At Constantinople Julian organised Bacchic processions. Seated in a chariot drawn by white mules, he held in his right hand a golden thyrsus, surmounted by cedar-fruit, and in the other a cup garlanded with ivy. The rays of the sun flooded the crystal wine-cup with vermilion. On each side of the chariot paced tame leopards, sent from the island of Serendib. In front, Bacchantes sang to the beat of timbrels, waving bright torches; and through the clouds of smoke lads, wearing the horns of Fauns, spilt wine into goblets. As they pushed laughing along, the red wine often splashed the bare shoulder of some Bacchante, and dashed the sunshine with rosy spray. An obese old man, a certain rascally money-lender—who, by the way, was head of the Imperial Treasury,—mounted on an ass, played the part of Silenus to perfection. The Bacchantes danced along, waving their hands towards the Emperor—
O Bacchus, ever girt with gleaming cloud!
O Bacchus, ever girt with gleaming cloud!
O Bacchus, ever girt with gleaming cloud!
O Bacchus, ever girt with gleaming cloud!
Thousands of voices intoned the chant from theAntigoneof Sophocles—
But now be glad of Victory!She meets our gladness with an answering smile;And Thebes, the many-charioted, hears far-resounding praise.Now then have done with wars,—forget your strifes!Visit all temples of the gods with night-long dance and song;And thou, O Theban Bacchus, lead our mirth!Lead thou, and shake the earth!
But now be glad of Victory!She meets our gladness with an answering smile;And Thebes, the many-charioted, hears far-resounding praise.Now then have done with wars,—forget your strifes!Visit all temples of the gods with night-long dance and song;And thou, O Theban Bacchus, lead our mirth!Lead thou, and shake the earth!
But now be glad of Victory!She meets our gladness with an answering smile;And Thebes, the many-charioted, hears far-resounding praise.Now then have done with wars,—forget your strifes!Visit all temples of the gods with night-long dance and song;And thou, O Theban Bacchus, lead our mirth!Lead thou, and shake the earth!
But now be glad of Victory!
She meets our gladness with an answering smile;
And Thebes, the many-charioted, hears far-resounding praise.
Now then have done with wars,—forget your strifes!
Visit all temples of the gods with night-long dance and song;
And thou, O Theban Bacchus, lead our mirth!
Lead thou, and shake the earth!
Suddenly Julian heard a burst of laughter, the shrill scream of a woman, and the quavering voice of an old man—
"Ah, my pretty chicken!"
It was the Bacchic priest, a good-humoured septuagenarian, who had pinched the bare elbow of a comely Bacchante. Julian's face darkened, and he summoned the old dotard, who ran up, still dancing—
"My friend," whispered Julian in his ear, "observe the dignity which befits your age and rank!"
"I am a simple and unlearned man. And I may venture to tell your Majesty that while philosophy is beyond me, I venerate the gods. Ask anyone you please on that head—I have always been faithful to them. Only ... when I see a pretty girl ... my blood gets up! I am an old satyr...." Seeing the displeased face of the Emperor he stopped, assumed a more solemn air, and relapsed into still denser stupidity.
"Who is that young girl?" asked Julian.
"She who is carrying the sacred vessels on her head?"
"Yes."
"A courtesan of Chalcedon...."
"What!... You have authorised a courtesan to touch the holy vessels of the gods with her foul hands!"
"But, divine Augustus, you yourself ordained this procession. Who was there to choose from? All the noble women are Galileans. And then ... none of them would have consented to have exhibited themselves half-naked...."
"Then they are all...."
"No, no! Some of them are dancing-girls, tragic actresses, horsewomen from the Hippodrome. See how gay they are and free from false shame! Believe me,the people like that! That's what they want. And there's a patrician woman!..."
The last-named was a Christian, an old maid looking out for husbands. On her head rose a helmet-shaped wig, a galerum made of blond hair powdered with gold—thickly covered with gems as an Indian idol; impudently painted, she drew her tiger-skin across her withered bosom, and smiled affectedly.
Julian looked down on the people with a sudden impulse of distaste.
Rope-dancers, drunken legionaries, venal women, circus-riders, gymnasts, actors, swarmed and wantoned all round him.
The procession arrived at a place where four streets met. One of the Bacchantes ran to a tavern, whence came an unpleasant smell of rancid frying fish, and bought some greasy cakes for three obols. These she ate, greedily licking her lips; and finished by wiping her hands on the purple silk of her robes, which had been granted for the procession by the Imperial Treasury.
The chorus of Sophocles soon became wearisome. Husky voices took up a street-song. The whole proceeding appeared to Julian to have been desecrated. A drunken man was picked up; and some thieves, playing the part of Fauns, were arrested. They defended themselves, and a fight ensued. The only personages in the whole company whose demeanour remained dignified and beautiful were the panthers.
At last they drew near the temple. Julian came down from his chariot.
"Can I really present myself before the altar of Dionysus surrounded by this human refuse?"
A chill of disgust ran through his body. He saw thebrutal faces wasted with debauchery, corpse-like through their paint; the painful nudity of bodies deformed by fasting and anæmia. He breathed the atmosphere of low wine-shops, houses of ill-fame. The breath of the crowd, tainted with rotten fish and sour wine, smote him through the aromatic smoke. Scrolls of papyrus were stretched out to him from every side:
"I was promised a place in your stables.... I have been paid nothing for renouncing Christ...."
"Don't desert us, Divine Augustus! Protect us! We denied for your sake the faith of our fathers!... If you give us up what will become of us?"
These were the voices drowned by the chorus of the feast.
Julian went into the temple, and contemplated the marvellous statue of Dionysus. His eyes, weary with human deformity, reposed on the pure lines of that divine body. He became oblivious of the crowd as if he were alone—the only man amidst a herd of animals.
The Emperor proceeded to the sacrifice. The people watched with amazement the Roman Cæsar, as Pontifex Maximus, in his zeal for religion doing the work of a slave—splitting wood, bringing twigs, drawing water, and cleansing the altar.
A rope-dancer said to his neighbour—
"Look how he keeps at it! He really loves his gods!"
"By this right hand," remarked the other, "few people care for father and mother as he cares for his gods!"
"You see," laughed a third, "how he puffs out his cheeks to kindle the fire again!... Blow, blow!... It won't catch!... Your uncle Constantine putthatfