have awakened, and are swarming forth from their lairs. My mother writes that it seems as though some pestilent abyss had opened. Wives denounce their husbands, sons their fathers, priests the members of their own flock——

Julian.

This will spread yet further. The abomination will corrupt us all.—— Oh, Gregory, would I could fly to the world’s end——!

Gregory.

Your place is at the world’s navel, Prince Julian.

Julian.

What would you have me do?

Gregory.

You are this bloody Caesar’s brother. Stand forth before him—he calls himself a Christian—and cast his crime in his teeth; smite him to the earth in terror and remorse——

Julian.

[Recoiling.] Madman, of what are you thinking?

Gregory.

Is your brother dear to you? Would you save him?

Julian.

I once loved Gallus above all others.

Gregory.

Once——?

Julian.

So long as he was only my brother. But now——; is he not Caesar? Gregory,—Basil,—oh, my beloved friends,—I tremble for my life, I draw every breath in fear, because of Gallus Caesar. And you ask me to defy him to his face, me, whose very existence is a danger to him?

Gregory.

Why came you to Athens? You gave out loudly in all quarters that Prince Julian was setting forth from Constantinople to do battle with philosophy, falsely so called—to champion Christian truth against heathen falsehood. What have you done of all this?

Julian.

Ah, ’twas not here that the battle was to be.

Gregory.

No, it was not here,—not with phrase against phrase, not with book against book, not with the idle word-fencing of the lecture-room! No, Julian, you must go forth into life itself, with your own life in your hands——

Julian.

I see it; I see it!

Gregory.

Yes, as Libanius sees it! You mocked at him. You said he knew the essence and the outward signs of all the virtues, but his doctrine was only a doctrine to him. How much of you belongs to God? How much may the Emperor demand?

Julian.

You said yourself it was unseemly——

Gregory.

Towards whom? Towards God or the Emperor?

Julian.

[Quickly.] Well then: shall we go together?

Gregory.

[Evasively.] I have my little circle; I have my family to watch over. I have neither the strength nor the gifts for a larger task.

Julian.

[Is about to answer; suddenly he listens towards the right, and calls out.] To the bacchanal!

Basil.

Julian!

Julian.

To the bacchanal, friends!friends!

[Gregory of Nazianzus looks at him a moment; then he goes off through the colonnade to the left. A large troop of scholars, with the newcomers among them, rushes into the square, amid shouts and noise.

Basil.

[Coming nearer.] Julian, will you listen to me!

Julian.

See, see! They have taken their new friends to the bath, and anointed their hair. See how they swing their cudgels; how they yell and thump the pavement! What say you, Pericles? Methinks I can hear your wrathful shade——

Basil.

Come, come!

Julian.

Ah, look at the man they are driving naked among them. Now come the dancing-girls. Ah, do you see what——!

Basil.

Fie! Fie!—turn your eyes away!

[Evening has fallen. The whole troop settles down in the square beside the fountain. Wine and fruits are brought. Painted damsels dance by torchlight.

Julian.

[After a short silence.] Tell me, Basil, why was the heathen sin so beautiful?

Basil.

You are mistaken, friend; beautiful things have been said and sung of this heathen sin; but it was not beautiful.

Julian.

Oh, how can you say so? Was not Alcibiades beautiful when, flushed with wine, he stormed at night like a young god through the streets of Athens? Was he not beautiful in his very audacity when he insulted Hermes and battered at the citizens’ doors,—when he summoned their wives and daughters forth, while within the women trembled, and, in breathless, panting silence, wished for nothing better than to——?

Basil.

Oh listen to me, I beg and entreat you.

Julian.

Was not Socrates beautiful in the symposium? And Plato, and all the joyous revellers? Yet they did such things, as, but to be accused of them, would make those Christian swine out there call down upon themselves the curse of God. Think of Oedipus, Medea, Leda——

Basil.

Poetry, poetry; you confound fancies with facts.

Julian.

Are not mind and will in poetry subject to the same laws as in fact? And then look at our holy scriptures, both the old and new. Was sin beautiful in Sodom and Gomorrah? Did not Jehovah’s fire avenge what Socrates shrank not from?—Oh, as I live this life of revel and riot, I often wonder whether truth is indeed the enemy of beauty!

Basil.

And in such an hour can you sigh after beauty? Can you so easily forget what you have just heard——?

Julian.

[Stopping his ears.] Not a word more of those horrors! We will shake off all thoughts of Antioch——

Tell me, what does Makrina write further? There was something more; I remember, you said——; what was it you called the rest of her news?

Basil.

Strange.

Julian.

Yes, yes;—what was it?

Basil.

She writes of Maximus in Ephesus——

Julian.

[Eagerly.] The Mystic?

Basil.

Yes; that inscrutable man. He has appeared once more; this time in Ephesus. All the region around is in a ferment. Maximus is on all lips. Either he is a juggler or he has made a baleful compact with certain spirits. Even Christians are strangely allured by his impious signs and wonders.

Julian.

More, more; I entreat you!

Basil.

There is no more about him. Makrina only writes that she sees in the coming again of Maximus a proof that we are under the wrath of the Lord. She believes that great afflictions are in store for us, by reason of our sins.

Julian.

Yes, yes, yes!—Tell me, Basil: your sister is surely a remarkable woman.

Basil.

She is, indeed.

Julian.

When you repeat to me passages from her letters, I seem to be listening to something full and perfect, such as I have long sighed for. Tell me, is she still bent on renouncing this world, and living in the wilderness?wilderness?

Basil.

That is her steadfast intent.

Julian.

Is it possible? She on whom all gifts seem to have been lavished? She who, ’tis known, is both young and beautiful; she, who has riches in prospect, and in possession such learning as is very rare in a woman! Do you know, Basil, I long to see her? What has she to do in the wilderness?

Basil.

I have told you how her affianced lover died. She regards him as her expectant bridegroom, to whom she owes her every thought, and whom she is pledged to meet unsullied.

Julian.

Strange how many feel the attraction of solitude in these times.—When you write to Makrina, you may tell her that I too——

Basil.

She knows that, Julian; but she does not believe it.

Julian.

Why not? What does she write?

Basil.

I pray you, friend, spare me——

Julian.

If you love me, do not hide from me one word she writes.

Basil.

[Giving him the letter.] Read, if you must—it begins there.

Julian.

[Reads.] “Whenever you write of the Emperor’s young kinsman, who is your friend, my soul is filled with a great and radiant joy——” O Basil! lend me your eye; read for me.

Basil.

[Reading.] “Your account of the fearless confidence wherewith he came to Athens was to me as a picture from the ancient chronicles. Yes, I see in him David born again, to smite the champions of the heathen. God’s spirit watch over him in the strife, now and for ever.”

Julian.

[Grasping his arm.] Enough of that! She too? What is it that you all, as with one mouth, demand of me? Have I sealed you a bond to do battle with the lions of power——?

Basil.

How comes it that all believers look towards you in breathless expectation?

Julian.

[Paces once or twice up and down the colonnade, then stops and stretches out his hand for the letter.] Give it to me; let me see. [Reading.] “God’s spirit watch over him in the strife, now and for ever.”—

Oh, Basil, if I could——! But I feel like Daedalus, between sky and sea. An appalling height and an abysmal depth.—What sense is there in these voices calling to me, from east and west, that I must save Christendom? Where is it, this Christendom that I am to save? With the Emperor or with Caesar? I think their deeds cry out, “No, no!” Among the powerful and high-born;—among those sensual and effeminate courtiers who fold their hands over their full bellies, and quaver: “Was the Son of God created out of nothing?” Or among the men of enlightenment, those who, like you and me, have drunk in beauty and learning from the heathen fountains? Do not most of our fellows lean to the Arian heresy, which the Emperor himself so greatly favours?—And then the whole ragged rabble of the Empire, who rage against the temples, who massacre heathens and the children of heathens! Is it for Christ’s sake? Ha ha! see how they fall to fighting among themselves for the spoils of the slain.—Ask Makrina if Christendom is to be sought in the wilderness,—on the pillar where the stylite-saint stands on one leg? Or is it in the cities? Perhaps among those bakers in Constantinople who lately took to their fists to decide whether the Trinity consists of three individuals or of three hypostases!—Which of all these would Christ acknowledge if he came down to earth again?—Out with your Diogenes-lantern, Basil! Enlighten this pitchy darkness.—Where is Christendom?

Basil.

Seek the answer where it is ever to be found in evil days.

Julian.

Hold me not aloof from the well of your wisdom! Slake my thirst, if you can. Where shall I seek and find?

Basil.

In the writings of holy men.

Julian.

The same despairing answer. Books,—always books! When I came to Libanius, it was: books, books! I come to you,—books, books, books! Stones for bread! I cannot live on books;—it is life I hunger for,—face-to-face communion with the spirit. Was it a book that made Saul a seer? Was it not a flood of light that enveloped him, a vision, a voice——?

Basil.

Do you forget the vision and the voice which that Agathon of Makellon——?

Julian.

An enigmatic message; an oracle I cannot interpret. Was I the chosen one? The “heir to the empire,” it said. And what empire——? That matter is beset with a thousand uncertainties. Only this I know: Athens is not the lion’s den. But where, where? Oh, I grope like Saul in the darkness. If Christ would have aught of me, he must speak plainly. Let me touch the nail-wound——

Basil.

And yet it is written——

Julian.

[With a gesture of impatience.] I know all that is written. This “it is written” is not the living truth. Do you not feel disgust and nausea, as on board ship in a windless swell, heaving to and fro between life, and written doctrine, and heathen wisdom and beauty? There must come a new revelation. Or a revelation of something new. It must come, I say;—the time is ripe.—Ah, a revelation! Oh, Basil, could your prayers call down that upon me! A martyr’s death, if need be——! A martyr’s death—ah, it makes me dizzy with its sweetness;sweetness; the crown of thorns on my brow——! [He clasps his head with both hands, feels the wreath of roses, which he tears off, bethinks himself long, and says softly:] That! I had forgotten that! [Casting the wreath away.] One thing alone have I learnt in Athens.

Basil.

What, Julian?

Julian.

The old beauty is no longer beautiful, and the new truth is no longer true.

Libanius enters hastily through the colonnade on the right.

Libanius.

[Still in the distance.] Now we have him; now we have him!

Julian.

Him? I thought you would have had them both.

Libanius.

Both of whom?

Julian.

Milo’s sons.

Libanius.

Ah, yes, I have them too. But we have him, my Julian!

Julian.

Whom, dear brother?

Libanius.

He has caught himself in his own net!

Julian.

Aha—a philosopher then?

Libanius.

The enemy of all wisdom.

Julian.

Who, who, I ask?

Libanius.

Do you really not know? Have you not heard the news about Maximus?

Julian.

Maximus? Oh, pray tell me——

Libanius.

Who could fail to see whither that restless visionary was tending,—step by step towards madness——?

Julian.

In other words, towards the highest wisdom.

Libanius.

Ah, that is a figure of speech. But now is the time to act, to seize the opportunity. You, our dearly-prized Julian, you are the man. You are the Emperor’s near kinsman. The hopes of all true friends of wisdom are fixed upon you, both here and in Nikomedia——

Julian.

Listen, oh excellent Libanius,—seeing I am not omniscient——

Libanius.

Know, then, that Maximus has lately made open avowal of what lies at the bottom of his teaching.

Julian.

And do you blame him for that?

Libanius.

He has averred that he has power over spirits and shades of the dead.

Julian.

[Grasping his cloak.] Libanius!

Libanius.

All on board the ship were full of the most marvellous stories, and here—— [He shows a letter], here, my colleague, Eusebius, writes at length on the subject.

Julian.

Spirits and shades——

Libanius.

At Ephesus lately, in a large assembly both of his partisans and his opponents. Maximus applied forbidden arts to the statue of Hecate. It took place in the goddess’s temple. Eusebius writes that he himself was present, and saw everything from first to last. All was in pitch-black darkness. Maximus uttered strange incantations; then he chanted a hymn, which no one understood. Then the marble torch in the statue’s hand burst into flame——

Basil.

Impious doings!

Julian.

[Breathlessly.] And then——?

Libanius.

In the strong bluish light, they all saw the statue’s face come to life and smile at them.

Julian.

What more?

Libanius.

Terror seized on the minds of most. All rushed towards the doors. Many have lain sick or raving ever since. But he himself—would you believe it, Julian?—in spite of the fate that befell his two brothers in Constantinople, he goes boldly forward on his reckless and scandalous way.

Julian.

Scandalous? Call you that way scandalous? Is not this the end of all wisdom. Communion between spirit and spirit——

Basil.

Oh, dear, misguided friend——!

Libanius.

More than scandalous, I call it! What is Hecate? What are the gods, as a whole, in the eyes of enlightened humanity? We have happily left far behind us the blind old singer’s days. Maximus ought to know better than that. Has not Plato—and we others after him—shed the light of interpretation over the whole? Is it not scandalous now, in our own days, to seek to enshroud afresh in riddles and misty dreams this admirable, palpable, and, let me add, this laboriously constructed edifice of ideas and interpretations which we, as lovers of wisdom, as a school, as——

Julian.

[Wildly.] Basil, farewell! I see a light on my path!

Basil.

[Flinging his arms around him.] I will not let you go; I will hold you fast!

Julian.

[Extricating himself from his grasp.] No one shall withhold me;—kick not against the pricks——

Libanius.

What frenzy is this? Friend, brother, colleague, whither would you go?

Julian.

Thither, thither, where torches light themselves and where statues smile!

Libanius.

And you can do this! You, Julian, our pride, our light, our hope,—you can think of rushing to bewildered Ephesus, to give yourself into a juggler’s power! Know that in the hour you so deeply debase yourself, in that same hour you throw away all that bright renown for learning and eloquence which, during these years in Pergamos and Nikomedia, and especially here in the great school of Athens——

Julian.

Oh, the school, the school! Do you pore over your books;—you have pointed my way to the man for whom I have been seeking.

[He goes off hastily through the colonnade to the left.

Libanius.

[Looking after him awhile.] This princely youth is a menace to enlightenment.

Basil.

[Half to himself.] Prince Julian is a menace to more than that.

ACT THIRD

In Ephesus. A brightly lighted hall in Prince Julian’s dwelling. The entrance from the vestibule is on the right side; further back, a smaller door, covered by a curtain. On the left, a door, which leads to the inner part of the house. The wall in the back is pierced with an archway, through which a small enclosed court is visible, decked with small statues.

Servants prepare a festal supper, and lay cushions round the table. The Chamberlain, Eutherius, stands at the entrance, and, with much ceremony, half forces Gregory of Nazianzus and Basil of Caesarea to enter.

Eutherius.

Yes, yes; I assure you it is as I say.

Gregory.

Impossible! Do not make sport of us.

Basil.

You are jesting, friend! How can your master expect us? Not a creature knew of our leaving Athens; nothing has detained us on our way; we have kept pace with the clouds and the wild cranes.

Eutherius.

Look around; see yonder table. His daily fare is herbs and bread.

Gregory.

Ay, truly; all our senses bear you witness;—wine-flagons, wreathed with flowers and leaves; lamps and fruits; incense filling the hall with its odour; flute-players before the door——

Eutherius.

Early this morning he sent for me. He seemed unwontedly happy, for he paced the room to and fro, rubbing his hands. “Prepare a rich banquet,” said he, “for before evening I look for two friends from Athens——”

[He glances towards the door on the left, is suddenly silent, and draws back respectfully.

Basil.

Is he there?

[Eutherius nods in answer; then gives a sign to the servants to withdraw; they go out by the larger door on the right; he follows.

Prince Julian shortly afterwards enters from the left. He is dressed in long, Oriental garb; his whole demeanour is vivacious, and betrays strong inward excitement.

Julian.

[Going towards them, and greeting them with great warmth.] I see you! I have you! Thanks, thanks, for sending your spirits to herald your bodies!

Gregory.

Julian!

Basil.

My friend and brother!

Julian.

I have been like a lover, languishing for the pressure of your hands. The court vermin, eager for certain persons’ applause, called me an ape;—oh, would I had an ape’s four hands, to squeeze yours all at once!

Gregory.

But explain——; your servants meet us with flutes before the door, want to lead us to the bath, to anoint our hair and deck us with roses——

Julian.

I saw you last night. The moon was full, you see,—and then is the spirit always strangely alert within me. I sat at the table in my library, and had fallen asleep, weary, oh! so weary, my friends, with research and writing. Of a sudden it seemed as though a storm-wind filled the house; the curtain was swept flapping aloft, and I looked out into the night, far over the sea. I heard sweet singing; and the singers were two large birds, with women’s faces. They flew slanting towards the shore; there they dropped gently earthwards; the bird-forms melted away like a white mist, and, in a soft, glimmering light, I saw you two.

Gregory.

Are you sure of all this?

Julian.

Were you thinking of me? Were you speaking of me last night?

Basil.

Yes, yes—forward in the prow——

Julian.

What time of the night was it?

Gregory.

What was the time of your vision?

Julian.

An hour after midnight.

Gregory.

[With a look at Basil.] Strange!

Julian.

[Rubbing his hands, and walking up and down the room.] You see! Ha-ha; you see?

Basil.

[Following him with his eyes.] Ah, then it is true——

Julian.

What? What is true?

Basil.

The rumour of the mysterious arts you practise here.

Julian.

Oh, what will not rumour exaggerate?—But tell me, what has rumour found to say? I am told there are many reports afloat concerning me. If I could believe some people’s assurances, it would seem that there are few men in the empire so much talked about as I.

Gregory.

That you may safely believe.

Julian.

And what says Libanius to all this? He could never endure that the multitude should be busied with any one but himself. And what say all my never-to-be-forgotten friends in Athens? They know I am in disgrace with the Emperor and the whole court?

Gregory.

You? I have frequent intelligence from the court; but my brother Caesarius makes no mention of that.

Julian.

I cannot interpret it otherwise, good Gregory! From all sides they think it needful to watch me. The other day, Gallus Caesar sent his chaplain Aëtius hither, to find out whether I hold fast to the orthodox faith.

Basil.

Well——?

Julian.

I am seldom absent from matins in the church. Moreover, I reckon the martyrs among the noblest of men; for truly it is no light matter to endure so great torments, ay, and death itself, for the sake of one’s creed. On the whole, I believe Aëtius departed well content with me.

Basil.

[Grasping his hand.] Julian,—for the sake of our true friendship,—open your heart fully to us.

Julian.

I am the happiest man on earth, dear friends! And Maximus—ay, he is rightly named—Maximus is the greatest man that has ever lived.

Gregory.

[Preparing to depart.] We only wished to see you, my lord!

Julian.

Can this estrange brother from brother? You shrink in affright from the inexplicable. Oh, I do not wonder. So I, too, shrank before my eyes were opened, and I divined that which is the kernel of life.

Basil.

What do you call the kernel of life?

Julian.

Maximus knows it. In him is the new revelation.

Basil.

And it has been imparted to you?

Julian.

Almost. I am on the eve of learning it. This very night Maximus has promised me——

Gregory.

Maximus is a visionary, or else he is deceiving you——!

Julian.

How dare you judge of these hidden things? They are beyond your learning, my Gregory! Fearful is the way into the glory of glories. Those dreamers in Eleusis were near the right track; Maximus found it, and I after him—by his help. I have wandered through chasms of darkness. A dead swampy water lay on my left—I believe it was a stream that had forgotten to flow. Piercing voices shrilled through the night confusedly, suddenly, and, as it were, without cause. Now and then I saw a bluish light; dreadful shapes floated past me;—I went on and on in deathly fear; but I endured the trial to the end.—

Since then—oh, beloved ones—with this my body transformed to spirit, I have passed far into the land of paradise; I have heard the angels chant their hymns of praise; I have gazed at the midmost light——

Gregory.

Woe to this ungodly Maximus! Woe to this devil-devoted heathen juggler!

Julian.

Blindness, blindness! Maximus pays homage to his precursor and brother—to both his great brothers, the law-giver of Sinai and the seer of Nazareth.——

Would you know how the spirit of realisation filled me?—It happened on a night of prayer and fasting. I perceived that I was wafted far—far out into space, and beyond time; for there was broad and sun-shimmering day around me, and I stood alone on a ship, with drooping sails, in the midst of the glassy, gleaming Aegean sea. Islands towered aloft in the distance, like dim, still banks of clouds, and the ship lay heavily, as though sleeping, upon the wine-blue plain.—

Then behold! the plain became more and more transparent, lighter, thinner; at last, it was no longer there, and my ship hung over a fearful, empty abyss. No verdure down there, no sunlight,—only the dead, black, slimy bottom of the sea, in all its ghastly nakedness.——

But above, in the boundless dome, which before had seemed to me empty,—there was life; there invisibility clothed itself in form, and silence became sound.—Then I grasped the great redeeming realisation.

Gregory.

What realisation do you mean?

Julian.

That which is, is not; and that which is not, is.

Basil.

Oh, you are going to wreck and ruin in this maze of mists and gleams!

Julian.

I? Do not miracles happen? Do not both omens and certain strange appearances among the stars declare that the divine will destines me to issues yet unrevealed?

Gregory.

Do not believe such signs; you cannot know whose work they are.

Julian.

Am I not to believe in fortunate omens which events have already borne out?

[He draws them nearer to him, and says softly.

Know, my friends, that a great revolution is at hand. Gallus Caesar and I shall ere long share the dominion of the earth—he as Emperor, and I as—what shall I call it? the unborn cannot be called by a name, for it has none. So no more of this till the time be fulfilled. But of Caesar I dare speak.—Have you heard of the vision for which Apollinaris, a citizen of Sidon, has been imprisoned and put to the torture?

Basil.

No, no; how can we know——?

Julian.

Apollinaris declared that he heard some one knocking many times at his door by night. He arose, and went out from his house; and lo! there he saw an apparition—whether man or woman, he could not tell. And the apparition spoke to him, and bade him make ready a purple robe, such as newly-chosen rulers wear. But when Apollinaris, in affright, would have declined so dangerous a task, the apparition vanished, and only a voice cried: “Go, go, Apollinaris, and speedily prepare the purple robe.”

Gregory.

Was this the sign that you said events had borne out?

Julian.

[Nodding slowly.] Seven days later Caesar’s wife died in Bithynia. Constantina has always been his bad angel; therefore she had to be removed, in accordance with the change in the divine will. Three weeks after Constantina’s death, the Emperor’s emissary, the tribune Scudilo, came with a great retinue to Antioch, greeted Gallus Caesar with imperial honours, and invited him, in the Emperor’s name, to visit the imperial camp at Rome.—Caesar’s journey from province to province is now like a conqueror’s progress. In Constantinople he has held races in the hippodrome, and the multitude loudly acclaimed him when he, though as yet but Caesar by title, stood forth after the manner of the earlier Emperors, and gave the crown to Corax, the winner in the race. Thus marvellously does God again exalt our house, which had sunk under sin and persecution.

Gregory.

Strange! In Athens other reports were abroad.

Julian.

I have certain information. The purple robe will soon be needed, Gregory! How, then, can I doubt as to the things which Maximus has foretold as near at hand for me? To-night the last veil falls. Here shall the great enigma be made manifest. Oh, stay with me, my brothers—stay with me through this night of anxiety and expectation! When Maximus comes you shall witness——

Basil.

Never!

Gregory.

It cannot be; we are on our way home to Cappadocia.

Julian.

And what has driven you in such haste from Greece?

Basil.

My mother is a widow, Julian!

Gregory.

My father is feeble, both in body and mind; he needs my support.

Julian.

Oh, at least remain at the hostelry; only until to-morrow——!

Gregory.

Impossible; our travelling companions start at daybreak.

Julian.

At daybreak? Before midnight the day might dawn for you.

Basil.

Julian, let me not set forth in too great sorrow of soul. Tell me,—when Maximus has interpreted all riddles for you,—what then?

Julian.

Do you remember that river whereof Strabo writes—that river which rises in the Lybian mountains? It grows, and grows in its course; but when it is at its greatest, it oozes into the desert sands, and buries itself in the entrails of the earth, whence it arose.

Basil.

Say not that you long for death, Julian!

Julian.

What you slavishly hope for after death, ’tis the aim of the great mystery to win for all the initiated, here in our earthly life. ’Tis regeneration that Maximus and his disciples seek,—’tis our lost likeness to the godhead. Wherefore so full of doubt, my brothers? Why do you stand there as though before something insurmountable? I know what I know. In each successive generation there has been one soul wherein the pure Adam has been born again; he was strong in Moses the lawgiver; in the Macedonian Alexander he had power to subdue the world; he was well-nigh perfect in Jesus of Nazareth. But see, Basil—[He grasps him by the arm]—all of them lacked what is promised to me—the pure woman!

Basil.

[Freeing himself.] Julian, Julian!

Gregory.

Blasphemer—to this has your pride of heart brought you!

Basil.

Oh, Gregory, he is sick and beside himself!

Julian.

Why all this scornful doubt? Is it my small stature that witnesses against me? Ha, ha; I tell you this gross and fleshly generation shall pass away. That which is to come shall be conceived rather in the soul than in the body. In the first Adam, soul and body were equally balanced, as in those statues of the god Apollo. Since then the balance has been lost. Was not Moses tongue-tied? Had not his arms to be supported when he held them up in imprecation, there by the Red Sea? Did not the Macedonian need ever to be fired by strong drinks and other artificial aids? And Jesus of Nazareth, too? Was he not feeble in body? Did he not fall asleep in the ship, whilst the others kept awake? Did he not faint under the cross, that cross which the Jew Simon carried with ease? The two thieves did not faint.—You call yourselves believers, and yet have so little faith in miraculous revelation. Wait, wait—you shall see; the Bride shall surely be given me; and then—hand in hand will we go forth to the east, where some say that Helios is born,—we will hide ourselves in the solitudes, as the godhead hides itself, seek out the grove on the banks of Euphrates, find it, and there—oh glory of glories!—thence shall a new race, perfect in beauty and in balance, go forth over the earth; there, ye book-worshipping doubters, there shall the empire of the spirit be founded!

Basil.

Oh, well may I wring my hands in sorrow for your sake. Are you the same Julian who, three years ago, came out of Constantinople?

Julian.

Then I was blind, as you are now; I knew only the way that stops short at doctrine.

Gregory.

Know you where your present way ends?

Julian.

Where the path and the goal are one.—For the last time, Gregory, Basil—I implore you to stay with me. The vision I had last night,—that and many other things, point to a mysterious bond between us. To you, my Basil, I had so much to say. You are the head of your house; and who knows whether all the blessings that are promised me—may not come through you and yours——

Basil.

Never! No one with my good will shall ever be led away by your frenzies and your wild dreams.

Julian.

Ah, why talk of will? I see a hand writing on the wall; soon I shall interpret the writing.

Gregory.

Come, Basil.

Julian.

[With outstretched arms.] Oh, my friends, my friends!

Gregory.

Between us there is a gulf from this day forward.

[He drags Basil with him; both go out to the right.

Julian.

[Looking after them.] Ay, go! Go, go!—What do you two learned men know? What bring you from the city of wisdom? You, my strong, masterful Gregory,—and you, Basil, more girl than man—you know only two streets in Athens, the street to the schools, and the street to the church; of the third street toward Eleusis and further, you know naught; and still less——. Ah!

The curtain on the right is drawn aside. Two servants in eastern costume bring in a tall, veiled object, which they place in the corner, behind the table. Shortly after, Maximus the Mystic enters by the same door. He is a lean man of middle height, with a bronzed, hawk-like face; his hair and beard are much grizzled, but his thick eyebrows and moustache still retain their pitch-black colour. He wears a pointed cap and a long black robe; in his hand he carries a white wand.

Maximus goes, without heeding Julian, up to the veiled object, stops, and makes a sign to the servants; they retire noiselessly.

Julian.

[Softly.] At last!

[Maximus draws the veil away, revealing a bronze lamp on a high tripod; then he takes out a little silver pitcher, and pours oil into the lamp-bowl. The lamp lights of itself, and burns with a strong reddish glare.

Julian.

[In eager expectancy.] Is the time come?

Maximus.

[Without looking at him.] Art thou pure in soul and body?

Julian.

I have fasted and anointed myself.

Maximus.

Then may the night’s high festival begin!

[He gives a sign; dancing-girls and flute-players appear in the outer court. Music and dancing continue during what follows.

Julian.

Maximus,—what is this?

Maximus.

Roses in the hair! Sparkling wine! See, see the lovely limbs at play!

Julian.

And amid this whirl of the senses you would——?

Maximus.

Sin lies only in thy sense of sinfulness.

Julian.

Roses in the hair! Sparkling wine! [He casts himself down on one of the couches beside the table, drains a full goblet, puts it hastily from him, and asks:] Ah! What was in the wine?

Maximus.

A spark of that fire which Prometheus stole.

[He reclines at the opposite side of the table.

Julian.

My senses exchange their functions; I hear brightness and I see music.

Maximus.

Wine is the soul of the grape. The freed and yet willing captive. Logos in Pan!

The Dancing-Girls.

[Singing in the court]

Would’st thou know liberty?

Drain Bacchus’ blood;—

Rock on the rhythm-sea,

Float with its flood!

Julian.

[Drinking.] Yes, Yes; there is freedom in intoxication. Canst thou interpret this rapture?

Maximus.

This intoxication is thy marriage with the soul of nature.

Julian.

Sweet riddle; tempting, alluring——! What was that? Why didst thou laugh?

Maximus.

I?

Julian.

There is whispering on my left hand! The silk cushions rustle—— [Springing half up with a pale face.] Maximus, we are not alone!

Maximus.

[Loudly.] We are five at table!

Julian.

Symposium with the spirits!

Maximus.

With the shades.

Julian.

Name my guests!

Maximus.

Not now. Hark, hark!

Julian.

What is that? There is a rushing, as of a storm, through the house——

Maximus.

[Shrieks.] Julian! Julian! Julian!

Julian.

Speak, speak! What is befalling us?

Maximus.

The hour of annunciation is upon thee!

Julian.

[Springing up and shrinking far back from the table.] Ah!

[The table lamps seem on the point of extinction; over the great bronze lamp rises a bluish circle of light.

Maximus.

[Casting himself wholly down.] Thine eye toward the light!

Julian.

Yonder?

Maximus.

Yes, yes!

The Girls’ Song.

[Low, from the court.]

Night spreads her snares for thee,

All-seeing night;

Laughing-eyed Luxury

Lures to delight.

Julian.

[Staring at the radiance.] Maximus! Maximus!

Maximus.

[Softly.] Seest thou aught?

Julian.

Yes.

Maximus.

What seest thou?

Julian.

I see a shining countenance in the light.

Maximus.

Man, or woman?

Julian.

I know not.

Maximus.

Speak to it.

Julian.

Dare I?

Maximus.

Speak! speak!

Julian.

[Advancing.] Why was I born?

A Voice in the Light.

To serve the spirit.

Maximus.

Does it answer?

Julian.

Yes, yes.

Maximus.

Ask further.

Julian.

What is my mission?

The Voice.

To establish the empire.

Julian.

What empire?

The Voice.

The empire.

Julian.

And by what way?

The Voice.

By the way of freedom.

Julian.

Speak clearly! What is the way of freedom?

The Voice.

The way of necessity.

Julian.

And by what power?

The Voice.

By willing.

Julian.

What shall I will?

The Voice.

What thou must.

Julian.

It pales; it vanishes——! [Coming closer.] Speak, speak! What must I will?

The Voice.

[Wailing.] Julian!

[The circle of light passes away; the table lamps burn as before.

Maximus.

[Looking up.] Gone?

Julian.

Gone.

Maximus.

Dost thou now see clearly?

Julian.

Now less than ever. I hang in the void over the yawning deep—midway between light and darkness. [He lies down again.] What is the empire?

Maximus.

There are three empires.

Julian.

Three?

Maximus.

First that empire which was founded on the tree of knowledge; then that which was founded on the tree of the cross——

Julian.

And the third?

Maximus.

The third is the empire of the great mystery; that empire which shall be founded on the tree of knowledge and the tree of the cross together, because it hates and loves them both, and because it has its living sources under Adam’s grove and under Golgotha.

Julian.

And this empire shall come——?

Maximus.

It stands on the threshold. I have counted and counted——

Julian.

[Breaking off sharply.] The whispering again! Who are my guests?

Maximus.

The three corner-stones under the wrath of necessity.

Julian.

Who, who?

Maximus.

The three great helpers in denial.

Julian.

Name them!

Maximus.

I cannot; I know them not;—but I could show them to thee——

Julian.

Then show me them! At once, Maximus——!

Maximus.

Beware——!

Julian.

At once; at once! I will see them; I will speak with them, one by one.

Maximus.

The guilt be on thy head.

[He waves his wand and calls.

Take shape and come to sight, thou first-elected lamb of sacrifice!

Julian.

Ah!

Maximus.

[With veiled face.] What seest thou?

Julian.

[In a low voice.] There he lies; just by the corner.—He is great as Hercules, and beautiful,—yet no, not——

[Hesitatingly.

Speak to me if thou canst!

A Voice.

What wouldst thou know?

Julian.

What was thy task in life?

The Voice.

My sin.

Julian.

Why didst thou sin?

The Voice.

Why was I not my brother?

Julian.

Palter not with me. Why didst thou sin?

The Voice.

Why was I myself?

Julian.

And what didst thou will, being thyself?

The Voice.

What I must.

Julian.

And wherefore must thou?

The Voice.

I was myself.

Julian.

Thou art sparing of words.

Maximus.

[Without looking up.] In vino veritas.

Julian.

Thou hast hit it, Maximus?

[He pours forth a full goblet in front of the empty seat.

Bathe thee in the fumes of wine, my pallid guest! Refresh thee. Feel, feel—it mounts aloft like the smoke of sacrifice.

The Voice.

The smoke of sacrifice does not always mount.

Julian.

Why does that scar redden on thy brow? Nay, nay,—draw not the hair over it; What is it?

The Voice.

The mark.

Julian.

H’m; no more of that. And what fruit has thy sin borne?

The Voice.

The most glorious.

Julian.

What callest thou the most glorious?

The Voice.

Life.

Julian.

And the ground of life?

The Voice.

Death.

Julian.

And of death?

The Voice.

[Losing itself as in a sigh.] Ah, that is the riddle!

Julian.

Gone!

Maximus.

[Looking up.] Gone?

Julian.

Yes.

Maximus.

Didst thou know him?

Julian.

Yes.

Maximus.

Who was it?

Julian.

Cain.

Maximus.

By that way, then! Ask no more!

Julian.

[With an impatient gesture.] The second, Maximus!

Maximus.

No, no, no; I will not!

Julian.

The second, I say! Thou hast sworn that I should fathom the meaning of certain things. The second, Maximus. I will see him; I will know my guests!

Maximus.

Thou hast willed it, not I.

[He waves his wand.

Arise and come to light, thou willing slave, thou who didst help at the world’s next great turning-point.

Julian.

[Gazes for a moment into the empty space; suddenly he makes a gesture of repulsion towards the seat at its side, and says in a low voice:] No nearer!

Maximus.

[Who has turned his back.] Dost thou see him?

Julian.

Yes.

Maximus.

How dost thou see him?

Julian.

I see him as a red-bearded man. His garments are rent, and he has a rope round his neck——

Speak to him, Maximus!

Maximus.

’Tis thou must speak.

Julian.

What wast thou in life?

A Voice.

[Close beside him.] The twelfth wheel of the world chariot.

Julian.

The twelfth? The fifth is reckoned useless.

The Voice.

But for me, whither had the chariot rolled?

Julian.

Whither did it roll by means of thee?

The Voice

Into the glory of glories.

Julian.

Why didst thou help?

The Voice.

Because I willed.

Julian.

What didst thou will?

The Voice.

What I must.

Julian.

Who chose thee?

The Voice.

The master.

Julian.

Did the master foreknow when he chose thee?

The Voice.

Ah, that is the riddle!

[A short silence.

Maximus.

Thou art silent.

Julian.

He is no longer here.

Maximus.

[Looking up.] Didst thou know him?

Julian.

Yes.

Maximus.

How was he called in life?

Julian.

Judas Iscariot.

Maximus.

[Springing up.] The abyss blossoms; the night betrays itself!

Julian.

[Shrieks to him.] Forth with the third!

Maximus.

He shall come!

[He waves the wand.

Come forth, thou third corner-stone! Come forth, thou third great freed-man under necessity!

[He casts himself down again on the couch, and turns his face away.

What seest thou?

Julian.

I see nothing.

Maximus.

And yet he is here.

[He waves the wand again.

By Solomon’s seal, by the eye in the triangle—I conjure thee—come to sight!——

What seest thou now?

Julian.

Nothing, nothing!

Maximus.

[Waving his wand once more.] Come forth, thou——!

[He stops suddenly, utters a shriek, and springs up from the table.

Ah! lightning in the night! I see it;—all art is in vain.

Julian.

[Rising.] Why? Speak, speak!

Maximus.

The third is not yet among the shades.

Julian.

He lives?

Maximus.

Yes, he lives.

Julian.

And here, sayest thou——!

Maximus.

Here, or there, or among the unborn;—I know not——

Julian.

[Rushing at him.] Thou liest! Thou art deceiving me! Here, here thou saidst——!

Maximus.

Let go my cloak!

Julian.

Then it is thou, or I! But which of us?

Maximus.

Let go my cloak, Julian!

Julian.

Which of us? Which? All hangs on that!

Maximus.

Thou knowest more than I. What said the voice in the light?

Julian.

The voice in the light——!

[With a cry.] The empire! The empire? To found the empire——!

Maximus.

The third empire!

Julian.

No; a thousand times no! Away, corrupter! I renounce thee and all thy works——

Maximus.

And necessity?

Julian.

I defy necessity! I will not serve it! I am free, free, free![10]

[A noise outside; the dancing-girls and flute-players take to flight.

Maximus.

[Listening towards the right.] What is this alarm and shrieking——?

Julian.

Strange men are forcing their way into the house——

Maximus.

They are maltreating your servants; they will murder us!

Julian.

Fear not; us no one can hurt.

The Chamberlain Eutherius.

[Comes hastily across the court.] My lord, my lord!

Julian.

What is that noise without?

Eutherius.

Strange men have surrounded the house; they have set a watch at all the doors; they are making their way in—almost by force. Here they come, my lord! Here they are!

The Quaestor Leontes, with a large and richly-attired retinue, enters from the right.

Leontes.

Pardon, a thousand pardons, most gracious lord——

Julian.

[Recoiling a step.] What do I see!

Leontes.

Your servants would have hindered me from entering; and as my errand was of the utmost moment——

Julian.

You here, in Ephesus, my excellent Leontes!

Leontes.

I have travelled night and day, as the Emperor’s envoy.

Julian.

[Turning pale.] To me? What would the Emperor with me? I swear I am unwitting of any crime. I am sick, Leontes! This man—[Pointing to Maximus]—attends me as my physician.

Leontes.

Permit me, my gracious lord——!

Julian.

Why do you force your way into my house? What is the Emperor’s will?

Leontes.

His will is to gladden you, my lord, by a great and weighty announcement.

Julian.

I pray you, let me know what announcement you bring.

Leontes.

[Kneels.] My most noble lord,—with praise to your good fortune and my own, I hail you Caesar.

The Quaestor’s Followers.

Long live Julian Caesar!

Maximus.

Caesar!

Julian.

[Retreating, with an exclamation.] Caesar! Stand up, Leontes! What mad words are these!

Leontes.

I do but deliver the Emperor’s commands.

Julian.

I—I Caesar!—Ah, where is Gallus?

Leontes.

Oh, do not ask me.

Julian.

Where is Gallus? Tell me, I conjure you,—where is Gallus?

Leontes.

[Standing up.] Gallus Caesar is with his beloved wife.

Julian.

Dead?

Leontes.

In bliss, with his wife.

Julian.

Dead! dead! Gallus dead! Dead in the midst of his triumphal progress! But when,—and where?

Leontes.

Oh, my dear lord, spare me——

Gregory of Nazianzus.

[Struggling with the guards at the door.] I must go to him! Aside, I say!—Julian!

Julian.

Gregory, brother,—after all, you come again?

Gregory.

Is it true, what rumour is scattering like a storm of arrows over the city?

Julian.

I am myself transfixed by one of its arrows. Dare I believe in this blending of good hap and of ill?

Gregory.

For Christ’s sake, bid the tempter avaunt!

Julian.

The Emperor’s commands, Gregory!

Gregory.

You will trample on your brother’s bloody corpse——

Julian.

Bloody——?

Gregory.

Know you it not? Gallus Caesar was murdered.

Julian.

[Clasping his hands.] Murdered?

Leontes.

Ah, who is this audacious——?

Julian.

Murdered? Murdered? [To Leontes.] Tell me he lies!

Leontes.

Gallus Caesar has fallen through his own misdeeds.

Julian.

Murdered!—Who murdered him?

Leontes.

What has occurred was inevitable, my noble lord! Gallus Caesar madly misused his power here in the East. He was no longer content with his rank as Caesar. His conduct, both in Constantinople and elsewhere on his progress, showed clearly what was in his mind.

Julian.

’Tis not his crime I would know, but the rest.

Leontes.

Oh, let me spare a brother’s ears.

Julian.

A brother’s ears can bear what a son’s ears have borne. Who killed him?

Leontes.

The tribune Scudilo, who escorted him, thought it advisable to have him executed.

Julian.

Where? Not in Rome?

Leontes.

No, my lord; it happened on the journey thither,—in the city of Pola, in Illyria.

Julian.

[Bowing himself.] The Emperor is great and righteous.—The last of the race, Gregory!—The Emperor Constantius is great.

Leontes.

[Taking a purple robe from one of his attendants.] Noble Caesar, deign to array yourself——

Julian.

Red! Away with it! Was it this he wore at Pola——?

Leontes.

This comes fresh from Sidon.

Julian.

[With a look at Maximus.] From Sidon! The purple robe——!

Maximus.

Apollinaris’s vision!

Gregory.

Julian! Julian!

Leontes.

See, this is sent to you by your kinsman, the Emperor. He bids me tell you that, childless as he is, he looks to you to heal this the deepest wound of his life. He wishes to see you in Rome. Afterwards, it is his will that you should go, as Caesar, to Gaul. The border tribes of the Alemanni have passed the Rhine, and made a dangerous inroad into the empire. He builds securely on the success of your campaign against the barbarians. Certain things have been revealed to him in dreams, and his last word to me at my departure was that he was assured you would succeed in establishing the empire.

Julian.

Establish the empire! The voice in the light, Maximus!

Maximus.

Sign against sign.

Leontes.

How, noble Caesar?

Julian.

I also have been forewarned of certain things; but this——

Gregory.

Say no, Julian! ’Tis the wings of destruction they would fasten on your shoulders.

Leontes.

Who are you, that defy the Emperor?

Gregory.

My name is Gregory; I am the son of the Bishop of Nazianzus;—do with me what you will.

Julian.

He is my friend and brother; let no one touch him!

[A great crowd has meanwhile filled the outer court.

Basil of Caesarea.

[Making his way through the crowd.] Take not the purple, Julian!

Julian.

You, too, my faithful Basil.

Basil.

Take it not! For the Lord God’s sake——

Julian.

What terrifies you so in this?

Basil.

The horrors that will follow.

Julian.

Through me shall the empire be established.

Basil.

Christ’s empire?

Julian.

The Emperor’s great and beautiful empire.

Basil.

Was that the empire which shone before your eyes when, as a child, you preached the word beside the Cappadocian martyrs’ graves? Was that the empire you set forth from Constantinople to establish on earth? Was that the empire——?

Julian.

Mists, mists;—all that lies behind me like a wild dream.

Basil.

’Twere better you yourself should be at the bottom of the sea, with a mill-stone about your neck, than that that dream should lie behind you.—— See you not the work of the tempter? All the glory of the world is laid at your feet.

Maximus.

Sign against sign, Caesar!

Julian.

One word, Leontes!

[Seizing his hand and drawing him aside.

Whither do you lead me?

Leontes.

To Rome, my lord.

Julian.

That is not what I ask. Whither do you lead me: to fortune and power,—or to the shambles?

Leontes.

Oh, my lord, so odious a suspicion——

Julian.

My brother’s body can scarce have mouldered yet.

Leontes.

I can silence all doubt. [Taking out a paper.] This letter from the Emperor, which I had thought to hand you in private——

Julian.

A letter? What does he write?——

[He opens the paper and reads.

Ah, Helena! Oh, Leontes! Helena,—Helena to me!

Leontes.

The Emperor gives her to you, my lord! He gives you his beloved sister, for whom Gallus Caesar begged in vain.

Julian.

Helena to me! The unattainable attained!—But she, Leontes——?

Leontes.

At my departure he took the Princess by the hand and led her to me. A flush of maiden blood swept over her lovely cheeks, she cast down her eyes, and said: “Greet my dear kinsman, and let him know that he has ever been the man whom——”

Julian.

Go on, Leontes!

Leontes.

These words were all she spoke, the modest and pure woman.

Julian.

The pure woman!—How marvellously is all fulfilled!

[He calls loudly.

Robe me in the purple!

Maximus.

You have chosen?

Julian.

Chosen, Maximus!

Maximus.

Chosen, in spite of sign against sign?

Julian.

Here is no sign against sign. Maximus, Maximus, seer though you be, you have been blind. Robe me in the purple!

[The Quaestor Leontes attires him in the mantle.

Basil.

It is done!

Maximus.

[Murmurs to himself with upstretched hands.] Light and victory be to him who wills!

Leontes.

And now to the Governor’s palace; the people would fain greet Caesar.

Julian.

Caesar, in his exaltation, remains what he was,—the poor lover of wisdom, who owes all to the Emperor’s grace.—To the Governor’s palace, my friends!

Voices among the Quaestor’s Retinue.

Room, room for Julian Caesar!

[All go out through the court, amid the acclamations of the crowd; only Gregory and Basil remain behind.

Basil.

Gregory? Whatever comes of this—let us hold together.

Gregory.

Here is my hand.

ACT FOURTH

At Lutetia, in Gaul. A hall in Caesar’s palace, “The Warm Baths,” outside the city. Entrance, door in the back; to the right, another smaller door; in front, on the left, is a window with curtains.

The Princess Helena, richly attired, with pearls in her hair, sits in an arm-chair, and looks out of the window. Her slave, Myrrha, stands opposite her, and holds the curtain aside.

The Princess Helena.

What a multitude! The whole city streams out to meet them.—Hark! Myrrha,—do you not hear flutes and drums?

Myrrha.

Yes, I think I can hear——

Helena.

You lie! The noise is too great; you can hear nothing. [Springing up.] Oh, this torturing uncertainty! Not to know whether he comes as a conqueror or as a fugitive.

Myrrha.

Fear not, my noble mistress; Caesar has always returned a conqueror.

Helena.

Ay, hitherto; after all his lesser encounters. But this time, Myrrha! This great, fearful battle. All these conflicting rumours. If Caesar were victorious, why should he have sent that letter to the city magistrates, forbidding them to meet him with shows of honour outside the gates?

Myrrha.

Oh, you know well, my lady, how little your noble husband cares for such things.

Helena.

Yes, yes, that is true. And had he been defeated—they must have known it in Rome—would the Emperor have sent us this envoy who is to arrive to-day, and whose courier has brought me all these rich ornaments and gifts? Ah, Eutherius! Well? Well?

The Chamberlain Eutherius.

[From the back.] My Princess, it is impossible to obtain any trustworthy tidings——

Helena.

Impossible? You are deceiving me! The soldiers themselves must surely know——

Eutherius.

They are only barbarian auxiliaries who are coming in—Batavians and others—and they know nothing.

Helena.

[Wringing her hands.] Oh, have I deserved this torture? Sweet, holy Christ, have I not called upon Thee day and night——

[She listens and screams out.

Ah, my Julian! I hear him!—Julian; my beloved!

Julian Caesar.

[In dusty armour, enters hastily by the back.] Helena!

Eutherius.

My noble Caesar!

Julian.

[Vehemently embracing the Princess.] Helena!—Bar all the doors, Eutherius!

Helena.

Defeated! Pursued!

Eutherius.

My lord!

Julian.

Double guards at all the doors; let no one pass! Tell me: has any emissary arrived from the Emperor?

Eutherius.

No, my lord; but one is expected.

Julian.

Go, go! [To the Slave.] Away with you.

[Eutherius and Myrrha go out by the back.

Helena.

[Sinking into the arm-chair.] Then all is over with us?

Julian.

[Drawing the curtains together.] Who knows? If we are cautious, the storm may yet——

Helena.

After such a defeat——?

Julian.

Defeat? What are you talking of, my beloved?

Helena.

Have not the Alemanni defeated you?

Julian.

If they had, you would not have seen me alive.

Helena.

[Springing up.] Then, Lord of Heaven, what has happened?

Julian.

[Softly.] The worst, Helena;—a stupendous victory.

Helena.

Victory, you say! A stupendous victory? You have conquered, and yet——?

Julian.

You know not how I stand. You see only the gilded outside of all a Caesar’s misery.

Helena.

Julian!

Julian.

Can you blame me for having hidden it from you? Did not both duty and shame constrain me——? Ah, what is this? What a change——!

Helena.

What? What?

Julian.

How these months have changed you! Helena, you have been ill?

Helena.

No, no; but tell me——

Julian.

Yes, you have been ill! You must be ill now;—your fever-flushed temples, the blue rings round your eyes——

Helena.

Oh, ’tis nothing, my beloved! Do not look at me, Julian! ’Tis only anxiety and wakeful nights on your account; ardent prayers to the Blessed One on the cross——

Julian.

Spare yourself, my treasure; it is more than doubtful whether such zeal is of any avail.

Helena.

Fie; you speak impiously.—But tell me of your own affairs, Julian! I implore you, hide nothing from me.

Julian.

Nothing can now be hidden. Since the Empress’s death, I have taken no single step here in Gaul that has not been evilly interpreted at court. If I went cautiously to work with the Alemanni, I was called timorous or inert. They laughed at the philosopher, ill at ease in his coat of mail. If I gained an advantage over the barbarians, I was told that I ought to have done more.

Helena.

But all your friends in the army——

Julian.

Who, think you, are my friends in the army? I have not one, my beloved Helena! Yes, one single man—the knight Sallust, of Perusia, to whom, during our marriage feast at Milan, I had to refuse a slight request. He magnanimously came to me in the camp, appealed to our old friendship in Athens, and begged leave to stand at my side in all dangers. But what does Sallust count for at the imperial court? He is one of those whom they call heathens. He can be of no help to me.—And the others! Arbetio, the tribune, who left me in the lurch when I was blockaded by the Senones! Old Severus, burdened with the sense of his own impotence, yet unable to reconcile himself to my new strategy! Or think you I can depend on Florentius, the captain of the Praetorians? I tell you, that turbulent man is filled with the most unbridled ambitions.

Helena.

Ah, Julian!

Julian.

[Pacing up and down.] If I could but come to the bottom of their intrigues! Every week secret letters pass between the camp and Rome. Everything I do is set down and distorted. No slave in the empire is so fettered as Caesar. Would you believe it, Helena, even my cook has to abide by a bill of fare sent to him by the Emperor; I may not alter it, either by adding or countermanding a single dish!

Helena.

And all this you have borne in secrecy——!

Julian.

All know it, except you. All mock at Caesar’s powerlessness. I will bear it no longer! I will not bear it!

Helena.

But the great battle——? Tell me,—has rumour exaggerated——?

Julian.

Rumour could not exaggerate.—Hush; what was that? [Listening towards the door.] No, no; I only thought——

I may say that in these months I have done all that mortal man could do. Step by step, and in spite of all hindrances in my own camp, I drove the barbarians back towards the eastern frontier. Before Argentoratum, with the Rhine at his back, King Knodomar gathered all his forces together. He was joined by five kings and ten lesser princes. But before he had collected the necessary boats for his retreat in case of need, I led my army to the attack.

Helena.

My hero, my Julian!

Julian.

Lupicinus, with the spearmen and the light-armed troops, outflanked the enemy on the north; the old legions, under Severus, drove the barbarians more and more to the eastward, towards the river; our allies, the Batavians, under the faithful Bainabaudes, stood gallantly by the legions; and when Knodomar saw that his case was desperate, he tried to make off southwards, in order to reach the islands. But before he could escape, I sent Florentius to intercept him with the Praetorian guards and the cavalry. Helena, I dare not say it aloud, but certain it is that treachery or envy had nearly robbed me of the fruits of victory. The Roman cavalry recoiled time after time before the barbarians, who threw themselves down on the ground and stabbed the horses in the belly. Defeat stared us in the face——

Helena.

But the God of Battles was with you!

Julian.

I seized a standard, fired the Imperial Guards by my shouts, made them a hasty address, which was, perhaps, not quite unworthy of a more enlightened audience, and then, rewarded by the soldiers’ acclamations, I plunged headlong into the thickest of the fight.

Helena.

Julian! Oh, you do not love me!

Julian.

At that moment you were not in my thoughts. I wished to die; for I despaired of victory. But it came, my love! It seemed as though lightnings of terror flashed from our lance-points. I saw Knodomar, that redoutable warrior—ah, you have seen him too—I saw him fleeing on foot from the battlefield, and with him his brother Vestralp, and the kings Hortar and Suomar, and all who had not fallen by our swords.

Helena.

Oh, I can see it; I can see it! Blessed Saviour, ’twas thou that didst again send forth the destroying angels of the Milvian Bridge!

Julian.

Never have I heard such shrieks of despair; never seen such gaping wounds as those we trampled on, as we waded through the slain. The river did the rest; the drowning men struggled among themselves until they rolled over, and went to the bottom. Most of the princes fell living into our hands; Knodomar himself had sought refuge in a bed of reeds; one of his attendants betrayed him, and our bowmen sent a shower of arrows into his hiding-place, but without hitting him. Then, of his own accord, he gave himself up.

Helena.

And after such a victory do you not feel secure?

Julian.

[Hesitatingly.] On the very evening of the victory an accident occurred, a trifle——

Helena.

An accident?

Julian.

I prefer to call it so. In Athens we used to speculate much upon Nemesis.—My victory was so overwhelming, Helena; my position had, as it were, got out of balance; I do not know——

Helena.

Oh, speak, speak; you put me on the rack!

Julian.

It was a trifle, I tell you. I ordered the captive Knodomar to be brought before me, in the presence of the army. Before the battle, he had threatened that I should be flayed alive when I fell into his hands. Now he came towards me with faltering steps, trembling in every limb. Crushed by disaster, as the barbarians are apt to be, he cast himself down before me, embraced my knees, shed tears, and begged for his life.

Helena.

His mighty frame quivering with dread—I can see the prostrate Knodomar.—Did you kill him, my beloved?

Julian.

I could not kill that man. I granted him his life, and promised to send him as a prisoner to Rome.

Helena.

Without torturing him?

Julian.

Prudence bade me deal mercifully with him. But then—I cannot tell how it happened—with a cry of overflowing gladness, the barbarian sprang up, stretched his pinioned hands into the air, and, half ignorant as he is of our language, shouted with a loud voice: “Praise be to thee, Julian, thou mighty Emperor!”

Helena.

Ah!

Julian.

My attendants were inclined to laugh; but the barbarian’s shout flew like a lightning-flash through the surrounding soldiery, kindling as it went. “Long live the Emperor Julian,” those who stood nearest repeated; and the cry spread around in wider and ever wider circles to the furthest distance. ’Twas as though some Titan had hurled a mighty rock far out into the ocean;—oh, my beloved, forgive me the heathen similitude, but——

Helena.

Emperor Julian! He said Emperor Julian!

Julian.

What did the rude Aleman know of Constantius, whom he had never seen? I, his conqueror, was in his eyes the greatest——

Helena.

Yes, yes; but the soldiers——?

Julian.

I rebuked them sternly; for I saw at a glance how Florentius, Severus, and certain others stood silently by, white with fear and wrath.

Helena.

Yes, yes, they—but not the soldiers.

Julian.

Before a single night had passed my secret foes had distorted the affair. “Caesar has induced Knodomar to proclaim him Emperor,” the story went, “and in requital he has granted the barbarian his life.” And, thus inverted, the news has travelled to Rome.

Helena.

Are you sure of that? And through whom?

Julian.

Ah, through whom? through whom? I myself wrote at once to the Emperor and told him everything, but——

Helena.

Well—and how did he answer?

Julian.

As usual. You know his ominous silence when he means to strike a blow.

Helena.

I believe you misinterpret all this. It must be so. You will see that his envoy will soon assure you of——

Julian.

I am assured, Helena! Here, in my bosom, I have some intercepted letters, which——

Helena.

Oh, Lord my God, let me see!

Julian.

By-and-by.By-and-by.

[He walks up and down.

And all this after the services I have rendered him! I have put a stop to the inroads of the Alemanni for years to come, whilst he himself has suffered defeat after defeat on the Danube, and the army in Asia seems to make no way against the Persians. Shame and disaster on all sides, except here, where he placed a reluctant philosopher at the head of affairs. Yet none the less am I the scorn of the court. Even after the last great victory, they have lampooned me, and called me Victorinus. This must come to an end.

Helena.

So I, too, think.

Julian.

On such terms, what is the title of Caesar worth?

Helena.

No; you are right, Julian; things cannot go on thus!

Julian.

[Stopping.] Helena, could you follow me?

Helena.

[Softly.] Have no fear for me; I will not fail you.

Julian.

Then away from all this thankless toil; away to the solitude I have sighed for so long——!

Helena.

What do you say? Solitude!

Julian.

With you, my beloved; and with my dear books, that I have so seldom been able to open here, save only on my sleepless nights.

Helena.

[Looking him down from head to foot.] Ah, that is what you mean!

Julian.

What else?

Helena.

Ay, truly; what else?

Julian.

Yes, yes—I ask, what else?

Helena.

[Coming nearer.] Julian—how did the barbarian king hail you?

Julian.

[Shrinking.] Helena!

Helena.

[Still nearer.] What was the name that echoed through the ranks of the legions?

Julian.

Rash woman; there may be an eavesdropper at every door!

Helena.

Why should you fear eavesdroppers? Is not God’s grace upon you? Have you not been victorious in every encounter?—I see the Saviour calling upon you; I see the angel with the flaming sword, who cleared the way for my father when he drove Maxentius into the Tiber!

Julian.

Shall I rebel against the ruler of the empire?

Helena.

Only against those who stand between you. Oh, go, go; smite them with the lightning of your wrath; put an end to this harassing, joyless life! Gaul is an outer wilderness. I am so cold here, Julian! I pine for home, for the sunshine of Rome and Greece.

Julian.

For home and your brother?

Helena.

[Softly.] Constantius is but a wreck.

Julian.

Helena!

Helena.

I can bear it no longer, I tell you. Time is flying. Eusebia is gone; her empty seat invites me to honour and greatness, while I am ageing——

Julian.

You are not ageing; you are young and fair!

Helena.

No, no, no! Time speeds; I cannot bear this patiently; life slips away from me!

Julian.

[Gazing at her.] How temptingly beautiful, how divine you are!

Helena.

[Clinging to him.] Am I so indeed, Julian?

Julian.

[Embracing her.] You are the only woman I have loved,—the only one who has loved me.

Helena.

I am older than you. I will not age still more. When all is over, then——

Julian.

[Tearing himself away.] Hush! I will hear no more.

Helena.

[Following him.] Constantius is dying by inches; he hangs by a hair over the grave. Oh, my beloved Julian, you have the soldiers on your side——

Julian.

No more, no more!

Helena.

He can bear no agitation. What is there, then, to recoil from? I mean nothing bloody. Fie, how can you think so? The terror will be enough; it will fold him in its embrace and gently end his sufferings.

Julian.

Do you forget the invisible bodyguard around the Lord’s anointed?

Helena.

Christ is good. Oh, be pious, Julian, and He will forgive much. I will help. Prayers shall go up for you. Praised be the saints! Praised be the martyrs! Trust me, we will atone for everything later. Give me the Alemanni to convert; I will send out priests among them; they shall bow under the mercy of the cross.

Julian.

The Alemanni will not bow.

Helena.

Then they shall die! Like sweet incense shall their blood rise up to Him, the blessed One. We will magnify His glory; His praise shall be made manifest in us. I myself will do my part. The women of the Alemanni shall be my care. If they will not bow, they shall be sacrificed! And then, my Julian—when next you see me——; young, young once more! Give me the women of the Alemanni, my beloved! Blood—’twould be no murder, and the remedy is a sovereign one—a bath of young virgins’ blood——

Julian.

Helena, the thought is crime!

Helena.

Is it crime to commit crime for your sake?

Julian.

You beautiful, you peerless one!

Helena.

[Bowing herself down over his hands.] My lord before God and men!—Draw not back this time, Julian! My hero, my Emperor! I see heaven open. Priests shall sing praises to Christ; my women shall assemble in prayer. [With upraised arms.] Oh, thou blessed One! Oh, thou God of Hosts,—thou, in whose hand lie grace and victory——

Julian.

[With a look towards the door, exclaims:] Helena!

Helena.

Ah!

The Chamberlain Eutherius.

[From the back.] My lord, the Emperor’s emissary——

Julian.

Is he come?

Eutherius.

Yes, my lord!

Julian.

His name? Who is he?

Eutherius.

The tribune Decentius.

Julian.

Indeed? The pious Decentius!

Julian.

Has he talked with any one?

Eutherius.

With no one, my lord; he has this moment arrived.

Julian.

I will see him at once. And listen; one thing more. Summon the captains and officers to me here.

Eutherius.

It is well, most gracious lord.

[He goes out by the back.

Julian.

Now, my Helena, now we shall see——

Helena.

[Softly.] Whatever happens, forget not that you can trust in the soldiers.

Julian.

Ah, trust, trust——; I am not sure that I can trust in any one.

The Tribune Decentius enters from the back.

Helena.

[Meeting him.] Welcome, noble Decentius! A Roman face,—and, above all, this face,—oh! it sheds genial sunlight over our inclement Gaul.

Decentius.

The Emperor meets your longing and your hope half-way, noble Princess! We may hope that Gaul will not much longer hold you in its chains.

Helena.

Say you so, messenger of gladness? So the Emperor still thinks lovingly of me? How is it with his health?

Julian.

Go, go, my beloved Helena!

Decentius.

The Emperor’s health is certainly no worse.

Helena.

No, surely not? I thought as much. All those alarming rumours——; God be praised that they were but rumours! Thank him most lovingly, good Decentius! And let me thank you too. What splendid gifts have heralded your coming! Imperial——no, let me say brotherly gifts indeed! Two shining black Nubians,—you should see them, my Julian!—and pearls! See, I am wearing them already. And fruits,—sweet, luscious fruits! Ah, peaches from Damascus, peaches in chalices of gold! How they will refresh me;—fruit, fruit; I am pining away here in Gaul.

Julian.

A feast shall end the day; but business first. Go, my precious wife!

Helena.

I go to the church,—to pray for my brother and for all good hopes.

[She goes out to the right.

Julian.

[After an instant’s pause.] A message, or letters?

Decentius.

Letters.

[He hands him a roll of paper.

Julian.

[Reads, represses a smile, and holds out his hand.] More!

Decentius.

Noble Caesar, that is well-nigh all.

Julian.

Truly? Has the Emperor sent his friend all this long way only to——?

[He bursts into a short laugh, and then walks up and down.

Had Knodomar, the King of the Alemanni, arrived in Rome ere you left?

Decentius.

Yes, noble Caesar!

Julian.

And how fares he in the strange land, ignorant as he is of our tongue! For he knows nought of it, Decentius! He was positively a laughing-stock to my soldiers. Only think, he mixed up two such common words as Emperor and Caesar.

Decentius.

[Shrugging his shoulders.] A barbarian. What can one expect?

Julian.

No, what can one expect? But the Emperor has received him graciously?

Decentius.

Knodomar is dead, my lord!

Julian.

[Stopping suddenly.] Knodomar dead!

Decentius.

Dead, in the foreigners’ quarters, on the Coelian hill.

Julian.

Dead? Indeed!—Ah, the Roman air is unwholesome.

Decentius.

The King of the Alemanni died of home-sickness, my lord! The longing for kindred and freedom——

Julian.

——wastes a man away, Decentius; yes, yes, I know that.—I should not have sent him living to Rome. I should have had him killed here.

Decentius.

Caesar’s heart is merciful.

Julian.

H’m——! Home-sickness? Indeed!

To the Master of the Horse, Sintula, who enters by the back.

Are you there, old faun? Tempt me no more.

[To Decentius.] Since the battle at Argentoratum, he is for ever talking to me of the triumphal chariot and the white horses. [To Sintula.] ’Twould be like Phaeton’s career with the Lybian sun-horses. How did that end? Have you forgotten—have you forgotten your heathendom, I had almost said?—Pardon me, Decentius, for wounding your pious ear.

Decentius.

Caesar delights his servant’s ear; he cannot wound it.

Julian.

Yes, yes; bear with Caesar’s jesting. In truth I know not how else to take the matter.—Here they are.

Severus and Florentius, together with other captains and gentlemen of Caesar’s court, enter from the back.

Julian.

[Advancing to receive them.] Greeting to you, brothers in arms and friends. Blame me not overmuch for summoning you hither, straight from the dust and toil of the march; truly, I should not have grudged you some hours’ rest; but——

Florentius.

Has aught of moment happened, my lord?

Julian.

Aye, truly. Can you tell me—what was lacking to complete Caesar’s happiness?

Florentius.

What should be lacking to complete Caesar’s happiness?

Julian.

Now, nothing. [To Decentius.] The army has demanded that I should enter the city in triumph. They would have had me pass through the gates of Lutetia at the head of the legions. Captive barbarian princes, with pinioned hands, were to march beside my chariot-wheels; women and slaves from twenty conquered peoples were to follow, crowded closely together, head against head—— [Breaking off suddenly.] Rejoice, my valiant fellow soldiers; here you see the Tribune Decentius, the Emperor’s trusted friend and councillor. He has arrived this morning with gifts and greetings from Rome.

Florentius.

Ah, then indeed naught can be lacking to complete Caesar’s happiness.

Severus.

[Softly to Florentius.] Incomprehensible! Then he is in the Emperor’s grace again!

Florentius.

[Softly.] Oh, this unstable Emperor!

Julian.

You seem all to be struck dumb with astonishment.—They think the Emperor has done too much, good Decentius!Decentius!

Florentius.

How can Caesar think such a thought?

Severus.

Too much, noble Caesar? By no means. Who doubts that the Emperor knows how to set due bounds to his favour?

Florentius.

This is in truth a rare and remarkable distinction——

Severus.

I should even call it beyond measure rare and remarkable——

Florentius.

And especially does it afford a striking proof that our august Emperor’s mind is free from all jealousy——

Severus.

An unexampled proof, I venture to call it.

Florentius.

But then, what has not Caesar achieved in these few years in Gaul?

Julian.

A year-long dream, dear friends! I have achieved nothing. Nothing, nothing!

Florentius.

All this your modesty counts as nothing? What was the army when you took command? A disorderly rabble——

Severus.

——without coherence, without discipline, without direction——

Julian.

You exaggerate, Severus!

Florentius.

And was it not with this undisciplined rabble that you took the field against the Alemanni? Did you not win battle after battle with these levies, till your victories transformed them into an invincible host? Did you not retake Colonia Agrippina——?

Julian.

Come come, you see with the eye of friendship, my Florentius!—Or is it really so? Is it a fact, that I drove the barbarians out of the islands of the Rhine! That I placed the ruined Tres Tabernae in a posture of defence, making it a bulwark of the empire? Is it really so?

Florentius.

What, my lord! Can you be in doubt as to so great deeds?

Julian.

No, I cannot but think—— And the battle of Argentoratum? Was I not there? I cannot but fancy that I defeated Knodomar. And after the victory——; Florentius, have I dreamt it, or did I rebuild Trajan’s fortress, when we marched into German territory?

Florentius.

Noble Caesar, is there any man so mad as to deny you the honour of these exploits?

Severus.

[To Decentius.] I praise the destiny that has vouchsafed to my old age so victorious a leader.

Florentius.

[Also to the Tribune.] I dare scarcely think what turn this inroad of the Alemanni might have taken, but for Caesar’s courage and conduct.

Many Courtiers.

[Pressing forward.] Yes, yes; Caesar is great!

Others.

[Clapping their hands.] Caesar is peerless!

Julian.

[Looks for a time alternately at Decentius and the others; thereupon breaks out into a loud, short laugh.] So blind is friendship, Decentius! So blind, so blind!

[He turns to the rest, and taps the roll of paper in his hand.

Here I read far other tidings! listen and drink in the refreshing dew of knowledge. This is the Emperor’s despatch to all the proconsuls of the empire;—our excellent Decentius has brought me a copy of it. Here we learn that I have accomplished nothing in Gaul. It was, as I told you, a dream. Here we have the Emperor’s own words: it was under the Emperor’s happy auspices that the imminent danger to the empire was averted.

Florentius.

All the affairs of the empire flourish under the Emperor’s auspices.

Julian.

More, more. It is here set forth that it was the Emperor who fought and conquered on the Rhine; it was the Emperor who raised up the King of the Alemanni, as he lay grovelling before him. My name is not fortunate enough to find any place in this document,—nor yours, Florentius, nor yours, Severus! And here, in the description of the battle of Argentoratum—where was it? Yes, here it stands!—it was the Emperor who determined the order of battle; it was the Emperor himself who, at peril of his life, fought till his sword was blunted, in the forefront of the battle: it was the Emperor who, by the terror of his presence, put the barbarians to headlong flight——; read, read, I tell you!

Severus.

Noble Caesar, your word suffices.

Julian.

What mean you, then, by your deluding speeches, my friends? Would you, in your too great love for me, make me a parasite, to be fed with the leavings you have pilfered from my kinsman’s table?—What think you, Decentius? What say you to this? You see, in my own camp, I have to keep an eye on adherents who, in their blind zeal, are sometimes in danger of straying over the border-line of revolt.

Florentius.

[Hastily, to the Tribune.] I assure you, my words have been sadly misconstrued if——

Severus.

[Also to the Tribune.] It could never enter my mind to——

Julian.

That is right, my brothers in arms; let us all agree to swallow our vainglory. I asked what was lacking to complete Caesar’s happiness. Now you know it. ’Twas the recognition of the truth that was lacking in Caesar’s happiness. Your silver helmet will never be dimmed with the dust of the triumph, Florentius! The Emperor has already triumphed for us, in Rome. He therefore declares all festivities here to be superfluous. Go, Sintula, and see that the intended procession is countermanded. The Emperor wishes to give his soldiers a much-needed rest. ’Tis his will that they remain in the camp outside the walls.

[The Master of the Horse, Sintula, goes out by the back.

Julian.

Was I not once a philosopher? They said so, at least, both in Athens and Ephesus. So weak is human nature in the hours of success; I had almost been false to philosophy. The Emperor has brought me to my senses. Thank him most humbly, Decentius. Have you more to say?

Decentius.

One thing more. From all the Emperor has learnt, and especially from the letter you wrote him from Argentoratum, it appears that the great work of pacification in Gaul is happily accomplished.

Julian.

Most certainly; the Emperor, partly by his valour, partly by his magnanimous clemency——

Decentius.

The Rhine frontier of the empire has been placed in security.

Julian.

By the Emperor, by the Emperor.

Decentius.

In the Danubian provinces, on the contrary, affairs are going ill; and still worse in Asia—King Sapor makes constant progress.

Julian.

What audacity! Rumour has it that not even in this summer’s campaign has the Emperor been pleased to let his generals crush him.

Decentius.

The Emperor intends to do so himself in the spring. [Producing a roll of papers.] Here he makes known his will, noble Caesar.

Julian.

Let us see, let us see! [Reading.] Ah!

[He reads again for a long time, with signs of deep inward emotion; then he looks up and says:

Then, ’tis the Emperor’s will that——? Good, good, noble Decentius; the Emperor’s will shall be done.

Decentius.

It must be done, this very day.

Julian.

This very day; of course. Come hither, Sintula! Where is he?—Ah, I remember!—Call Sintula back!

[A courtier goes out by the back; Julian retires to the window, and reads the papers through once more.

Florentius.

[In a low voice, to the Tribune.] I implore you not to misinterpret what I said. When I gave Caesar the credit, of course I did not mean to——

Severus.

[In a low voice.] It could never occur to me to doubt that it was the Emperor’s supreme and wise direction that——

A Courtier.

[On the other side of the Tribune.] I beg you, noble sir,—put in a word for me at court, and release me from this painful position in the household of a Caesar who——; well, he is the Emperor’s exalted kinsman, but——

Another Courtier.

I could tell you, alas! of things that indicate not only boundless vanity, but overweening ambition——

Julian.

This very day! Let me say one word, Decentius! It has long been my dearest wish to lay down this burden of responsibility.

Decentius.

It shall be conveyed to the Emperor.

Julian.

I call heaven to witness that I never——; Ah, here is Sintula; now we can——[To the Tribune.] You are going?

Decentius.

I have affairs to transact with the generals, noble Caesar!

Julian.

Without my intervention?

Decentius.

The Emperor commands me to spare his beloved kinsman.

[He goes out by the back, followed by the others, except Sintula, who remains standing at the door.

Julian.

[Looking at him awhile.] Sintula!

Sintula.

Yes, noble master!

Julian.

Come nearer—Yes, by my faith, you look honest. Pardon me; I never thought you could be so attached to me.

Sintula.

How know you that I am attached to you, my lord?

Julian.

[Pointing to the roll of paper.] I can read it here, in this; it is written that you are to desert me.

Sintula.

I, my lord?

Julian.

The Emperor disbands the army of Gaul, Sintula!

Sintula.

Disbands——?

Julian.

Yes, what is it but a disbanding? The Emperor needs reinforcements, both on the Danube, and against the Persians. Our Batavian and Herulian auxiliaries are to depart with all speed, in order to reach Asia in the spring.

Sintula.

But the thing is impossible, my lord. You have solemnly sworn to these very allies that they shall in no case be called upon to serve beyond the Alps.

Julian.

Just so, Sintula! The Emperor writes that I gave that promise over hastily, and without his consent. This is quite a new light to me; but here it stands. I am to be forced to break my word, dishonour myself in the eyes of the army, turn against me the unbridled rage of the barbarians, perhaps their murderous weapons.

Sintula.

They cannot hurt you, my lord! The Roman legions will make their breasts your shield.

Julian.

The Roman legions. H’m;—my simple-minded friend! From every Roman legion three hundred men are to be drafted off, and are likewise to join the Emperor by the shortest route.

Sintula.

Ah! This is——?

Julian.

Well planned, is it not? Every branch of the army is to be set against me, that I may the more easily be disarmed.

Sintula.

And I tell you, my lord, that not one of your generals will lend himself to such a design.

Julian.

My generals are not to be led into temptation. You are the man.

Sintula.

I, my Caesar!

Julian.

Here it is written. The Emperor commissions you to take all necessary measures, and then to lead the chosen detachments to Rome.

Sintula.

This task assigned to me? With men here like Florentius and old Severus——

Julian.

You have no victories to your discredit, Sintula!

Sintula.

No, that is true. I have never been allowed an opportunity of showing——

Julian.

I have been unjust to you. Thanks for your fidelity.

Sintula.

So great an imperial honour! My lord, may I see——

Julian.

What would you see? You surely would not lend yourself to such a design.

Sintula.

God forbid that I should disobey the Emperor!

Julian.

Sintula,—would you disarm your Caesar?

Sintula.

Caesar has ever undervalued me. Caesar has never forgiven me the fact of his having to endure about his person a Master of the Horse chosen by the Emperor.

Julian.

The Emperor is great and wise; he chooses well.

Sintula.

My lord,—I long to set about my duty; may I beg to see the Emperor’s commission?

Julian.

[Handing him one of the papers.] Here is the Emperor’s commission. Go, and do your duty.

Myrrha.

[Entering hastily from the right.] Oh merciful Redeemer!

Julian.

Myrrha! What is the matter?

Myrrha.

Oh kind heaven, my mistress——

Julian.

Your mistress,—what of her?

Myrrha.

Sickness or frenzy——; help, help!

Julian.

Helena sick! The physician! Oribases must come, Sintula! Summon him!

[Sintula goes out by the back. Julian is hastening out to the right, when at the door he meets the Princess Helena, surrounded by female slaves. Her countenance is wild and distorted, her hair and clothes are in disorder.

Helena.

Loosen the comb! Loosen the comb, I say! It is red hot. My hair is on fire; I burn, I burn!

Julian.

Helena! For God’s pity’s sake——!

Helena.

Will no one help me? They are killing me with needle-pricks!

Julian.

My Helena! What has befallen you?

Helena.

Myrrha, Myrrha! Save me from the women, Myrrha!

The Physician Oribases.

[Entering from the back.] What horror do I hear——? Is it true? Ah!

Julian.

Helena! My love, light of my life——!

Helena.

Away from me! Oh sweet Jesus, help!

[She half swoons among the slave-girls.

Julian.

She is raving. What can it be, Oribases?—See—see her eyes, how large——!

Oribases.

[To Myrrha.] What has the Princess taken? What has she been eating or drinking?

Julian.

Ah, you think——?

Oribases.

Answer, women; what have you given the Princess?Princess?

Myrrha.

We? Oh nothing, I swear; she herself——

Oribases.

Well? Well?

Myrrha.

Some fruits; they were peaches, I think;—oh, I know not——

Julian.

Fruits! Peaches? Some of those which——?

Myrrha.

Yes—no—yes; I do not know, my lord; it was two Nubians——

Julian.

Help, help, Oribases!

Oribases.

Alas, I fear——

Julian.

No, no, no!

Oribases.

Hush, gracious lord; she is coming to herself.

Helena.

[Whispering.] Why did the sun go down? Oh holy mysterious darkness!

Julian.

Helena! Listen; collect your thoughts——

Oribases.

My noble Princess——

Julian.

It is the physician, Helena! [He takes her hand.] No, here, where I stand.

Helena.

[Tearing her hand away.] Faugh! there he was again!

Julian.

She does not see me. Here, here, Helena!

Helena.

The loathsome creature;—he is always about me.

Julian.

What does she mean?

Oribases.

Stand apart, gracious lord——!

Helena.

Sweet stillness! He does not dream——; oh my Gallus!

Julian.

Gallus!

Oribases.

Go, noble Caesar; it is not meet——!

Helena.

How boldly your close-curling hair curves over your neck! Oh that short, thick neck——

Julian.

Abyss of all abysses——!

Oribases.

The delirium is increasing——

Julian.

I see, I see. We must take note, Oribases!

Helena.

[Laughing softly.] Now he would be taking notes again.—Ink on his fingers; book-dust in his hair—unwashed; faugh, faugh, how he stinks.

Myrrha.

My lord, shall I not——?

Julian.

Away with you, woman!

Helena.

How could you let yourself be conquered by him, you great-limbed, bronzed barbarian? He cannot conquer women. How I loathe this impotent virtue.

Julian.

Stand apart, all of you! Not so near, Oribases! I myself will watch the Princess.

Helena.

Art thou wroth with me, thou glorious one? Gallus is dead. Beheaded. What a blow that must have been! Be not jealous, oh my first and last? Burn Gallus in hell fire;—it was none but thou, thou, thou——!

Julian.

No nearer, Oribases!

Helena.

Kill the priest, too! I will not see him after this. Thou knowest our sweet secret. Oh thou, my days’ desire, my nights’ delight! It was thou thyself—in the form of thy servant—in the oratory; yes, yes, thou wast there; it was thou—in the darkness, in the heavy air, in the shrouding incense-clouds, that night, when the Caesar growing beneath my heart——

Julian.

[Recoiling with a cry.] Ah!

Helena.

[With outstretched arms.] My lover and my lord! Mine, mine——!

[She falls swooning on the floor; the slave-girls hasten forward and crowd round her.

Julian.

[Stands for a moment immovable; then shakes his clenched fist in the air, and cries:] Galilean!

[The slave-girls carry the Princess out on the right; at the same moment the Knight Sallust comes hastily in by the door in the back.

Sallust.

The Princess in a swoon! Oh, then it is true!

Julian.

[Grasps the Physician by the arm, and leads him aside.] Tell me the truth. Did you know before to-day that——; you understand me; have you known aught of——the Princess’s condition?

Oribases.

I, like every one else, my lord.

Julian.

And you said naught to me, Oribases!

Oribases.

Of what, my Caesar?

Julian.

How dared you conceal it from me?

Oribases.

My lord, there was one thing we none of us knew.

Julian.

And that was?

Oribases.

That Caesar knew nothing. [He is going.]

Julian.

Where are you going?

Oribases.

To try the remedies my art prescribes——

Julian.

I believe your art will prove powerless.

Oribases.

My lord, it is yet possible that——

Julian.

Powerless, I tell you!

Oribases.

[Retiring a step.] Noble Caesar, it is my duty to disobey you in this.

Julian.

What think you I mean? Go, go; try what your art——; save the Emperor’s sister; the Emperor will be inconsolable if his thoughtful affection should bring any disaster in its train. Of course you know that those fruits were a gift from the Emperor?

Oribases.

Ah!

Julian.

Go, go, man,—try what your art——

Oribases.

[Bowing reverently.] I believe my art will prove powerless, my lord!

[He goes out to the right.

Julian.

Ah, is it you, Sallust? What think you? The waves of fate are once more beginning to sweep over my race.

Sallust.

Oh, but rescue is at hand. Oribases will——

Julian.

[Shortly and decisively.] The Princess will die.

Sallust.

Oh, if I dared speak! If I dared trace out the secret threads in this web of destruction!

Julian.

Be of good cheer, friend; all the threads shall be brought to light, and then——

Decentius.

[Entering from the back.] How shall I look Caesar in the face! How inscrutable are the ways of God! Crushed to earth——; oh that you could but read my heart! That I should be the harbinger of sorrow and disaster——!

Julian.

Yes, that you may say twice over, noble Decentius! And how shall I find soft and specious enough terms to bring this in any endurable guise to the ears of her imperial brother!

Decentius.

Alas that such a thing should happen so close upon the coming of my mission! And just at this moment! Oh, what a thunderbolt from a cloudless sky of hope!

Julian.

Oh, this towering and devouring tempest, just as the ship seemed running into the long-desired haven! Oh, this—this——! Sorrow makes us eloquent, Decentius,—you as well as me. But first to business. The two Nubians must be seized and examined.

Decentius.

The Nubians, my lord? Could you dream that my indignant zeal would for another instant suffer the two negligent servants to——?

Julian.

What! Surely you have not already——?

Decentius.

Call me hasty, if you will, noble Caesar. ButCaesar. But my love to the Emperor and to his sorrow-stricken house would in truth be less than it is if, in such an hour, I were capable of calm reflection.

Julian.

Have you killed both the slaves?

Decentius.

Had not their negligence deserved a sevenfold death? They were two heathen savages, my lord! Their testimony would have been worthless; it was impossible to wring anything out of them, save that they had left their precious charge standing for some time unwatched in the antechamber, accessible to every one——

Julian.

Aha! Had they indeed, Decentius?

Decentius.

I accuse no one. But oh, beloved Caesar, I bid you beware; for you are surrounded by faithless servants. Your court—by an unhappy misunderstanding!—fancies that some sort of disfavour—or what should I call it?—is implied in the measures which the Emperor has found it necessary to adopt; in short——

Sintula.

[Entering from the back.] My lord, you have imposed on me a charge I can in no way fulfil.

Julian.

The Emperor imposed it, good Sintula!

Sintula.

Relieve me of it, my lord; it is utterly beyond me.

Decentius.

What has happened?

Sintula.

The camp is in wild revolt. The legions and the allies are banding together——

Decentius.

Rebelling against the Emperor’s will!

Sintula.

The soldiers are shouting that they appeal to Caesar’s promises.

Julian.

Hark! hark! that roar outside——!

Sintula.

The rioters are rushing hither——

Decentius.

Let no one enter!

Sallust.

[At the window.] Too late; the whole courtyard is filled with angry soldiers.

Decentius.

Caesar’s precious life is in danger! Where is Florentius?

Sintula.

Fled.

Decentius.

The blustering coward! And Severus?

Sintula.

Severus feigns sickness; he has driven out to his farm.

Julian.

I myself will speak to the madmen.

Decentius.

Not a step, noble Caesar!

Julian.

What now?

Decentius.

’Tis my duty, gracious lord; the Emperor’s command—; his beloved kinsman’s life—; Caesar is my prisoner.

Sallust.

Ah!

Julian.

So it has come at last!

Decentius.

The household guard, Sintula! You must conduct Caesar in safety to Rome.

Julian.

To Rome!

Sintula.

What say you, my lord?

Decentius.

To Rome, I say!

Julian.

Like Gallus! [He shouts through the window.] Help, help!

Sallust.

Fly, my Caesar! Fly, fly!

Wild cries are heard without. Soldiers of the Roman legions, Batavian auxiliaries, and other alliesallies climb in through the window. At the same time, others swarm in by the door at the back. Amongst the foremost is the Standard-Bearer Maurus; women, some with children in their arms, follow the intruders.

Cries among the Soldiers.

Caesar, Caesar!Caesar!

Other Voices.

Caesar, why have you betrayed us?

Again Others.

Down with the faithless Caesar!Caesar!

Julian.

[Casts himself with outstretched arms into the midst of the soldiers, crying:] Fellow-soldiers, brothers in arms,—save me from my enemies!

Decentius.

Ah, what is this——?

Wild Cries.

Down with Caesar! Strike him down!

Julian.

Close round me in a circle; draw your swords!

Maurus.

They are drawn already!

Women.

Strike him, cut him down!

Julian.

I thank you for coming! Maurus! Honest Maurus! Yes, yes; you I can trust.

A Batavian Soldier.

How dare you send us to the ends of the earth? Was that what you swore to us?

Other Allies.

Not over the Alps! We are not bound to go!

Julian.

Not to Rome! I will not go; they would murder me, as they murdered my brother Gallus!

Maurus.

What say you, my lord?

Decentius.

Do not believe him!

Julian.

Lay no finger on the noble Decentius; the fault is not his.

Laipso.

[A Subaltern.] That is true; the fault is Caesar’s.

Julian.

Ah, is that you, Laipso! My gallant friend, is that you? You fought well at Argentoratum.

Laipso.

Caesar has not forgotten that?

Varro.

[A Subaltern.] But he forgets his promises!

Julian.

Was not that the voice of the undaunted Varro? Ah, there he is! Your wound is healed, I see. Oh, well-deserving soldier,—why would they not let me make you captain?

Varro.

Was it indeed your wish?

Julian.

Blame not the Emperor for refusing my request. The Emperor knows none of you as I know you.

Decentius.

Soldiers, hear me——!

Many Voices.

We have nothing to do with the Emperor!

Others.

[Pressing forward menacingly.] It is Caesar we call to account!

Julian.

What power has your hapless Caesar, my friends? They would take me to Rome. They deny even the control of my private affairs. They seize upon my share of the spoils of war. I thought to give every soldier five gold pieces and a pound of silver, but——

The Soldiers.

What does he say?

Julian.

’Tis not the Emperor who forbids it, but bad and envious councillors. The Emperor is good, my dear friends! But oh, the Emperor is sick; he can do nothing——

Many Soldiers.

Five gold pieces and a pound of silver!

Other Soldiers.

And that they deny us!

Others Again.

Who dares deny Caesar anything?

Maurus.

Is it thus they treat Caesar, the soldiers’ father?

Laipso.

Caesar, who has been rather our friend than our master? Is it not true?

Many Voices.

Yes, yes, it is!

Varro.

Should not Caesar, the victorious general, be suffered to choose his captains as he pleases?

Maurus.

Should he not have free control over the spoils that fall to his share?

Loud Shouts.

Yes, yes, yes!

Julian.

Alas, what would it profit you? What need you care for worldly goods, you, who are to be led forth to the most distant lands, to meet a doubtful fate——?

Soldiers.

We will not go!

Julian.

Look not at me; I am ashamed; I can scarce help weeping when I think that, within a few months, you will be a prey to pestilence, famine, and the weapons of a bloodthirsty foe.

Many Soldiers.

[Pressing round him.] Caesar! Kind Caesar!

Julian.

And your defenceless wives and children, whom you must leave behind in your scattered homes! Who shall protect them in their pitiable plight, soon to be widowed and fatherless, and exposed to the vengeful onslaughts of the Alemanni?

The Women.

[Weeping.] Caesar, Caesar, protect us!

Julian.

[Weeping likewise.] What is Caesar? What can the fallen Caesar do?

Laipso.

Write to the Emperor, and let him know——

Julian.

Ah, what is the Emperor? The Emperor is sick in mind and body; he is broken down by his care for the empire’s weal. Is it not so, Decentius?

Decentius.

Yes, doubtless; but——

Julian.

How it cut me to the heart when I heard——

[Pressing the hands of those around him.

Pray for his soul, you who worship the good Christ! Offer sacrifices for his recovery, you who have remained faithful to the gods of your fathers!——Know you that the Emperor has held a triumphal entry into Rome?

Maurus.

The Emperor!

Varro.

What? As he returned, beaten, from the Danube?

Julian.

As he returned from the Danube, he held a triumph for our victories——

Decentius.

[Threateningly.] Noble Caesar, reflect——!

Julian.

Yes, the Tribune says well; reflect how our Emperor’s mind must be clouded, when he can do such things! Oh, my sorely afflicted kinsman! When he rode into Rome through the mighty arch of Constantine, he fancied himself so tall that he bent his back and bowed his head down to his saddle-bow.

Maurus.

Like a cock in a doorway.

[Laughter among the soldiers.

Some Voices.

Is that an Emperor?

Varro.

Shall we obey him?

Laipso.

Away with him!

Maurus.

Caesar, do you taketake the helm!

Decentius.

Rebellion——!

Many Voices.

Seize the throne; seize the throne, Caesar!

Julian.

Madmen! Is this language for Romans? Would you imitate the barbarous Alemanni? What was it Knodomar cried at Argentoratum? Answer me, good Maurus,—what did he cry out?

Maurus.

He cried, “Long live the Emperor Julian!”

Julian.

Ah, hush, hush! What are you saying?

Maurus.

Long live the Emperor Julian!

Those Behind.

What is afoot?

Varro.

They are proclaiming Julian Emperor!

Loud Cries.

Long live the Emperor! Long live the Emperor Julian!

[The cry spreads in wider and wider circles without; all talk together; Julian cannot make himself heard for some time.

Julian.

Oh, I entreat you——! Soldiers, friends, brothers in arms,—see, I stretch out my trembling arms to you——! Be not alarmed, my Decentius!—Oh that I should live to see this! I do not blame you, my faithful friends; it is despair that has driven you to this. You will have it? Good; I submit to the will of the army.—Sintula, call the generals together.—You, Tribune, can bear witness to Constantius that ’twas only on compulsion that I—— [He turns to Varro.] Go, captain, and make known throughout the camp this unlooked-for turn of events. I will write without delay to Rome——

Sallust.

My lord, the soldiers clamour to see you.

Maurus.

A circlet of gold on your head, Emperor!

Julian.

I have never possessed such a gaud.

Maurus.

This will serve.

[He takes off his gold chain, and winds it several times round Caesar’s brow.

Shouts outside.

The Emperor, the Emperor! We will see the Emperor!

Soldiers.

On the shield with him! Up, up!

[The bystanders raise Julian aloft on a shield, and show him to the multitude, amid long-continued acclamations.

Julian.

The will of the army be done! I bow before the inevitable, and renew all my promises——

Legionaries.

Five gold pieces and a pound of silver!

Batavians.

Not over the Alps!

Julian.

We will occupy Vienna. ’Tis the strongest city in Gaul, and well supplied with provisions of every sort. There I intend to wait until we see whether my afflicted kinsman sanctions what we have here determined, for the empire’s weal——

Sallust.

That he will never do, my lord!

Julian.

[With upstretched hands.] Divine wisdom enlighten his darkened soul, and guide him for the best! Be thou with me, Fortune, who hast never yet deserted me!

Myrrha and the Women.

[Lamenting outside on the right.] Dead, dead, dead!

ACT FIFTH.

At Vienna [in Gaul]. A vaulted space in the catacombs. To the left a winding passage running upwards. In the background, a flight of steps is hewn in the rock, leading up to a closed door. In front, to the right, a number of steps lead down to the lower passages. The space is feebly lighted by a hanging-lamp.

Julian Caesar, unshaven, and in dirty clothes, stands bending over the opening to the right. A subdued sound of psalm-singing comes through the door from the church beyond it, built on to the catacomb.

Julian.

[Speaking downwards.] Still no sign?

A Voice.

[Far below.] None.

Julian.

Neither yes nor no? Neither for nor against?

The Voice.

Both.

Julian.

That is the same as nothing.

The Voice.

Wait, wait.

Julian.

I have waited five days; you asked for only three. I tell you——I have no mind to—— [He listens towards the entrance, and calls down.] Do not speak!

Sallust.

[Entering by the passage on the left.] My lord, my lord!

Julian.

Is it you, Sallust? What would you down here?

Sallust.

This thick darkness——; ah! now I see you.

Julian.

What do you want?

Sallust.

To serve you, if I can,—to lead you out to the living again.

Julian.

What news from the world above?

Sallust.

The soldiers are restless; there are signs on all hands that their patience will soon be exhausted.

Julian.

Is the sun shining up there?

Sallust.

Yes, my lord.

Julian.

The vault of heaven is like a sea of glittering light. Perhaps it is high noon. It is warm; the air quivers along the walls of the houses; the river, half-shrunken in its bed, ripples over the white flints.—Beautiful life! Beautiful earth!

Sallust.

Oh come, my lord, come! This stay in the catacombs is construed to your hurt.

Julian.

How is it construed?

Sallust.

Dare I tell you?

Julian.

You dare, and you must. How is it construed?

Sallust.

Many believe that it is remorse rather than sorrow that has driven you underground in this strange fashion.

Julian.

They think I killed her?

Sallust.

The mystery of the case may excuse them, if——

Julian.

No one killed her, Sallust! She was too pure for this sinful world; therefore an angel from heaven descended every night into her secret chamber, and called upon her. You doubt it? Know you not that this is how the priests in Lutetia accounted for her death? And the priests ought to know. Has not the transport of her body hither been like a triumphal progress through the land? Did not all the women of Vienna stream forth beyond the gates to meet her coffin, hailing her with green boughs in their hands, spreading draperies on the road, and singing songs of praise to the bride of heaven, who was being brought home to the bridegroom’s house?—Why do you laugh?

Sallust.

I, my lord?

Julian.

Ever since, I have heard bridal songs night and day. Listen, listen; they are wafting her up to glory. Ay, she was indeed a true Christian woman. She observed the commandment strictly;—she gave to Caesar what was Caesar’s, and to the other she gave——; but ’twas not of that you came to speak; you are not initiated in the secrets of the faith, Sallust!—What news, I ask?

Sallust.

The weightiest news is that on learning of the events at Lutetia, the Emperor fled hastily to Antioch.

Julian.

That news I know. No doubt Constantius already saw us in imagination before the gates of Rome.

Sallust.

The friends who boldly cast in their lot with you in this dangerous business, saw in imagination the same thing.

Julian.

The time is not auspicious, Sallust! Know you not that in the martial games, before we left Lutetia, my shield broke in pieces, so that only the handle remained in my grasp? And know you not that, when I was mounting my horse, the groom stumbled as I swung myself up from his folded hands?

Sallust.

Yet you gained the saddle, my lord!

Julian.

But the man fell.

Sallust.

Better men will fall if Caesar loiters.

Julian.

The Emperor is at death’s door.

Sallust.

The Emperor still lives. The letters you wrote him as to your election——

Julian.

My enforced election. They constrained me, I had no choice.

Sallust.

The Emperor does not hold that explanation valid. He designs, as soon as he has mustered an army in the eastern provinces, to march into Gaul.

Julian.

How know you that——?

Sallust.

By an accident, my lord! Believe me, I entreat you——!

Julian.

Good, good; when that happens, I will go to meet Constantius—not sword in hand——

Sallust.

Not? How, then, do you think to meet him?

Julian.

I will render to the Emperor what is the Emperor’s.

Sallust.

Mean you that you will abdicate?

Julian.

The Emperor is at death’s door.

Sallust.

Oh that vain hope! [He casts himself on his knees.] Then take my life, my lord!

Julian.

What now?

Sallust.

Caesar, take my life; I would rather die by your will than by the Emperor’s.

Julian.

Rise, friend!

Sallust.

No, let me lie at my Caesar’s feet, and confess all. Oh, beloved master,—to have to tell you this!—When I sought you out in the camp on the Rhine,—when I recalled to you the old friendship of our Athenian days,—when I begged to share with you the dangers of war,—then, oh Caesar, I came as a secret spy, in the Emperor’s pay——

Julian.

You——!

Sallust.

My mind had for some time been inflamed against you. You remember that little variance in Milan—yet no little one for me, who had hoped that Caesar would help to restore my waning fortunes. Of all this they took advantage in Rome; they regarded me as the very man to spy out your doings.

Julian.

And you could sell yourself so basely? To so black a treachery!

Sallust.

I was ruined, my lord; and I thought Caesar had forsaken me. Yes, my Caesar, I betrayed you——, during the first few months; but not afterwards. Your friendliness, your magnanimity, all the favour you showed me——; I became, what I had professed to be, your faithful adherent; and in my secret letters to Rome I put my employers on false scents.

Julian.

Those letters were from you?—Oh, Sallust!

Sallust.

They contained nothing to injure you, my lord! What others may have written, I know not; I only know that I often enough groaned in anguish under my enforced and hated silence. I ventured as far as I by any means dared. That letter written to an unnamed man in your camp, which contained an account of the Emperor’s triumphal entry in Rome, and which you found one morning on the march to Lutetia pushed under your tent-flap——; you did find it, my lord?

Julian.

Yes, yes——?

Sallust.

That was directed to me, and chance favoured me in bringing it into your hands. I dared not speak. I longed to, but I could not; I put off from day to day the confession of my shame. Oh, punish me, my lord; see, here I lie!

Julian.

Stand up; you are dearer to me thus,—conquered without my will and against your own. Stand up, friend of my soul; no one shall touch a hair of your head.

Sallust.

Rather take the life which you will not long have power to shield. You say the Emperor is at death’s door. [He rises.] My Caesar, what I have sworn to conceal, I now reveal to you. There is no hope for you in the Emperor’s decay. The Emperor is taking a new wife.

Julian.

Ah, what madness! How can you think——?

Sallust.

The Emperor is taking a new wife, my lord! [He hands him some papers.] Read, read, noble Caesar; these letters will leave you no room for doubt.

Julian.

[Seizing the papers, and reading.] Yes, by the light and might of Helios——!

Sallust.

Oh that I had dared to speak sooner!

Julian.

[Still reading.] He take a woman to wife! Constantius,—that dwindling shadow of a man——! Faustina,—what is this?—young, scarcely nineteen,—a daughter of——ah! a daughter of that insolent tribe. Therefore, of course, a zealous Christian woman. [He folds the papers together.] You are right, Sallust; his decay gives no room for hope. What though he be decrepit, dying,—what of that? Is not Faustina pious. An annunciating angel will appear; or even——; ha-ha!—in short,—by some means or other,—a young Caesar will be forthcoming, and thus——

Sallust.

Delay means ruin.

Julian.

This move has long been planned in all secrecy, Sallust! Ah, now all the riddles are solved. Helena——, ’twas not, as I conceived, her heedless tongue that destroyed her——

Sallust.

No, my lord!

Julian.

——they thought,—they believed that——! oh inscrutable, even-handed retribution! that was why she had to die.

Sallust.

Yes, that was the reason, I was the man they first pitched upon in Rome. Oh, my lord, you cannot doubt that I refused to do it? I pleaded the impossibility of finding an occasion; they assured me that the abominable design was abandoned, and then——!

Julian.

They will not stop at—at the double corpse in the sarcophagus up yonder. Constantius takes another wife. That is why I was to be disarmed in Lutetia.

Sallust.

One thing alone can save you, my Caesar: you must act before the Emperor has recruited his forces.

Julian.

What if, of my own free will, I withdrew into solitude, devoting myself to that wisdom which I have here been forced to neglect? Would the new men in power leave me undisturbed? Would not the very fact of my existence be like a sword hanging over their heads?

Sallust.

The kinsmen of the Empress that is to be are the men who surrounded Gallus Caesar in his last hours.

Julian.

The tribune Scudilo. Trust me, friend,—I have not forgotten that. And am I to yield and fall before this bloodthirsty Emperor! Am I to spare him who for long years has stumbled about among the corpses of my nearest kin!

Sallust.

If you spare him, in less than three months he will be stumbling among the corpses of your adherents.

Julian.

Yes, yes; there you are right. It is almost my imperative duty to stand up against him. If I do, ’twill not be for my own sake. Do not the weal and woe of thousands hang in the balance? Are not thousands of lives at stake? Or could I have averted this extremity? You are more to blame than I, Sallust! Why did you not speak before?

Sallust.

In Rome they made me swear a solemn oath of secrecy.

Julian.

An oath? Indeed! By the gods of your forefathers?

Sallust.

Yes, my lord—by Zeus and by Apollo.

Julian.

And yet you break your oath?

Sallust.

I wish to live.

Julian.

But the gods?

Sallust.

The gods—they are far away.

Julian.

Yes, your gods are far away; they hamper no one; they are a burden to no one; they leave a man elbow-room for action. Oh, that Greek happiness, that sense of freedom——!

You said that the Emperor, vengeful as he is, will pour out the blood of my friends. Yes, who can doubt that? Was Knodomar spared? Did not that harmless captive pay with his life for an error of language? For—I know it, Sallust—they killed him; that tale about the barbarian’s home-sickness was a lie. Then what may not we expect? In what a hateful light must not Decentius have represented matters in Rome?

Sallust.

That you may best understand from the hasty flight of the court to Antioch.

Julian.

And am I not my army’s father, Sallust?

Sallust.

The soldiers’ father; their wives’ and children’s buckler and defence.

Julian.

And what will be the fate of the empire should I waver now? A decrepit Emperor, and after him a helpless child, upon the throne; faction and revolt; every man’s hand against his neighbour, in the struggle for power.—Not many nights ago I saw a vision. A figure appeared before me, with a halo round its head; it looked wrathfully upon me, and said: “Choose!” With that it vanished away, like morning mist. Hitherto I had interpreted it as referring to something far different; but now that I know of the Emperor’s approaching marriage——

Yes, indeed, it is time to choose, ere misfortune overwhelms the empire. I am not thinking of my own interest; but dare I shirk the choice, Sallust? Is it not my duty to the Emperor to defend my life? Have I a right to stand with folded arms and await the murderers whom he, in his mad panic, is bribing to hew me down? Have I a right to give this unhappy Constantius an opportunity of heaping fresh blood-guiltiness upon his sinful head? Were it not better for him—as the Scriptures say—that he should suffer wrong rather than do wrong? If, therefore, this that I do to my kinsman can be called a wrong, I hold that the wrong is wiped out by the fact that it hinders my kinsman from inflicting a wrong on me. I think that both Plato and Marcus Aurelius, that crowned bridegroom of wisdom, would support me in that. At any rate, it would be no unworthy problem for the philosophers, my dear Sallust!—Oh that I had Libanius here!

Sallust.

My lord, you are yourself so far advanced in philosophy, that——

Julian.

True, true; yet I would fain hear the views of certain others. Not that I am vacillating. Do not think that! Nor do I see any reason to doubt a favourable issue. For those omens should by no means discourage us. The fact that I retained the handle, when my shield broke during the games, may with ample reason, I think, be taken to mean that I shall succeed in holding what my hand has grasped. And if, in vaulting upon my horse, I overthrew the man who helped me to mount, may not this portend a sudden fall to Constantius, to whom I owe my rise? Be this as it may, my Sallust, I look forward to composing a treatise which shall most clearly justify——

Sallust.

Very good, my gracious lord; but the soldiers are impatient; they would fain see you, and learn their fate from your own lips.

Julian.

Go, go and pacify them;—tell them that Caesar will presently show himself.

Sallust.

My lord, ’tis not Caesar, it is the Emperor himself they want to see.

Julian.

The Emperor is coming.

Sallust.

Then he comes—though empty-handed—yet with the lives of thousands in his hands!

Julian.

A barter, Sallust; the lives of thousands against the death of thousands.

Sallust.

Have your enemies the right to live?

Julian.

Happy you, whose gods are afar off. Oh, to possess this hardihood of will——!

A Voice.

[Calling from deep in the galleries below.] Julian, Julian!

Sallust.

Ah! What is that?

Julian.

Leave me, dear friend; go quickly!

The Voice.

Silence the psalm-singing, Julian!

Sallust.

It calls again. Oh, then it is true!

Julian.

What is true?

Sallust.

That you abide down here with a mysterious stranger, a soothsayer or a magician, who came to you by night.

Julian.

Ha-ha; do they say that? Go, go!

Sallust.

I conjure you, my lord,—have done with these noxious dreams. Come with me; come up to the light of day!

The Voice.

[Nearer, underneath.] All my labour is vain.

Julian.

[Speaking down the passage to the right.] No sign, my brother?

The Voice.

Desolation and emptiness.

Julian.

Oh, Maximus!

Sallust.

Maximus!

Julian.

Go, I tell you! If I leave this house of corruption, it will be as Emperor.

Sallust.

I implore you——; what seek you here in the darkness?

Julian.

Light. Go, go!

Sallust.

If Caesar loiters, I fear he will find the way barred against him.

[He goes by the passage on the left. A little while afterwards, Maximus the Mystic ascends the steps; he wears a white sacrificial fillet round his brow; in his hand is a long, bloody knife.

Julian.

Speak, my Maximus!

Maximus.

All my labour is vain, I tell you. Why could you not silence the psalm-singing? It strangled all the omens; they would have spoken, but could utter nothing.

Julian.

Silence, darkness;—and I can wait no longer! What do you counsel me to do?

Maximus.

Go forward blindly, Emperor Julian. The light will seek you out.

Julian.

Yes, yes, yes; that I, too, believe. I need not, after all, have sent for you all this long way. Know you what I have just heard——?

Maximus.

I will not know what you have heard. Take your fate into your own hands.

Julian.

[Pacing restlessly up and down.] After all, what is he, this Constantius—this Fury-haunted sinner, this mouldering ruin of what was once a man?

Maximus.

Be that his epitaph, Emperor Julian!

Julian.

In his whole treatment of me, has he not been like a rudderless wreck,—now drifting to the left on the current of suspicion, now hurled to the right by the storm-gust of remorse? Did he not stagger, terror-stricken, up to the imperial throne, his purple mantle dripping with my father’s blood? perhaps with my mother’s too?—Had not all my kin to perish that he might sit secure? No, not all; Gallus was spared, and I;—a couple of lives must be left wherewith to buy himself a little pardon. Then he drifted into the current of suspicion again. Remorse wrung from him the title of Caesar for Gallus; then suspicion wrung from him Caesar’s death-warrant. And I? Do I owe him thanks for the life he has hitherto vouchsafed me? One after the other; first Gallus, and then——; every night I have sweated with terror lest the next day should be my last.

Maximus.

Were Constantius and death your worst terrors? Think.Think.

Julian.

No, you are right. The priests——! My whole youth has been one long dread of the Emperor and of Christ. Oh, he is terrible, that mysterious—that merciless god-man! At every turn, wheresoever I wished to go, he met me, stark and stern, with his unconditional, inexorable commands.

Maximus.

And those commands—were they within you?

Julian.

Always without. Always “Thou shalt.” If my soul gathered itself up in one gnawing and consuming hate towards the murderer of my kin, what said the commandment: “Love thine enemy!” If my mind, athirst for beauty, longed for scenes and rites from the bygone world of Greece, Christianity swooped down on me with its “Seek the one thing needful!” If I felt the sweet lusts of the flesh towards this or that, the Prince of Renunciation terrified me with his: “Kill the body that the soul may live!”—All that is human has become unlawful since the day when the seer of Galilee became ruler of the world. Through him, life has become death. Love and hatred, both are sins. Has he, then, transformed man’s flesh and blood? Has not earth-bound man remained what he ever was? Our inmost, healthy soul rebels against it all;—and yet we are to will in the very teeth of our own will! Thou shalt, shalt, shalt!

Maximus.

And you have advanced no further than that! Shame on you!

Julian.

I?

Maximus.

Yes, you, the man of Athens and of Ephesus.

Julian.

Ah, those times, Maximus! ’Twas easy to choose then. What were we really working at? A philosophic system; neither more nor less.

Maximus.

Is it not written somewhere in your Scriptures! “Either“Either with us or against us”?

Julian.

Did not Libanius remain the man he was, whether he took the affirmative in a disputation, or the negative? This lies deeper. Here it is action that must be faced. “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.” In Athens I once made a game of that;—but it is no game. You cannot grasp it, you, who have never been under the power of the god-man. It is more than a doctrine he has spread over the world; it is an enchantment, that binds the soul in chains. He who has once been under it,—I believe he can never quite shake it off.

Maximus.

Because you do not wholly will.

Julian.

How can I will the impossible?

Maximus.

Is it worth while to will what is possible?

Julian.

Word-froth from the lecture-halls! You can no longer cram my mind with that. And yet——oh no, no, Maximus! But you cannot understand how it is with us. We are like vines transplanted into a new, strange soil; transplant us back again, and we die; yet in the new soil we cannot thrive.

Maximus.

We? Whom do you call we?

Julian.

All who are under the terror of the revelation.

Maximus.

A terror of shadows!

Julian.

Be that as it may. But do you not see that this paralysing terror has curdled and coiled itself up into a wall around the Emperor? Ah, I see very well why the great Constantine promoted such a will-binding doctrine to power and authority in the empire. No bodyguard with spears and shields could form such a bulwark round the throne as this benumbing creed, for ever pointing beyond our earthly life. Have you looked closely at these Christians? Hollow-eyed, pale-cheeked, flat-breasted, all; they are like the linen-weavers of Byssus; they brood their lives away unspurred by ambition; the sun shines for them, and they do not see it; the earth offers them its fulness, and they desire it not;—all their desire is to renounce and suffer, that they may come to die.

Maximus.

Then use them as they are; but you yourself must stand without. Emperor or Galilean;—that is the alternative. Be a thrall under the terror, or monarch in the land of sunshine and gladness! You cannot will contradictions; and yet that is what you would fain do. You try to unite what cannot be united,—to reconcile two irreconcilables; therefore it is that you lie here rotting in the darkness.

Julian.

Show me light if you can!

Maximus.

Are you that Achilles, whom your mother dreamed that she should give to the world? A tender heel alone makes no man an Achilles. Arise, my lord! Confident of victory, like a knight on his fiery steed, you must trample on the Galilean, if you would reach the imperial throne——

Julian.

Maximus!

Maximus.

My beloved Julian, look at the world around you! Those death-desiring Christians you speak of are fewest of the few. And how is it with all the others? Are not their minds falling away from the Master, one by one? Answer me,—what has become of this strange gospel of love? Does not sect rage against sect? And the bishops, those gold-bedecked magnates, who call themselves the chief shepherds of the church! Do they yield even to the great men of the court in greed and ambition and sycophancy——?

Julian.

They are not all like that; think of the great Athanasius of Alexandria——

Maximus.

Athanasius stood alone. And where is Athanasius now? Did they not drive him out, because he would not sell himself to serve the Emperor’s will? Was he not forced to take refuge in the Libyan desert, where he was devoured by lions? And can you name me one other like Athanasius? Think of Maris, the bishop of Chalcedon, who has now changed sides three times in the Arian controversy. Think of old Bishop Marcus, of Arethusa; him you know from your boyhood. Has he not lately, in the teeth of both law and justice, taken all municipal property from the citizens, and transferred it to the church? And remember the feeble, vacillating Bishop of Nazianzus, who is the laughing-stock of his own community, because he answers yes and no in the same cause, in the hope to please both parties.

Julian.

True, true, true!

Maximus.

These are your brothers in arms, my Julian; you will find none better among them. Or perhaps you count upon those two great Galilean lights that were to be, in Cappadocia? Ha-ha; Gregory, the bishop’s son, pleads causes in his native town, and Basil, on his estate in the far east, is buried in the writings of secular philosophers.

Julian.

Yes, I know it well. On all sides they fall away! Hekebolius, my former teacher, has grown rich through his zeal for the faith, and his expositions of it; and since then——! Maximus—it has come to this, that I stand almost alone in earnestness.

Maximus.

You stand quite alone. Your whole army is either in headlong flight, or lying slain around you. Sound the battle-call,—and none will hear you; advance,—and none will follow you! Dream not that you can do anything for a cause which has despaired of itself. You will be beaten, I tell you! And where will you turn then? Disowned by Constantius, you will be disowned by all other powers on earth,—and over the earth. Or will you flee to the Galilean’s bosom? How stands the account between you and him? Did you not own, a moment ago, that you are under the terror? Have you his commands within you? Do you love your enemy, Constantius, even if you do not smite him? Do you hate the lusts of the flesh or the alluring joys of this world, even if you do not, like a heated swimmer, plunge into their depths? Do you renounce the world, because you have not courage to make it your own? And are you so very sure that—if you die here—you shall live yonder?

Julian.

[Pacing to and fro.] What has he done for me, he who exacts so much? If he hold the reins of the world-chariot in his hands, it must have been within his power to——

[The psalm-singing in the church becomes louder.

Listen, listen! They call that serving him. And he accepts it as a sweet-smelling sacrifice. Praise of himself,—and praise of her in the coffin! If he be omniscient, how then can he——?

The Chamberlain Eutherius.

[Coming hastily down through the passage on the left.] My Caesar! My lord, my lord; where are you?

Julian.

Here, Eutherius? What would you with me?

Eutherius.

You must come up, my lord;—you must see it with your own eyes;—the Princess’s body is working miracles.

Julian.

You lie!

Eutherius.

I do not lie, my lord! I am no believer in this foreign doctrine; but what I have seen I cannot doubt.

Julian.

What have you seen?

Eutherius.

The whole town is in a frenzy. They are bearing the sick and crippled to the Princess’s bier; the priests let them touch it, and they go away healed.

Julian.

And this you yourself have seen?

Eutherius.

Yes, my lord; I saw an epileptic woman go forth from the church healed, praising the Galileans’ God.

Julian.

Ah, Maximus, Maximus!

Eutherius.

Hark, how the Christians exult;—some fresh miracle must have happened.

The Physician Oribases.

[Calling out in the passage to the left.] Eutherius,—have you found him? Eutherius, Eutherius, where is Caesar?

Julian.

[Meeting him.] Here, here;—is it true, Oribases?

Oribases.

[Coming forward.] Incredible, inexplicable,—and yet true; they touch the bier, the priests read and pray over them, and they are healed; from time to time a voice proclaims: “Holy, holy, is the pure woman!”

Julian.

A voice proclaims——?

Oribases.

The voice of one invisible, my Caesar; a voice high up under the vaultings of the church——; no man knows whence it comes.

Julian.

[Stands a moment immovable, then turns suddenly to Maximus, and cries:] Life or the lie!

Maximus.

Choose!

Oribases.

Come, come, my lord; the awe-stricken soldiers threaten you——

Julian.

Let them threaten.

Oribases.

They accuse you and me of the Princess’s death——

Julian.

I will come; I will satisfy them——

Oribases.

There is only one way: you must turn their thoughts in another direction, my lord;—they are wild with despair over the fate awaiting them if you delay any longer.

Maximus.

Now go to heaven, thou fool; now die for thy Lord and Master!

Julian.

[Grasping him by the arm.] The Emperor’s empire for me!

Maximus.

Achilles!

Julian.

What looses the covenant?

Maximus.

[Handing him the sacrificial knife.] This.

Julian.

What washes the water away?

Maximus.

The blood of the sacrifice.

[He tears off the fillet from his own brow, and fastens it round Caesar’s.

Oribases.

[Drawing nearer.] What is your purpose, my lord?

Julian.

Ask not.

Eutherius.

Hark to the clamour! Up, up, my Caesar!

Julian.

First down,—then up. [To Maximus.] The sanctuary, my beloved brother——?

Maximus.

Straight below, in the second vault.

Oribases.

Caesar, Caesar,—whither are you going?

Maximus.

To freedom.

Julian.

Through darkness to light. Ah——!

[He descends into the lower galleries.

Maximus.

[Softly, looking after him.] So it has come at last!

Eutherius.

Speak, speak; what mean these hidden arts?

Oribases.

And now, when every instant is precious——

Maximus.

[Whispering uneasily, as he shifts his place.] These gliding, clammy shadows! Faugh! The slimy things crawling underfoot——!

Oribases.

[Listening.] The turmoil waxes, Eutherius! It is the soldiers; listen, listen!

Eutherius.

It is the song in the church——

Oribases.

No, ’tis the soldiers!—here they come!

The Knight Sallust appears up in the gallery, surrounded by a great crowd of excited soldiers. The Standard-Bearer Maurus is amongst them.

Sallust.

Be reasonable, I entreat you——!

The Soldiers.

Caesar has betrayed us! Caesar shall die!

Sallust.

And what then, madmen!

Maurus.

What then? With Caesar’s head we will buy forgiveness——

The Soldiers.

Come forth, come forth, Caesar!

Sallust.

Caesar,—my Caesar, where are you?

Julian.

[Calling out, in the vault underneath.] Helios! Helios!

Maximus.

Free!

The Choir in the Church above.

Our Father which art in heaven!

Sallust.

Where is he? Eutherius, Oribases,—what is here afoot?

The Choir.

[In the church.] Hallowed be Thy name!

Julian.

[Comes up the steps; he has blood on his forehead, on his breast, and on his hands.] It is finished!

The Soldiers.

Caesar!

Sallust.

Blood-stained——! What have you done?

Julian.

Cloven the mists of terror.

Maximus.

Creation lies in your hand.

The Choir.

[In the church.] Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven!

[The chant continues during what follows.

Julian.

Now Constantius has no longer a bodyguard.

Maurus.

What say you, my lord?

Julian.

Ah! My faithful ones! Up into the daylight to Rome, and to Greece!

The Soldiers.

Long live the Emperor Julian!

Julian.

We will not look back; all ways lie open before us. Up into the daylight! Through the church! The liars shall be silenced——!

[He rushes up the steps in the background.

The army mine, the treasure mine, the throne mine!

The Choir.

[In the church.] Lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil!

[Julian throws wide the doors, revealing the brightly-lighted interior of the church. The priests stand before the high altar; crowds of worshippers kneel below, around the Princess’s bier.

Julian.

Free, free! Mine is the kingdom!

Sallust.

[Calls to him.] And the power and the glory!

The Choir.

[In the church.] Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory——

Julian.

[Dazzled by the light.] Ah!

Maximus.

Victory!

The Choir.

[In the church.] ——For ever and ever, amen!

9. The name “Caesar” was at this period used as the title of the heir to the throne, the Emperor himself being entitled “Augustus.”

10. See Ibsen’s Correspondence, Letter 115, to George Brandes.

THE EMPEROR JULIAN

CHARACTERS

The Emperor Julian.

Nevita, a general.

Potamon, a goldsmith.

Caesarius of Nazianzus, court physician.

Themistius, an orator.

Mamertinus, an orator.

Ursulus, treasurer.

Eunapius, a barber.

Barbara, a procuress.

Hekebolius, a theologian.

Courtiers and Officers of State.

Citizens of Constantinople.

People taking part in the procession of Dionysus, flute-players, dancers, jugglers, and women.

Envoys from Eastern Kings.

The Chamberlain Eutherius.

Servants of the palace.

Judges, orators, teachers, and citizens of Antioch.

Medon, a corn-dealer.

Malchus, a tax-gatherer.

Gregory of Nazianzus, Caesarius’s brother.

Phocion, a dyer.

Publia, a woman of Antioch.

Hilarion, son of Publia.

Agathon Of Cappadocia.

Maris, Bishop of Chalcedon.

People taking part in the procession of Apollo, priests, servants of the temple, harp-players and watchmen of the city.

Agathon’s younger brother.

A procession of Christian prisoners.

Heraclius, a poet.

Oribases, court physician.

Libanius, an orator, and chief magistrate of Antioch.

Apollinaris, a hymn-writer.

Cyrillus, a teacher.

An old priest of Cybele.

Psalm-singers of Antioch.

Fromentinus, a captain.

Jovian, a general.

Maximus the Mystic.

Numa, a soothsayer.

Two other Etruscan soothsayers.

Prince Hormisdas, a Persian exile.

Anatolus, captain of the lifeguard.

Priscus, a philosopher.

Kytron, a philosopher.

Ammian, a captain.

Basil of Caesarea.

Makrina, his sister.

A Persian deserter.

Roman and Greek soldiers.

Persian warriors.

The first act passes in Constantinople, the second and third in Antioch, the fourth in and about the eastern territories of the empire, and the fifth on the plains beyond the Tigris. The events take place in the interval between December, A.D. 361, and the end of June, A.D. 363.

THE EMPEROR JULIAN.

PLAY IN FIVE ACTS.

ACT FIRST.

SCENE FIRST.

The port of Constantinople. In the foreground to the right, a richly-decorated landing-stage, spread with carpets. On the elevated quay, at a little distance from the landing-stage, is seen a veiled stone, surrounded by a guard. Far out on the Bosphorus lies the imperial fleet, hung with flags of mourning.

A countless multitude, in boats and on the beach. Near the end of the landing-stage stands the Emperor Julian, robed in purple and decked with golden ornaments. He is surrounded by Courtiers and High Officers of State. Among those standing nearest to him are Nevita, the commander of the forces, and the court physician, Caesarius, together with the orators, Themistius and Mamertinus.

Julian.

[Looking out over the water.] What a meeting! The dead Emperor and the living.—Alas that he should have drawn his last breath in such distant regions! Alas that, in spite of all my haste, I should not have had the sweet consolation of embracing my kinsman for the last time! A bitter lot for both of us!—

Where is the ship with the body?

Nevita.

There it comes.

Julian.

That long boat?

Nevita.

Yes, most gracious Emperor.

Julian.

My poor kinsman! So great in life; and now to have to content you with so low a roof! Now you will not strike your forehead against the coffin-lid, you who bowed your head in riding through the Arch of Constantine.

A Citizen among the Spectators.

[To the Goldsmith Potamon.] How young he looks, our new Emperor!

Potamon.

But he has grown more stalwart. When I last saw him he was a lean stripling; that is now nine or ten years ago.

Another Citizen.

Ay, he has done great things in those years.

A Woman.

And all the dangers he has passed through, ever since his childhood!

A Priest.

Marvellously has he been shielded from them all; the hand of heaven is over him.

Potamon.

Rumour says that in Gaul he placed himself in very different hands.

The Priest.

Lies, lies; you may depend upon it.

Julian.

Now he comes. The Sun, whom I invoke, and the great thunder-wielding God, know that I never desired Constantius’s death. That was far indeed from being my wish. I have offered up prayers for his life.—Tell me, Caesarius,—you must know best,—have they shown all due honour, on the journey, to the imperial corpse?

Caesarius.

The funeral procession was like a conqueror’s triumph through the whole of Asia Minor. In every town we traversed, believers thronged the streets; through whole nights the churches echoed with prayers and hymns; thousands of burning tapers transformed the darkness into high noon——

Julian.

Good, good, good!—I am seized with an unspeakable misgiving at the thought of taking the helm of state after so great and virtuous and well-beloved an Emperor. Why was it not my lot to live in peaceful retirement?

Mamertinus.

And who could have sufficed to this high and difficult calling so completely as you, incomparable lord? I call fearlessly to all those others who have aspired to the empire: Come, then, and take the helm of government; but take it as Julian takes it. Be on the alert night and day for the common welfare. Be masters in name, and yet servants to civic freedom. Choose the foremost places in battle, and not at the feasts. Take nothing for yourselves, but lavish gifts upon all. Let your justice be equally remote from laxity and from inhumanity. Live so that no virgin on earth shall wring her hands because of you. Bid defiance—both to impenetrable Gaul, and inhospitable Germany. What would they answer? Appalled by such stern conditions, they would stop their effeminate ears, and cry: “Only a Julian is equal to such a task!”

Julian.

The Omnipotent grant that such high hopes may not be disappointed. But how great are my shortcomings! A shudder comes over me. To affront comparison with Alexander, Marcus Aurelius, and so many other illustrious princes! Has not Plato said that only a god can rule over men? Oh pray with me that I may escape the snares of ambition, and the temptations of power. Athens, Athens! Thither my longings turn! I was as a man taking reasonable exercise for the sake of his health;—and now, they come and say to me, “Go forth into the arena, and conquer in the Olympian games. The eyes of all Greece are upon you!” May I not well be panic-stricken even before the contest begins?

Themistius.

Panic-stricken, oh Emperor? Have you not already the applause of Greece? Are you not come to reinstate all exiled virtues in their ancient rights? Do we not find concentred in you all the victorious genius of Herakles, of Dionysus, of Solon, of——

Julian.

Hush! Only the praise of the dead shall be heard to-day. The boat has reached the wharf. Take my crown and my chains; I will not wear the insignia of empire at such a time as this.

[He hands the ornaments to one of the bystanders. The funeral procession advances along the landing-stage, with great pomp. Priests with lighted candles walk at its head; the coffin is drawn on a low-wheeled carriage; church banners are borne before and after the carriage; choristers swing censers; crowds of Christian citizens follow after.

Julian.

[Laying his hand on the coffin, and sighing audibly.] Ah!

A Spectator.

Did he cross himself?

Another in the Crowd.

No.

The First.

You see; you see!

A Third Spectator.

And he did not bow before the sacred image.

The First.

[To the second.] You see! What did I tell you?

Julian.

Pass onward to thy home, amid pomp and honour, soulless body of my kinsman! I make not this dust answerable for the wrongs thy spirit did me. What do I say? Was it thy spirit that dealt so hardly with my house, that I alone am left? Was it thy spirit that caused my childhood to be darkened with a thousand terrors? Was it thy spirit that bade fall that noble Caesar’s head? Was it thou who didst allot to me, an untried stripling, so difficult a post in inhospitable Gaul, and afterwards, when disaffection and mischance had failed to crush me, didst seek to rob me of the honour of my victories? Oh Constantius, my kinsman,—not from thy great heart did all this spring. Wherefore didst thou writhe in remorse and anguish; why didst thou see gory shades around thee, on thy last bed of pain? Evil councillors embittered thy life and thy death. I know them, these councillors; they were men who took hurt from living in the ceaseless sunshine of thy favour. I know them, these men, who so obsequiously clothed themselves in that garb of faith, which was most in favour at court.

Heathen Citizens.

[Among the spectators.] Long live the Emperor Julian!

Caesarius.

Most gracious lord, the procession waits——

Julian.

[To the priests.] Stay not your pious hymns on my account. Forward, my friends!

[The procession passes slowly out to the left.

Follow whoso will, and remain whoso will. But this you shall all know to-day, that my place is here.

[Uneasiness and movement in the crowd.

What am I? The Emperor. But in saying that, have I said all? Is there not one imperial office, which seems to have been shamefully wiped out of remembrance in these later years? What was that crowned philosopher, Marcus Aurelius? Emperor? Only Emperor? I could almost ask: was he not something more than Emperor? Was he not also the Supreme Pontiff?

Voices in the Crowd.

What says the Emperor? What was that? What did he say?

Themistius.

Oh sire, is it indeed your purpose——?

Julian.

Not even my uncle Constantine the Great dared to renounce this dignity. Even after he had conceded to a certain new doctrine such very extraordinary privileges, he was still called the Chief Priest by all who held fast to the ancient divinities of the Grecian race. I will not here enlarge upon the melancholy disuse into which this office has fallen of late years, but will merely remark that none of my exalted predecessors, not even he to whom, with tear-stained faces, we to-day bid our last farewell, has dared to reject it. Should I presume to take any step which so wise and just emperors did not deem right or expedient? Far be it from me!

Themistius.

Oh great Emperor, mean you by this——?

Julian.

I mean by this, that there shall be perfect freedom for all citizens. Cling to the Christians’ God, you who find it conduce to your souls’ repose. As for me, I dare not build my hopes on a god who has hitherto been my foe in all my undertakings. I know by infallible signs and tokens that the victories I won on the Gallic frontier I owe to those other divinities who favoured Alexander in a somewhat similar way. Under watch and ward of these divinities, I passed unscathed through all dangers; and, in especial, it was they who furthered my journey hither with such marvellous speed and success that, as I gathered from cries in the streets, some people have come to look upon me as a divine being,—which is a great exaggeration, my friends! But certain it is, that I dare not show myself ungrateful for such untiring proofs of favour.

Voices in the Crowd.

[Subdued.] What is he going to do?

Julian.

Therefore, I restore to their pristine rights the venerable Gods of our forefathers. But no injury shall be done to the God of the Galileans, nor to the God of the Jews. The temples, which pious rulers of old erected with such admirable art, shall rise again in rejuvenated splendour, with altars and statues, each for its especial God, so that seemly worship may once more be offered them. But I will by no means tolerate any vengeful assaults upon the churches of the Christians; neither shall their graveyards be molested, nor any other places which a strange delusion leads them to regard as sacred. We will bear with the errors of others; I myself have laboured under illusions;—but over that I cast a veil. What I have thought upon things divine since my one-and-twentieth year, I will not now dwell upon; I will only say that I congratulate those who follow my example,—that I smile at those who will not tread in my footsteps,—that I will doubtless try to persuade, but will not coerce any one.

[He stops a moment expectantly; feeble applause is heard here and there among the crowd. He continues with more warmth.

I had reckoned, not unreasonably, on grateful acclamations, where I find only wondering curiosity. Yet I ought to have known it;—there reigns a deplorable indifference among those who profess to hold fast to our ancient faith. Oppression and mockery have caused us to forget the venerable rites of our forefathers. I have inquired high and low, but scarcely a single person have I found who could speak with authority as to the ceremonies to be observed in sacrificing to Apollo or Fortuna. I must take the lead in this, as in other matters. It has cost me many sleepless nights to search out in the ancient records what tradition prescribes in such cases; but I do not complain when I remember how much we owe to these very divinities; nor am I ashamed to do everything with my own hands—— Whither away, Caesarius?

Caesarius.

To the church, most gracious Emperor; I would pray for the soul of my departed master.

Julian.

Go, go! In these matters every one is free.

[Caesarius, with several of the older courtiers and officers of state, goes out to the left.

But the freedom I concede to the meanest citizen, I claim for myself as well.——Be it known, therefore, to you all, Greeks and Romans, that I return with my whole heart to the beliefs and rites which our forefathers held sacred,—that they may be freely propagated and exercised, no less than all new and foreign opinions;—and as I am a son of this city, and therefore hold it pre-eminently dear, this I proclaim in the name of its guardian deities.

[Julian gives a sign; some of the attendants withdraw the veil from the stone: an altar is seen, and, at its base, a flagon of wine, a cruse of oil, a little heap of wood, and other appurtenances. Strong but speechless emotion in the multitude, as Julian goes up to the altar, and prepares for the offering.

Themistius.

Oh well may I, as a Greek, melt into tears at the sight of so much humility and pious zeal!

A Citizen.

See, he breaks the fuel himself!

Another.

Over his left thigh. Is that how it ought to be broken?

The First Citizen.

Doubtless, doubtless.

Mamertinus.

In the light of the fire you there kindle, oh, great Emperor, shall research and learning shine forth, ay, and rise rejuvenated, like that miraculous bird——

Nevita.

That fire will temper the weapons of Greece. I know little of the Galilean figments; but this I have noted, that all who believe in them are spiritless and unfit for greater things.

Themistius.

In this fire, oh incomparable one, I see wisdom purged of all scandal and reproach. The wine of your libation is like purple, wherewith you deck the truth, and set her on a royal throne. Now, as you lift up your hands——

Mamertinus.

Now, as you lift up your hands, it is as though you glorified the brow of knowledge with a golden wreath; and the tears you shed——

Themistius.

[Pressing nearer.] Yes, yes, the tears I see you shed are like costly pearls, wherewith eloquence shall once more be rewarded in kingly wise. Once again, then, the Greeks are suffered to raise their eyes to heaven, and follow the eternal stars in their courses! How long it is since that was vouchsafed us! Have we not been forced, for fear of spies, to tremble and bow our faces to the earth, like the brutes? Which of us dared so much as to watch the rising or the setting of the sun?

[He turns to the crowd.

Even you husbandmen, who have to-day flocked hither in such numbers, even you did not venture to note the position of the heavenly bodies, although by them you should have regulated your labours——

Mamertinus.

And you seamen,—have either you or your fathers dared to utter the names of the constellations by which you steered? Now you may do so; now all are free to——

Themistius.

Now no Greek need live on land or sea without consulting the immutable laws of the heavens; he need no longer let himself be tossed about like a plaything, by chance and circumstance; he——

Mamertinus.

Oh, how great is this Emperor, to whom we owe such blessings!

Julian.

[Before the altar, with uplifted arms.] Thus have I openly and in all humility made libations of oil and wine to you, ye beneficent deities, who have so long been denied these seemly observances. I have sent up my thanksgiving to thee, oh Apollo, whom some of the sages—especially those of the East—call by the name of the Sun-King, because thou bringest and renewest that light, wherein life has its source and its fountain-head.—To thee, too, I have made offering, oh Dionysus, god of ecstasy, who dost lift up the souls of mortals out of abasement, and exaltest them to an ennobling communion with higher spirits.—And, although I name thee last, I have not been least mindful of thee, oh Fortuna! Without thine aid, should I have stood here? I know indeed that thou dost no longer visibly manifest thyself, as in the golden age, of which the peerless blind singer has told us. But this I know, too,—and herein all other philosophers are at one with me—that it is thou who hast the decisive share in the choice of the guardian spirit, good or evil, that is to accompany every man on his path through life. I have no cause to chide thee, oh Fortuna! Rather have I the strongest reason to yield thee all thanks and praise. This duty, precious to my heart, have I this day fulfilled. I have not shrunk from even the humblest office. Here I stand in open day; the eyes of all Greece are upon me; I expect the voice of all Greece to unite with mine in acclaiming you, oh ye immortal gods!

[During the sacrificial service, most of the Christian onlookers have gradually stolen away; only a little knot remains behind. When Julian ceases speaking, there arise only faint sounds of approval mingled with subdued laughter, and whispers of astonishment

Julian.

[Looking round.] What is this? What has become of them all? Are they slinking away?

Themistius.

Yes, red with shame at the ingratitude of so many years.

Mamertinus.

Nay, ’twas the flush of joy. They have gone to spread the great tidings throughout the city.

Julian.

[Leaving the altar.] The ignorant multitude is ever perplexed by what is unaccustomed. My task will be arduous; but no labour shall daunt me. What better befits a philosopher than to root out error? In this mission I count on your aid, enlightened friends! But our thoughts must turn elsewhere, for a little time. Follow me; I go to other duties.

[He departs hastily, without returning the citizens’ greetings; the courtiers, and his other attendants, follow him.

SCENE SECOND.

A great hall in the Imperial Palace. Doors on both sides, and in the back; in front, to the left, on a daïs by the wall, stands the imperial throne.

The Emperor Julian, surrounded by his court and high officials, among whom is Ursulus, the Treasurer, with the orators Themistius and Mamertinus.

Julian.

So far have the gods aided us. Now the work will roll onwards, like the waves of a spring flood. The sullen ill-will which I can trace in certain quarters where I least expected it, shall not disturb my equanimity. Is it not precisely the distinguishing mark of true wisdom, that it begets patience! We all know that by suitable remedies bodily ills may be allayed;—but can fire and sword annihilate delusions as to things divine? And what avails it though your hands make offerings, if your souls condemn the action of your hands?

Thus will we live in concord with each other. My court shall be open to all men of mark, whatever their opinions. Let us show the world the rare and august spectacle of a court without hypocrisy—assuredly the only one of its kind—a court in which flatterers are counted the most dangerous of enemies. We will censure and expostulate with one another, when it is needful, yet without loving one another the less.

[To Nevita, who enters by the back.

Your face is radiant, Nevita;—what good tidings do you bring?

Nevita.

The best and happiest indeed. A great company of envoys from princes in furthest India have come to bring you gifts, and to entreat your friendship.

Julian.

Ah, tell me,—to what peoples do they belong?

Nevita.

To the Armenians, and other races beyond the Tigris. Indeed, some of the strangers aver they come from the islands of Diu and Serandib.

Julian.

From the uttermost verge of the earth my friends!

Themistius.

Even so far has rumour carried your name and your glory!

Mamertinus.

Even in those unknown regions is your sword a terror to princes and peoples!

Themistius.

Diu and Serandib! Far east in the Indian sea——

Mamertinus.

I do not hesitate to say: beyond the orb of the world——

Julian.

Bid the barber come!

[A courtier goes out to the right.

I will receive the envoys in seemly guise,—yet without display or adornment. So would the august Marcus Aurelius have received them; and him I make my pattern, rather than the Emperor whose death we have lately had to mourn. No more parade of transitory mundane things! Even the barbarians shall see that wisdom—in the person, truly, of her meanest servant—has resumed her place upon the throne.

[The courtier returns with Eunapius, the barber, who is magnificently attired.

Julian.

[Looks at him in astonishment, then goes to meet him, and greets him.] What seek you here, my lord?

Eunapius.

Gracious Emperor, you have commanded my attendance——

Julian.

You mistake, friend; I have not sent for any of my councillors.

Eunapius.

Most gracious Emperor——

Ursulus.

Pardon me, sire; this man is the imperial barber.

Julian.

What do I hear? Can it be? This man—oh, you jest—this man, in silken raiment, with gold-embroidered shoes, is——? Ah, indeed! So you are the barber! [He bows before him] Never shall I presume to let myself be served by such delicate hands.

Eunapius.

Most gracious Emperor,—I pray you, for God and my Saviour’s sake——

Julian.

Ho-ho! A Galilean! Did I not think so! Is this the self-denial you boast of? But I know you well! What temple of what godhead have you plundered, or how many dips have you made into the Emperor’s coffers, to attain such magnificence as this?—You may go; I have no occasion for you.

[Eunapius goes out to the right.

Tell me, Ursulus, what is that man’s wage?

Ursulus.

Gracious Emperor, by your august predecessor’s command, the daily maintenance of twenty men is assigned him——

Julian.

Aha! No more than that?

Ursulus.

Yes, sire; latterly he has had free stabling in the imperial stables, together with a certain yearly allowance of money, and a gold piece for every time he——

Julian.

And all this for a barber! What, then, must the others——? This shall not last a day longer.——Admit the foreign envoys!

[Nevita goes out by the back.

I will receive them with uncut hair. Better so; for although I know well that it is not the unkempt hair, nor the tattered cloak, that makes the true philosopher, yet surely the example given by both Antisthenes and Diogenes may well be respected by one who—even on the throne—desires to follow in such great teachers’ footsteps.

He ascends the daïs on which stands the throne. The court ranges itself below. The Envoys, introduced by Nevita and the Chamberlain Eutherius, enter in magnificent procession, accompanied by slaves, who bear gifts of all sorts.

Nevita.

Most gracious Lord and Emperor! Not being possessed of the noble idiom which so many eloquent men, and you yourself not the least, have perfected beyond all other tongues,—and therewith fearful of letting barbarous sounds offend your ear,—these envoys from the princes of the East have deputed me to be their spokesman.

Julian.

[Sitting on the throne.] I am ready to hear you.

Nevita.

First, the King of Armenia lays at your feet this suit of mail, begging you to wear it in battle against the foes of the empire, although he knows that you, invincible hero, stand under the protecting eye of the gods, who will suffer no weapon of mortal man to wound you.—Here are priceless carpets, tents, and saddle-housings from the princes beyond the Tigris. They thereby acknowledge that, if the gods have granted those lands exceeding riches, it was with the design that these riches should be at the service of their favourite.—The King of Serandib, and likewise the King of Diu, send you these weapons, sword, spear, and shield, with bows and arrows; for, they say, “We esteem it wisest to stand unarmed before the victorious lord who, like a divinity, has shown himself so mighty as to overwhelm all opposition.”—In return, all pray for the supreme favour of your friendship, and especially beg that if, as report says, you propose next spring to annihilate the audacious Persian king, you will spare their territories from hostile invasion.

Julian.

Such an embassy cannot come quite as a surprise to me. The gifts shall be deposited in my treasury, and through you I apprise your masters that it is my will to maintain friendship with all nations who do not—whether by force or guile—thwart my designs.—As to your being led, in your distant lands, to regard me as a divinity on account of my fortunate victories, I will not enter further into the matter. I reverence the gods too highly to arrogate to myself an unmerited place in their midst, although I know that frequently, and chiefly in the days of old, there have lived heroes and rulers who have been so greatly distinguished by the favour and grace of the gods, that it has been difficult to determine whether they should rightly be reckoned among mortals or immortals. Of such things, however, it is rash to judge, even for us Greeks. How much more, then, for you? Therefore, enough of that.—Eutherius conduct the strangers to repose, and see that they lack nothing.

[The Envoys and their train leave the hall, conducted by Eutherius. Julian descends from the daïs; the courtiers and orators surround him with admiring congratulations.

Themistius.

So young,—and already so highly honoured above all other Emperors!

Mamertinus.

I ask: will not Fame lack lungs to proclaim your renown, if the gods, as I confidently hope, grant you a long life?

Themistius.

The yell of fear, uttered by the flying Alemanni on the furthest shores of the Rhine, has swept eastward until it dashed against Taurus and Caucasus——

Mamertinus.

——and now rolls, like the echoes of thunder, over the whole of Asia.

Nevita.

What has so overawed the Indians is the likeness between our Greek Julian and the Macedonian Alexander——

Mamertinus.

Oh where is the likeness? Had King Alexander secret enemies in his own camp? Had he to struggle against an envious and backbiting imperial court?

Nevita.

True, true; and there were no incapable generals to clog Alexander’s progress.

Julian.

Ursulus, it is my will that the coming of these envoys shall be made known both in the city and through all regions of the empire. Everything shall be exactly set forth,—the places whence they came, and the gifts they brought with them. I will withhold from my citizens nothing that concerns my government. You may also allude in passing to the strange belief among the Indians, that Alexander has returned to earth.

Ursulus.

[Hesitatingly.] Pardon me, most gracious Emperor, but——

Julian.

Well?

Ursulus.

You have yourself said that in this court no flattery is to be tolerated——

Julian.

True, my friend!

Ursulus.

Then let me honestly tell you that these envoys came to seek your predecessor, not you.

Julian.

What do you dare to tell me?

Themistius.

Pooh, what preposterous nonsense!

Mamertinus.

What a fable!

Ursulus.

It is the truth. I have long known that these men were on their way,—long before the Emperor Constantius closed his eyes. Oh, my most gracious lord, let not a false vanity find its way into your young mind——

Julian.

Enough, enough! Then you mean to say that——

Ursulus.

Think for yourself. How could your victories in Gaul, glorious as they have been, reach the ears of such distant nations with such rapidity? When the envoys spoke of the Emperor’s heroic deeds, they had in mind the war against the King of Persia——

Nevita.

I did not know that the war against King Sapor had been so conducted as to spreadspread terror to the ends of the earth.

Ursulus.

True; fortune has been against our arms in those regions. But ’twas the rumour of the great armament which the Emperor Constantius was preparing for the spring that alarmed the Armenians and the other nations.—Oh, reckon out the time, sire, count the days if you will, and say if it can possibly be otherwise. Your march hither from Gaul was marvellously rapid; but the journey of these men from the Indian isles——; it would be tenfold more marvellous if——; ask them, and you will hear——

Julian.

[Pale with anger.] Why do you say all this to me?

Ursulus.

Because it is the truth, and because I cannot bear to see your fresh and fair renown darkened by borrowed trappings.

Themistius.

What audacity!

Mamertinus.

What brazen audacity!

Julian.

You cannot bear, forsooth! You cannot bear! Oh, I know you better. I know all you old courtiers. It is the gods whose glory you would disparage. For is it not to the glory of the gods that through a man they can compass such great things! But you hate them, these gods, whose temples you have thrown down, whose statues you have broken to pieces, and whose treasures you have rifled. You have scarcely even tolerated these our most beneficent deities. You have scarcely suffered the pious to cherish them secretly in their hearts. And now you would also break down the temple of gratitude which I have dedicated to them in my heart; you would rob me of the grateful belief that I am indebted to the immortals for a new and much-to-be-coveted benefaction;—for may not renown be so termed?

Ursulus.

The one God of heaven is my witness that——

Julian.

The one God! There we have it again! So are you always. What intolerance! Contrast yourselves with us. Do we say that our gods are the only ones? Do we not esteem both the gods of the Egyptians and that Jewish Jehovah, who has certainly done great things among his people? But you, on the contrary,—and a man like you, too, Ursulus—! Are you a Roman born of Grecian race? The one God! What barbarous effrontery!

Ursulus.

You have promised to hate no man for his convictions’ sake.

Julian.

That I have promised; but neither will I suffer you to treat us too insolently. These envoys have not come to——? That is to say, in other words, that the great and divine Dionysus, whose especial gift it is to reveal what is hidden,—that he is not as powerful now as in bygone ages. Ought I to suffer this? Is it not overweening audacity? Am I not forced to call you to account?

Ursulus.

Then all Christians will say that it is their faith you are persecuting.

Julian.

No one shall be persecuted by reason of his faith. But have I the right to overlook whatever faults you may commit, simply because you are Christians? Shall your delusions shield your misdeeds? What have not your audacious crew for long been doing, both here at court and elsewhere? Have you not flattered all vices, and bowed before all caprices? Ay, what have not you yourself, Ursulus, connived at? I am thinking of that shameless, bedizened barber, that salve-stinking fool, who just now filled me with loathing. Are not you treasurer? How could you give way to his impudent demands?

Ursulus.

Is it a crime to have done my master’s bidding?

Julian.

I will have nothing to do with such luxurious servants. All those insolent eunuchs shall be hunted out of the palace; and all cooks, and jugglers, and dancers after them. A becoming frugality shall once more be enforced.

[To Themistius and Mamertinus.

You, my friends, shall aid me in this.—And you, Nevita, on whom, as a mark of special distinction, I bestow the title of general-in-chief,—you I depute to investigate how the offices of state have been administered under my predecessor, especially of late years. You may call in the aid of competent men, at your own choice, to decide with you in these affairs.

[To the older courtiers and councillors.

Of you I have no need. When my lamented kinsman, on his death-bed, appointed me his successor, he also bequeathed to me that justice which his long illness had prevented him from administering. Go home; and when you have given an account of yourselves, you may go whither you please.

Ursulus.

The Lord God uphold and shield you, my Emperor!

[He bows, and goes out by the back, together with the older men. Nevita, Themistius, and Mamertinus, with all the younger men, gather round the Emperor.

Nevita.

My august master, how can I sufficiently thank you for the mark of favour which you——

Julian.

No thanks. In these few days I have learnt to value your fidelity and judgment. I also commission you to draw up the despatch concerning the eastern envoys. Word it so that the beneficent gods may find in it no reason for resentment against any of us.

Nevita.

In both matters I will carry out my Emperor’s will.

[He goes out to the right.

Julian.

And now, my faithful friends, now let us praise the immortal powers, who have shown us the right way.

Themistius.

The immortals, and their more than mortal favourite! What joy there will be throughout the empire, when it is known that you have dismissed those violent and rapacious men!

Mamertinus.

With what anxiety and impatient hope will the choice of their successors be awaited!

Themistius.

All the Greeks will exclaim with one voice: “Plato himself has taken the helm of state!”

Mamertinus.

No, no, worthy friend; all the Greeks will exclaim: “Plato’s ideal is realised—‘Only a god can rule over men!’”

Themistius.

I can but trust that the goodwill of the beneficent powers may follow Nevita. He has received a great and difficult charge; I know little of him; but we must all hope that he may prove himself to be the right——

Mamertinus.

Undoubtedly; although there might perhaps be other men who——

Themistius.

Not that I would for a moment imply that your choice, oh peerless Emperor——

Mamertinus.

No, no; far from it!

Themistius.

But if it be an error to burn with zeal to serve a beloved master——

Mamertinus.

——then, in truth, you have more than one erring friend——

Themistius.

——even if you do not honour them, as you have honoured the thrice-fortunate Nevita——

Mamertinus.

——even if they have to be content without any visible token of your favour——

Julian.

We will leave no capable men unemployed or unrewarded. As regards you, Themistius, I appoint you chief magistrate of this city of Constantinople; and you, Mamertinus, prepare to betake yourself to Rome during the coming year, to enter upon one of the vacant consulships.

Themistius.

My Emperor! I am dizzy with so much honour——

Mamertinus.

So high a distinction! Consul! Was ever consul so honoured as I? Was Lucius? Was Brutus? Was Publius Valerius? What were their honours to mine? They were chosen by the people, I by Julian!

A Courtier.

Praise be to the Emperor, who makes justice his guide!

Another Courtier.

Praise be to him, whose very name strikes terror to the barbarians!

Themistius.

Praise be to all the exalted gods, who have united in casting their enamoured eyes on one single man, so that when the day comes—distant may it be!—when he shall for the first time inflict pain on us by departing hence, this one man may be said to have cast Socrates, Marcus Aurelius, and Alexander into the shade!

Julian.

There you touch the kernel of the matter, my Themistius! ’Tis to the gods that we must uplift our hands and hearts. I say this, not as instructing you, but merely to remind you of what has so long been forgotten at this court. By no means would I seek to coerce any one. But can I be blamed because I would fain have others share in the sweet rapture which possesses me when I feel myself uplifted into communion with the immortals? Praise, praise to thee, vine-clad Dionysus! For it is chiefly thou who dost bring about such great and mysterious things. Depart now each to his task. I, for my part, have ordered a festal procession through the streets of the city. It shall be no mere revel for my courtiers, nor a banquet within four walls. The citizens shall be free to join me or to hold aloof; I will discern the pure from the impure, the pious from the misguided.

Oh Sun-King, shed light and beauty over the day! Oh Dionysus, let thy glory descend in floods upon our minds; fill our souls with thy sacred storm-wind; fill them till all trammels are burst asunder, and ecstasy enfranchised draws breath in dance and song!—Life, life, life in beauty!

[He goes out hastily to the right. The courtiers break up into whispering groups, and gradually disperse.

SCENE THIRD.

A narrow street in Constantinople.

A great concourse of people, all looking in one direction down the street. Noise, singing, and the music of flutes and drums is heard at some distance.

A Shoemaker.

[At his house-door, calls across the street.] What a foot, dear neighbour?

A Shopkeeper.

[In the house opposite.] They say ’tis some Syrian jugglers that have come to town.

A Fruit-seller.

[In the street.] No, no, ’tis a band of Egyptians going around with apes and dromedaries.

Eunapius the Barber.

[Poorly clad, trying in vain to slip through the crowd.] Make room, you fools! How the devil can any one chatter and play the fool on such a day of misfortune?

A Woman.

[At a small window.] Hist, hist, Eunapius! My comely master!

Eunapius.

How dare you speak to me in the open street, you procuress?

The Woman.

Slip in by the back way, sweet friend!

Eunapius.

Fie upon you! Am I in the humour for folly——

The Woman.

You shall soon be in the humour. Come, fair Eunapius; I had a consignment of fresh doves the day before yesterday——

Eunapius.

Oh sinful world! [Tries to pass.] Make room, there, in Satan’s name; let me pass!

Hekebolius.

[Clad for a journey, and followed by a couple of laden slaves, comes from a side-street.] Has the town turned into a madhouse? Everyone seeks to out-bellow his neighbour, and no one can tell me what is astir. Aha,—Eunapius, my pious brother!

Eunapius.

All hail to you, reverend sir! So you have come back to town?

Hekebolius.

This very moment;—I have consecrated the warm autumn months to quiet devotion, on my estate in Crete. And now pray tell me what is afoot here?

Eunapius.

Confusion and disaster. The new Emperor——

Hekebolius.

Yes, yes, I have heard strange rumours——

Eunapius.

The truth is ten times worse. All faithful servants are hunted out of the palace.

Hekebolius.

Is it possible?

Eunapius.

Alackaday; I myself was the first——

Hekebolius.

Terrible! Then, perhaps, I too——?

Eunapius.

Most certainly. All accounts are to be examined, all gifts resumed, all irregular perquisites——

Hekebolius.

[Turning pale.] God have mercy on us!

Eunapius.

The Lord be praised, I have a good conscience!

Hekebolius.

I too, I too; but nevertheless——! Then no doubt it is true that the Emperor has sacrificed to Apollo and Fortuna?

Eunapius.

Certainly; but who cares for such trifles?

Hekebolius.

Trifles? See you not, my short-sighted friend, that it is our faith, as good Christians, that he is persecuting?

Eunapius.

What do you say? God’s cross, is it possible?

Women.

[In the crowd.] There they come!

A Man.

[On a housetop.] I can see him!

Other Voices.

Who comes? Who, who?

The Man on the Housetop.

The Emperor Julian. He has vine-leaves in his hair.

People in the Street.

The Emperor!

Eunapius.

The Emperor!

Hekebolius.

Come, come, my godly brother!

Eunapius.

Let me go, sir. I am in no wise godly.

Hekebolius.

Not godly——?

Eunapius.

Who dares accuse me of——? Do you want to ruin me? Godly? When was I godly? I once belonged to the sect of the Donatists; that was years and years ago. Devil take the Donatists! [He knocks at the window.] Hi, Barbara, Barbara; open the door, old she-cat!

[The door is opened and he slips in.

The Multitude.

There he is! There he comes!

Hekebolius.

All irregular perquisites——! Accounts examined! Oh thunderbolt of disaster!

[He slips away, followed by his two slaves.

[The procession of Dionysus comes down the street. Flute-players go foremost; drunken men, some of them dressed as fauns and satyrs, dance to the measure. In the middle of the procession comes the Emperor Julian, riding on an ass, which is covered with a panther-skin; he is dressed as the god Dionysus, with a panther-skin over his shoulders, a wreath of vine-leaves round his head, in his hands a staff wreathed with green, and with a pine-cone fastened on its upper end. Half-naked, painted women and youths, dancers and jugglers, surround him; some carry wine-flagons and goblets, others beat tambourines, and move forward with wild leaps and antics.

The Dancers.

[Singing.]

Potions of fire drain from goblets o’erflowing!

Potions of fire!

Lips deeply sipping,

Locks unguent-dripping,

Goat-haunches tripping,

Wine-God, we hail thee in rapturous quire!

The Women.

[Singing.]

Come, Bacchanalians, while noontide is glowing—

Come, do not flee us—

Plunge we in love-sports night blushes at knowing!

There rides Lyaeus,

Pard-borne, delivering!

Come, do not flee us;

Know, we are passionate; feel, we are quivering!

Leaping all, playing all,

Staggering and swaying all—

Come, do not flee us!

Julian.

Make room! Stand aside, citizens! Reverently make way; not for us, but for him to whom we do honour!

A Voice in the Crowd.

The Emperor in the company of mummers and harlots!

Julian.

The shame is yours, that I must content myself with such as these. Do you not blush to find more piety and zeal among these than among yourselves?

An Old Man.

Christ enlighten you, sire!

Julian.

Aha, you are a Galilean! And you must put in your word? Did not your great Master sit at meat with sinners? Did he not frequent houses that were held less than reputable? Answer me that.

Eunapius.

[Surrounded by girls, in the doorway of Barbara’s house.] Yes, answer, answer if you can, you fool!

Julian.

What,—are not you that barber whom——?

Eunapius.

A new-made freeman, gracious Emperor! Make way, Bacchanalians; room for a brother!

[He and the girls dance into the ranks of the Bacchanalians.

Julian.

I like this well. Take example by this Greek, if you have a spark of your fathers’ spirit left in you. And this is sorely needed, you citizens; for no divinity has been so much misunderstood—ay, even rendered ridiculous—as this ecstatic Dionysus, whom the Romans also call Bacchus. Think you he is the god of sots? Oh ignorant creatures, I pity you, if that is your thought. Who but he inspires poets and prophets with their miraculous gifts? I know that some attribute this function to Apollo, and certainly not without a show of reason; but in that case the whole matter must be regarded in quite another aspect,—as I could prove by many authorities. But this I will not debate with you in the open streets. This is neither the place nor the time. Ay, mock away! Make the sign of the cross! I see it! You would fain whistle with your fingers; you would stone me, if you dared.—Oh, how I blush for this city, so sunk in barbarism that it knows no better than to cling to an ignorant Jew’s deluded fantasies!—Forward! Stand aside,—do not block the way!

The Dancers.

There rides Lyaeus,

Pard-borne, delivering!

The Women.

Know, we are passionate; feel, we are quivering;

Come, do not flee us!

[During the singing of the refrain the procession turns into a side-street; the crowd looks on in dumb astonishment.

SCENE IV.

The Emperor’s library in the Palace. Entrance door on the left; a lesser doorway, with a curtain before it, on the right.

The Chamberlain Eutherius enters from the left, followed by two servants, bearing carpets.

Eutherius.

[Calling out to the right.] Agilo, Agilo, warm rose-water! A bath for the Emperor.

[He goes out to the right, with both servants.

The Emperor Julian enters hastily from the left. He still wears the panther-skin and the vine-leaves; in his hand is the green-wreathed staff. He paces the room once or twice, then flings the staff into a corner.

Julian.

Was there beauty in this——?

Where were the white-bearded elders? Where the pure maidens, with the fillets on their brows, modest, and of seemly bearing, even in the rapture of the dance?

Out upon you, harlots!

[He tears off the panther-skin, and casts it aside.

Whither has beauty fled? When the Emperor bids her come forth again, will she not obey?

Out upon this stinking ribaldry!——

What faces! All the vices crying aloud in their distorted features. Ulcers on soul and body——

Faugh, faugh! A bath, Agilo! The stench chokes me.

The Bath-Servant Agilo.

[In the doorway to the right.] The bath is prepared, gracious sire!

Julian.

The bath? Nay, let that be. What is the filth of the body compared with all the rest? Go!

[Agilo goes out again. The Emperor stands some time in thought.

The seer of Nazareth sat at meat among publicans and sinners.—

Where lies the gulf between that and this?——

[Hekebolius enters from the left, and stops apprehensively at the door.

Julian.

What would you, man?

Hekebolius.

[Kneeling.] Sire!

Julian.

Ah, what do I see? Hekebolius;—is it indeed you?

Hekebolius.

The same, and yet another.

Julian.

My old teacher. What would you have? Stand up!

Hekebolius.

No, no, let me lie. And take it not ill that I presume on my former right of entrance to your presence.

Julian.

[Coldly.] I asked you what you would have?

Hekebolius.

“My old teacher,” you said. Oh that I could cast the veil of oblivion over those times!

Julian.

[As before.] I understand. You mean that——

Hekebolius.

Oh that I could sink into the earth, and hide the shame I feel! See, see,—here I lie at your feet, a man whose hair is growing grey—a man who has pored and pondered all his days, and has to confess at last that he has gone astray, and led his beloved pupil into error!

Julian.

What would you have me understand by that?

Hekebolius.

You called me your old teacher. See, here I lie in the dust before you, looking up to you with wonder, and calling you my new teacher.

Julian.

Rise, Hekebolius!

Hekebolius.

[Rising.] You shall hear everything, sire, and judge me according to your righteousness.—When you were gone, life at your august predecessor’s court became almost intolerable to me. I know not whether you have heard that I was promoted to be the Empress’s reader and almoner. But ah, could posts of honour console me for the loss of my Julian! I could scarce endure to see how men who made great show of outward virtue accepted gifts and bribes of every kind. I grew to hate this daily intercourse with greedy sycophants, whose advocacy was at the beck of any one who could pay down sounding gold for sounding words. Oh my Emperor, you do not know what went on here——!

Julian.

I know, I know.

Hekebolius.

A frugal life in retirement allured me. As often as I might, I withdrew to Crete, to my modest Tusculum—my little country house,—where virtue did not seem to have utterly forsaken the world. There I have been living this summer as well; meditating upon human life and heavenly truths.

Julian.

Happy Hekebolius!

Hekebolius.

Then the rumour of all your marvellous exploits reached Crete——

Julian.

Ah!

Hekebolius.

I asked myself: Is he more than mortal, this peerless youth? Under whose protection does he stand? Is it thus that the God of the Christians is wont to manifest his power——?

Julian.

[In rapt attention.] Well; well!

Hekebolius.

I set myself to search once more the writings of the ancients. Light after light dawned upon me——; oh, to have to confess this!

Julian.

Speak out—I beseech you!

Hekebolius.

[Falling on his knees.] Punish me according to your righteousness, sire; but renounce your youthful errors on things divine! Yes, most gracious Emperor, you are entangled in error, and I—oh, I marvel that the shame does not kill me—I, I have helped to lead you astray——

Julian.

[With outstretched arms.] Come to my closest embrace!

Hekebolius.

Oh, I entreat you, show gratitude to the immortal gods, whose darling you are! And if you cannot, then punish me because I do it in your stead——

Julian.

Come, come to my open arms, I tell you!

[He lifts him up, presses him in his arms, and kisses him.

My Hekebolius! What a great and unlooked-for joy!

Hekebolius.

Sire, how am I to understand this?

Julian.

Oh, then you do not know——? When came you to the city?

Hekebolius.

I landed an hour ago.

Julian.

And hurried hither at once?

Hekebolius.

On the wings of anxiety and remorse, sire!

Julian.

And you have spoken to no one?

Hekebolius.

No, no, I have spoken to no one; but——?

Julian.

Oh, then you cannot have heard——

[He embraces him again.

My Hekebolius, listen and know! I too, like you, have cast off the yoke of error. The immortal Sun-King, to whom we mortals owe so much, I have restored to his ancient state; Fortuna has received her offering from my humble hands; and if, at this moment, you find me weary and somewhat unstrung, it is because I have but now been celebrating a festival in honour of the divine Dionysus.

Hekebolius.

I hear, and am amazed!

Julian.

See,—the garland is still in my hair. Amid the joyous acclaim of the multitude—yes, I may call it a multitude——

Hekebolius.

And I did not even dream of such great things!

Julian.

Now we will gather around us all friends of truth, and lovers of wisdom, all seemly and reverent worshippers of the gods;—there are already some—not very many——

The physician Caesarius, accompanied by several officials and notables of the former court, enters from the left.

Julian.

Ah, here we have the good Caesarius,—numerously accompanied, and with a face that betokens urgent business.

Caesarius.

Most gracious Emperor, will you permit your servant to ask a question, in his own name, and that of these much disquieted men?

Julian.

Ask, my dearest Caesarius! Are you not my beloved Gregory’s brother? Ask, ask!

Caesarius.

Tell me, then, sire——[He observes Hekebolius.] What do I see! Hekebolius here?

Julian.

Newly returned——

Caesarius.

[Trying to draw back.] Then I beg leave to defer——

Julian.

No, no, my Caesarius; this friend may hear everything.

Caesarius.

Friend, say you? Oh my Emperor, then you have not ordered these imprisonments?

Julian.

What mean you?

Caesarius.

Do you not know? Nevita—the general-in-chief, as he now calls himself—is instituting prosecutions under pretext of your authority, against all the trusted servants of your predecessor.

Julian.

Investigations, highly necessary investigations, my Caesarius!

Caesarius.

Oh sire, forbid him to go about it so harshly. The book-keeper Pentadius is being hunted down by soldiers; and likewise a certain captain of Praetorians, whose name you have forbidden us to mention; you know whom I mean, sire—that unhappy man who is already, with his whole household, in hiding for fear of you.

Julian.

You do not know this man. In Gaul, he cherished the most audacious designs.

Caesarius.

That may be; but now he is harmless. And not he alone is threatened with destruction; the treasurer, Ursulus, is imprisoned——

Julian.

Ah, Ursulus? So that has been found needful.

Caesarius.

Needful? Could that be needful, sire. Think of Ursulus, that stainless old man—that man before whose word high and low bend in reverence——

Julian.

A man utterly devoid of judgment, I tell you! Ursulus is a prodigal, who, without any demur, has gorged the rapacity of the court servants. And besides, he is useless in affairs of state. I have found that to my cost. I could never trust him to receive the emissaries of foreign princes.

Caesarius.

And yet we beg you, sire—all who are here present—to be magnanimous, both to Ursulus and to the others.

Julian.

Who are the others?

Caesarius.

Too many, I fear. I will only name the under-treasurer, Evagrius, the late chamberlain, Saturninus, the supreme judge, Cyrenus, and——

Julian.

Why do you stop?

Caesarius.

[With hesitation.] Sire—the late Empress’s reader, Hekebolius, is also among the accused.

Julian.

What!

Hekebolius.

I? Impossible!

Caesarius.

Accused of having accepted bribes from unworthy office-seekers——

Julian.

Hekebolius accused of that——? A man like Hekebolius——?

Hekebolius.

What shameful slander! Oh Christ—I mean to say—oh heavenly divinities!

Caesarius.

Ah!

Julian.

What mean you?

Caesarius.

[Coldly.] Nothing, most gracious Emperor!

Julian.

Caesarius!

Caesarius.

Yes, my august master!

Julian.

Not master; call me your friend.

Caesarius.

Dare a Christian call you so!

Julian.

I pray you banish such thoughts, Caesarius! You must not believe that of me. How can I help all these accused men being Christians? Does it not merely show that the Christians have contrived to seize all the lucrative posts? And can the Emperor suffer the most important offices of the state to be badly administered?

[To the others.

You surely do not think that it is your creed which has kindled my wrath against dishonest officials? I call all the gods to witness that I will permit no proceedings against you Christians that are not consonant with law and justice, nor will I suffer any one to do you wrong. You, or at any rate many of you, are pious in your way, since you too adore that Lord who is all-powerful, and who rules over the whole visible world.—Oh, my Caesarius, is it not he whom I also adore, though under other names?

Caesarius.

Suffer me, gracious Emperor——

Julian.

Moreover, it is my intention to show clemency wherever it is fit that I should do so. As to Hekebolius, his secret enemies must not imagine that they will be suffered to injure him by tale-bearing or any other sort of paltry intrigue.

Hekebolius.

My Emperor! My shield and my defence!

Julian.

Nor is it my will that all the minor court servants should be unmercifully deprived of their subsistence. I have specially in mind that barber whom I dismissed. I am sorry for it. The man may remain. He seemed to me one who understood his business thoroughly. All honour to such people! So far I can go, my Caesarius, but no further. I cannot interfere on behalf of Ursulus. I must act so that the blind, and yet so keen-eyed, Goddess of Justice may have no reason to knit her brows over a mortal to whom she has confided so great a responsibility.

Caesarius.

After this, I have not a word more to say for those unfortunates. I only crave permission to leave the court and city.

Julian.

Would you leave me?

Caesarius.

Yes, most gracious Emperor!

Julian.

You are stiff-necked, like your brother.

Caesarius.

The new order of things gives me much to reflect upon.

Julian.

I had great designs for you Caesarius! It would be a great joy to me, if you could renounce your errors. Can you not?

Caesarius.

God knows what I might have done a month ago;—now I cannot.

Julian.

A marriage into one of the most powerful families should stand open to you. Will you not bethink you?

Caesarius.

No, most gracious lord.

Julian.

A man like you could quickly mount from step to step. Caesarius, is it not possible that you can give me your aid in furthering the new order of things?

Caesarius.

No, most gracious lord!

Julian.

I do not mean here, but in other places. It is my intention to depart from here. Constantinople is very unpleasing to me; you Galileans have spoiled it for me in every way. I shall go to Antioch; there I shall find better soil to work upon. I thought you would accompany me. Will you not, Caesarius?

Caesarius.

Most gracious lord, I too am bound for the east; but I will go alone.

Julian.

And what will you do there?

Caesarius.

Visit my old father; help Gregory to strengthen him for the coming struggle.

Julian.

Go!

Caesarius.

Farewell, my Emperor!

Julian.

Happy father, with such unhappy sons!

[He makes a gesture with his hand; Caesarius and those with him bow low, and go out to the left.

Hekebolius.

What reckless and most unseemly defiance!

Julian.

My heart is wounded to the quick by this and many other things. You, my Hekebolius, shall accompany me. The ground burns beneath my feet in this poisoned Galilean city! I will write to those philosophers, Kytron and Priscus, who have won so great fame of late years. Maximus I expect every day; he shall go with us.—I tell you there are joyful days of victory awaiting us, Hekebolius! In Antioch, my friend,—there we shall meet the incomparable Libanius,—and there we are nearer Helios at his rising. Oh, this irresistible yearning towards the Sun-King——!

Hekebolius.

Yes, yes, yes——!

Julian.

[Embracing him.] My Hekebolius!—Wisdom; light; beauty!

ACT SECOND.

SCENE FIRST.

A spacious vestibule in the Emperor’s Palace, at Antioch. An open entrance in the background; on the left is a door, leading into the inner rooms.

On a raised seat in the foreground, to the right, sits the Emperor Julian, surrounded by his court. Judges, Orators, Poets, and Teachers, among them Hekebolius, sit on lower seats around him. Leaning against the wall near the entrance stands A Man, dressed as a Christian Priest; he hides his face in his hands, and seems rapt in prayer. A great gathering of citizens fills the hall. Guards at the entrance, and at the door on the left.

Julian.

[Addressing the assemblage.] So great success have the gods vouchsafed me. Hardly a single city have I approached on my journey, whence whole troops of Galileans have not streamed forth to meet me on the road, lamenting their errors, and placing themselves under the protection of the divine powers. Compared with this, what signifies the senseless behaviour of the scoffers? May not the scoffers be likened to dogs, who in their ignorance yelp at the moon? Yet I will not deny that I have learned with indignation that some inhabitants of this city have spoken scornfully of the rule of life which I have enjoined on the priests of Cybele, the good goddess. Ought not reverence for so exalted a divinity to protect her servants from mockery? I say to those foolhardy men: Are ye barbarians, since ye know not who Cybele is? Must I solemnly remind you how, when the power of Rome was so gravely threatened by that Punic commander, whose grave I saw not long since in Libyssa, the Cumaean Sybil counselled that the statue of Cybele should be taken from the temple in Pessinus, and brought to Rome? As to the priests’ way of life, some have wondered that they should be forbidden to eat roots, and everything that grows along the earth, while they are allowed to partake of upward-growing herbs and fruits. Oh, how dense is your ignorance—I pity you if you cannot understand this! Can the spirit of man find nourishment in that which creeps along the ground? Does not the soul live by all that yearns upward, towards heaven and the sun? I will not enter more largely into these matters to-day. What remains to be said you shall learn from a treatise I am composing during my sleepless nights, which I hope will shortly be recited both in the lecture-halls and on the market-places.

[He rises.

And with this, my friends, if no one has anything further to bring forward——

A Citizen.

[Pressing to the front.] Oh most gracious Emperor, let me not go unheard!

Julian.

[Sitting down again.] Surely not, my friend. Who are you?

The Citizen.

I am Medon, the corn-merchant. Oh, if my love for you, exalted and divine Emperor——

Julian.

Come to your case, man!

Medon.

I have a neighbour, Alites, who for many years has done me every imaginable injury; for he, too, is a dealer in corn, and takes the bread out of my mouth in the most shameful way——

Julian.

Aha, my good Medon; yet you look not ill-fed.

Medon.

Nor is that the matter, most gracious Emperor! Oh, by the august gods, whom every day I learn to love and praise more highly—his affronts to me I could overlook; but what I cannot suffer——

Julian.

He surely does not insult the gods?

Medon.

He does what is worse,—or at least equally shameless; he—oh, I scarce know whether my indignation will permit me to utter it,—he insults you yourself, most gracious Emperor!

Julian.

Indeed? In what words?

Medon.

Not in words, but worse—in act.

Julian.

Then in what act?

Medon.

He wears a purple robe——

Julian.

A purple robe? Oho, that is bold.

Medon.

Oh, great wing-footed Mercury, when I think how he would have paid for that robe in your predecessor’s time! And this garment of vainglory I have daily before my eyes——

Julian.

This garment, bought with money that might have been yours——

Medon.

Oh most gracious Emperor,—punish his audacity; let him be expelled the city; my love for our great and august ruler will not suffer me to remain a witness of such shameless arrogance.

Julian.

Tell me, good Medon, what manner of clothes does Alites wear, besides the purple cloak?

Medon.

Truly I cannot call to mind, sire; ordinary clothes, I think; I have only remarked the purple cloak.

Julian.

A purple cloak, then, and untanned sandals——?

Medon.

Yes, sire; it looks as ludicrous as it is audacious.

Julian.

We must remedy this, Medon!

Medon.

[Joyfully.] Ah, most gracious Emperor——?

Julian.

Come early to morrow to the palace——

Medon.

[Still more delighted.] I will come very early, most gracious Emperor!

Julian.

Give your name to my Chamberlain——

Medon.

Yes, yes, my most gracious Emperor!

Julian.

You will receive from him a pair of purple shoes, embroidered with gold——

Medon.

Ah, my most generous lord and Emperor!

Julian.

These shoes you will take to Alites, place them on his feet, and say that henceforth he must not fail to put them on, whenever he would walk abroad by daylight in his purple cloak——

Medon.

Oh!

Julian.

——and, that done, you may tell him from me, that he is a fool if he thinks himself honoured by a purple robe, having not the power of the purple.—Go; and come for the shoes to-morrow!

[The Corn Merchant slinks away, amid the laughter of the citizens; the Courtiers, Orators, Poets, and the rest clap their hands, with loud exclamations of approval.

Another Citizen.

[Stepping forward from the crowd.] Praised be the Emperor’s justice! Oh how richly this envious corn-miser deserves his punishment! Oh hear me, and let your favour——

Julian.

Aha; methinks I know that face. Were not you one of those who shouted before my chariot as I drove into the city?

The Citizen.

None shouted louder than I, incomparable Emperor! I am Malchus, the tax-gatherer. Ah, grant me your aid! I am engaged in a law-suit with an evil and grasping man——

Julian.

And therefore you come to me? Are there not judges——?

Malchus.

The affair is somewhat involved, noble Emperor. It concerns a field, which I leased to this bad man, having bought it seven years since, when part of the domain belonging to the Apostles’ Church was sold.

Julian.

So, so; church property, then?

Malchus.

Honestly purchased; but now this man denies either to pay me rent, or to give up the property, under pretext that this field once belonged to the temple of Apollo, and, as he declares, was unlawfully confiscated many years ago.

Julian.

Tell me, Malchus,—you seem to be a follower of the Galilean?

Malchus.

Most gracious Emperor, ’tis an old tradition in our family to acknowledge Christ.

Julian.

And this you say openly, without fear?

Malchus.

My adversary is bolder than I, sire! He goes in and out, as before; he fled not the city when he heard of your approach.

Julian.

Fled not? And why should he flee, this man who stands out for the rights of the gods?

Malchus.

Most gracious Emperor, you have doubtless heard of the book-keeper, Thalassius?

Julian.

What! That Thalassius who, to ingratiate himself with my predecessor, whilst I was being slandered and menaced in Gaul, proposed, here in Antioch, in the open market-place, that the citizens should petition the Emperor to send them Julian Caesar’s head!

Malchus.

Sire, it is this, your deadly foe, who is wronging me.

Julian.

Truly, Malchus, I have as great ground of complaint against this man as you have.

Malchus.

Tenfold greater, my gracious Emperor?

Julian.

What think you? Shall we two combine our quarrels, and prosecute him together?

Malchus.

Oh, what exceeding grace! Oh tenfold happiness!

Julian.

Oh tenfold foolishness! Thalassius goes in and out as before, you say? He has not fled the city at my approach. Thalassius knows me better than you. Away with you, man! When I indict Thalassius for my head, you may indict him for your field.

Malchus.

[Wringing his hands.] Oh tenfold misery!

[He goes out by the back; the assembly again applauds the Emperor.

Julian.

That is well, my friends; rejoice that I have succeeded in making a not altogether unworthy beginning to this day, which is specially dedicate to the feast of the radiant Apollo. For is it not worthy of a philosopher to overlook affronts against himself, whilst he sternly chastises wrongs done to the immortal gods? I do not recall whether that crowned cultivator of learning, Marcus Aurelius, was ever in like case; but if he was, we must hope that he did not act quite unlike me, who hold it an honour to follow humbly in his footsteps.

Let this serve as a clue for your future guidance. In the palace, in the market-place, even in the theatre—did I not loathe to enter such a place of folly—it is fit that you should greet me with acclamation and joyful applause. Such homage, I know, was well received both by the Macedonian Alexander and by Julius Caesar, men who were also permitted by the Goddess of Fortune to outshine other mortals in glory.

But when you see me entering a temple, that is another affair. Then I desire you to be silent, or direct your plaudits to the gods, and not to me, as I advance with bent head and downcast eyes. And above all, I trust you will be heedful of this to-day, when I am to sacrifice to so transcendent and mighty a divinity as he whom we know by the name of the Sun-King, and who seems even greater in our eyes when we reflect that he is the same whom certain oriental peoples call Mithra.

And with this—if no one has more to say——

The Priest at the Door.

[Draws himself up.] In the name of the Lord God!

Julian.

Who speaks?

The Priest.

A servant of God and of the Emperor.

Julian.

Approach. What would you?

The Priest.

I would speak to your heart and to your conscience.

Julian.

[Springing up.] What voice was that! What do I see! In spite of beard and habit——! Gregory!

The Priest.

Yes, my august master!

Julian.

Gregory! Gregory of Nazianzus!

Gregory.

Yes, gracious Emperor!

Julian.

[Has descended and grasped his hands; he now looks long at him.] A little older; browner; broader. No; ’twas only at the first glance; now you are the same as ever.

Gregory.

Oh that it were so with you, sire!

Julian.

Athens. That night in the portico. No man has lain so near my heart as you.

Gregory.

Your heart? Ah, Emperor, you have torn out of your heart a better friend than I.

Julian.

You mean Basil?

Gregory.

I mean a greater than Basil.

Julian.

[Glooming.] Ah! So that is what you come to tell me? And in that habit——

Gregory.

I did not choose this habit, sire!

Julian.

Not you? Who then?

Gregory.

He who is greater than the Emperor.

Julian.

I know your Galilean phrases. For the sake of our friendship, spare me them.

Gregory.

Let me, then, begin by telling you how it is that you see me here, ordained a priest of the church you are persecuting.

Julian.

[With a sharp look.] Persecuting!

[He ascends the daïs again and sits down.

Now speak on.

Gregory.

You know what were my thoughts of things divine, during our happy comradeship in Athens. But then it was far from my purpose to renounce the joys of life. Neither ambition nor the thirst for riches, I can truly say, has ever tempted me; yet I should scarce tell the truth if I denied that my eye and my mind dwelt wonderingly on all the glories which the old learning and art of Greece revealed to me. The wranglings and petty schisms in our church afflicted me deeply; but I took no part in them; I served my countrymen in temporal things; nothing more——

Then came tidings from Constantinople. It was said that Constantius had died of terror at your proceedings, and had declared you his heir. Heralded by the renown of your victories, and received as a superhuman being, you, the hero of Gaul and Germany, had ascended the throne of Constantine without striking a blow. The earth lay at your feet.

Then came further tidings. The lord of earth was girding himself up to war against the Lord of heaven——

Julian.

Gregory, what do you presume——!

Gregory.

The lord of the body was girding himself up to war against the Lord of the soul. I stand here before you in bodily fear and trembling; but I dare not lie. Will you hear the truth, or shall I be silent?

Julian.

Say on, Gregory!

Gregory.

What have not my fellow Christians already suffered during these few months? How many sentences of death have been passed, and executed in the cruellest fashion? Gaudentius, the state secretary; Artemius, the former governor of Egypt; the two tribunes, Romanus and Vincentius——

Julian.

You know not what you speak of. I tell you, the Goddess of Justice would have wept had those traitors escaped with their lives.

Gregory.

That may be, my Emperor; but I tell you that one sentence of death has been passed which the God of Justice can never forgive you. Ursulus! The man who stood your friend in times of need! Ursulus who, at the risk of his own life, supplied you with money in Gaul! Ursulus, whose sole crime was his Christian faith and his sincerity——

Julian.

Ah, this you have from your brother, Caesarius!

Gregory.

Punish me, sire; but spare my brother.

Julian.

You well know that you risk nothing, Gregory! Besides, I will grant you that Nevita acted too harshly.

Gregory.

Ay, that barbarian, who tries in vain to hide his origin under a Greek veneer——!

Julian.

Nevita is zealous in his duty, and I cannot myself be everywhere. For Ursulus I have mourned sincerely, and I deeply deplore that neither time nor circumstances allowed me to examine into his case myself. I should certainly have spared him, Gregory! I have thought, too, of restoring to his heirs any property he has left behind.

Gregory.

Great Emperor, you owe me no reckoning for your acts. I only wished to tell you that all these tidings fell like thunderbolts in Caesarea and Nazianzus, and the other Cappadocian cities. How shall I describe their effect! Our internal wranglings were silenced by the common danger. Many rotten branches of the Church fell away; but in many indifferent hearts the light of the Lord was kindled with a fervour before undreamt-of. Meanwhile oppression overtook God’s people. The heathen—I mean, my Emperor, those whom I call heathen—began to threaten, to injure, to persecute us——

Julian.

Retaliation,—retaliation, Gregory!

Gregory.

Far be it from me to justify all that my fellow Christians may have done in their excessive zeal for the cause of the Church. But you, who are so enlightened, and have power over all alike, cannot permit the living to suffer for the faults of the dead. Yet so it has been in Cappadocia. The enemies of the Christians, few in number, but thirsting after gain, and burning with eagerness to ingratiate themselves with the new officials, have awakened fear and perturbation among the people both in town and country.

I am not thinking chiefly of the insults we have had to suffer, nor of the infringements of our just rights of property, to which we have been constantly exposed of late. What most grieves me and all my earnest brethren, is the peril to souls. Many are not firm-rooted in the faith, and cannot quite shake off the care for earthly goods. The harsh treatment which has now to be endured by all who bear the name of Christian has already led to more than one apostasy. Sire, this is soul-robbery from God’s kingdom.

Julian.

Oh, my wise Gregory,—how can you talk so? I wonder at you? Should you not rather, as a good Galilean, rejoice that your community is rid of such men?

Gregory.

Gracious Emperor, I am not of that opinion. I have myself been indifferent in the faith, and I look upon all such as sick men, who are not past cure, so long as they remain in the bosom of the Church. So, too, thought our little congregation at Nazianzus. Brethren and sisters, in deep distress, assembled to take counsel against the perils of the time. They were joined by delegates from Caesarea and other cities. My father is infirm, and—as he owns with sorrow—does not possess the steadfast, immovable will which, in these troublous times, is needful for him who sits in the bishop’s chair. The assembly determined that a younger man should be chosen as his helper, to hold the Lord’s flock together.

The choice fell on me.

Julian.

Ah!

Gregory.

I was then away on a journey. But in my absence, and without consulting me, my father ordained me a priest and sent me the priestly habit.

These tidings reached me in Tiberina, at my country house, where I was passing some days with my brother and with the friend of my youth, Basil of Caesarea.

Sire—had my sentence of death been read to me, it could not have appalled me more than this.

I a priest! I wished it, and I wished it not. I felt it must be—and yet my courage failed. I wrestled with God the Lord, as the patriarch wrestled with him in the days of the old covenant. What passed in my soul during the night which followed, I cannot tell. But this I know that, ere the cock crew, I talked face to face with the Crucified One.—Then I was his.

Julian.

Folly, folly; I know those dreams.

Gregory.

On my homeward journey I passed through Caesarea. Oh, what misery met me there! I found the town full of fugitive country people, who had forsaken house and home because the drought had burnt up their crops, and laid all the vineyards and olive-gardens desolate. To escape starvation they had fled to the starving. There they lay—men, women, and children—in heaps along the walls of the houses; fever shook them, famine gnawed their entrails. What had Caesarea to offer them—that impoverished, unhappy town, as yet but half rebuilt after the great earthquake of two years ago? And in the midst of this, amid scorching heat and frequent earthquake-shocks, we had to see ungodly festivals going on day and night. The ruined altars were hastily rebuilt; the blood of sacrifices ran in streams; mummers and harlots paraded the streets with dance and song.

Sire—can you wonder that my much-tried brethren thought they saw in the visitation that had come upon them a judgment of heaven because they had so long tolerated heathenism and its scandalous symbols in their midst?

Julian.

What symbols do you mean?

Gregory.

The cry of the terror-stricken and fevered multitude rose ever higher; they demanded that the rulers of the city should give a palpable witness for Christ by ordering the destruction of what still remains of the former glory of heathendom in Caesarea.

Julian.

You cannot mean to say that——?

Gregory.

The magistrates of the city called a meeting, where I too was present. You know, most gracious Emperor, that all temples are the property of the city; so that the citizens have the right to dispose of them at their own free will.

Julian.

Well, well; what if it were so?

Gregory.

In that terrible earthquake that ravaged Caesarea two years ago, all the temples but one were destroyed.

Julian.

Yes, yes; the temple of Fortuna.

Gregory.

At the meeting whereof I speak, the congregation determined to complete God’s work of judgment, in testimony that they would trust wholly and solely to him, and no longer tolerate the abomination in their midst.

Julian.

[Hoarsely.] Gregory,—once my friend—do you hold your life dear?

Gregory.

This resolution I did not myself approve, but almost all voices were in favour of it. But as we feared that the matter might be represented to you falsely, and might, perhaps, incense you against the city, it was determined to send a man hither to announce to you what we have resolved, and what will presently happen.

Great ruler,—no one else was found willing to undertake the task. It fell perforce to me. Therefore it is, sire, that I stand here before you in all humility, to announce that we Christians in Caesarea have resolved that the temple where the heathen in bygone days worshipped a false deity, under the name of Fortuna, shall be pulled down and levelled with the ground.

Julian.

[Springing up.] And I must listen to this with my own ears: One single man dares to tell me such unheard-of things!

Courtiers, Orators, and Poets.

O pious Emperor, do not suffer it! Punish this audacious man!

Hekebolius.

He is distraught, sire! Let him go. See,—the frenzy glitters in his eyes.

Julian.

Ay, it may well be called madness. But ’tis more than madness. To dream of pulling down that excellent temple, dedicated to a no less excellent divinity! Is it not to the favour of this very goddess that I ascribe my achievements, the fame of which has reached the remotest nations? Were I to suffer this, how could I ever again hope for victory or prosperity?—Gregory, I command you to return to Caesarea and give the citizens to understand that I forbid this outrage.

Gregory.

Impossible, sire! The matter has come to such a pass that we have to choose between the fear of man and obedience to God. We cannot draw back.

Julian.

Then you shall feel how far the Emperor’s arm can stretch!

Gregory.

The Emperor’s arm is mighty in earthly things; and I, like others, tremble under it.

Julian.

Show it, then, in deeds! Ah, you Galileans, you reckon upon my long-suffering. Do not trust to it; for truly——

A noise at the entrance. The barber, Eunapius, followed by several citizens, rushes in.

Julian.

What is this? Eunapius, what has befallen you?

Eunapius.

Oh that my eyes should see such a sight!

Julian.

What sight have you seen?

Eunapius.

Behold, most gracious Emperor, I come bleeding and bruised, yet happy to be the first to call down your wrath——

Julian.

Speak, man;—who has beaten you?

Eunapius.

Permit me, sire, to lay my complaint before you.

I went forth from the town this morning to visit the little temple of Venus which you have lately restored. When I came thither, the music of flutes and singing greeted my ears. Women were dancing gracefully in the outer court, and within I found the whole space filled with a rapturous crowd, while at the altar priests were offering up the sacrifices you have ordained.

Julian.

Yes, yes; and then——?

Eunapius.

Scarcely had I had time to turn my thoughts in devotion toward that enchanting goddess, whom I especially revere and worship,—when a great crowd of young men forced their way into the temple——

Julian.

Not Galileans?

Eunapius.

Yes, sire,—Galileans.

Julian.

Ah!

Eunapius.

What a scene followed! Weeping under the assailants’ insults and blows, the dancing-girls fled from the outer court to us within. The Galileans fell upon us all, belaboured us and affronted us in the most shameful manner.

Julian.

[Descending from his throne.] Wait, wait!

Eunapius.

Alas, would that their violence had fallen on us alone! But the madmen went further. Yes, gracious Emperor—in one word, the altar is overthrown, the statue of the goddess dashed to pieces, the entrails of the sacrifices cast out to the dogs——

Julian.

[Pacing up and down.] Wait, wait, wait!

Gregory.

Sire, this one man’s word is not enough——

Julian.

Be silent!

[To Eunapius.] Did you know any of the sacrilegious crew?

Eunapius.

Not I, sire; but these citizens knew many of them.

Julian.

Take a guard with you. Seize as many of the wretches as you can. Cast them into prison. The prisoners shall give up the names of the rest; and when I have them all in my power——

Gregory.

What then, sire?

Julian.

Ask the executioner. Both you and the citizens of Caesarea shall be taught what you have to expect if, in your Galilean obstinacy, you should abide by your resolve.

[The Emperor goes out in great wrath, to the left; Eunapius and his witnesses retire with the watch; the others disperse.

SCENE SECOND.

A market-place in Antioch. In front, on the right, a street debouches into the market; to the left, at the back, there is a view into a narrow and crooked street.

A great concourse of people fills the market. Hucksters cry their wares.wares. In several places the townspeople have gathered into clusters, talking eagerly.eagerly.

A Citizen.

Good God of heaven, when did this misfortune happen?

Another Citizen.

This morning, I tell you; quite early this morning.

Phocion the Dyer.

[Who has entered from the street on the right.] My good man, do you think it is fitting to call this a misfortune? I call it a crime, and a most audacious crime to boot.

The Second Citizen.

Yes, yes; that is quite true; it was a most audacious thing to do.

Phocion.

Only think—of course it is the outrage on the temple of Venus you are talking of? Only think of their choosing a time when the Emperor was in the city——! And this day, too, of all others—a day——

A Third Citizen.

[Drawing near.] Tell me, good friend, what is the matter——?

Phocion.

This day of all others, I say, when our august ruler is himself to officiate at the feast of Apollo.

The Third Citizen.

Yes, I know that; but why are they taking these Christians to prison?

Phocion.

What? Are they taking them to prison? Have they really caught them?

[Loud shrieks are heard.

Hush; what is that? Yes, by the gods, I believe they have them!

[An Old Woman, much agitated, and with dishevelled hair, makes her way through the crowd; she is beset by other women, who in vain seek to restrain her.

The Old Woman.

I will not be held back! He is my only son, the child of my old age! Let me go; let me go! Can no one tell me where I can find the Emperor?

Phocion.

What would you with the Emperor, old mother?

The Old Woman.

I would have my son again. Help me! My son! Hilarion! Oh, they have taken him from me! They burst into our house—and then they took him away!

One of the Citizens.

[To Phocion.] Who is this woman?

Phocion.

What? Know you not the widow Publia,—the psalm-singer?

Citizen.

Ah, yes, yes, yes!

Publia.

Hilarion! my child! What will they do to him? Ah, Phocion,—are you there? God be praised for sending me a Christian brother——!

Phocion.

Hush, hush, be quiet; do not scream so loud; the Emperor is coming.

Publia.

Oh, this ungodly Emperor! The Lord of Wrath is visiting his sins upon us; famine ravages the land; the earth trembles beneath our feet!

[A detachment of soldiers enters by the street on the right.

The Commander of the Detachment.

Stand aside; make room here!

Publia.

Oh come, good Phocion;—help me, for our friendship’s and our fellowship’s sake——

Phocion.

Are you mad, woman? I do not know you.

Publia.

What? You do not know me? Are you not Phocion the dyer? Are you not the son of——?

Phocion.

I am not the son of anybody. Get you gone, woman! You are mad! I do not know you; I have never seen you.

[He hastens in among the crowd.

A Subaltern.

[With soldiers, from the right.] Clear the way here!

[The soldiers force the multitude back towards the houses. Old Publia faints in the arms of the women on the left. All gaze expectantly down the street.

Phocion.

[In a knot of people behind the guard, to the right.] Yes, by the Sun-God, there he comes, the blessed Emperor!

A Soldier.

Do not push so, behind there!

Phocion.

Can you see him? The man with the white fillet round his brow, that is the Emperor.

A Citizen.

The man all in white?

Phocion.

Yes, yes, that is he.

The Citizen.

Why is he dressed in white?

Phocion.

Doubtless because of the heat; or,—no, stop,—I think it is as the sacrificing priest that he——

A Second Citizen.

Will the Emperor himself offer the sacrifice?

Phocion.

Yes, the Emperor Julian does everything himself.

A Third Citizen.

He does not look so powerful as the Emperor Constantius.

Phocion.

I think he does. He is not so tall as the late Emperor; but his arms are longer. And then his glance——oh my friends——! You cannot see it just now; his eyes are modestly lowered as he walks. Yes, modest he is, I can tell you. He has no eye for women. I dare swear that since his wife’s death he has but seldom——; you see, he writes the whole night. That is why his fingers are often as black as a dyer’s; just like mine; for I am a dyer. I can tell you I know the Emperor better than most people. I was born here in Antioch; but I have lived fifteen years in Constantinople, until very lately——

A Citizen.

Is there aught, think you, in the rumour that the Emperor is minded to settle here for good?

Phocion.

I know the Emperor’s barber, and he reports it so. Let us trust these shameful disturbances may not incense him too much.

A Citizen.

Alas, alas, that were a pity indeed!

A Second Citizen.

If the Emperor lived here, ’twould bring something in to all of us.

Phocion.

’Twas on that reckoning that I returned here. So now we must do our best, friends; when the Emperor comes past, we must shout lustily both for him and for Apollo.

A Citizen.

[To another.] Who is this Apollo, that people begin to talk so much about?

The Other Citizen.

Why, ’tis the priest of Corinth,—he who watered what the holy Paul had planted.

The First Citizen.

Ay, ay; to be sure; I think I remember now.

Phocion.

No, no, no, ’tis not that Apollo; ’tis another one entirely;—this is the Sun-King—the great lyre-playing Apollo.

The Other Citizen.

Ah indeed; that Apollo! Is he better?

Phocion.

I should think so, indeed.—Look, look, there he comes. Oh, our most blessed Emperor!

The Emperor Julian, robed as a high priest, enters, surrounded by priests and servants of the temple. Courtiers and learned men, among whom is Hekebolius, have joined the procession; likewise citizens. Before the Emperor go flute-players and harpers. Soldiers and men of the city guard, with long staves, clear the way before the procession and on either side.

The Multitude.

[Clapping their hands.] Praise to the Emperor! Praise to Julian, hero and benefactor!

Phocion.

All hail to Julian and to the Sun-King! Long live Apollo!

The Citizens.

[In the foreground, on the right.] Emperor, Emperor, stay long among us!

[Julian makes a sign for the procession to stop.

Julian.

Citizens of Antioch! It were hard for me to name anything that could more rejoice my heart than these inspiriting acclamations. And my heart stands sorely in need of this refreshment.

It was with a downcast spirit that I set forth on this procession, which should be one of joy and exaltation. Nay, more; I will not hide from you that I was this morning on the verge of losing that equanimity which it behoves a lover of wisdom to preserve under all trials.

But can any one chide me for it? I would have you all remember what outrages are threatened elsewhere, and have already been committed here.

Publia.

My lord, my lord!

Phocion.

Oh pious and righteous Emperor, punish these desperate men!

Publia.

My lord, give me back my Hilarion!

Phocion.

All good citizens implore your favour towards this city.

Julian.

Seek to win the favour of the gods, and of mine you need have no doubt. And surely it is fitting that Antioch should lead the way. Does it not seem as though the Sun-God’s eye had dwelt with especial complacency on this city? Ask of travellers, and you shall hear to what melancholy extremes fanaticism has elsewhere proceeded in laying waste our holy places. What is left? A remnant here and there; and nothing of the best.

But with you, citizens of Antioch! Oh, my eyes filled with tears of joy when first I saw that incomparable sanctuary, the very house of Apollo,Apollo, which seems scarcely to be the work of human hands. Does not the image of the Glorious One stand within it, in unviolated beauty? Not a corner of his altar has broken or crumbled away, not a crack is to be seen in the stately columns.

Oh, when I think of this,—when I feel the fillet round my brow—when I look down upon these garments, dearer to me than the purple robe of empire, then I feel, with a sacred tremor, the presence of the god.

See, see, the sunlight quivers around us in its glory!

Feel, feel, the air is teeming with the perfume of fresh-woven garlands!

Beautiful earth! The home of light and life, the home of joy, the home of happiness and beauty;—what thou wast shalt thou again become!—In the embrace of the Sun-King! Mithra, Mithra!

Forward on our victorious way!

[The procession moves on again, amid the plaudits of the crowd; those in front come to a stop at the mouth of the narrow street, through which another procession enters the market-place.

Julian.

What hinders us?

Hekebolius.

Gracious lord, there is something amiss in the other street.

Song.

[Far off.

Blissful our pangs, be they never so cruel;

Blissful our rising, the death-struggle o’er.

Phocion.

The Galileans, sire! They have them!

Publia.

Hilarion!

Phocion.

They have them! I hear the fetters——

Julian.

Pass them by——!

Eunapius.

[Hastening through the press.] We have succeeded marvellously, sire.

Julian.

Who are they, these ruffians?

Eunapius.

Some of them belong to this city; but most, it seems, are peasants fleeing from Cappadocia.

Julian.

I will not see them. Forward, as I commanded!

The Prisoners’ Song.

[Nearer.

Blissful our crowning with martyrdom’s jewel;

Blissful our meeting with saints gone before.

Julian.

The madmen. Not so near to me! My guard, my guard!

[The two processions have meanwhile encountered each other in the crush. The procession of Apollo has to stand still while the other, with the prisoners—men in chains, surrounded by soldiers, and accompanied by a great concourse of people—passes on.

Publia.

My child! Hilarion!

Hilarion.

[Among the prisoners.] Rejoice, my mother!

Julian.

Poor deluded creatures! When I hear madness thus speaking in you, I almost doubt whether I have the right to punish you.

Another Voice.

[Among the prisoners.] Stand aside; take not from us our crown of thorns.

Julian.

Night and horror,—what voice is that?

The Leader of the Guard.

’Twas this one, sire, who spoke.

[He pushes one of the prisoners forward, a young man, who leads a half-grown lad by the hand.

Julian.

[With a cry.] Agathon!

[The Prisoner looks at him, and is silent.

Agathon, Agathon! Answer me; are you not Agathon?

The Prisoner.

I am.

Julian.

You among these? Speak to me?

Agathon.

I know you not!

Julian.

You do not know me? You know not who I am?

Agathon.

I know you are the lord of the earth; therefore you are not my lord.

Julian.

And the boy——? Is he your young brother?

[To the leader of the guard.

This man must be innocent.

Eunapius.

My lord, this man is the very ringleader. He has confessed it; he even glories in his deed.

Julian.

So strangely can hunger, and sickness, and misfortune disorder a man’s mind.

[To the prisoners.

If you will but say, in one word, that you repent, none of you shall suffer.

Publia.

[Shrieks.] Say it not, Hilarion!

Agathon.

Be strong, dear brother!

Publia.

Go, go to what awaits you, my only one!

Julian.

Hear and bethink you, you others——

Agathon.

[To the prisoners.] Choose between Christ and the Emperor!

The Prisoners.

Glory to God in the highest!

Julian.

Terrible is the Galilean’s power of delusion. It must be broken. Pass them by, the abominable crew! They cloud our gladness; they darken the day with their brooding death-hunger!—Flute-players—men, women—why are you silent? A song—a song in praise of life, and light, and happiness.

The Procession of Apollo.

[Sings.

Gladsome with roses our locks to entwine;

Gladsome to bathe in the sunlight divine!

The Procession of Prisoners.

Blissful to sleep ’neath the blood-reeking sod;

Blissful to wake in the gardens of God.

The Procession of Apollo.

Gladsome ’mid incense-clouds still to draw breath.

The Procession of Prisoners.

Blissful in blood-streams to strangle to death.

The Procession of Apollo.

Ever for him who his godhead adoreth

Deep draughts of rapture Apollo outpoureth.

The Procession of Prisoners.

Bones racked and riven, flesh seared to a coal,

He shall make whole!

The Procession of Apollo.

Gladsome to bask in the light-sea that laves us!

The Procession of Prisoners.

Blissful to writhe in the blood-death that saves us!

[The processions pass each other during the singing. The crowd in the market-place looks on in dull silence.

SCENE THIRD.

The sacred grove around the temple of Apollo. The portico, supported by columns, and approached by a broad flight of steps, is seen among the trees in the background, on the left.

A number of people are rushing about in the grove with loud cries of terror. Far away is heard the music of the procession.

Women.

Mercy! The earth is quaking again!

A Man in Flight.

Oh horror! Thunder beneath our feet——!

Another Man.

Was it indeed so? Was it the earth that shook?

A Woman.

Did you not feel it? That tree there swayed so that the branches whistled through the air.

Many Voices.

Hark, hark, hark!

Some.

’Tis the roll of chariots on the pavements.

Others.

’Tis the sound of drums. Hark to the music——, the Emperor is coming!

[The procession of Apollo advances from the right through the grove, and stations itself amid music of flutes and harps, in a semicircle in front of the temple.

Julian.

[Turning towards the temple, with upstretched hands.] I accept the omen!——

Never have I felt myself in such close communion with the immortal gods.

The Bow-Wielder is among us. The earth thunders beneath his tread, as when of old he stamped in wrath upon the Trojan shore.

But ’tis not on us he frowns. ’Tis on those unhappy wretches who hate him and his sunlit realm.

Yes,—as surely as good or evil fortune affords the true measure of the gods’ favour towards mortals,—so surely is the difference here made manifest between them and us.

Where are the Galileans now? Some under the executioner’s hands, others flying through the narrow streets, ashy pale with terror, their eyes starting from their heads—a shriek between their half-clenched teeth—their hair stiffening with dread, or torn out in despair.

And where are we? Here in Daphne’s pleasant grove, where the dryads’ balmy breath cools our brows,—here, before the glorious temple of the glorious god, lapped in the melodies of flute and lyre,—here, in light, in happiness, in safety, the god himself made manifest among us.

Where is the God of the Galileans? Where is the Jew, the carpenter’s crucified son? Let him manifest himself. Nay, not he!

’Tis fitting, then, that we should throng the sanctuary. There, with my own hands, I will perform the services which are so far from appearing to me mean and unbecoming, that I, on the contrary, esteem them above all others.

[He advances at the head of the procession, through the multitude, towards the temple.

A Voice.

[Calling out in the throng.] Stay, ungodly one!

Julian.

A Galilean among us?

The Same Voice.

No further, blasphemer!

Julian.

Who is he that speaks?

Other Voices in the Crowd.

A Galilean priest. A blind old man. Here he stands.

Others again.

Away, away, with the shameless wretch!

[A blind Old Man, in priestly garments, and supported by two younger men, also dressed as priests, is pushed forward till he stands at the foot of the temple steps, facing the Emperor.

Julian.

Ah, what do I see? Tell me, old man, are not you Bishop Maris, of Chalcedon?

The Old Man.

Yes, I am that unworthiest servant of the Church.

Julian.

“Unworthiest,” you call yourself; and I think you are not far wrong. If I mistake not, you have been one of the foremost in stirring up internal strife among the Galileans.

Bishop Maris.

I have done that which weighs me still deeper down in penitence. When you seized the empire, and rumour told of your bent of mind, my heart was beleagured with unspeakable dread. Blind and enfeebled by age, I could not conceive the thought of setting myself up against the mighty monarch of the world. Yes,—God have mercy on me—I forsook the flock I was appointed to guard, shrank timidly from all the perils that gathered frowning around the Lord’s people, and sought shelter here, in my Syrian villa——

Julian.

In truth a strange story! And you, timid as you say you are, you, who formerly prized the Emperor’s favour so highly, now step forth before me and fling insults in my very face!

Bishop Maris.

Now I fear you no longer; for now has Christ fully possessed my heart. In the Church’s hour of need, her light and glory burst upon me. All the blood you shed,—all the violence and wrong you do—cry out to heaven, and, re-echoing mightily, ring in my deaf ears, and show me, in my night of blindness, the way I have to go.

Julian.

Get you home, old man!

Bishop Maris.

Not till you have sworn to renounce your devilish courses. What would you do? Would dust rise up against the spirit? Would the lord of earth cast down the Lord of heaven? See you not that the day of wrath is upon us by reason of your sins? The fountains are parched like eyes that have wept themselves dry. The clouds, which ought to pour the manna of fruitfulness upon us, sweep over our heads, and shed no moisture. This earth, which has been cursed since the morning of time, quakes and trembles under the Emperor’s blood-guiltiness.

Julian.

What favour do you expect of your God for such excess of zeal, foolish old man? Do you hope that, as of old, your Galilean master will work a miracle, and give you back your sight?

Bishop Maris.

I have all the sight I desire; and I thank the Lord that he quenched my bodily vision, so that I am spared from seeing the man who walks in a darkness more terrible than mine.

Julian.

Let me pass!

Bishop Maris.

Whither?

Julian.

Into the Sun-King’s house.

Bishop Maris.

You shall not pass. I forbid you in the name of the only God!

Julian.

Frantic old man!—Away with him!

Bishop Maris.

Ay, lay hands upon me! But he who dares to do so, his hand shall wither. The God of Wrath shall manifest himself in his might——

Julian.

Your God is no mighty God. I will show you that the Emperor is stronger than he——

Bishop Maris.

Lost creature!—Then must I call down the ban upon thee, thou recreant son of the church!

Hekebolius.

[Pale.] My lord and Emperor, let not this thing be!

Bishop Maris.

[In a loud voice.] Cursed be thou, Julianus Apostata! Cursed be thou, Emperor Julian! God the Lord hath spat thee forth out of his mouth! Cursed be thine eyes and thy hands! Cursed be thy head and all thy doings!

Woe, woe, woe to the apostate! Woe, woe, woe——

[A hollow rumbling noise is heard. The roof and columns of the temple totter, and are seen to collapse with a thundering crash, while the whole building is wrapped in a cloud of dust. The multitude utter shrieks of terror; many flee, others fall to the ground. There is breathless stillness for a while. Little by little the cloud of dust settles, and the temple of Apollo is seen in ruins.

Bishop Maris.

[Whose two conductors have fled, stands alone, and says softly.] God has spoken.

Julian.

[Pale, and in a low voice.] Apollo has spoken. His temple was polluted: therefore he crushed it.

Bishop Maris.

And I tell you it was that Lord who laid the temple of Jerusalem in ruins.

Julian.

If it be so, then the churches of the Galilean shall be closed, and his priests shall be driven with scourges to raise up that temple anew.

Bishop Maris.

Try, impotent man! Who has had power to restore the temple of Jerusalem since the Prince of Golgotha called down destruction upon it?

Julian.

I have the power! The Emperor has the power! Your God shall be made a liar. Stone by stone will I rebuild the temple of Jerusalem in all its glory, as it was in the days of Solomon.

Bishop Maris.

Not one stone shall you add to another; for it is accursed of the Lord.

Julian.

Wait, wait; you shall see—if you could see—you who stand there forsaken and helpless, groping in the darkness, not knowing where you next may place your foot.

Bishop Maris.

Yet I see the glare of the lightning that shall one day fall upon you and yours.

[He gropes his way out. Julian remains behind, surrounded by a handful of pale and terrified attendants.

ACT THIRD.

SCENE FIRST.

In Antioch. An open colonnade, with statues and a fountain in front of it. To the left, under the colonnade, a flight of steps leads up to the Imperial Palace.

A company of Courtiers, Teachers, Poets, and Orators—among them the court-physician, Oribases, and the poet, Heraclius—are assembled, some in the colonnade, some around the fountain; most of them are dressed in ragged cloaks, with matted hair and beards.

Heraclius.

I can endure this life no longer. To rise with the sun, plunge into a cold bath, run or fence oneself weary——

Oribases.

’Tis all very wholesome.

Heraclius.

Is it wholesome to eat seaweed and raw fish?

A Courtier.

Is it wholesome to have to devour meat in great lumps, all bloody, as it comes from the butcher?

Heraclius.

’Tis little enough meat I have seen for the past week. Most of it goes to the altars. Ere long, methinks, we shall be able to say that the ever-venerable gods are the only meat-eaters in Antioch.

Oribases.

Still the same old mocker, Heraclius.

Heraclius.

Why, of what are you thinking, friend? Far be it from me to mock at the Emperor’s wise decrees. Blessed be the Emperor Julian! Does he not follow in the footsteps of the immortals? For, tell me, does not a certain frugality seem nowadays to reign, even in the heavenly housekeeping?

A Courtier.

Ha-ha-ha! ThereThere you are not far wrong.

Heraclius.

Look at Cybele, formerly so bounteous a goddess, whose statue the Emperor lately found in an ash-pit——

Another Courtier.

It was in a dunghill——

Heraclius.

Like enough; fertilising is Cybele’s business. But look at this goddess, I say;—in spite of her hundred breasts, she flows neither with milk nor honey.

[A circle of laughing hearers has gathered round him. While he is speaking, the Emperor Julian has come forward on the steps in the colonnade, unnoticed by those below. He wears a tattered cloak, with a girdle of rope; his hair and beard are unkempt, his fingers stained with ink; in both hands, under his arms, and stuck in his belt, he holds bundles of parchment rolls and papers. He stops and listens to Heraclius with every sign of exasperation.

Heraclius.

[Continuing.] It seems as though this wet-nurse of the world had become barren. We might almost think that she had passed the age when women——

A Courtier.

[Observing Julian.] Fie, fie, Heraclius,—shame on you!

[Julian signs to the courtier to be silent.

Heraclius.

[Continuing.] Well, enough of her. But is Ceres in the same case? Does she not display a most melancholy—I had almost said an imperial—parsimony? Yes, believe me, if we had a little more intercourse with high Olympus nowadays, we should hear much to the same tune. I dare swear that nectar and ambrosia are measured out as sparingly as possible. Oh Zeus, how gaunt must thou have grown! Oh roguish Dionysus, how much is there left of the fulness of thy loins? Oh wanton, quick-flushing Venus,—oh Mars, inauspicious to married men——

Julian.

[In great wrath.] Oh most shameless Heraclius! Oh scurvy, gall-spitting, venom-mouth——

Heraclius.

Ah, my gracious Emperor!

Julian.

Oh ribald scoffer at all sacred things! And this must I endure—to hear your croaking tongue the instant I leave my library to breathe the fresh morning air!

[He comes nearer.

Know you what I hold under my left arm? No, you do not know. ’Tis a polemic against you, blasphemous and foolish Heraclius!

Heraclius.

What, my Emperor,—against me?

Julian.

Yes, a treatise against you. A treatise with which my indignation has this very night inspired me. Think you I could be other than wroth at your most unseemly behaviour yesterday? How strange was the licence you allowed yourself in the lecture-hall, in my hearing, and that of many other earnest men? Had we not to listen for hours together to the shameful fables about the gods which you must needs retail? How dared you repeat such fictions? Were they not lies, from first to last?

Heraclius.

Ah, my Emperor, if you call that lying, then both Ovid and Lucian were liars.

Julian.

What else? Oh, I cannot express the indignation that seized me when I understood whither your impudent address was tending. “Man, let nothing surprise you,” I was tempted to say with the comic poet, when I heard you, like an ill-conditioned cur, barking forth, not expressions of gratitude, but a string of irrational nursery-tales, and ill-written to boot. For your verses were bad, Heraclius;—that I have proved in my treatise.

How I longed to arise and leave the hall when I saw you, as in a theatre, making a spectacle both of Dionysus and of the great immortal after whom you are named! If I constrained myself to keep my seat, I can assure you ’twas more out of respect to the players—if I dare call them so—than to the poet. But ’twas most of all for my own sake. I feared it might seem as though I were fleeing like a frightened dove. Therefore I made no sign, but quietly repeated to myself that verse of Homer:

“Bear it, my heart, for a time; heavier things hast thou suffered.”

Endure, as before, to hear a mad dog yelp at the eternal gods.

Yes, I see we must stomach this and more. We are fallen on evil days. Show me the happy man who has been suffered to keep his eyes and ears uncontaminated in this iron age!

Oribases.

I pray you, my noble master, be not so deeply moved. Let it comfort you that we all listened with displeasure to this man’s folly.

Julian.

That is in nowise the truth! I read in the countenances of most of you something far different from displeasure while this shameless mountebank was babbling forth his ribaldries, and then looking round the circle with a greasy smile, just as though he had done something to be proud of.

Heraclius.

Alas, my Emperor, I am most unhappy——

Julian.

That you may well be; for this is, in truth, no trifling matter. Think you the legends of the gods have not a serious and weighty purpose? Are they not destined to lead the human spirit, by an easy and pleasant path, up to the mystic abodes where reigns the highest god,—and thereby to make our souls capable of union with him? How can it be otherwise? Was it not with that view that the old poets invented such legends, and that Plato and others repeated them, and even added to their number? Apart from this purpose, I tell you, these stories would be fit only for children or barbarians,—and scarcely for them. But was it children and barbarians, pray, that you had before you yesterday? Where do you find the audacity to address me as if I were a child? Do you think yourself a sage, and entitled to a sage’s freedom of speech, because you wear a ragged cloak, and carry a beggar’s staff in your hand?

A Courtier.

How true, my Emperor! No, no, it needs more than that.that.

Julian.

Ay? Does it indeed? And what? To let your hair grow, perhaps, and never clean your nails? Oh hypocritical Cleon! I know you, one and all. Here, in this treatise, I have given you a name which——; you shall hear——

He searches through the bundles of papers. At that moment Libanius enters from the right, richly clad, and with a haughty mien.

Oribases.

[In a low tone.] Ah, you come in the nick of time, most honoured Libanius!

Julian.

[Continuing his search.] Where can it be——

Libanius.

[To Oribases.] What mean you, friend?

Oribases.

The Emperor is much enraged; your coming will pacify him.

Julian.

Ah, here I have it——

[With annoyance.

What does that man want?

Oribases.

Sire, this is——

Julian.

No matter, no matter! Now you shall hear whether I know you or not. There are among the wretched Galileans a number of madmen who call themselves penitents. These renounce all earthly possessions, and yet demand great gifts of the fools who treat them as holy men and almost as objects of worship. Behold, you are like these penitents, except that I shall give you nothing. For I am not so foolish as those others. Yes, yes, were I not firm on that point, you would soon overrun the whole court with your shamelessness. Nay, do you not already do so? Are there not many among you who would come again, even if I drove them away? Oh my dear friends, what can this lead to? Are you lovers of wisdom? Are you followers of Diogenes, whose garb and habits you ape? In truth, you do not haunt the schools nearly so much as you besiege my treasurer. What a pitiful and despicable thing has not wisdom become because of you! Oh, hypocrites and babblers without understanding! Oh you—— But what is yonder fat man seeking?

Oribases.

Sire, it is the chief magistrate of the city——

Julian.

The chief magistrate must wait. The matters we have in hand must take precedence of all meaner affairs. How now? Why this air of impatience? Is your business so weighty——

Libanius.

By no means, sire; I can come another day.

[He is going.

Oribases.

Sire, do you not recognise this distinguished man? This is the rhetorician Libanius.

Julian.

What? Libanius? Impossible. Libanius here—the incomparable Libanius! I cannot believe it.

Libanius.

I thought the Emperor knew that the citizens of Antioch had chosen me as their chief magistrate.

Julian.

Assuredly I knew it. But when I made my entrance into the city, and the magistrates came forth to greet me with an oration, I looked in vain for Libanius. Libanius was not among them.

Libanius.

The Emperor had uttered no wish to hear Libanius speak on that occasion.

Julian.

The orator Libanius ought to have known what were the Emperor’s wishes in that respect.

Libanius.

Libanius knew not what changes time and absence might have wrought. Libanius therefore judged it more becoming to take his place among the multitude. He chose, indeed, a sufficiently conspicuous position; but the Emperor deigned not to let his eyes fall on him.

Julian.

I thought you received my letter the day after——

Libanius.

Your new friend Priscus brought it to me.

Julian.

And none the less—perhaps all the more—you held aloof——?

Libanius.

Headache and weighty business——

Julian.

Ah, Libanius, in bygone days you were not so chary of your presence.

Libanius.

I come where I am bidden. Ought I to be intrusive? Would you have me stand in the way of the Emperor’s much-honoured Maximus?

Julian.

Maximus never appears at court.

Libanius.

And for good reason. Maximus holds a court of his own. The Emperor has conceded him a whole palace.

Julian.

Oh my Libanius, have I not conceded you my heart? How can you envy Maximus his palace?

Libanius.

I envy no man. I do not even envy my colleagues Themistius and Mamertinus, although you have conferred on them such signal proofs of your favour. Nor do I envy Hekebolius, whose wealth you have increased by such princely presents. I even rejoice to be the only man to whom you have given nothing. For I well know the reason of the exception. You wish the cities of your empire to abound in everything, and most of all in oratory, knowing that it is that distinction which marks us off from the barbarians. Now you feared that I, like certain others, might, if you gave me riches, become lukewarm in my art. The Emperor has therefore preferred to let the teacher of his youth remain poor, in order to hold him the closer to his craft. Thus do I interpret a course of action which has astonished some whom I forbear to name. ’Tis for the honour and well-being of the state that you have given me nothing. I am to lack riches that I may abound in eloquence.

Julian.

And I, my Libanius, have also understood the reason why the teacher of my youth has let me pass many months here in Antioch without presenting himself. Libanius doubtless deemed that any services his former pupil may have rendered to the gods, to the state, or to learning, were not great enough to deserve celebration by the man who is called the king of eloquence. Libanius no doubt thought that meaner orators were better fitted to deal with such trivial things. Moreover, Libanius has remained silent out of care for the balance of my mind. You feared, doubtless, to see the Emperor intoxicated with arrogance, reeling like one who in his thirst has drunk too deeply of the leaf-crowned wine-bowl, had you lavished on him any of that art which is the marvel of Greece, and raised him, so to speak, to the level of the gods, by pouring out before him so precious a libation.

Libanius.

Ah, my Emperor, if I could believe that my oratory possessed such power——

Julian.

And why should you not believe it, incomparable friend? Oh, leave me. I am wroth with you, Libanius. But it is the lover’s anger against the one he loves.

Libanius.

Is it indeed so? Oh my crowned brother, let me then tell you that not a day has passed since your coming hither on which I have not cursed the steadfastness that would not let me make the first advance. My friends assured me—not without some show of reason—that you had undertaken this long journey chiefly in order to see me and hear me speak. But Julian himself gave no sign. What was I to do? Should I flatter as Emperor him whom I loved as a man?

Julian.

[Embracing and kissing him.] My Libanius!

Libanius.

[Kissing the Emperor in return.] My friend and brother!

Oribases.

How honourable to both!

Courtiers and Teachers.

[Clapping their hands.] How beautiful! How sublime!

Julian.

Libanius, cruel friend,—how could you find it in your heart to balk me so long of this happy moment? During the weeks and months I have waited for you, my countenance has been veiled in Scythian darkness.

Libanius.

Alas, you were in better case than I; for you had those to whom you could speak about your absent friend.

Julian.

Say not so. I had only the hapless lover’s comfort: that of sorrowfully repeating your name, and crying out: “Libanius, Libanius!”

Libanius.

Ah, whilst you spoke thus to empty air, I spoke to the four walls of my chamber. Most of the day I passed in bed, picturing to myself who was then with you—now this one, now that. “Once it was otherwise,” I said to myself,—“then it was I who possessed Julian’s ear.”

Julian.

And meanwhile you let me pine away with longing. Look at me. Have I not grown a century older?

Libanius.

Oh, have I not suffered as great a change? You did not recognise me.

Julian.

This meeting has been to both of us as a bath, from which we go forth healed.

[They embrace and kiss again.

And now, beloved friend, now tell me what has brought you hither to-day; for I cannot doubt that you have some special errand.

Libanius.

To say nothing of my longing—so it is. Would that another had been sent in my stead! But the post of honour to which the confidence of the citizens has summoned me makes it my duty to perform all missions alike.

Julian.

Speak, my Libanius, and tell me how I can serve you.

Libanius.

Let me begin by saying that the inhabitants of this city are sunk in sorrow because you have withdrawn your favour from them.

Julian.

H’m——!

Libanius.

And this sorrow has been coupled with anxiety and disquiet since Alexander, the new governor, assumed office.

Julian.

Aha; indeed!

Libanius.

The exaltation of such a man could not but take us by surprise. Alexander has hitherto filled only trifling offices, and that in a manner little calculated to earn him either the respect or the affection of the citizens.

Julian.

I know that well, Libanius!

Libanius.

Alexander is violent in all his dealings, and justice is of little moment in his eyes——

Julian.

I know it; I know all you tell me. Alexander is a rough man, without morals and without eloquence. Alexander has in no way deserved so great advancement. But you may tell the citizens of Antioch that they have deserved Alexander. Ay, they have, if possible, deserved a still worse ruler, covetous and intractable as they are——

Libanius.

It is, then, as we feared; this is a punishment——

Julian.

Hear me, Libanius! How did I come hither? With full confidence in the people of this city. Antioch, chosen by the Sun-King for his especial seat, was to help me to repair all the wrong and ingratitude which had so long been shown to the immortals. But how have you met me? Some with defiance, others with lukewarmness. What have I not to endure here? Does not that Cappadocian, Gregory of Nazianzus, still wander about the city, stirring up the ignorant Galileans by his audacious speeches? Has not a poet arisen among them—a certain Apollinaris—who, with his wild songs, inflames their fanaticism to the point of madness?

And what do I not learn from other places? In Caesarea, have they not carried out their threat, and wrecked the temple of Fortuna! Oh shame and infamy! Where were the goddess’s worshippers the while? Did they prevent it? No, they did not lift a finger, Libanius, though they should have laid down life itself to preserve the sanctuary.

But wait, wait! The Galileans of Caesarea shall atone with their blood, and the whole city shall go up in flames as soon as I have time at my disposal.

Libanius.

My lord and friend,—if you would permit me——

Julian.

Permit me, first. Say yourself whether I ought to tolerate such things? Say whether my zeal can bear with such insults to the divinities who hover over and shield me? But what can I do? Have I not laboured through many a long night to disprove these unhappy delusions,—writing, Libanius, till my eyes were red, and my fingers black with ink? And what good, think you, has it done? I have reaped scorn instead of thanks, not only from the fanatics themselves, but even from men who pretend to share my opinions. And now, to crown all these mortifications, I find you acting as spokesman for the complaints of a handful of citizens against Alexander, who at least does his best to keep the Galileans in check.

Libanius.

Oh, my august friend,—that is precisely our ground of complaint.

Julian.

Do you tell me this?

Libanius.

’Tis not with my own good will that I do the city’s errands. I urged upon the council that they ought to choose for this task the most distinguished man in the town, thereby implying that I did not wish to be chosen. Despite this hint, the choice fell on me, who am certainly not——

Julian.

Well, well, well! But oh, Libanius, that I must hear from your mouth——!

Libanius.

I beg my crowned brother to remember that I speak in the name of the city! For myself, I prize the immortal gods as highly as any one. Where would the art of oratory be without the legends which the poets of bygone days have left to us? May not these legends be likened to a rich vein of ore, whence an accomplished orator can forge himself both weapons and ornaments, if only he understands how to work the metal skilfully? How flat and insipid would not the maxims of wisdom seem, expressed without images or comparisons borrowed from the supernatural?

But think, oh my friend—can you expect the multitude to take this view, especially in such an age as ours? I assure you that in Antioch, at any rate, ’tis not to be hoped for. The citizens—both Galileans and the more enlightened—have of late years lived at peace without greatly concerning themselves as to these matters. There is scarce a household in the city wherein people are of one mind upon things divine. But, until lately, domestic peace has nevertheless prevailed.

Now the case is altered. People have begun to weigh creed against creed. Discord has broken out between the nearest kinsmen. For example, a citizen, whose name I forbear to mention, has lately disinherited his son because the young man separated himself from the Galilean community. Commerce and social life suffer from all this, especially now, when scarcity reigns and famine stands at the door.

Julian.

Enough, enough,—more than enough, Libanius! You complain of scarcity. But tell me, has luxury ever been more rampant than now? Is the amphitheatre ever empty when it is reported that a new lion has arrived from Africa? Last week, when there was a talk of turning all idlers and vagabonds out of the city because of the dearth, did not the citizens loudly demand that the gladiators and dancing-girls should be exempted; for they felt they could not exist without them!

Ah, well may the gods desert you in wrath over, your folly! There are plenty of teachers of wisdom in this city, but where is wisdom? Why do so few tread in my footsteps? Why stop at Socrates? Why not go a few steps further, and follow Diogenes, or—if I dare say so—me, since we lead you to happiness? For is not happiness the goal of all philosophy? And what is happiness but harmony with oneself? Does the eagle want golden feathers? Or the lion claws of silver? Or does the pomegranate-tree long to bear fruits of sparkling stone? I tell you no man has a right to enjoy until he has steeled himself to forbear. Ay, he ought not to touch enjoyment with his finger-tips until he has learnt to trample it under foot.

Ah truly, we are far from that! But for that end will I work with all my might. For the sake of these things I will give up others which are also important. The Persian king—alarmed at my approach—has offered me terms of peace. I think of accepting them, that I may have my hands free to enlighten and improve you, intractable generation! As to the other matter, it must remain as it is. You shall keep Alexander. Make the best you can of him.

Yet, my Libanius, it shall not be said that I have sent you from me in disfavour——

Libanius.

Ah, my Emperor——

Julian.

You mentioned with a certain bitterness that I had given much to Themistius and Mamertinus. But did I not also take something from them? Did I not take from them my daily companionship? ’Tis my intent to give you more than I gave them.

Libanius.

Ah, what do you tell me, my august brother?

Julian.

’Tis not my intent to give you gold or silver. That folly prevailed with me only at first, until I saw how people flocked round me, like thirsty harvesters round a fountain, elbowing and jostling one another, and each stretching out a hollow hand to have it filled first, and filled to the brim. I have grown wiser since. I think it may be said in particular that the Goddess of Wisdom has not withdrawn her countenance from me in the measures I have taken for the good of this city.

Libanius.

Doubtless, doubtless!

Julian.

Therefore I commission you, oh my Libanius, to compose a panegyric on me.

Libanius.

Ah, what an honour——!

Julian.

You must lay special stress on the benefits for which the citizens of Antioch owe me gratitude. I hope you will produce an oration that shall do honour both to the orator and to his subject. This task, my Libanius, shall be my gift to you. I know of nothing more fitting to offer to a man like you.

Libanius.

Oh, my crowned friend, what a transcendent favour!

Julian.

And now to the fencing-hall. Then, my friends, we will walk through the streets, to give these insolent townsfolk a profitable example of sobriety in dress and simplicity in manners.

Oribases.

Through the streets, sire? In this midday heat——

A Courtier.

Pray, sire, let me be excused; I feel extremely unwell——

Heraclius.

I too, most gracious lord! All this morning I have been struggling against a feeling of nausea——

Julian.

Then take an emetic, and see if you cannot throw up your folly at the same time.

Oh Diogenes,—how degenerate are your successors! They are ashamed to wear your cloak in the open street.

[He goes out angrily through the colonnade.

SCENE SECOND.

A mean street in the outskirts of the city. In the row of houses to the left stands a small church.

A great multitude of lamenting Christians is assembled. The psalm-writer Apollinaris and the teacher Cyrillus are among them. Women with children in their arms utter loud cries. Gregory of Nazianzus passes along the street.

The Women.

[Rushing up to him and taking hold of his garments.] Ah, Gregory, Gregory—speak to us! Comfort us in this anguish!

Gregory.

Only One can give comfort here. Hold fast by Him. Cling to the Lord our Shepherd.

A Woman.

Know you this, oh man of God,—the Emperor has commanded that all our sacred scriptures shall be burnt!

Gregory.

I have heard it; but I cannot believe that his folly is so great.

Apollinaris.

It is true. Alexander, the new governor, has sent out soldiers to search the houses of the brethren. Even women and children are whipped till they bleed, if they are suspected of hiding books.

Cyrillus.

The Emperor’s decree applies not to Antioch only, nor even to Syria; it applies to the empire and the whole world. Every smallest word that is written concerning Christ is to be wiped out of existence, and out of the memory of believers.

Apollinaris.

Oh ye mothers, weep for yourselves and for your children!

The day will come when ye shall dispute with those ye now carry in your arms, as to what was in truth written in the lost Word of God. The day will come when your children’s children shall mock at you, and shall not know who or what Christ was.

The day will come when no heart shall remember that once on a time the Saviour of the world suffered and died.

The last believer shall go in darkness to his grave, and from that hour shall Golgotha vanish away from the earth, like the place where the Garden of Eden lay.

Woe, woe, to the new Pilate! He is not content, like the first, to slay the Saviour’s body. He murders the word and the faith!

The Women.

[Tearing their hair and rending their garments.] Woe, woe, woe!

Gregory.

And I say unto you, be of good cheer! God does not die. ’Tis not from Julian that the danger comes. The danger was there long ere he arose, in the weakness and contentiousness of our hearts.

Cyrillus.

Oh, Gregory, how can you ask us to remain steadfast amid these horrors?—Brethren and sisters—know you what has happened in Arethusa? The unbelievers have maltreated the old bishop Marcus, dragged him by the hair through the streets, cast him into the sewers, dragged him up again, bleeding and befouled, smeared him over with honey and set him in a tree, a prey to wasps and poisonous flies.

Gregory.

And has not God’s power been gloriously manifested in this very Marcus? What was Marcus before? A man of doubtful faith. When the troubles broke out in Arethusa, he even fled from the city. But behold—-no sooner had he heard in his hiding-place that the raging crew were avenging the bishop’s flight on innocent brethren, than he returned of his own free will. And how did he bear the torments which so appalled even his executioners, that in order to withdraw with some show of credit, they offered to release him if he would pay a very trifling fine? Was not his answer: No—and no, and again no? The Lord God was with him. He neither died nor yielded. His countenance showed neither terror nor impatience. In the tree wherein he hung, he thanked God for being lifted a few steps nearer heaven, while the others, as he said, crawled about on the flat earth.

Cyrillus.

A miracle must have happened to the resolute old man. If you had heard, as I did, the shrieks from the prison, that day in the summer when Hilarion and the others were tortured——! They were like no other shrieks—agonised, rasping, mixed with hissing sounds every time the white-hot iron buried itself in the raw flesh.

Apollinaris.

Oh, Cyrillus, have you forgotten how the shrieks passed over into song? Did not Hilarion sing even in death? Did not that heroic Cappadocian boy sing until he gave up the ghost under the hands of the torturers? Did not Agathon, that boy’s brother, sing until he swooned away, and then woke up in madness?

Verily I say unto you, so long as song rings out above our sorrows, Satan shall never conquer!

Gregory.

Be of good cheer. Love one another and suffer one for another, as Serapion in Doristora lately suffered for his brothers, for love of whom he let himself be scourged, and cast alive into the furnace!

See, see,—has not the Lord’s avenging hand already been raised against the ungodly? Have you not heard the tidings from Heliopolis under Lebanon?

Apollinaris.

I know it. In the midst of the ribald feast of Aphrodite, the heathen broke into the house of our holy sisters, violated them, murdered them amid tortures unspeakable——

The Women.

Woe, woe!

Apollinaris.

——ay, some of the wretches even tore open the bodies of the martyrs, dragged forth the entrails and ate the liver raw!

The Women.

Woe, woe, woe!

Gregory.

The God of Wrath seasoned the meal. How have they thriven on it? Go to Heliopolis, and you shall see those men with a putrefying poison in all their veins, their eyes and teeth dropping out, bereft of speech and understanding. Horror has fallen on the city. Many heathens have been converted since that night.

Therefore I fear not this pestilent monster who has risen up against the church; I fear not this crowned hireling of hell, who is bent upon finishing the work of the enemy of mankind. Let him fall upon us with fire, with sword, with the wild beasts of the amphitheatre! Should his madness even drive him further than he has yet gone—what does it matter? For all this there is a remedy, and the path lies open to victory.

The Women.

Christ, Christ!

Other Voices.

There he is! There he comes!

Some.

Who?

Others.

The Emperor! The murderer! The enemy of God!

Gregory.

Be still! Let him pass by in silence.

[A detachment of the Imperial Guards comes along the street. Julian follows, accompanied by courtiers and philosophers, all surrounded by guards. Another division of the Household Guard, led by Fromentinus, closes the procession.

A Woman.

[Softly to the others.] See, see, he has wrapped himself in rags, like a beggar.

Another Woman.

He must be out of his senses.

A Third Woman.

God has already stricken him.

A Fourth Woman.

Hide your little ones against your breasts. Let not their eyes behold the monster.

Julian.

Aha, are not these all Galileans? What do you here in the sunshine, in the open street, you spawn of darkness?

Gregory.

You have closed our churches; therefore we stand without and praise the Lord our God.

Julian.

Ah, is that you, Gregory? So you still linger here. But beware; my patience will not last for ever.

Gregory.

I seek not a martyr’s death; I do not even desire it; but if it be allotted me, I shall glory in dying for Christ.

Julian.

Your phrases weary me. I will not have you here. Why cannot you keep to your stinking dens? Go home, I tell you!

A Woman.

Oh, Emperor, where is our home?

Another Woman.

Where are our houses? The heathen have plundered them and driven us out.

A Voice in the Throng.

Your soldiers have taken from us all our goods.

Other Voices.

Oh Emperor, Emperor, why have you seized upon our possessions?

Julian.

You ask that? I will tell you, ignorant creatures! If your riches are taken from you, ’tis out of care for your souls’ weal. Has not the Galilean said that you shall possess neither silver nor gold? Has not your Master promised that you shall one day ascend to heaven? Ought you not, then, to thank me for making your rising as easy as possible?

The Philosophers.

Oh, incomparably answered!

Apollinaris.

Sire, you have robbed us of what is more precious than gold and silver. You have robbed us of God’s own word. You have robbed us of our sacred scriptures.

Julian.

I know you, hollow-eyed psalm-singer! Are not you Apollinaris? I believe if I take away your senseless books, you are capable of making up others, just as senseless, in their stead. But you are a pitiful bungler, let me tell you, both in prose and verse! By Apollo! no true Greek would suffer a line of yours to pass his lips. The pamphlet you sent me the other day, which you had the effrontery to entitle “The Truth,” I have read, understood, and condemned.

Apollinaris.

’Tis possible you may have read it; but understood it you have not; for if you had, you would not have condemned it.

Julian.

Ha-ha! the rejoinder I am preparing will prove that I understood it.—But as to those books whose loss you lament and howl over, I may tell you that you will presently hold them cheaper when it is proved that Jesus of Nazareth was a liar and deceiver.

The Women.

Woe to us; woe to us!

Cyrillus.

[Stepping forward.] Emperor—what mean you by that?

Julian.

Did not the crucified Jew prophesy that the Temple of Jerusalem should lie in ruins till the end of time?

Cyrillus.

So shall it be!

Julian.

Oh fools! At this moment my general, Jovian, with two thousand workmen, is at Jerusalem, rebuilding the temple in all its glory. Wait, wait, you stiff-necked doubters—you shall learn who is the mightier, the Emperor or the Galilean.

Cyrillus.

Sire, that you yourself shall learn to your dismay. I held my peace till you blasphemed the Highest, and called him a liar; but now I tell you that you have not a feather-weight of power against the Crucified One!

Julian.

[Constraining himself.] Who are you, and what do you call yourself?

Cyrillus.

[Coming forward.] I will tell you. First and foremost I call myself a Christian, and that is a most honourable name; for it shall never be wiped away from the earth.

Furthermore, I bear the name of Cyrillus, and am known by that name among my brethren and sisters.

But if I keep the former name unspotted, I shall reap eternal life as a reward.

Julian.

You are mistaken, Cyrillus! You know I am not unversed in the mysteries of your creed. Believe me—he in whom you put your trust is not the being you imagine. He died, in very truth, at the time when the Roman, Pontius Pilate, was governor in Judea.

Cyrillus.

I am not mistaken. ’Tis you, oh Emperor, who err in this. ’Tis you, who repudiated Christ at the moment when he gave you dominion over the world.

Therefore I tell you, in his name, that he will quickly take from you both your dominion and your life; and then shall you recognise, too late, how mighty is he whom in your blindness you despise.

Yea, as you have forgotten his benefits, he will not remember his lovingkindness, when he shall rise up to punish you.

You have cast down his altars; he shall cast you down from your throne. You have taken delight in trampling his law under foot, that very law which you yourself once proclaimed to believers. In like manner shall the Lord trample you under his heel. Your body shall be scattered to the wild winds, and your soul shall descend to a place of greater torments than you can devise for me and mine!

[The women flock around Cyrillus, with cries and lamentations.

Julian.

I would fain have spared you, Cyrillus! The gods are my witnesses that I hate you not for your faith’s sake. But you have mocked at my imperial power and authority, and that I must punish.

[To the Captain of the Guard.

Fromentinus, lead this man to prison, and let the executioner Typhon give him as many lashes with the scourge as are needful to make him confess that the Emperor, and not the Galilean, has all power upon earth.

Gregory.

Be strong, Cyrillus, my brother!

Cyrillus.

[With upraised hands.] How blessed am I, to suffer for the glory of God!

[The soldiers seize and drag him out.

The Women.

[With tears and sobs.] Woe to us! Woe, woe, to the apostate!

Julian.

Disperse these maniacs! Let them be driven out of the city as rebels. I will no longer endure this defiance and scandal.

[The guard drives the lamenting crowd into the side streets. Only the Emperor and his suite remain behind. A man who has hitherto been hidden is now seen lying at the church door; he is in torn garments, and has ashes strewn on his head.

A Soldier.

[Stirring him with a lance-shaft.] Up, up; be off!

The Man.

[Looking up.] Tread under foot this salt without savour, rejected of the Lord!

Julian.

Oh everlasting gods!—Hekebolius——!

The Courtiers.

Ah, so it is,—Hekebolius!

Hekebolius.

That is no longer my name! I am nameless. I have denied the baptism that gave me my name!

Julian.

Arise, friend!friend! Your mind is distempered——

Hekebolius.

Judas’s brother is pestiferous. Away from me——

Julian.

Oh feeble-hearted man——

Hekebolius.

Avaunt, tempter! Take back your thirty pieces of silver! Is it not written, “Thou shalt forsake wife and children for the Lord’s sake”? And I——? For the sake of wife and children have I betrayed the Lord my God! Woe, woe, woe!

[He casts himself down again on his face.

Julian.

Such flames of madness do these writings kindle over the earth!

And do I not well to burn them?

Wait! Ere a year has passed the Temple of the Jews shall stand again on Zion hill,—the splendour of its golden dome shining over the world, and testifying: Liar, liar, liar!

[He goes hastily away, followed by the philosophers.

SCENE THIRD.

A road outside the city. To the left, by the wayside, stands a statue of Cybele amid the stumps of hewn-down trees. At a little distance to the left is a fountain, with a stone basin. It is towards sunset.

On a step at the foot of the goddess’s statue sits an old priest, with a covered basket in his lap. A number of men and women carry water from the fountain. Passers-by are seen on the road. From the left enters the dyer Phocion, meanly clad, with a great bundle on his head. He meets Eunapius the barber, who comes from the city.

Phocion.

Aha!—my friend Eunapius in full court dress!

Eunapius.

Shame on you for mocking a poor man.

Phocion.

Call you that mockery? I thought it was the highest distinction.

Eunapius.

You may say so indeed. ’Tis now the height of distinction to go in rags, especially if they have lain long enough in the gutter.

Phocion.

How will all this end, think you?

Eunapius.

What should I care? I know how it has ended with me, and that is enough.

Phocion.

Are you no longer in the Emperor’s service?

Eunapius.

What should the Emperor Julian want with a barber? Think you he has his hair cut, or his beard trimmed? He does not even comb them. But how goes it with you? You do not look much better off.

Phocion.

Alas, Eunapius, purple-dyeing has had its day.

Eunapius.

Right, right; now we dye only the backs of the Christians. But what is that you are toiling with?

Phocion.

A bundle of willow bark. I am to dye fools’ cloaks for the philosophers.

[A detachment of soldiers enters from the right; they range themselves beside the statue of Cybele.

Phocion.

[To one of the men beside the stone basin.] What does this mean?

The Man.

The statue is to be fed once more.

Phocion.

Will the Emperor sacrifice here this evening?

Another Man.

Does he not sacrifice both morning and evening—sometimes here, sometimes there?

A Woman.

Tis hard on us poor folk that the new Emperor is so much in love with the gods.

Another Woman.

Nay, Dione, say not so. Ought we not all to love the gods?

The First Woman.

Maybe, maybe; but ’tis hard on us none the less——

One of the Men.

[Points to the right.] Look—there he comes.

The Emperor Julian advances in priestly attire, with a sacrificial knife. Many philosophers, priests, and servants surround him, along with his guard. After them comes a crowd of people, some mocking, some indignant.

One of the Newcomers.

There stands the goddess. Now you shall see sport.

An Older Man.

Do you call that sport? How many hungry mouths could be fed with what is wasted here?

Julian.

[Approaching the statue.] Oh, this sight! It fills my heart with rapture and my eyes with tears of sorrow.

Yes, I must indeed weep, when I remember that this awe-inspiring goddess’s statue, overthrown by impious and audacious hands, has lain so long as if in a sleep of oblivion—and that, moreover, in a place I loathe to mention.

[Suppressed laughter among the listeners. Julian turns angrily.

But I feel no less rapture when I remember that to me it was vouchsafed to rescue the Divine Mother from so unworthy a situation.

May I not well be enraptured by this thought?—Men say of me, that I have won a few victories over the barbarians, and praise me for them. For my part, I set more value on what I am doing for the gods; for to them we owe all our strength and all our care.

[To those by the stone basin.

It pleases me, however, to find that there are some in this stiff-necked city who are not deaf to my exhortations, but have come forth with seemly piety—and, I doubt not, have brought with them suitable offerings.

[He goes up to the Old Priest.

What do I see? One solitary old man! Where are your brethren of the temple?

The Old Priest.

Sire, they are all dead but I.

Julian.

All dead! The road laid irreverently close to the sanctuary. The venerable grove hewn down——

Old man—where are the sacrificial offerings?

The Old Priest.

[Pointing to the basket.] Here, sire!

Julian.

Yes, yes; but the rest?

The Old Priest.

This is all.

[He opens the basket.

Julian.

A goose! And this goose is all?

The Old Priest.

Yes, sire!

Julian.

And what pious man have we to thank for so generous an offering?

The Old Priest.

I brought it with me myself. Oh, sire, be not wroth; this one was all I had.

[Laughter and mutterings among the bystanders.

Suppressed Voices.

’Tis enough. A goose is more than enough.

Julian.

Oh Antioch—you put my patience to a hard test!

A Man in the Crowd.

Bread first, offerings afterwards!

Phocion.

[Nudging him in the side.] Well said; well said!

Another Man.

Give the citizens food; the gods may do as best they can.

A third Man.

We were better off under Chi and Kappa!

Julian.

Oh you shameless brawlers, with your Chi and Kappa! Think you I do not know whom you mean by Chi and Kappa? Ho-ho, I know very well. ’Tis a by-word among you. You mean Christ and Constantius. But their dominion is past, and I shall soon find means of subduing the frowardness and ingratitude you display both towards the gods and towards me. You are offended because I allot the gods their due offerings. You mock at my modest attire and my untrimmed beard. This beard is a very thorn in your eyes! You call it, irreverently, a goat’s beard. But I tell you, oh fools, it is a wise man’s beard. I am not ashamed to let you know that this beard harbours vermin, as willow copses harbour game—and yet this despised beard is more honourable to me than your smooth-shaven chins to you!

Eunapius.

[Half aloud.] What foolishness; most unreasonable!

Julian.

But think you I will leave your mockeries unanswered? No, no, you will find yourselves mistaken. Only wait; you shall hear from me sooner than you think. I am at this moment preparing a treatise, entitled “The Beard-Hater.” And would you know against whom it is directed? It is directed against you, citizens of Antioch—against you, whom I describe in it as “those ignorant hounds.” You will find in it my reasons for many things that now seem strange to you in my behaviour.

Fromentinus.

[Entering from the right.] Great Emperor, I bring you good news. Cyrillus has already given way——

Julian.

Ah, I thought so.

Fromentinus.

Typhon did his work bravely. The prisoner was stripped, tied by the wrists, and slung to the rafters, so that the tips of his toes barely touched the floor; then Typhon scourged him from behind with a lash of ox sinews that circled his body round to the breast.

Julian.

Oh how wicked to force us to use such means!

Fromentinus.

Lest he should die under our hands, we had at last to release the obstinate wretch. He remained for a time quite still, and seemed to reflect; then suddenly he demanded to be brought before the Emperor.

Julian.

This pleases me. And you are having him brought hither?

Fromentinus.

Yes, sire—here they come with him.

A detachment of soldiers enters, conducting Cyrillus.

Julian.

Ah, my good Cyrillus,—you are not quite so overweening as you were, I see.

Cyrillus.

Have you read in the entrails of some beast or bird what I have to say to you?

Julian.

Methinks there needs no divination to foresee that you have come to your senses, that you renounce your delusions concerning the Galilean’s power, and that you acknowledge both the Emperor and our gods to be greater than he.

Cyrillus.

Imagine no such thing. Your gods are powerless; and if you cling to these graven images, that can neither hear nor see, you yourself will soon be as powerless as they.

Julian.

Cyrillus—is this what you have to say?

Cyrillus.

No; I come to thank you. Hitherto I have dreaded you and your tortures. But in the hour of agony I won the victory of the spirit over all that is corruptible. Yes, Emperor, while your hirelings thought I was hanging in torment from the prison roof,—I lay, happy as a child, in my Saviour’s arms; and when your executioners seemed to be flaying my body with stripes, the Lord passed his healing hand over the wounds, took away the crown of thorns, and placed on my brow the crown of life.

Therefore I thank you; no mortal has ever done me so great a service as you.

And lest you should think I fear you for the future, see——

[He throws back his cloak, tears open his wounds and casts pieces of flesh at the Emperor’s feet.

—see—see—gorge yourself with the blood you thirst after! But as for me, know that I thirst after Jesus Christ alone.

[Shrieks of horror are heard among the crowd.

Many Voices.

This will bring disaster on us all!

Julian.

[Who has recoiled.] Hold the madman, lest he lay hands on us!

[The soldiers surround Cyrillus and drag him to the water basin; at the same moment the voices of singing women are heard to the right.

Julian.

Look there, Fromentinus—what strange company is that——?

Fromentinus.

My gracious Emperor, ’tis the psalm-singers——

Julian.

Ah, that band of raving women——

Fromentinus.

The governor Alexander has taken from them some writings which they hold sacred. They are going out of the city to weep at the graves of the Christians.

Julian.

[With clenched hands.] Defiance; defiance—from men and women alike!

[Old Publia, and many other women, come along the road.

Publia.

[Sings.

Their gods are of marble, and silver and gold.

They shall crumble to mould.

Chorus of Women.

To mould; to mould!

Publia.

They murder our brothers; our children they smite.

Soar up, doves of song, and pray God to requite!

Chorus of Women.

Pray God to requite!

Publia.

[Catching sight of Julian.] There he stands! Woe to the miscreant who has burnt the word of the Lord! Think you you can burn the word of the Lord with fire? I will tell you where it burns.

[She wrests a knife from one of the sacrificing priests, cuts open her breast and probes into the wound.

Here the word burns. You may burn our books; but the word shall burn in the hearts of men until the uttermost end of time!

[She casts the knife from her.

The Women.

[Sing with growing ecstasy.

Let writings be burnt, and let bodies be slain;

The word shall remain—

The word shall remain!

[They take Publia into their midst and go out towards the country.

The People by the Fountain.

Woe to us; the Galileans’ God is the strongest!

Other Voices.

What avail all our gods against this one?

Others again.

No offering! No worship! ’Twill incense the terrible one against us.

Julian.

Oh fools! You fear to incense a man long dead,—a false prophet—you shall have proof of it. He is a liar, I say! Wait but a little longer. Every day, every hour, may bring tidings from Jerusalem——

Jovian, much travel-stained, enters hastily, with a few

followers, from the right.

Jovian.

Most gracious Emperor, pardon your servant for seeking you here.

Julian.

[With a cry of joy.] Jovian! Oh welcome news-bearer!

Jovian.

I come direct from Judea. I learned at the palace that you were here——

Julian.

Oh, ever-praiseworthy gods,—yon setting sun shall not go down upon the lie. How far have you progressed? Speak, my Jovian!

Jovian.

[With a glance at the crowd.] Sire, shall I tell all?

Julian.

All, all—from first to last!

Jovian.

I arrived at Jerusalem with the architects and soldiers, and the two thousand workmen. We went to work at once to clear the ground. Mighty remnants of the walls remained. They fell before our pickaxes and crowbars so easily that it seemed as though some unseen power were helping us to efface them——

Julian.

You see! What did I tell you!

Jovian.

In the meantime immense heaps of mortar were being brought together for the new building. Then, without any warning, there arose a whirlwind, which spread the lime like a cloud over the whole region.

Julian.

Go on; go on!

Jovian.

The same night the earth shook repeatedly.

Voices in the Crowd.

Hear that! The earth shook.

Julian.

Go on, I say!

Jovian.

We were nothing daunted by this strange event. But when we had dug so deep into the ground as to open the subterranean vaults, and the stone-hewers went down to work by torchlight——

Julian.

Jovian,—what then?

Jovian.

Sire, a terrible, a monstrous stream of fire burst out of the caverns. A thundering noise shook the whole city. The vaults burst asunder; hundreds of workmen were killed in them, and the few who escaped fled with lacerated limbs.

Whispering Voices.

The Galileans’ God!

Julian.

Can I believe all this? Did you see it?

Jovian.

With my own eyes. We began anew. Sire, in the presence of many thousands—awestruck, kneeling, exulting, praying—the same wonder was twice repeated.

Julian.

[Pale and trembling.] And then——? In one word,—what has the Emperor achieved in Jerusalem?

Jovian.

The Emperor has fulfilled the Galilean’s prophecy.

Julian.

Fulfilled——?

Jovian.

Through you is the saying accomplished: “Not one stone shall remain upon another.”

Men and Women.

The Galilean has overcome the Emperor! The Galilean is greater than Julian!

Julian.

[To the priest of Cybele.] You may go home, old man! And take your goose with you. We will have no sacrifice this evening.

[He turns to the crowd.

I heard some say the Galilean had conquered. It may appear so; but I tell you it is a delusion. Oh senseless clods; oh contemptible dolts,—believe me, it will not be long before the tables are turned! I will——; I will——! Ah, only wait! I am already collecting material for a treatise against the Galilean. It is to be in seven chapters; and when his followers have read that,—and when “The Beard-Hater,” too——

Give me your arm, Fromentinus! This defiance has wearied me.

[To the guard, as he passes the fountain.

Set Cyrillus free!

[He returns with his retinue to the city.

The Crowd at the Fountain.

[Shouting after him with scornful laughter.] There goes the altar-butcher?—There goes the ragged bear!—There goes the ape with the long arms!

SCENE FOURTH

Moonlight. Among the ruins of the temple of Apollo.

The Emperor Julian and Maximus the Mystic, both in robes, appear among the overthrown columns.

Maximus.

Whither, my brother?

Julian.

Where it is loneliest.

Maximus.

But here—in this desolation? Among these rubbish-heaps——?

Julian.

Is not the whole earth a rubbish-heap?

Maximus.

Yet you have shown that what has fallen can be restored.

Julian.

Mocker! In Athens I saw how a cobbler had made himself a little workshop in the temple of Theseus. In Rome, I hear, a corner of the Basilica Julia is used for a bullock-stable. Call you that restoration?

Maximus.

Why not? Does not everything happen little by little? What is a whole but the sum of all the parts?

Julian.

Foolish wisdom!

[He points to the overturned statue of Apollo.

See this noseless face. See this splintered elbow,—these shattered loins. Does the sum of all these deformities restore to us the divine perfection of bygone beauty?

Maximus.

How know you that that bygone beauty was beautiful—in itself—apart from the spectator’s idea?

Julian.

Ah, Maximus, that is just the question. What exists in itself? After to-day I know of nothing.

[He kicks the head of Apollo.

Have you ever been mightier, in yourself?

Strange, Maximus, that there should dwell such strength in delusion. Look at those Galileans. And look at me in the old days, when I thought it possible to build up again the fallen world of beauty.

Maximus.

Friend—if delusion be a necessity to you, return to the Galileans. They will receive you with open arms.

Julian.

You know well that that is impossible. Emperor and Galilean! How reconcile that contradiction?

Yes, this Jesus Christ is the greatest rebel that ever lived. What was Brutus—what was Cassius, compared with him? They murdered only the man Julius Caesar; but he murders all that is called Caesar or Augustus. Is peace conceivable between the Galilean and the Emperor? Is there room for the two of them together upon the earth? For he lives on the earth, Maximus,—the Galilean lives, I say, however thoroughly both Jews and Romans imagined that they had killed him; he lives in the rebellious minds of men; he lives in their scorn and defiance of all visible authority.

“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,—and to God the things that are God’s!” Never has mouth of man uttered a craftier saying than that. What lies behind it? What, and how much, belongs to the Emperor? That saying is nothing but a bludgeon wherewith to strike the crown from off the Emperor’s head.

Maximus.

Yet the great Constantine knew how to compound matters with the Galilean—and your predecessor too.

Julian.

Yes, could one only be as easily satisfied as they! But call you that ruling the empire of the world? Constantine widened the boundaries of his dominion, but did he not fix narrow boundaries to his spirit and his will? You rate that man too high when you call him “the great.” Of my predecessor I will not speak; he was more slave than Emperor, and I cannot be contented with the name alone.

No, no, a truce is not to be thought of in this contest. And yet—to have to give way! Oh, Maximus, after these defeats I cannot retain the crown—yet neither can I renounce it.

You, Maximus, who can interpret omens whose mystic meaning is hidden from all others—you who can read the volume of the eternal stars,—can you foretell the issue of this struggle?

Maximus.

Yes, my brother, I can foretell the issue.

Julian.

Can you? Then tell me—! Who shall conquer? The Emperor or the Galilean?

Maximus.

Both the Emperor and the Galilean shall succumb.

Julian.

Succumb——? Both——?

Maximus.

Both. Whether in our times or in hundreds of years, I know not; but so it shall be when the right man comes.

Julian.

And who is the right man?

Maximus.

He who shall swallow up both Emperor and Galilean.

Julian.

You solve the riddle by a still darker riddle.

Maximus.

Hear me, brother and friend of truth! I say you shall both succumb—but not that you shall perish.

Does not the child succumb in the youth, and the youth in the man? Yet neither child nor youth perishes.

Oh, my best-loved pupil—have you forgotten all our discourse in Ephesus about the three empires?

Julian.

Ah Maximus, years have passed since then. Speak!

Maximus.

You know I have never approved the course you have taken as Emperor. You have striven to make the youth a child again. The empire of the flesh is swallowed up in the empire of the spirit. But the empire of the spirit is not final, any more than the youth is. You have striven to hinder the growth of the youth,—to hinder him from becoming a man. Oh fool, who have drawn your sword against that which is to be—against the third empire, in which the twin-natured shall reign!

Julian.

And he——?

Maximus.

The Jews have a name for him. They call him Messiah, and they await him.

Julian.

[Slowly and thoughtfully.] Messiah?—Neither Emperor nor Redeemer?

Maximus.

Both in one, and one in both.

Julian.

Emperor-God—God-Emperor. Emperor in the kingdom of the spirit,—and God in that of the flesh.

Maximus.

That is the third empire, Julian!

Julian.

Yes, Maximus, that is the third empire.

Maximus.

In that empire shall the present watchword of revolt be realised.

Julian.

“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,—and to God the things that are God’s.” Yes, yes, then the Emperor is in God, and God in the Emperor.—Ah, dreams, dreams,—who shall break the Galilean’s power?

Maximus.

Wherein lies the Galilean’s power?

Julian.

I have brooded over that question in vain.

Maximus.

Is it not somewhere written: “Thou shalt have none other gods but me”?

Julian.

Yes—yes—yes!

Maximus.

The Seer of Nazareth did not preach this god or that; he said: “God is I;—I am God.”

Julian.

Ay, this thing without me——! ’Tis that which makes the Emperor powerless.

The third empire? The Messiah? Not the Jews’ Messiah, but the Messiah of the two empires, the spirit and the world——?

Maximus.

The God-Emperor.

Julian.

The Emperor-God.

Maximus.

Logos in Pan—Pan in Logos.

Julian.

Maximus,—how comes he into being?

Maximus.

He comes into being in the man who wills himself.

Julian.

My beloved teacher,—I must leave you

Maximus.

Whither are you going?

Julian.

To the city. The Persian king has made overtures of peace, which I too hastily accepted. My envoys are already on the way. They must be overtaken and recalled.

Maximus.

You will reopen the war against King Sapor?

Julian.

I will do what Cyrus dreamed of, and Alexander attempted——

Maximus.

Julian!

Julian.

I will possess the world.—Good-night, my Maximus!

[He makes a gesture of farewell, and goes hastily away. Maximus looks thoughtfully after him.

The Chorus of the Psalm-Singers.

[Far away, beside the graves of the martyrs.

Ye gods of the nations, of silver and gold,

Ye shall crumble to mould!

ACT FOURTH

SCENE FIRST.

The eastern frontier of the empire. A wild mountain landscape. A deep valley separates the high foreground from the mountains behind.

The Emperor Julian, in military dress, stands on the edge of a rocky promontory, and looks into the depths. A little way from him, to the left, stand Nevita, the Persian prince Hormisdas, Jovian, and several other generals. To the right, beside a roughly-built stone altar, crouch the soothsayer, Numa, and two other Etruscan soothsayers, examining the entrails of the sacrifices for omens. Further forward sits Maximus the Mystic on a stone, surrounded by Priscus, Kytron, and other philosophers. Small detachments of light-armed men now and then pass over the height from left to right.

Julian.

[Pointing downwards.] See, see—the legions wind like a scaly serpent through the ravine.

Nevita.

Those just below us, in sheepskin doublets, are the Scythians.

Julian.

What piercing howls——!

Nevita.

That is the Scythians’ customary song, sire!

Julian.

More howl than song.

Nevita.

Now come the Armenians. Arsaces himself is leading them.

Julian.

The Roman legions must already be out on the plains. All the neighbouring tribes are hastening to make their submission.

[He turns to the officers.

The twelve hundred ships, containing all our stores and munitions, lie assembled on the Euphrates. I am now fully assured that the fleet can cross over to the Tigris by the ancient canal. The whole army will pass the river by means of the ships. Then we will advance along by the eastern bank as rapidly as the current will suffer the ships to follow us.

Tell me, Hormisdas, what think you of this plan?

Hormisdas.

Invincible general, I know that under your victorious protection it will be vouchsafed me to tread once more the soil of my fatherland.

Julian.

What a relief to be rid of those narrow-breasted citizens! What terror was in their eyes when they pressed round my chariot as I left the city! “Come again quickly,” they cried, “and be more gracious to us than now.” I will never revisit Antioch. I will never again set eyes on that ungrateful city! When I have conquered I will return by way of Tarsus.

[He goes up to the soothsayers.

Numa,—what omens for our campaign do you find this morning?

Numa.

The omens warn you not to pass the frontier of your empire this year.

Julian.

H’m! How read you this omen, Maximus?

Maximus.

I read it thus: the omen counsels you to subdue all the regions you traverse; thus you will never pass the frontier of your empire.

Julian.

So is it. We must look closely into such supernatural signs; for there is wont to be a double meaning in them. It even seems at times as if mysterious powers took a delight in leading men astray, especially in great undertakings. Were there not some who held it an evil omen that the colonnade in Hierapolis fell in and buried half a hundred soldiers, just as we marched through the city? But I say that that is a presage of a twofold good. In the first place it foreshows the downfall of Persia, and in the second place the doom of the unhappy Galileans. For what soldiers were they who were killed? Why, Galilean convict-soldiers, who went most unwillingly to the war; and therefore fate decreed them that sudden and inglorious end.

Jovian.

Most gracious Emperor, here comes a captain from the vanguard.

Ammian.

[Entering from the right.] Sire, you commanded me to inform you should anything strange befall during our advance.

Julian.

Well? Has anything happened this morning?

Ammian.

Yes, sire, two portents.

Julian.

Quick, Ammian,—speak on!

Ammian.

First, sire, it happened that when we had gone a little way beyond the village of Zaita, a lion of monstrous size burst from a thicket and rushed straight at our soldiers, who killed it with many arrows.

Julian.

Ah!

The Philosophers.

What a fortunate omen!

Hormisdas.

King Sapor calls himself the lion of the nations.

Numa.

[Busied at the altar.] Turn back; turn back, Emperor Julian!

Maximus.

Go fearlessly forward, chosen son of victory!

Julian.

Turn back after this? As the lion fell at Zaita, so shall the lion of the nations fall before our arrows. Does not history warrant me in interpreting this omen to our advantage? Need I remind such learned men that when the Emperor Maximian conquered the Persian king, Narses, a lion, and a huge wild boar besides, were, in like manner, slain in front of the Roman ranks?

[To Ammian.

But now the other——? You spoke of two signs.

Ammian.

The other is more doubtful, sire! Your charger, Babylonius, was led forth, as you commanded, fully equipped, to await your descent on the other side of the mountain. But just at that time a detachment of Galilean convict-soldiers happened to pass. Heavily laden as they were, and by no means over willing, they had to be driven with scourges. Nevertheless they lifted up their arms as in rejoicing, and burst forth into a loud hymn in praise of their deity. Babylonius was startled by the sudden noise, reared in his fright, and fell backwards; and as he sprawled upon the ground, all his golden trappings were soiled and bespattered with mud.

Numa.

[At the altar.] Emperor Julian,—turn back, turn back!

Julian.

The Galileans must have done this out of malice,—and yet, in spite of themselves, they have brought to pass a portent which I hail with delight.

Yes, as Babylonius fell, so shall Babylon fall, stripped of all the splendour of its adornments.

Priscus.

What wisdom in interpretation!

Kytron.

By the gods, it must be so!

The other Philosophers.

So, and not otherwise!

Julian.

[To Nevita.] The army shall continue to advance. Nevertheless, for still greater security, I will sacrifice this evening and see what the omens indicate.

As for you Etruscan jugglers, whom I have brought hither at so great a cost, I will no longer suffer you in the camp, where you serve only to damp the soldiers’ spirits. You know nothing of the difficult calling you profess. What effrontery! What measureless presumption! Away with them! I will not set eyes on them again.

[Some of the guards drive the Soothsayers out to the left.

Babylonius fell. The lion succumbed before my soldiers. Yet these things do not tell us what invisible help we have to depend upon. The gods, whose essence is as yet by no means duly ascertained, seem sometimes—if I may say so—to slumber, or, on the whole, to concern themselves very little with human affairs. We, my dear friends, are so unfortunate as to live in such an age. We have even seen how certain divinities have neglected to support well-meant endeavours, tending to their own honour and glory.

Yet must we not judge rashly in this matter. It is conceivable that the immortals, who guide and uphold the universe, may sometimes depute their power to mortal hands,—not thereby, assuredly, lessening their own glory; for is it not thanks to them that so highly-favoured[11] a mortal—if he exist—has been born into this world?

Priscus.

Oh matchless Emperor, do not your own achievements afford proof of this?

Julian.

I know not, Priscus, whether I dare rate my own achievements so highly. I say nothing of the fact that the Galileans believe the Jew, Jesus of Nazareth, to have been thus elected; for these men err—as I shall conclusively establish in my treatise against them. But I will remind you of Prometheus in ancient days. Did not that pre-eminent hero procure for mankind still greater blessings than the gods seemed to vouchsafe—wherefore he had to suffer much, both pain and despiteful usage, till he was at last exalted to the communion of the gods—to which, in truth, he had all the while belonged?

And may not the same be said both of Herakles and of Achilles, and, finally, of the Macedonian Alexander, with whom some have compared me, partly on account of what I achieved in Gaul, partly, and especially, on account of my designs in the present campaign?

Nevita.

My Emperor—the rear-guard is now beneath us—it is perhaps time——

Julian.

Presently, Nevita! First I must tell you of a strange dream I had last night.

I dreamed that I saw a child pursued by a rich man who owned countless flocks, but despised the worship of the gods.

This wicked man exterminated all the child’s kindred. But Zeus took pity on the child itself, and held his hand over it.

Then I saw this child grow up into a youth, under the care of Minerva and Apollo.

Further, I dreamed that the youth fell asleep upon a stone beneath the open sky.

Then Hermes descended to him, in the likeness of a young man, and said: “Come; I will show thee the way to the abode of the highest god!” So he led the youth to the foot of a very steep mountain. There he left him.

Then the youth burst out into tears and lamentations, and called with a loud voice upon Zeus. Lo, then, Minerva and the Sun-King who rules the earth descended to his side, bore him aloft to the peak of the mountain, and showed him the whole inheritance of his race.

But this inheritance was the orb of the earth from ocean to ocean, and beyond the ocean.

Then they told the youth that all this should belong to him. And therewith they gave him three warnings: he should not sleep, as his race had done; he should not hearken to the counsel of hypocrites; and, lastly, he should honour as gods those who resemble the gods. “Forget not,” they said, on leaving him, “that thou hast an immortal soul, and that this thy soul is of divine origin. And if thou follow our counsel thou shalt see our father and become a god, even as we.”

Priscus.

What are signs and omens to this!

Kytron.

It can scarcely be rash to anticipate that the Fates will think twice ere they suffer their counsels to clash with yours.

Julian.

We dare not build with certainty on such an exception. But assuredly I cannot but find this dream significant, although my brother Maximus, by his silence—against all reasonable expectation—seems to approve neither of the dream itself, nor of my relation of it.—But that we must bear with!

[He takes out a roll of paper.

See, Jovian; before I arose this morning, I noted down what I had dreamt. Take this paper, let numerous copies of it be made, and read to the various divisions of the army. I hold it of the utmost moment, on so hazardous an expedition, that, amid all dangers and difficulties, the soldiers may leave their fate securely in their leader’s hands, considering him infallible in all that concerns the issue of the war.

Jovian.

I pray you, my Emperor, let me be excused from this.

Julian.

What do you mean?

Jovian.

That I cannot lend my aid to anything that is against the truth.—Oh, hear me, my august Emperor and master! Is there a single one of your soldiers who doubts that he is safe in your hands? Have you not, on the Gallic frontier, in spite of overwhelming numbers and difficulties of all kinds, gained greater victories than any other living commander can boast of?

Julian.

Well, well! What startling news!

Jovian.

All know how marvellously fortune has hitherto followed you. In learning you excel all other mortals, and in the glorious art of eloquence you bear the palm among the greatest.

Julian.

And yet——? In spite of all this——?

Jovian.

In spite of all this, my Emperor, you are but mortal. By publishing this dream through the army you would seek to make men deem you a god,—and in that I dare not assist you.

Julian.

What say you, my friends, to this speech?

Kytron.

It assuredly shows no less effrontery than ignorance.

Julian.

You seem to forget, oh truth-loving Jovian, that the Emperor Antoninus, surnamed the Pious, has been worshipped in a special temple on the Roman forum as an immortal god. And not he alone, but also his wife, Faustina, and other Emperors before and after him.

Jovian.

I know it, sire,—but it was not given to our forefathers to live in the light of truth.

Julian.

[With a long look at him.] Ah, Jovian!——

Tell me,—last evening, when I was taking the omens for the coming night, you brought me a message just as I was laving the blood from my hands in the water of purification——

Jovian.

Yes, my Emperor!

Julian.

In my haste, I chanced to sprinkle a few drops of the water on your cloak. You shrank sharply backward and shook the water off, as if your cloak had been defiled.

Jovian.

My Emperor,—so that did not escape you?

Julian.

Did you think it would have escaped me?

Jovian.

Yes, sire; for it was a matter between me and the one true God.

Julian.

Galilean!

Jovian.

Sire, you yourself sent me to Jerusalem, and I was witness to all that happened there. I have pondered much since then; I have read the scriptures of the Christians, have spoken with many of them,—and now I am convinced that in their teaching lies the truth of God.

Julian.

Is this possible? Can it be possible? Thus does this infectious frenzy spread! Even those nearest me—my own generals desert me——

Jovian.

Place me in the van against your foes, sire,—and you shall see how gladly I render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.

Julian.

How much——?

Jovian.

My blood, my life.

Julian.

Blood and life are not enough. He who is to rule must rule over the minds, over the wills of men. It is in this that your Jesus of Nazareth bars my way and contests my power.

Think not that I will punish you, Jovian! You Galileans covet punishment as a benefaction. And after it you are called martyrs. Have they not thus exalted those whom I have been obliged to chastise for their obduracy?

Go to the vanguard! I will not willingly see your face again.—Oh, this treachery to me, which you veil in phrases about double duty and a double empire! This shall be altered. Other kings besides the Persian shall feel my foot on their necks.

To the vanguard, Jovian!

Jovian.

I shall do my duty, sire!

[He goes out to the right.

Julian.

We will not have this morning darkened, which rose amid so many happy omens. This, and more, will we bear with an even mind. But my dream shall none the less be published through the army. You, Kytron, and you, my Priscus, and my other friends, will see that this is done in a becoming manner.

The Philosophers.

With joy, with unspeakable joy, sire!

[They take the roll and go out to the right.

Julian.

I beg you, Hormisdas, not to doubt my power, although it may seem as though stubbornness met me on every hand. Go; and you too, Nevita, and all the rest, each to his post;—I will follow when the troops are all gathered out on the plains.

[All except the Emperor and Maximus go out to the right.

Maximus.

[After a time, rises from the stone where he has been seated and goes up to the Emperor.] My sick brother!

Julian.

Rather wounded than sick. The deer that is pierced by the hunter’s shaft seeks the thicket where its fellows cannot see it. I could no longer endure to be seen in the streets of Antioch;—and now I shrink from showing myself to the army.

Maximus.

No one sees you, friend; for they grope in blindness. But you shall be as a physician to restore their sight, and then they shall behold you in your glory.

Julian.

[Gazing down into the ravine.] How far beneath us! How tiny they seem, as they wind their way forward, amid thicket and brushwood, along the rocky river-bed!

When we stood at the mouth of this defile, all the leaders, as one man, made for the pass. It meant an hour’s way shortened, a little trouble spared,—on the road to death.

And the legions were so eager to follow. No thought of taking the upward path, no longing for the free air up here, where the bosom expands with each deep draught of breath. There they march, and march, and march, and see not that the heaven is straitened above them,—and know not there are heights where it is wider.—Seems it not, Maximus, as though men lived but to die? The spirit of the Galilean is in this. If it be true, as they say, that his father made the world, then the son contemns his father’s work. And it is just for this presumptuous frenzy that he is so highly revered!

How great was Socrates compared with him! Did not Socrates love pleasure, and happiness, and beauty? And yet he renounced them.—Is there not a bottomless abyss between not desiring, on the one hand, and, on the other, desiring, yet renouncing?

Oh, this treasure of lost wisdom I would fain have restored to men. Like Dionysus of old, I went forth to meet them, young and joyous, a garland on my brow, and the fulness of the vine in my arms. But they reject my gifts, and I am scorned, and hated, and derided, by friends and foes alike.

Maximus.

Why? I will tell you why.

Hard by a certain town where once I lived, there was a vineyard, renowned far and wide for its grapes; and when the citizens wished to have the finest fruits on their tables, they sent their servants out to bring clusters from this vineyard.

Many years after I came again to that city; but no one now knew aught of the grapes that were once so renowned. Then I sought the owner of the vineyard and said to him, “Tell me, friend, are your vines dead, since no one now knows aught of your grapes?” “No,” he answered, “but let me tell you, young vines yield good grapes but poor wine; old vines, on the contrary, bad grapes but good wine. Therefore, stranger,” he added, “I still gladden the hearts of my fellow citizens with the abundance of my vineyard, only in another form—as wine, not as grapes.”

Julian.

[Thoughtfully.] Yes, yes, yes!

Maximus.

You have not given heed to this. The vine of the world has grown old, and yet you think that you can still offer the raw grapes to those who thirst for the new wine.

Julian.

Alas, my Maximus, who thirsts? Name me a single man, outside our brotherhood, who is moved by a spiritual craving.—Unhappy I, to be born into this iron age!

Maximus.

Do not reproach the age. Had the age been greater, you would have been less. The world-soul is like a rich man with innumerable sons. If he share his riches equally, all are well to do, but none rich. But if he disinherit all but one, and give everything to him, then that one stands as a rich man amid a circle of paupers.

Julian.

No similitude could be less apt than this.—Am I like your single heir? Is not that very thing divided among many which the ruler of the world should possess in fuller measure than all besides—nay, which he alone should possess? Oh how is not power divided? Has not Libanius the power of eloquence in such fulness that men call him the king of orators? Have not you, my Maximus, the power of mystic wisdom? Has not that madman Apollinaris of Antioch the power of ecstatic song in a measure I needs must envy him? And then Gregory the Cappadocian! Has he not the power of indomitable will in such excess, that many have applied to him the epithet, unbecoming for a subject, of “the Great”? And—what is stranger still—the same epithet has been applied to Gregory’s friend, Basil, the soft-natured man with girlish eyes. And yet he plays no active part in the world; he lives here, this Basil—here in this remote region, wearing the habit of an anchorite, and holding converse with none but his disciples, his sister Makrina, and other women, who are called pious and holy. What influence do they not exert, both he and his sister, through the epistles they send forth from time to time. Everything, even renunciation and seclusion, becomes a power to oppose my power. But the crucified Jew is still the worst of all.

Maximus.

Then make an end of all these scattered powers! But dream not that you can crush the rebels, by attacking them in the name of a monarch whom they do not know. In your own name you must act, Julian! Did Jesus of Nazareth come as the emissary of another? Did he not proclaim himself to be one with him that sent him? Truly in you is the time fulfilled, and you see it not. Do not all signs and omens point, with unerring finger, to you? Must I remind you of your mother’s dream——?

Julian.

She dreamed that she brought forth Achilles.

Maximus.

Must I remind you how fortune has borne you, as on mighty pinions, through an agitated and perilous life? Who are you, sire? Are you Alexander born again, not, as before, in immaturity, but perfectly equipped for the fufilment of the task?

Julian.

Maximus!

Maximus.

There is One who ever reappears, at certain intervals, in the course of human history. He is like a rider taming a wild horse in the arena. Again and yet again it throws him. A moment, and he is in the saddle again, each time more secure and more expert; but off he has had to go, in all his varying incarnations, until this day. Off he had to go as the god-created man in Eden’s grove; off he had to go as the founder of the world-empire;—off he must go as the prince of the empire of God. Who knows how often he has wandered among us when none have recognised him?

How know you, Julian, that you were not in him whom you now persecute?

Julian.

[Looking far away.] Oh unfathomable riddle——!

Maximus.

Must I remind you of the old prophecy now set afloat again? It has been foretold that so many years as the year has days should the empire of the Galilean endure. Two years more, and ’twill be three hundred and sixty-five years since that man was born in Bethlehem.

Julian.

Do you believe this prophecy?

Maximus.

I believe in him who is to come.

Julian.

Always riddles!

Maximus.

I believe in the free necessity.

Julian.

Still darker riddles.

Maximus.

Behold, Julian,—when Chaos seethed in the fearful void abyss, and Jehovah was alone,—that day when he, according to the old Jewish scriptures, stretched forth his hand and divided light from darkness, sea from land,—that day the great creating God stood on the summit of his power.

But with man arose will upon the earth. And men, and beasts, and trees, and herbs re-created themselves, each in its own image, according to eternal laws; and by eternal laws the stars roll through the heavenly spaces.

Did Jehovah repent? The ancient traditions of all races tell of a repentant Creator.

He had established the law of perpetuation in the universe. Too late to repent! The created will perpetuate itself—and is perpetuated.

But the two onesided empires war one against the other. Where, where is he, the king of peace, the twin-sided one, who shall reconcile them?

Julian.

[To himself.] Two years? All the gods inactive. No capricious power behind, which might bethink itself to cross my plans——

Two years? In two years I can bring the earth under my sway.

Maximus.

You spoke, my Julian;—what said you?

Julian.

I am young and strong and healthy. Maximus—it is my will to live long.

[He goes out to the right. Maximus follows him.

SCENE SECOND

A hilly wooded region with a brook among the trees. On an elevation a little farm. It is towards sunset.

Columns of soldiers pass from left to right at the foot of the slope. Basil of Caesarea, and his sister Makrina, both in the dress of hermits, stand by the wayside and offer water and fruits to the weary soldiers.

Makrina.

Oh, Basil, see—each paler and more haggard than the last!

Basil.

And countless multitudes of our Christian brethren among them! Woe to the Emperor Julian! This is a cruelty more cunningly contrived than all the horrors of the torture-chamber. Against whom is he leading his hosts? Less against the Persian king than against Christ.

Makrina.

Do you believe this dreadful thing of him?

Basil.

Yes, Makrina, it becomes more and more clear to me that ’tis against us the blow is aimed. All the defeats he has suffered in Antioch, all the resistance he has met with, all the disappointments and humiliations he has had to endure on his ungodly path, he hopes to bury in oblivion by means of a victorious campaign. And he will succeed. A great victory will blot out everything. Men are fashioned so; they see right in success, and before might most of them will bend.

Makrina.

[Pointing out to the left.] Fresh multitudes! Innumerable, unceasing——

[A company of soldiers passes by; a young man in the ranks sinks down on the road from weariness.

A Subaltern.

[Beating him with a stick.] Up with you, lazy hound!

Makrina.

[Hastening up.] Oh, do not strike him!

The Soldier.

Let them strike me;—I am so glad to suffer.

Ammian.

[Entering.] Again a stoppage!—Oh, it is he. Can he really go no further?

The Subaltern.

I do not know what to say, sir; he falls at every step.

Makrina.

Oh, be patient! Who is this unhappy man?—See, suck the juice of these fruits.—Who is he, sir?

Ammian.

A Cappadocian,—one of the fanatics who took part in the desecration of the temple of Venus at Antioch.

Makrina.

Oh, one of those martyrs——!

Ammian.

Try to rise, Agathon! I am sorry for this fellow. They chastised him more severely than he could bear. He has been out of his mind ever since.

Agathon.

[Rising.] I can bear it very well, and I am in my right mind, sir! Strike, strike, strike;—I rejoice to suffer.

Ammian.

[To the Subaltern.] Forward; we have no time to waste.

The Subaltern.

[To the soldiers.] Forward, forward!

Agathon.

Babylonius fell;—soon shall the Babylonian whoremonger fall likewise. The lion of Zaita was slain—the crowned lion of the earth is doomed!

[The soldiers are driven out to the right.

Ammian.

[To Basil and Makrina.] You strange people;—you go astray and yet you do good. Thanks for your refreshment to the weary; and would that my duty to the Emperor permitted me to treat your brethren as forbearingly as I should desire.

[He goes off to the right.

Basil.

God be with you, noble heathen!

Makrina.

Who may that man be?

Basil.

I know him not.

[He points to the left.

Oh see, see—there he is himself!

Makrina.

The Emperor? Is that the Emperor?

Basil.

Yes, that is he.

The Emperor Julian with several of his principal officers, escorted by a detachment of guards, with their captain Anatolus, enters from the left.

Julian.

[To his retinue.] Why talk of fatigue? Should the fall of a horse bring me to a standstill? Or is it less becoming to go on foot than to bestride an inferior animal? Fatigue! My ancestor said that it befits an Emperor to die standing. I say that it befits an Emperor, not only in the hour of death, but throughout his whole life, to set an example of endurance; I say—— Ah, by the great light of heaven! do I not see Basil of Caesarea before my eyes?

Basil.

[Bowing deeply.] Your meanest servant, oh most mighty lord!

Julian.

Ah, I know what that means! Truly you serve me well, Basil!

[Approaching.

So this is the villa that has become so renowned by reason of the epistles that go forth from it. This house is more talked of throughout the provinces than all the lecture-halls together, although I have spared neither care nor pains to restore their glory.

Tell me—is not this woman your sister, Makrina?

Basil.

She is, sire!

Julian.

You are a fair woman, and still young. And yet, as I hear, you have renounced life.

Makrina.

Sire, I have renounced life in order truly to live.

Julian.

Ah, I know your delusions very well. You sigh for that which lies beyond, of which you have no certain knowledge; you mortify your flesh; you repress all human desires. And yet I tell you this may be a vanity, like the rest.

Basil.

Think not, sire, that I am blind to the danger that lurks in renunciation. I know that my friend Gregory says well when he writes that he holds himself a hermit in heart, though not in the body. And I know that this coarse clothing is of small profit to my soul if I take merit to myself for wearing it.

But that is not my case. This secluded life fills me with unspeakable happiness; that is all. The wild convulsions through which, in these days, the world is passing, do not here force themselves, in all their hideousness, upon my eyes. Here I feel my body uplifted in prayer, and my soul purified by a frugal life.

Julian.

Oh my modest Basil, I fear you are ambitious of more than this. If what I hear be true, your sister has gathered round her a band of young women whom she is training up in her own likeness. And you yourself, like your Galilean master, have chosen twelve disciples. What is your purpose with them?

Basil.

To send them forth into all lands, that they may strengthen our brethren in the fight.

Julian.

Truly! Equipped with all the weapons of eloquence, you send your army against me. And whence did you obtain this eloquence, this glorious Greek art? From our schools of learning. What right have you to it? You have stolen like a spy into our camp, to find out where you can most safely strike at us. And this knowledge you are now applying to our greatest hurt!

Let me tell you, Basil, that I have no mind to suffer this scandal any longer. I will strike this weapon out of your hands. Keep to your Matthew and Luke, and other such unpolished babblers. But henceforth you shall not be permitted to interpret our ancient poets and philosophers; for I hold it unreasonable to let you suck knowledge and skill from sources in the truth of which you do not believe. In like manner shall all Galilean scholars be forbidden our lecture-halls; for what is their business there? To steal our weapons and use them against us.

Basil.

Sire, I have already heard of this strange determination. And I agree with Gregory in maintaining that you have no exclusive right either to Grecian learning or to Grecian eloquence. I agree with him when he points out that you use the alphabet which was invented by the Egyptians, and that you clothe yourself in purple, although it first came into use among the people of Tyre.

Ay, sire—and more than that. You subdue nations, and make yourself ruler over peoples, whose tongues are unknown and whose manners are strange to you. And you have a right to do so. But by the same right whereby you rule the visible world, he whom you call the Galilean rules the invisible——

Julian.

Enough of that! I will no longer listen to such talk. You speak as though there were two rulers of the world, and on that plea you cry halt to me at every turn. Oh fools! You set up a dead man against a living one. But you shall soon be convinced of your error. Do not suppose that amid the cares of war I have laid aside the treatise I have long been preparing against you. Perhaps you think I spend my nights in sleep? You are mistaken! For “The Beard-Hater” I reaped nothing but scorn,—and that from the very people who had most reason to lay certain truths to heart. But that shall in nowise deter me. Should a man with a cudgel in his hand shrink from a pack of yelping dogs?—Why did you smile, woman? At what did you laugh?

Makrina.

Why, sire, do you rage so furiously against one who, you say, is dead?

Julian.

Ah, I understand! You mean to say that he is alive.

Makrina.

I mean to say, oh mighty Emperor, that in your heart you feel of a surety that he lives.

Julian.

I? What next! I feel——!

Makrina.

What is it that you hate and persecute? Not him, but your belief in him. And does he not live in your hate and persecution, no less than in our love?

Julian.

I know your tortuous tricks of speech. You Galileans say one thing and mean another. And that you call rhetoric! Oh mediocre minds! What folly! I feel that the crucified Jew is alive! Oh what a degenerate age, to find satisfaction in such sophistries! But such is the latter-day world. Madness passes for wisdom. How many sleepless nights have I not spent in searching out the true foundation of things? But where are my followers? Many praise my eloquence, but few, or none, are convinced by it.

But truly the end is not yet. A great astonishment will come upon you. You shall see how all the scattered forces are converging into one. You shall see how, from all that you now despise, glory shall issue forth—and out of the cross on which you hang your hopes I will fashion a ladder for One whom you know not of.

Makrina.

And I tell you, Emperor Julian, that you are nought but a scourge in the hand of God—a scourge foredoomed to chasten us by reason of our sins. Woe to us that it must be so! Woe to us for the discords and the lovelessness that have caused us to swerve from the true path!

There was no longer a king in Israel. Therefore has the Lord stricken you with madness, that you might chastise us.

What a spirit has he not darkened, that it should rage against us! What a blossoming tree has he not stripped to make rods for our sin-laden shoulders!

Portents warned you, and you heeded them not. Voices called you, and you heard them not. Hands wrote in letters of fire upon the wall, and you rubbed out the writing ere you had deciphered it.

Julian.

Basil—I would I had known this woman before to-day.

Basil.

Come, Makrina!

Makrina.

Woe is me that ever I saw those shining eyes! Angel and serpent in one; the apostate’s longing wedded to the tempter’s guile! Oh, how have our brethren and sisters borne their hope of victory so high, in the face of such an instrument of wrath? In him dwells a greater than he. Do you not see it, Basil—in him will the Lord God smite us even to death.

Julian.

You have said it!

Makrina.

Not I!

Julian.

First-won soul!

Makrina.

Avaunt from me!

Basil.

Come—come!

Julian.

Stay here!—Anatolus, set a guard about them!—’Tis my will that you shall follow the army—both you and your disciples,—youths and women.

Basil.

Sire, you cannot desire this!

Julian.

’Tis not wise to leave fortresses in our rear. See, I stretch forth my hand and quench the burning shower of arrows which you have sent forth from yonder villa.

Basil.

Nay, nay, sire—this deed of violence——

Makrina.

Alas, Basil—here or elsewhere—all is over.

Julian.

Is it not written “Render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s”? I require all aid in this campaign. You can tend my sick and wounded. In that you will be serving the Galilean as well; and if you still think that a duty, I counsel you to make good use of your time. His end is near!

[Some soldiers have surrounded Basil and Makrina, others hasten through the thicket towards the house.

Makrina.

Sunset over our home; sunset of hope and of light in the world! Oh Basil! that we should live to see the night!

Basil.

The light is.

Julian.

The light shall be. Turn your backs to the sunset, Galileans! Your faces to the east, to the east, where Helios lies dreaming. Verily I say unto you, you shall see the Sun-King of the world.

[He goes out to the right; all follow him.

SCENE THIRD.

Beyond the Euphrates and Tigris. A wide plain, with the imperial camp. Copses, to the left and in the background, hide the windings of the Tigris. Masts of ships rise over the thickets in long rows, stretching into the far distance. A cloudy evening.

Soldiers and men-at-arms of all sorts are busy pitching their tents on the plain. All kinds of stores are being brought from the ships. Watchfires far away. Nevita, Jovian, and other officers come from the fleet.

Nevita.

See, now, how rightly the Emperor has chosen! Here we stand, without a stroke, on the enemy’s territory; no one has opposed our passage of the river; not even a single Persian horseman is to be seen.

Jovian.

No, sir, by this route, the enemy certainly did not expect us.

Nevita.

You speak as if you still thought this route unwisely chosen.

Jovian.

Yes, sir, it is still my opinion that we should rather have taken a more northerly direction. Then our left wing would have rested on Armenia, which is friendly towards us, and all our supplies might have come from that fruitful province. But here? Hampered in our progress by the heavy freight-ships, surrounded by a barren plain, almost a desert—— Ah! the Emperor is coming. I will go; I am not in his good graces at present.

He goes out to the right. At the same time Julian enters with his retinue from the ships. Oribases, the physician, the philosophers Priscus and Kytron, with several others, appear from among the tents on the right, and advance to meet the Emperor.

Julian.

Thus does the empire grow. Every step I take towards the east shifts the frontier of my dominion.

[He stamps on the earth.

This earth is mine! I am in the empire, not beyond it.—Well, Priscus——?

Priscus.

Incomparable Emperor, your command has been executed. Your marvellous dream has been read to every division of the army.

Julian.

Good, good. And how did my dream seem to affect the soldiers?

Kytron.

Some praised you with joyful voices, and hailed you as divine; others on the contrary——

Priscus.

Those others were Galileans, Kytron!

Kytron.

Yes, yes, most of them were Galileans; and these smote upon their breasts and uttered loud lamentations.

Julian.

I will not let the matter rest here. The busts of myself, which I have provided for erection in the towns I am to conquer, shall be set up round the camp, over all the paymasters’ tables. Lamps shall be lighted beside the busts; braziers, with sweet-smelling incense, shall burn before them; and every soldier, as he comes forward to receive his pay, shall cast some grains of incense on the fire.

Oribases.

Most gracious Emperor, forgive me, but—is that expedient?

Julian.

Why not? I marvel at you, my Oribases!

Priscus.

Ah, sire, you may well marvel!marvel! Not expedient to——?

Kytron.

Should not a Julian dare what less god-like men have dared?

Julian.

I, too, think that the more daring course would now be to disguise the counsels of the mystic powers. If it be the case that the divinities have deputed their sovereignty into earthly hands—as many signs justify us in concluding—it would indeed be most ungrateful to conceal the fact. In such hazardous circumstances as these, ’tis no trifling matter that the soldiers should pay their devotions in a quite different quarter from that in which they are due.

I tell you, Oribases, and all of you,—if, indeed, there be present any one else who would set limits to the Emperor’s power,—that this would be the very essence of impiety, and that I should therefore be forced to take strong measures against it.

Has not Plato long ago enunciated the truth that only a god can rule over men? What meant he by that saying? Answer me—what did he mean? Far be it from me to assert that Plato—incomparable sage though he was—had any individual, even the greatest, in his prophetic eye. But I think we have all seen what disorders result from the parcelling out, as it were, of the supreme power into several hands.

Enough of that. I have already commanded that the imperial busts shall be displayed about the camp.

Ah! what seek you in such haste, Eutherius?

The Chamberlain Eutherius comes from the ships, accompanied by a man in girt-up garments.

Eutherius.

Exalted Emperor,—this man of Antioch is sent by the governor, Alexander, and brings you a letter which, he says, is of great importance.

Julian.

Ah, let me see! Light here!

[A torch is brought; the Emperor opens and reads the letter.

Julian.

Can this be possible! More light! Yes, here it is written—and here—; what next?—Truly this exceeds all I could have conceived!

Nevita.

Bad news from the west, sire?

Julian.

Nevita, tell me, how long will it take us to reach Ctesiphon?

Nevita.

It cannot be done in less than thirty days.

Julian.

It must be done in less! Thirty days! A whole month! And while we are creeping forward here, I must let those madmen——

Nevita.

You know yourself, sire, that, on account of the ships, we must follow all the windings of the river. The current is rapid, and the bed, too, shallow and stony. I hold it impossible to proceed more quickly.

Julian.

Thirty days! And then there is the city to be taken,—the Persian army to be routed,—peace to be concluded. What a time all this will take! Yet there were some among you foolish enough to urge upon me an even more roundabout route. Ha-ha; they would compass my ruin!

Nevita.

Never fear, sire; the expedition shall advance with all possible speed.

Julian.

It must indeed. Can you imagine what Alexander tells me? The frenzy of the Galileans has passed all bounds since my departure. And it increases day by day. They understand that my victory in Persia will bring their extirpation in its train; and with that shameless Gregory as their leader, they now stand, like a hostile army in my rear; in the Phrygian regions secret things are preparing, no one knows to what end——

Nevita.

What does this mean, sire? What are they doing?

Julian.

What are they doing? Praying, preaching, singing, prophesying the end of the world. And would that that were all!—but they carry our adherents away, and entice them into their rebellious conspiracies. In Caesarea the congregation has chosen the judge Eusebius to be their bishop,—Eusebius, an unbaptised man—and he has been so misguided as to accept their call, which, moreover, the canon of their own church declares invalid.

But that is far from being the worst; worse, worse, ten times worse is it, that Athanasius has returned to Alexandria.

Nevita.

Athanasius!

Priscus.

That mysterious bishop who, six years ago, vanished into the desert.

Julian.

A council of the church expelled him on account of his unseemly zeal. The Galileans were tractable under my predecessor.

Yes, just think of it—this raging fanatic has returned to Alexandria. His entrance was like a king’s; the road was strewn with carpets and green palm-branches. And what followed? What do you think? The same night a riot broke out among the Galileans. George, their lawful bishop, that right-minded and well-disposed man, whom they accused of lukewarmness in the faith, was murdered—torn to pieces in the streets of the city.

Nevita.

But, sire, how were things suffered to go so far? Where was the governor, Artemius?

Julian.

You may well ask where Artemius was. I will tell you. Artemius has gone over to the Galileans. Artemius himself has broken by force of arms into the Serapeion, that most glorious of earthly temples,—has shattered the statues—has plundered the altars, and destroyed that vast treasury of books, which was of such inestimable value precisely in this age of error and ignorance. I could weep for them as for a friend bereft me by death, were not my wrath too great for tears.

Kytron.

Truly, this surpasses belief!

Julian.

And not to be within reach of these miserable beings to punish them! To be doomed to look idly on while such atrocities spread wider and wider around!—Thirty days, you say! Why are we loitering? Why are we pitching our tents? Why should we sleep? Do my generals not know what is at stake? We must hold a council of war. When I remember what the Macedonian Alexander achieved in thirty days——

Jovian, accompanied by a man in Persian garb, unarmed, enters from the camp.

Jovian.

Forgive me, sire, for appearing before you: but this stranger——

Julian.

A Persian warrior!

The Persian.

[Prostrating himself to the earth.] No warrior, oh mighty Emperor!

Jovian.

He came riding over the plains unarmed, and surrendered at the outposts——

Julian.

Then your countrymen are at hand?

The Persian.

No, no!

Julian.

Whence come you then?

The Persian.

[Throws open his garments.] Look at these arms, oh ruler of the world,—bleeding from rusty fetters. Feel this flayed back,—sore upon sore. I come from the torture chamber, sire!

Julian.

Ah—a fugitive from King Sapor?

The Persian.

Yes, mighty Emperor, to whom all things are known! I stood high in King Sapor’s favour until, impelled by the terror of your approach, I dared to prophesy that this war would end in his destruction. Would you know, sire, how he has rewarded me? My wife he gave as a prey to his archers from the mountains; my children he sold as slaves; all my possessions he divided among his servants; myself he tortured for nine days. Then he bade me ride forth and die like a beast in the desert.

Julian.

And what would you with me?

The Persian.

What would I after such treatment? I would help you to destroy my persecutor.

Julian.

Ah, poor tortured wretch,—how can you help?

The Persian.

I can lend wings to your soldiers’ feet.

Julian.

What mean you by that? Rise and explain yourself.

The Persian.

[Rising.] No one in Ctesiphon expected you to choose this route——

Julian.

I know that.

The Persian.

Now ’tis no longer a secret.

Julian.

You lie, fellow! You Persians know nought of my designs.

The Persian.

You, sire, whose wisdom is born of the sun and of fire, know well that my countrymen are now acquainted with your designs. You have crossed the rivers by means of your ships; these ships, more than a thousand in number, and laden with all the supplies of the army, are to be towed up the Tigris, and the troops are to advance abreast of the ships.

Julian.

Incredible——!

The Persian.

When the ships have approached as near Ctesiphon as possible—that is to say, within two days’ march—you will make straight for the city, beleaguer it, and compel King Sapor to surrender.

Julian.

[Looking round.] Who has betrayed us?

The Persian.

This plan is now no longer practicable. My countrymen have hastily constructed stone dams in the bed of the river, on which your ships will run aground.

Julian.

Man, do you know what it will cost you if you deceive me?

The Persian.

My body is in your power, mighty Emperor! If I speak not the truth, you are free to burn me alive.

Julian.

[To Nevita.] The river dammed! It will take weeks to make it navigable again.

Nevita.

If it can be done at all, sire! We have not the implements——

Julian.

And that this should come upon us now—just when so much depends on a speedy victory.[12]

The Persian.

Oh ruler of the world, I have said that I can lend your army wings.

Julian.

Speak! Do you know of a shorter way?

The Persian.

If you will promise me that after your victory you will restore the possessions of which I have been robbed, and give me a new wife of noble birth, I will——

Julian.

I promise everything; only speak,—speak!

The Persian.

Strike straight across the plains, and in four days you will be under the walls of Ctesiphon.

Julian.

Do you forget the mountain chain on the other side of the plains?

The Persian.

Sire, have you never heard of that strange defile among the mountains?

Julian.

Yes, yes, a chasm; “Ahriman’s Street” it is called. Is it true that it exists?

The Persian.

I rode through “Ahriman’s Street” two days ago.

Julian.

Nevita!

Nevita.

In truth sire, if it be so——

Julian.

Miraculous help in the hour of need——!

The Persian.

But if you would pass that way, oh mighty one, there is not a moment to be lost. The Persian army which had been assembled in the northern provinces, is now recalled to block the mountain passes.

Julian.

Know you that for certain?

The Persian.

Delay, and you will discover it for yourself.

Julian.

How many days will it take your countrymen to get there?

The Persian.

Four days, sire!

Julian.

Nevita, in three days we must be beyond the defiles!

Nevita.

[To the Persian.] Is it possible to reach the defiles in three days?

The Persian.

Yes, great warrior, it is possible, if you make use of this night as well.

Julian.

Let the camp be broken up! No time now for sleep, for rest! In four days—or five at the utmost—I must stand before Ctesiphon.—What are you thinking about! Ah, I know.

Nevita.

The fleet, sire!

Julian.

Yes, yes, yes, the fleet!

Nevita.

Should the Persian army reach the defiles a day later than we, they will—if they cannot injure you in any other way—turn westward against your ships——

Julian.

And seize a vast amount of booty, wherewith to continue the war——

Nevita.

If we could leave twenty thousand men with the ships, they would be safe——

Julian.

What are you thinking of! Twenty thousand? Well nigh a third of our fighting strength. Where would be the force with which I must strike the great blow? Divided, dispersed, frittered away. Not one man will I detach for such a purpose.

No, no, Nevita; but there may be a middle course——

Nevita.

[Recoiling.] My great Emperor—!

Julian.

The fleet must neither fall into the hands of the Persians, nor yet cost us men. There is a middle course, I tell you! Why do you falter? Why not speak it out?

Nevita.

[To the Persian.] Do you know whether the citizens of Ctesiphon have stores of corn and oil?

The Persian.

Ctesiphon overflows with supplies of all sorts.

Julian.

And when we have once taken the city, the whole rich country lies open to us.

The Persian.

The citizens will open their gates to you, sire. I am not the only one who hates King Sapor. They will rise against him and straightway submit to you, if you come upon them, unprepared and panic-stricken, with your whole united force.

Julian.

Yes; yes.

The Persian.

Burn the ships, sire!

Nevita.

Ah!

Julian.

His hate has eyes where your fidelity is blind, Nevita!

Nevita.

My fidelity saw, sire; but it shrank from what it saw.

Julian.

Are not these ships like fetters on our feet? We have provisions for four full days in the camp. It is well that the soldiers should not be too heavily laden. Of what use, then, are the ships? We have no more rivers to pass——

Nevita.

Sire, if it be indeed your will——

Julian.

My will,—my will? Oh, on an evening like this,—so angry and tempestuous,—why cannot a flash of lightning descend and——

Maximus.

[Entering hastily from the left.] Oh chosen son of Helios—hear me, hear me!

Julian.

Not now, my Maximus!

Maximus.

Nothing can be more pressing than this. You must hear me!

Julian.

Then in the name of fortune and wisdom, speak, my brother!

Maximus.

[Draws him apart, and says in a low voice.] You know how I have striven to search and spell out, both in books and through auguries, the issue of this campaign?

Julian.

I know that you have been unable to foretell anything.

Maximus.

The omens spoke and the writings confirmed them. But the answer which always came was so strange that I could not but think myself mistaken.

Julian.

But now——?

Maximus.

When we departed from Antioch, I wrote to Rome to consult the Sibylline Books——

Julian.

Yes, yes——!

Maximus.

This very moment the answer has arrived; a courier from the governor of Antioch brought it.

Julian.

Ah, Maximus,—and its purport——?

Maximus.

The same as that of the omens and the books; and now I dare interpret it. Rejoice, my brother,—in this war you are invulnerable.

Julian.

The oracle,—the oracle?

Maximus.

The Sibylline Books say: “Julian must beware of the Phrygian regions.”

Julian.

[Recoiling.] The Phrygian——? Ah, Maximus!

Maximus.

Why so pale, my brother?

Julian.

Tell me, dear teacher—how do you interpret this answer?

Maximus.

Is more than one interpretation possible? The Phrygian regions? What have you to do in Phrygia? In Phrygia—a remote province lying far behind you, where you need never set your foot. No danger threatens you, fortunate man—that is the interpretation.

Julian.

This oracle has a twofold meaning. No danger threatens me in this war,—but from that distant region——

Nevita, Nevita!

Nevita.

Sire——!

Julian.

In Phrygia? Alexander writes of secret things preparing in Phrygia. It has been foretold that the Galilean is to come again——

Burn the ships, Nevita!

Nevita.

Sire, is this your firm and irrevocable will——?

Julian.

Burn them! No delay! Lurking dangers threaten us in the rear.

[To one of the captains.

Give close heed to this stranger. He is to be our guide. Refresh him with food and drink, and let him have thorough rest.

Jovian.

My Emperor, I implore you—build not too securely on the reports of a deserter like this.

Julian.

Aha—you seem perturbed, my Galilean councillor! All this is not quite to your mind. Perhaps you know more than you care to tell.

Go, Nevita,—and burn the ships!

[Nevita bows and goes out to the left. The captain leads the Persian away among the tents.

Julian.

Traitors in my own camp! Wait, wait,—I shall get to the bottom of these machinations.

The camp shall break up! Go, Jovian, see that the vanguard is afoot within an hour. The Persian knows the way. Go!

Jovian.

As you command, my august Emperor!

[He goes out to the right.

Maximus.

You would burn the fleet? Then surely you have great things in your mind.

Julian.

Tell me, would the Macedonian Alexander have ventured this?

Maximus.

Did Alexander know where the danger threatened?

Julian.

True, true! I know it. All the powers of victory are in league with me. Omens and signs yield up their mystic secrets to advance my empire.

Is it not said of the Galilean, that spirits came and ministered unto him?—To whom do the spirits now minister?

What would the Galilean say, were he present unseen among us?

Maximus.

He would say: the third empire is at hand.

Julian.

The third empire is here, Maximus! I feel that the Messiah of the earth lives in me. The spirit has become flesh and the flesh spirit. All creation lies within my will and my power.

See, see,—there are the first sparks drifting aloft. The flames are licking up the cordage and the clustered masts.

[He shouts in the direction of the fire.

Spread; spread!

Maximus.

The wind anticipates your will. ’Tis rising to serve you.

Julian.

[Commanding with clenched hand.] Swell into a storm! More westerly! I command it!

Fromentinus.

[Enters from the right.] Most gracious Emperor,—suffer me to warn you. A dangerous disturbance has broken out in the camp.

Julian.

I will have no more disturbances. The army shall advance.

Fromentinus.

Yes, my Emperor,—but the refractory Galileans——

Julian.

The Galileans? What of them?

Fromentinus.

Before the tables where the paymasters were distributing the soldiers’ pay, your august image had been set up——

Julian.

It is always to be so for the future.

Fromentinus.

Every man was ordered, as he came forward, to cast a grain of incense into the braziers——

Julian.

Yes—well, well?

Fromentinus.

Many of the Galilean soldiers did so unthinkingly, but others refused——?

Julian.

What! they refused?

Fromentinus.

At first, sire; but when the paymasters told them that ’twas an old custom revived, in no wise pertaining to things divine——

Julian.

Aha! what then?

Fromentinus.

——they yielded and did as they were bidden.

Julian.

There you see; they yielded!

Fromentinus.

But afterward, sire, our own men laughed and mocked at them, and said, unthinkingly, that now they had best efface the sign of the cross and the fish which they are wont to imprint upon their arms; for now they had worshipped the divine Emperor.

Julian.

Yes, yes! And the Galileans?

Fromentinus.

They broke out into loud lamentations——; listen, listen, sire! It is impossible to bring them to reason.

[Wild cries are heard without, among the tents.

Julian.

The madmen! Rebellious to the last. They know not that their master’s power is broken.

[Christian soldiers come rushing in. Some beat their breasts; others tear their garments, with loud cries and weeping.

A Soldier.

Christ died for me, and I forsook him!

Another Soldier.

Smite me, oh wrathful Lord in heaven; for I have worshipped false gods!

The Soldier Agathon.

The devil on the throne has slain my soul! Woe, woe, woe!woe!

Other Soldiers.

[Tearing off the leaden seals which they wear round their necks.] We will not serve idols!

Others Again.

The Apostate is not our ruler! We will go home! home!

Julian.

Fromentinus, seize these madmen! Hew them down!

[Fromentinus and many of the bystanders are on the point of falling upon the Christian soldiers. At that moment a vivid glare spreads over the sky, and flames burst from the ships.

Officers and Soldiers.

[Terror-stricken.] The fleet is burning!

Julian.

Yes, the fleet is burning! And more than the fleet is burning. In that blazing, swirling pyre the crucified Galilean is burning to ashes; and the earthly Emperor is burning with the Galilean. But from the ashes shall arise—like that marvellous bird—the God of earth and the Emperor of the spirit in one, in one, in one!

Several Voices.

Madness has seized him!

Nevita.

[Entering from the left.] It is done.

Jovian.

[Approaching hastily from the camp.] Quench the fire! Out, out with it!

Julian.

Let it burn! Let it burn!

Ammian.

[From the camp.] Sire, you are betrayed. That Persian fugitive was a traitor——

Julian.

Man, you lie! Where is he?

Ammian.

Fled!

Jovian.

Vanished like a shadow——

Nevita.

Fled!

Jovian.

His guards protest that he disappeared almost under their very eyes.

Ammian.

His horse, too, is gone from its pen; the Persian must have fled over the plains.

Julian.

Quench the fire, Nevita!

Nevita.

Impossible, my Emperor!

Julian.

Put it out, I say. It shall be possible!

Nevita.

Nothing could be more impossible. All the cables are cut; the rest of the ships are all drifting down upon the burning wrecks.

Prince Hormisdas.

[Coming from among the tents.] Curses upon my countrymen! Oh sire, how could you give ear to that deceiver?

Cries from the Camp.

The fleet on fire! Cut off from home! Death before us!

The Soldier Agathon.

False god, false god,—bid the storm to cease! bid the flames die down!

Jovian.

The storm increases. The fire is like a rolling sea——

Maximus.

[Whispers.] Beware of the Phrygian regions.

Julian.

[Shouts to the army.] Let the fleet burn! Within seven days you shall burn Ctesiphon.

ACT FIFTH.

SCENE FIRST.

A barren, stony desert, without trees or grass. To the right, the Emperor’s tent. Afternoon.

Exhausted soldiers lie in knots on the plain. Detachments now and again pass by from left to right. Outside the tent are the philosophers Priscus and Kytron, with several others of the Emperor’s suite, waiting in restless anxiety. The captain of the bodyguard, Anatolus, stands with soldiers before the opening of the tent.

Kytron.

Is is not incredible that this council of war should last so long?

Priscus.

Ay, truly; one would think there were only two courses to choose between: to advance or to retire.

Kytron.

’Tis utterly incomprehensible——

Tell me, good Anatolus, why, in the name of the gods, do we not advance?

Priscus.

Yes, why alarm us by halting here in the middle of the desert?

Anatolus.

See you the quivering air on the horizon, to the north, east, and south?

Kytron.

Of course, of course; that is the heat——

Anatolus.

It is the desert burning.

Priscus.

What say you? The desert burning?

Kytron.

Do not jest so unpleasantly, good Anatolus! Tell us,—what is it?

Anatolus.

The desert burning, I tell you. Out yonder, where the sand ceases, the Persians have set the grass on fire. We can make no progress till the ground cools.

Kytron.

Oh is not this appalling! What barbarians! To have recourse to such means——!

Priscus.

Then there is no choice left us. Without provisions, without water——; why do we not retreat?

Anatolus.

Over the Tigris and Euphrates?

Kytron.

And the fleet burnt! What way is this to conduct the war? Oh, why does not the Emperor think more of his friends! How shall I get home again?

Anatolus.

Like the rest of us, friend!

Kytron.

Like the rest? Like the rest! That is a fine way to talk. With you it is quite another matter. You are soldiers. ’Tis your calling to endure certain hardships to which I am not at all accustomed. I did not join the Emperor’s suite to go through all this. Here am I tortured with gnats and poisonous flies;—look at my hands!

Priscus.

Most certainly we did not come for this. We consented to accompany the army in order to compose panegyrics on the victories the Emperor intended to win. What has come of these victories? What has been achieved during the six toilsome weeks since the fleet was burnt? We have destroyed a few deserted towns of the sorriest kind. A few prisoners have been exhibited in the camp, whom the advance-guard are said to have taken—truly I know not in what battles! The prisoners, methought, looked more like poor kidnapped shepherds and peasants——

Kytron.

And to think of burning the fleet! Said I not from the first that it would be a source of disaster?

Anatolus.

I did not hear you say so.

Kytron.

What? Did I not say so? Oh Priscus, did you not hear me say it?

Priscus.

Truly, I do not know, friend; but I know that I myself in vain denounced that luckless measure. Indeed I may say that I opposed the whole campaign at this time of year. What rash haste! Where were the Emperor’s eyes? Is this the same hero who fought with such marvellous success upon the Rhine? One would think he had been struck with blindness or some spiritual disease.

Anatolus.

Hush, hush;—what talk is this?

Kytron.

’Twas indeed no fitting way for our Priscus to express himself. Yet I, too, cannot deny that I observe a deplorable lack of wisdom in many of the crowned philosopher’s recent proceedings. How precipitate to set up his busts in the camp, and claim worship as if he were a god! How imprudent so openly to scoff at that strange teacher from Nazareth, who undeniably possesses a peculiar power, which might have stood us in good stead in these perilous conjunctures.

Ah! here comes Nevita himself. Now we shall hear——

[Nevita comes out of the tent. In the opening he turns and makes a sign to some one within. The physician Oribases immediately comes out.

Nevita.

[Drawing him aside.] Tell me openly, Oribases,—is there anything amiss with the Emperor’s mind?

Oribases.

What should make you think that, sir?

Nevita.

How else can I interpret his conduct?

Oribases.

Oh my beloved Emperor——!

Nevita.

Oribases, you must hide nothing from me.

Kytron.

[Drawing near.] Oh valiant general, if it be not indiscreet——

Nevita.

Presently, presently!

Oribases.

[To Nevita.] Do not fear, sir! No misfortune shall happen. Eutherius and I have promised each other to keep an eye upon him.

Nevita.

Ah, you do not mean to say that——?

Oribases.

Last night he had well nigh shortened his life. Fortunately Eutherius was at hand——; oh speak of it to no one!

Nevita.

Do not lose sight of him.

Priscus.

[Drawing near.] It would greatly relieve our minds to hear what the council of war——?

Nevita.

Pardon me; I have weighty matters to attend to.

[He goes out behind the tent.

At the same moment Jovian enters from the opening.

Jovian.

[Speaking into the tent.] It shall be done, my gracious Emperor!

Kytron.

Ah, most excellent Jovian! Well? Is the retreat decided on?

Jovian.

I would not counsel any one to call it a retreat.

[He goes out behind the tent.

Kytron.

Oh these soldiers! A philosopher’s peace of mind is nothing to them. Ah!

[The Emperor Julian comes out of the tent; he is pale and haggard. With him come the Chamberlain Eutherius and several officers; the latter go off over the plain to the right.

Julian.

[To the philosophers.] Rejoice, my friends! All will soon be well now.

Kytron.

Ah, gracious Emperor, have you discovered an expedient?

Julian.

There are expedients enough, Kytron; the only difficulty is to choose the best. We will slightly alter the line of advance——

Priscus.

Oh, praise be to your wisdom!

Julian.

This eastward march—it leads to nothing.

Kytron.

No, no, that is certain!

Julian.

Now we will turn northward, Kytron!

Kytron.

What, sire,—northward?

Priscus.

Not westward?

Julian.

Not westward. Not by any means westward. That might be difficult on account of the rivers. And Ctesiphon we must leave till another time. Without ships we cannot think of taking the city. It was the Galileans who brought about the burning of the fleet; I have noted one thing and another.

Who dares call this northward movement a retreat? What know you of my plans? The Persian army is somewhere in the north; of that we are now pretty well assured. When I have crushed Sapor—one battle will finish the matter—we shall find abundant supplies in the Persian camp.

When I lead the Persian king as my captive through Antioch and the other cities, I would fain see whether the citizens will not fall at my feet.

Christian Soldiers.

[Pass singing over the plain.

Doomed is the world’s proud cedar-tree,

The axe shall its roots dissever;

The palm He planted on Calvary,

Blood-watered, shall bloom for ever.

Julian.

[Following them with his eyes.] The Galileans are always singing. Songs about death and wounds and pain. Those women whom I brought with me to tend the sick—they have done us more harm than good. They have taught the soldiers strange songs, such as I have never heard before.

But hereafter I will punish no one for such things. It does but lead them deeper into error. Know you, Priscus, what happened of late, in the case of those mutineers who refused to show due reverence to the imperial busts?

Priscus.

Of late, sire?

Julian.

When, wishing to beget a wholesome dread in their companions in error, I ordered some of these men to be executed, the oldest of them stepped forward with loud cries of joy, and begged to be the first to die.—Look you, Priscus—when I heard that yesterday——

Priscus.

Yesterday? Oh, sire, you are mistaken. That happened forty days ago.

Julian.

So long? Yes, yes, yes! The Hebrews had to wander forty years in the wilderness. All the older generation had to die out. A new generation had to spring up; but they—mark that!—they entered into the promised land.

Eutherius.

’Tis late in the day, sire; will you not eat?

Julian.

Not yet, my Eutherius. ’Tis good for all men to mortify the flesh.

Yes, I tell you, we must make haste to become a new generation. I can do nothing with you as you are. If you would escape from the desert, you must lead a pure life. Look at the Galileans. We might learn more than one lesson from these men. There are none poverty-stricken and helpless among them; they live together as brethren and sisters,—and most of all now, when their obstinacy has forced me to chastise them. These Galileans, you must know, have something in their hearts which I could greatly desire that you should emulate. You call yourselves followers of Socrates, of Plato, of Diogenes. Is there one of you who would face death with ecstasy for Plato’s sake? Would our Priscus sacrifice his left hand for Socrates? Would Kytron, for Diogenes’ sake, let his ear be cut off? No, truly! I know you, whited sepulchres! Begone out of my sight;—I can do nothing with you!

[The philosophers slink away; the others also disperse, whispering anxiously. Only Oribases and Eutherius remain behind with the Emperor. Anatolus, the officer of the guard, still stands with his soldiers outside the tent.

Julian.

How strange! Is it not inconceivable, unfathomable? Oribases,—can you rede me this riddle?

Oribases.

What riddle do you mean, my Emperor?

Julian.

With twelve poor ignorant fishermen, he founded all this.

Oribases.

Oh sire, these thoughts exhaust you.

Julian.

And who has held it together until this day? Women and ignorant people, for the most part——

Oribases.

Yes, yes, sire; but now the campaign will soon take a happy turn——

Julian.

Very true, Oribases; as soon as fortune has taken a turn, all will be well. The dominion of the carpenter’s son is drawing to its close; we know that. His reign is to last as many years as the year has days; and now we have——

Eutherius.

My beloved master, would not a bath refresh you?

Julian.

Do you think so?—You may go, Eutherius! Go, go! I have something to say to Oribases.

[Eutherius goes off behind the tent. The Emperor draws Oribases over to the other side.

Julian.

Has Eutherius told you aught this morning?

Oribases.

No, sire!

Julian.

Has he told you nothing about last night——?

Oribases.

No, my Emperor—nothing at all. Eutherius is very silent.

Julian.

If he should tell you anything, do not believe it. The thing did not happen at all as he pretends. ’Tis he who is seeking my life.

Oribases.

He,—your old and faithful servant!

Julian.

I shall keep an eye on him.

Oribases.

I too.

Julian.

We will both keep an eye on him.

Oribases.

Sire, I fear you had but little sleep last night.

Julian.

Very little.

[Oribases is on the point of saying something, but changes his mind.

Julian.

Know you what kept me from sleeping?

Oribases.

No, my Emperor.

Julian.

The victor of the Milvian Bridge was with me.

Oribases.

The great Constantine?

Julian.

Yes. For some nights past his shade has given me no rest. He comes a little after midnight, and does not depart until the dawn is at hand.

Oribases.

The moon is full, sire; that has always had a strange effect on your mind.

Julian.

According to the ancients, such apparitions are wont——What can have become of Maximus? But their opinions are by no means to be relied on. We see how greatly they erred in many things. Even what they tell us of the gods we cannot believe without reserve. Nor what they report as to the shades, and the powers, as a whole, which rule the destinies of men. What know we of these powers? We know nothing, Oribases, except their capriciousness and inconstancy, of which characteristics we have evidence enough.

I wish Maximus would come——

[To himself.

Here? ’Tis not here that the menacing storm is drawing up. ’Twas said to be in the Phrygian regions——

Oribases.

What regions, sire,—and what storm?

Julian.

Oh nothing—nothing.

Nevita.

[Enters from the plain on the right.] My Emperor, the army is now on the march.

Julian.

Northwards?

Nevita.

[Starts.] Of course, sire!

Julian.

We ought to have waited till Maximus——

Nevita.

What mean you, my Emperor? There is nothing to wait for. We are without supplies; scattered bands of the enemy’s horsemen are already appearing both in the east and in the south——

Julian.

Yes, yes, we must advance,—northwards. Maximus must soon be here. I have sent to the rear for the Etruscan soothsayers; they shall try once more—— I have also discovered some Magians, who say they are well versed in the Chaldean mysteries. Our own priests are taking the omens in nine different places——

Nevita.

Sire, whatever the omens may say, I tell you we must go hence. The soldiers are no longer to be depended on; they see clearly that our only hope lies in reaching the Armenian mountains.

Julian.

We will do so, Nevita,—whatever the omens say. Nevertheless it gives one a great feeling of security to know that one is acting, as it were, in concert with those unfathomable powers who, if they will, can so potently influence our destinies.

Nevita.

[Goes from him, and says shortly and decisively.] Anatolus, strike the Emperor’s tent!

[He whispers some words to the Captain of the Guard, and goes out to the right.

Julian.

All auguries for these forty days have been inauspicious; and that proves that we may place trust in them; for in all that time our affairs have made but scant headway. But now, you see, my Oribases,—now that I have a fresh enterprise in view——

Ah! Maximus!

Maximus.

[Entering from the plain.] The army is already on the march, sire; get to horse!

Julian.

The auguries—the auguries?

Maximus.

Oh—the auguries! Ask not about the auguries.

Julian.

Speak! I demand to know what they say.

Maximus.

All auguries are silent.

Julian.

Silent?

Maximus.

I went to the priests; the entrails of the sacrifices gave no sign. I went to the Etruscan jugglers; the flight and cries of the birds said nothing. I went also to the Magians; their writings had no answer to give. And I myself——

Julian.

You yourself, my Maximus?

Maximus.

Now I can tell you. Last night I studied the aspect of the stars. They told me nothing, Julian.

Julian.

Nothing.—Silence—silence, as though in an eclipse. Alone! No longer any bridge between me and the spirits.

Where are you now, oh white-sailed fleet, that sped to and fro in the sunlight and carried tidings between earth and heaven?

The fleet is burnt. That fleet too is burnt. Oh all my shining ships.

Tell me, Maximus—what do you believe as to this?

Maximus.

I believe in you.

Julian.

Yes, yes—believe!

Maximus.

The world-will has resigned its power into your hands; therefore it is silent.

Julian.

So will we read it. And we must act accordingly,—although we might have preferred that—— This silence! To stand so utterly alone.

But there are others who may also be said to stand almost alone. The Galileans. They have but one god; and one god is next thing to no god.

How is it, then, that we daily see these men——?

Anatolus.

[Who has meanwhile had the tent struck.] My Emperor, now must you get to horse; I dare not let you remain here longer.

Julian.

Yes, now I will mount. Where is my good Babylonius? See now; sword in hand——

Come, my dear friends!

[All go out to the right.

SCENE SECOND.

A marshy, wooded country. A dark, still lake among the trees. Watch-fires in the distance. Moonlight, with driving clouds.

Several soldiers on guard in the foreground.

Makrina and the Women.

[Singing without, on the left.

Woe to us! Woe!

Upon us all

God’s wrath will fall!

Death we shall know!

One of the Soldiers.

[Listening.] Hark! Do you hear? The Galilean women are singing over yonder.

Another Soldier.

They sing like owls and night ravens.

A third Soldier.

Yet would I willingly be with them. ’Tis safer with the Galileans than with us. The God of the Galileans is stronger than our gods.

The first Soldier.

The thing is that the Emperor has angered the gods. How could he think of setting himself up in their place?

The third Soldier.

What is worse is that he has angered the Galileans’ God. Have you not heard, they say positively that, a few nights since, he and his magician ripped open a pregnant woman, to read omens in her entrails?

The first Soldier.

Ay, but I do not believe it. At any rate, I am sure ’twas not a Greek woman; it must have been a barbarian.

The third Soldier.

They say the Galileans’ God cares for the barbarians too; and if so, ’twill be the worse for us.

The second Soldier.

Oh, pooh—the Emperor is a great soldier.

The first Soldier.

They say King Sapor is a great soldier too.

The second Soldier.

Think you we have the whole Persian army before us?

The first Soldier.

Some say ’tis only the advance-guard; no one knows for certain.

The third Soldier.

I would I were among the Galileans.

The first Soldier.

Are you going over to them, too?

The third Soldier.

So many are going over. In the last few days——

The first Soldier.

[Calling out into the darkness.] Halt—halt! Who goes there?

A Voice.

Friends from the outposts!

[Several soldiers come from among the trees, with Agathon the Cappadocian in their midst.

The second Soldier.

Ho-ho; a deserter.

One of the New-comers.

No; he has gone out of his mind.

Agathon.

I have not gone out of my mind. Oh, for God’s great mercy’s sake,—let me go!

The Soldier from the Outposts.

He says he wants to slay a beast with seven heads.

Agathon.

Yes, yes, yes, I will, I will. Oh, let me go! See you this spear? Know you what spear it is? With this spear will I slay the beast with seven heads, and then I shall get back my soul again. Christ himself has promised me that. He was with me to-night.

The first Soldier.

Hunger and weariness have turned his brain.

One of the New-comers.

To the camp with him; there he can sleep his weariness away.

Agathon.

Let me go! Oh, if you but knew what spear this is!

[The soldiers lead him off by the front, to the right.

The third Soldier.

What could he mean by that beast?

The first Soldier.

That is one of the Galilean secrets. They have many such secrets among them.

[Eutherius and Oribases enter hastily from the right, looking anxiously about.

Eutherius.

Do you not see him?

Oribases.

No.—Ah, soldiers!—Tell me, good friends, has any one passed by here?

The first Soldier.

Yes, a detachment of spearmen.

Oribases.

Good, good! But nobody else? No great person? None of the generals?

The Soldiers.

No, none.

Oribases.

Not here then! Oh, Eutherius, how could you——?

Eutherius.

Could I help——? Could I help it——? I have not closed my old eyes for three nights——

Oribases.

[To the soldiers.] You must help us to search. I demand it in the name of the general-in-chief. Spread yourselves among the trees; and should you find any great person, report it at the watch-fire yonder.

The Soldiers.

We will not fail, sir!

[They all go out by different ways, to the left. Soon after, the Emperor emerges from behind a tree on the right. He listens, looks round, and beckons to some one behind him.

Julian.

Hist! Come forward, Maximus! They did not see us.

Maximus.

[From the same side.] Oribases was one of them.

Julian.

Yes, yes; both he and Eutherius keep watch on me. They imagine that—— Has neither of them told you aught?

Maximus.

No, my Julian! But why have you awakened me? What would you here in the darkness?

Julian.

I would be alone with you for the last time, my beloved teacher!

Maximus.

Not for the last time, Julian!

Julian.

See that dark water. Think you—if I utterly vanished from the earth, and my body was never found, and none knew what had become of me,—think you the report would spread abroad that Hermes had come for me, and carried me away, and that I had been exalted to the fellowship of the gods?

Maximus.

The time is at hand when men will not need to die, in order to live as gods on the earth.

Julian.

I am pining with home-sickness, Maximus,—with home-sick longing for the light and the sun and all the stars.

Maximus.

Oh, I beseech you—think not of sorrowful things. The Persian army is before you. To-morrow will come the battle. You will conquer——

Julian.

I—conquer? You do not know who was with me an hour ago.

Maximus.

Who was with you?

Julian.

I had fallen asleep on my couch in the tent. Suddenly I was awakened by a strong red glare, that seemed to burn through my closed eye-lids. I looked up and beheld a figure standing in the tent. Over its head was a long drapery, falling on both sides, so as to leave the face free.

Maximus.

Knew you this figure?

Julian.

It was the same face which I saw in the light that night at Ephesus, many years ago,—that night when we held symposium with the two others.

Maximus.

The spirit of the empire.

Julian.

Since then it has appeared to me once in Gaul,—on an occasion I would fain forget.

Maximus.

Did it speak?

Julian.

No. It seemed as though it wished to speak; but it did not. It stood motionless, looking at me. Its face was pale and distorted. Suddenly, with both arms, it drew the drapery together over its head, hid its face, and went straight out through the tent-wall.

Maximus.

The decisive hour is at hand.

Julian.

Ay, truly, ’tis at hand.

Maximus.

Courage, Julian! He who wills, conquers.

Julian.

And what does the conqueror win? Is it worth while to conquer? What has the Macedonian Alexander, what has Julius Caesar won? Greeks and Romans talk of their renown with cold admiration,—while the other, the Galilean, the carpenter’s son, sits throned as the king of love in the warm, believing hearts of men.

Where is he now?—Has he been at work elsewhere since that happened at Golgotha?

I dreamed of him lately. I dreamed that I had subdued the whole world. I ordained that the memory of the Galilean should be rooted out on earth; and it was rooted out.—Then the spirits came and ministered to me, and bound wings on my shoulders, and I soared aloft into infinite space, till my feet rested on another world.

It was another world than mine. Its curve was vaster, its light more golden, and many moons circled around it.

Then I looked down at my own earth—the Emperor’s earth, which I had made Galileanless—and I thought that all that I had done was very good.

But behold, my Maximus,—there came a procession by me, on the strange earth where I stood. There were soldiers, and judges, and executioners at the head of it, and weeping women followed. And lo!—in the midst of the slow-moving array, was the Galilean, alive, and bearing a cross on his back. Then I called to him, and said, “Whither away, Galilean?” But he turned his face toward me, smiled, nodded slowly, and said: “To the place of the skull.”

Where is he now? What if that at Golgotha, near Jerusalem, was but a wayside matter, a thing done, as it were, in passing, in a leisure hour? What if he goes on and on, and suffers, and dies, and conquers, again and again, from world to world?

Oh that I could lay waste the world! Maximus,—is there no poison, no consuming fire, that could lay creation desolate, as it was on that day when the spirit moved alone over the face of the waters?

Maximus.

I hear a noise from the outposts. Come, Julian——

Julian.

To think that century shall follow century, and that in them all shall live men, knowing that ’twas I who was vanquished, and he who conquered! I will not be vanquished! I am young; I am invulnerable,—the third empire is at hand——

[With a great cry.

There he stands!

Maximus.

Who? Where?

Julian.

Do you see him? There, among the tree-stems—in a crown and a purple robe——

Maximus.

’Tis the moon glimmering on the water. Come—come, my Julian!

Julian.

[Going threateningly towards the vision.] Avaunt! Thou art dead! Thy empire is past. Off with the juggler’s cloak, carpenter’s son!

What dost thou there? At what art thou hammering?—Ah!

Eutherius.

[From the left.] All gods be praised!—Oribases,—here, here!

Julian.

What has become of him?

Oribases.

[From the left.] Is he here?

Eutherius.

Yes.—Oh my beloved Emperor!

Julian.

Who was it that said, “I am hammering the Emperor’s coffin”?

Oribases.

What mean you, sire?

Julian.

Who spoke, I ask? Who was it that said, “I am hammering the Emperor’s coffin”?

Oribases.

Come with me to your tent, I implore you.

[Shouts and cries are heard far away.

Maximus.

War-cries! The Persians are upon us——

Eutherius.

There is already fierce fighting at the outposts.

Oribases.

The enemy is in the camp! Ah, sire, you are unarmed——!

Julian.

I will sacrifice to the gods.

Maximus.

To what gods, oh fool? Where are they—and what are they?

Julian.

I will sacrifice to this god and to that. I will sacrifice to many. One or another must surely hear me. I must call upon something without me and above me——

Oribases.

There is not a moment to be lost——!

Julian.

Ah—saw you the burning torch behind the cloud? It flashed forth and went out in the same instant. A message from the spirits! A shining ship between heaven and earth!—My shield! My sword!

[He rushes out to the right. Oribases and Eutherius follow him.

Maximus.

[Calling after him.] Emperor, Emperor—do not fight to-night!

[He goes off to the right.

SCENE THIRD.

An open plain, with a village far away. Daybreak and cloudy weather.

A noise of battle. Cries and the clashing of weapons out on the plain. In the foreground Roman spearmen, under Ammian’s command, fighting with Persian archers. The latter are driven back by degrees towards the left.

Ammian.

Right, right! Close with them! Thrust them down! Give them no time to shoot!

Nevita.

[With followers from the right.] Well fought, Ammian!

Ammian.

Oh sir, why come not the cavalry to our help?

Nevita.

They cannot. The Persians have elephants in their front rank. The very smell strikes terror to the horses. Thrust—thrust! Upwards, men,—under their breastplates?

Kytron.

[In night-clothes, laden with books and rolls of paper, enters from the right.] Oh that I should be in the midst of such horrors!

Nevita.

Have you seen the Emperor, friend?

Kytron.

Yes, but he heeds me not. Oh, I humbly beg for a detachment of soldiers to protect me!

Nevita.

[To his followers.] They are giving ground! The shield-bearers forward!

Kytron.

You do not listen to me, sir! My safety is of the utmost importance; my book, “On Equanimity in Affliction,” is not finished——

Nevita.

[As before.] The Persians have been reinforced on the right. They are pressing forward again!

Kytron.

Pressing forward again? Oh this bloodthirsty ferocity! An arrow! It almost struck me! How recklessly they shoot; no care for life or limb!

[He takes to flight by the foreground on the left.

Nevita.

The battle hangs in the balance. Neither side gains ground.

[To FromentinusFromentinus, who comes with a fresh troop from the right.

Ho, captain,—have you seen the Emperor?

Fromentinus.

Yes, sir; he is fighting at the head of the white horsemen.

Nevita.

Not wounded?

Fromentinus.

He seems invulnerable. Arrows and javelins swerve aside wherever he shows himself.

Ammian.

[Calling out from the thick of the fight.] Help, help; we can hold out no longer!

Nevita.

Forward, my bold Fromentinus!

Fromentinus.

[To the soldiers.] Shoulder to shoulder, and at them, Greeks!

[He hastens to the help of Ammian; the mellay rolls backwards a little.

Anatolus, the Captain of the Guard, enters

with followers from the right.

Anatolus.

Is not the Emperor here?

Nevita.

The Emperor! Is it not your business to answer for him?

Anatolus.

His horse was shot under him,—a terrible tumult arose; it was impossible to get near him——

Nevita.

Think you he has come to any harm?

Anatolus.

No, I think not. There was a cry that he was unhurt, but——

Many of Nevita’s Followers.

There he is! There he is!

The Emperor Julian, without helmet or armour, with only a sword and shield, escorted by soldiers of the Imperial Guard, enters from the right.

Julian.

’Tis well I have found you, Nevita!

Nevita.

Ah, sire—without armour; how imprudent——

Julian.

In these regions no weapon can touch me. But go, Nevita; take the supreme command; my horse was shot under me, and——

Nevita.

My Emperor, then after all you are hurt?

Julian.

No; only a blow on the head; a little dizzy. Go, go—— What is this? So many strange multitudes thronging in among us!

Nevita.

[In a low voice.] Anatolus, you must answer for the Emperor.

Anatolus.

Never fear, sir!

[Nevita goes off with his followers to the right. The Emperor Julian, Anatolus, and some of the Imperial Guard remain behind. The fight on the plain rolls further and further back.

Julian.

How many of our men think you have fallen, Anatolus?

Anatolus.

Certainly not a few, sire; but I am sure the Persians have lost more than we.

Julian.

Yes, yes; but many have fallen, both Greeks and Romans. Do you not think so?

Anatolus.

Surely you are unwell, my Emperor. Your face is so pale——

Julian.

Look at those lying there,—some on their backs, others on their faces, with outstretched arms. They must all be dead?

Anatolus.

Yes, sire, beyond a doubt.

Julian.

They are dead, yes! They know nought, then, either of the defeat at Jerusalem or the other defeats.—Think you many more Greeks will fall in the battle, Anatolus?

Anatolus.

Sire, let us hope the bloodiest work is over.

Julian.

Many, many more will fall, I tell you! But not enough. Of what use is it that many should fall? None the less will posterity learn——

Tell me, Anatolus, how think you the Emperor Caligula pictured to himself that sword?

Anatolus.

What sword, sire?

Julian.

You know he wished for a sword wherewith he might at one blow——

Anatolus.

Hark to the shouts, sire! Now I am sure the Persians are retreating.

Julian.

[Listening.] What song is that in the air?

Anatolus.

Sire, let me summon Oribases; or still better,—come,—come; you are sick!

Julian.

There is singing in the air. Can you not hear it?

Anatolus.

If it be so, it must be the Galileans——

Julian.

Ay, be sure ’tis the Galileans. Ha-ha-ha, they fight in our ranks, and see not who stands on the other side. Oh fools, all of you! Where is Nevita? Why should he attack the Persians? Can he not see that ’tis not the Persians who are most dangerous?—You betray me, all of you.

Anatolus.

[Softly to one of the soldiers.] Hasten to the camp; bring hither the Emperor’s physician?

[The soldier goes out to the right.

Julian.

What innumerable hosts! Think you they have caught sight of us, Anatolus?

Anatolus.

Who, sire? Where?

Julian.

Do you not see them—yonder—high up and far away! You lie! You see them well enough!

Anatolus.

By the immortal gods, they are only the morning clouds,—’tis the day dawning.

Julian.

’Tis the hosts of the Galilean, I tell you! Look—those in the red-edged garments are the martyrs who died in blood. Singing women surround them, and weave bowstrings of the long hair torn from their heads. Children are with them, twining slings from their unravelled entrails. Burning torches——! Thousandfold—multitudinous! They are hastening hitherward! They are all looking at me; all rushing straight upon me!

Anatolus.

’Tis the Persians, sire! Our ranks are giving way——

Julian.

They shall not give way!—You shall not! Stand fast, Greeks! Stand, stand, Romans! Today we will free the world!

[The battle has in the meantime swept forward over the plain again. Julian hurls himself with drawn sword into the thickest of the fight. General confusion.

Anatolus.

[Calling out to the right.] Help, help! The Emperor is in deadly peril!

Julian.

[Among the combatants.] I see him; I see him! A longer sword! Who has a longer sword to lend me?

Soldiers.

[Streaming in from the right.] With Christ for the Emperor!

Agathon.

[Among the new-comers.] With Christ for Christ!

[He throws his spear; it grazes the Emperor’s arm, and plunges into his side.

Julian.

Ah!

[He grasps the spear-head to draw it out, but gashes his hand, utters a loud cry and falls.

Agathon.

[Calls out in the tumult.] The Roman’s spear from Golgotha!

[He casts himself weaponless among the Persians, and is seen to be cut down.

Confused Cries.

The Emperor! Is the Emperor wounded?

Julian.

[Attempts to rise, but falls back again, and cries:] Thou hast conquered, Galilean!

Many Voices.

The Emperor has fallen!

Anatolus.

The Emperor is wounded! Shield him—shield him, in the name of the gods!

[He casts himself despairingly against the advancing Persians. The Emperor is carried away senseless. At that moment, Jovian comes forward upon the plain with fresh troops.

Jovian.

On—on, believing brethren; give Caesar what is Caesar’s!

Retreating Soldiers.

[Calling to him.] He has fallen! The Emperor has fallen!

Jovian.

Fallen! Oh mighty God of vengeance! On, on; ’tis God’s will that his people shall live! I see heaven open; I see the angels with flaming swords——

The Soldiers.

[Hurtling forward.] Christ is among us!

Ammian’s Troops.

The Galileans’ God is among us! Close round him! He is the strongest!

[A wild tumult of battle. Jovian hews his way into the enemy’s ranks. Sunrise. The Persians flee in all directions.

SCENE FOURTH.

The Emperor’s tent, with a curtained entrance in the background. Daylight.

The Emperor Julian lies unconscious on his couch. The wounds in his right side, arm, and hand are bound up. Close to him stand Oribases and Makrina, with Eutherius. Further back Basil of Caesarea, and Priscus. At the foot of the bed stands Maximus the Mystic.

Makrina.

He bleeds again. I must bind the bandage tighter.

Oribases.

Thanks to you, tender woman; your heedful hands do us good service here.

Eutherius.

Is it possible that he still lives?

Oribases.

Certainly he lives.

Eutherius.

But he does not breathe.

Oribases.

Yes, he breathes.

Ammian enters softly, with the Emperor’s sword and shield, which he lays down, and remains standing beside the curtain.

Priscus.

Ah, good captain, how go affairs without?

Ammian.

Better than here. Is he already——?

Priscus.

No, no, not yet. But is it certain that we have defeated the Persians?

Ammian.

Completely. It was Jovian who put them to flight. Three noblemen have even now arrived as envoys from King Sapor, to beg for a truce.

Priscus.

And think you Nevita will accede to it?

Ammian.

Nevita has yielded up the command to Jovian. All flock around him. All see in him our one hope of safety——

Oribases.

Speak low; he moves.

Ammian.

He moves. Mayhap he is awakening to consciousness! Oh, if he should live to see this!

Eutherius.

What, Ammian?

Ammian.

Both soldiers and leaders are taking counsel as to the choice of the new Emperor.

Priscus.

What say you?

Eutherius.

Oh, what shameful haste!

Ammian.

The perilous situation of the army partly excuses it; and yet——

Makrina.

He is waking;—he opens his eyes——

[Julian lies for a time quite still, looking kindly at the bystanders.

Oribases.

Sire, do you know me?

Julian.

Very well, my Oribases.

Oribases.

Only lie quiet.

Julian.

Lie quiet? You remind me! I must be up!

Oribases.

Impossible, sire; I implore you——

Julian.

I must up, I say. How can I lie quiet now? I must utterly vanquish Sapor.

Eutherius.

Sapor is vanquished, sire! He has sent envoys to the camp to beg for a truce.

Julian.

Has he, indeed? That is good news. So him, at least, I have conquered.

But no truce. I will crush him to the earth.—Ah, where is my shield? Have I lost my shield?

Ammian.

No, my Emperor,—here are both your shield and your sword.

Julian.

I am very glad of that. My good shield. I should grieve to think of it in the hands of the barbarians. Give it me, on my arm——

Makrina.

Oh, sire, ’tis too heavy for you now!

Julian.

Ah, you? You are right, pious Makrina; ’tis a little too heavy for me.—Lay it before me, that I may see it. What? Is that you, Ammian? Are you on guard here? Where is Anatolus?

Ammian.

Sire, he is now in bliss.

Julian.

Fallen? My trusty Anatolus fallen for my sake!—In bliss, you say? Ha——

One friend the less. Ah, my Maximus!—I will not receive the Persian king’s envoys to-day. Their design is merely to waste my time. But I will grant no terms. I will follow up the victory to the utmost. The army shall turn against Ctesiphon again.

Oribases.

Impossible, sire; think of your wounds.

Julian.

My wounds will soon be healed. Will they not, Oribases—do you not promise me——?

Oribases.

Above all things rest, sire!

Julian.

What a most untimely chance! Just at this moment, when so many weighty matters are crowding in upon me. I cannot leave these things in Nevita’s hands. In such matters I can trust neither him nor others; I must do all myself.—’Tis true, I feel somewhat weary. How unfortunate!—Tell me, Ammian, what is the name of that ill-omened place?

Ammian.

What place, my gracious Emperor?

Julian.

The spot where the Persian javelin struck me?

Ammian.

’Tis called after the village of Phrygia——

Maximus.

Ah!

Julian.

What is it called——? What say you the region is called?

Ammian.

’Tis called from the village over yonder, the Phrygian region.

Julian.

Ah, Maximus—Maximus!

Maximus.

Betrayed!

[He hides his face, and sinks down at the foot of the bed.

Oribases.

My Emperor, what alarms you?

Julian.

Nothing—nothing——

Phrygia? Is it so? Nevita and the others will have to take the command after all. Go, tell them——

Ammian.

Sire, they have already, on your behalf——

Julian.

Have they? Yes, yes, that is well.

The world-will has laid an ambush for me, Maximus!

Makrina.

Your wound bleeds afresh, sire!

Julian.

Oh, Oribases, why did you seek to hide it from me?

Oribases.

What did I seek to hide, my Emperor?

Julian.

That I must die. Why not have told me before.

Oribases.

Oh, my Emperor!

Basil.

Julian—Julian!

[He casts himself down, weeping, beside the bed.

Julian.

Basil,—friend, brother,—we two have lived beautiful days together——

You must not weep because I depart from you so young. ’Tis not always a sign of the Fates’ displeasure when they call a man away in his prime. What, after all, is death? ’Tis nought but paying our debt to the ever-changing empire of the dust. No lamentations! Do we not all love wisdom? And does not wisdom teach us that the highest bliss lies in the life of the soul, not in that of the body? So far the Galileans are right, although——; but we will not speak of that. Had the powers of life and death suffered me to finish a certain treatise, I think I should have succeeded in——

Oribases.

Oh my Emperor, does it not weary you to talk so much?

Julian.

No, no, no. I feel very light and free.

Basil.

Julian, my beloved brother,—is there nought you would recall?

Julian.

Truly I know not what it should be.

Basil.

Nothing to repent of, Julian?

Julian.

Nothing. That power which circumstances placed in my hands, and which is an emanation of divinity, I am conscious of having used to the best of my skill. I have never wittingly wronged any one. For this campaign there were good and sufficient reasons; and if some should think that I have not fulfilled all expectations, they ought in justice to reflect that there is a mysterious power without us, which in a great measure governs the issue of human undertakings.

Makrina.

[Softly to Oribases.] Oh listen—listen how heavily he breathes.

Oribases.

His voice will soon fail him.

Julian.

As to the choice of my successor, I presume not to give any advice.—You, Eutherius, will divide my possessions among those who have stood nearest to me. I do not leave much; for I have always held that a true philosopher——

What is this? Is the sun already setting?

Oribases.

Not so, my Emperor; ’tis still broad day.

Julian.

Strange! It seemed to me to turn quite dark——

Ah, wisdom—wisdom. Hold fast to wisdom, good Priscus! But be always armed against an unfathomable something without us, which——

Is Maximus gone?

Maximus.

No, my brother!

Julian.

My throat is burning. Can you not cool it?

Makrina.

A draught of water, sire?

[She holds a cup to his lips.

Oribases.

[Whispers to Makrina.] His wound bleeds inwardly.

Julian.

Do not weep. Let no Greek weep for me; I am ascending to the stars——

Beautiful temples—— Pictures—— But so far away.

Makrina.

Of what is he talking?

Oribases.

I know not; I think his mind is wandering.

Julian.

[With closed eyes.] ’Twas given to Alexander to enter in triumph—into Babylon.—I too will—— Beautiful wreath—crown’d youths—dancing maidens,—but so far away.

Beautiful earth,—beautiful life——

[He opens his eyes wide.

Oh, Helios, Helios—why didst thou betray me?

[He dies.

Oribases.

[After a pause.] That was death.

The Bystanders.

Dead—dead!

Oribases.

Yes, now he is dead.

[Basil and Makrina kneel in prayer. Eutherius veils his head. A sound of drums and trumpets is heard in the distance.

Shouts from the Camp.

Long live the Emperor Jovian!

Oribases.

Oh, heard you that shout?

Ammian.

Jovian is proclaimed Emperor.

Maximus.

[Laughing.] The Galilean Jovian! Yes—yes—yes!

Oribases.

Shameful haste! Before they knew that——

Priscus.

Jovian,—the victorious hero who has saved us all! The Emperor Jovian assuredly deserves a panegyric. I trust that crafty Kytron has not already——

[He hastens out.

Basil.

Forgotten, ere your hand is cold. And for this pitiful splendour you sold your immortal soul!

Maximus.

[Rising.] The world-will shall answer for Julian’s soul!

Makrina.

Blaspheme not; though surely you have loved this dead man——

Maximus.

[Approaching the body.] Loved, and led him astray—Nay, not I!

Led astray like Cain. Led astray like Judas.—Your God is a spendthrift God, Galileans! He wears out many souls.

Wast thou not then, this time either, the chosen one—thou victim on the altar of necessity?

What is it worth to live? All is sport and mockery.—To will is to have to will.

Oh my beloved—all signs deceived me, all auguries spoke with a double tongue, so that I saw in thee the mediator between the two empires.

The third empire shall come! The spirit of man shall re-enter on its heritage—and then shall offerings of atonement[13] be made to thee, and to thy two guests in the symposium.

[He goes out.

Makrina.

[Rising, pale.] Basil—did you understand the heathen’s speech?

Basil.

No,—but it dawns on me like a great and radiant light, that here lies a noble, shattered instrument of God.

Makrina.

Ay, truly, a dear and dear-bought instrument.

Basil.

Christ, Christ—how came it that thy people saw not thy manifest design? The Emperor Julian was a rod of chastisement,—not unto death, but unto resurrection.

Makrina.

Terrible is the mystery of election. How know we——?

Basil.

Is it not written: “Some vessels are fashioned to honour, and some to dishonour”?

Makrina.

Oh brother, let us not seek to fathom that abyss.

[She bends over the body and covers the face.

Erring soul of man—if thou wast indeed forced to err, it shall surely be accounted to thee for good on that great day when the Mighty One shall descend in the clouds to judge the living dead and the dead who are yet alive!—— ——

THE END.

11. The original edition here reads “benådet,” and this reading is followed in the translation. In the collected edition of Ibsen’s works (Copenhagen 1899) the word becomes “beåndet,” which is probably a misprint, but may, on the other hand, be a correction. In that case, for “highly-favoured” we should have to read “specially inspired.” Ibsen uses the word “beåndet” several times in “Hedda Gabler.”

12. In the collected edition (1899) the word “sejre” (to conquer) of earlier editions is replaced by “rejse” (journey). This is almost certainly a misprint.

13. Here occurs the one clear case I have observed of a revision of the text. In earlier editions the phrase ran “da skal der tændes rögoffer,” meaning literally “then shall burnt-offerings (smoke-offerings) be lighted.” In the collected edition (1899) “sonoffer” (offerings of atonement) is substituted for “rögoffer.” This can scarcely be a printer’s error; and as one deliberate alteration has been made, it would seem that the alterations noted on pp. 382 and 417 (especially the former) may also be due, not to the printer, but to the poet.

Printed by Ballantyne & Co. Limited

Tavistock Street, London

Transcriber’s Note

There are quite a few instances of missing punctuation. The conventional period following the character’s name is sometimes missing and has been added for consistency’s sake without further comment. Those missing from setting and stage direction are also added without comment, since there is no obvious purpose to be served by the omission. However, the restoration of punctuation missing from dialogue is noted below, since the punctuation is frequently expressive.

Volume I of this series included errata for each succeeding volume, but noted none in this Volume V.

Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.

xiii.14 | not the actual composition[:] | Restored.
4.11 | I had it from Memnon himself[.] | Added.
7.2 | give it him, dear brother[.] | Added.
7.22 | Oh, you abandoned hound[!] | Added.
14.19 | Stand, stand;—I am armed[.] | Added.
17.13 | [I ]am sure my old Mardonius | Restored.
23.19 | fire rained from heaven night by night[.] | Added.
31.15 | along with the[ the] stranger. | Removed.
48.27 | I know it[,] my Hekebolius! | Added.
66.34 | once more arisen in our midst[.] | Added.
70.28 | calling him my great brother[.] | Added.
75.20 | in the midst of a great city[!] | Added.
79.2 | To the bacchanal, friends[!] | Added.
82.19 | and living in the wilderness[?] | Added.
86.31 | dizzy with its sweetness[;] | Added.
147.2 | By-and-by[,/.] | Replaced.
158.26 | has done too much, good Decentius[!] | Added.
171.23 | what have you given the Princess[?] | Added.
179.2 | noble Caesar[,/.] But my | Replaced.
182.7 | auxiliaries, and other allies[,] climb | Removed.
182.14 | Caesar, Caesar[!] | Added.
182.18 | Down with the faithless [Cæsar. Caesar!] | Inconsistent.
188.19 | Caesar, do you take[ take] the helm! | Removed.
209.19 | Think[?/.] | Replaced.
210.32 | [“]Either with us or against us”? | Added.
243.28 | to sp[r]ead terror to the ends of the earth. | Inserted.
300.7 | cry their wares[.] | Added.
300.9 | talking eagerly[.] | Added.
308.1 | sanctuary, the very house of Apollo[,] which | Added.
322.17 | [t/T]here you are not far wrong. | Replaced.
326.29 | No, no, it needs more than that[.] | Added.
408.29 | Ah, sire, you may well marvel[?/!] | Replaced.
428.21 | Woe, woe, woe[!] | Added.
352.24 | Arise, friend[?/!] | Replaced.
461.4 | To Fromenti[n]us | Inserted.

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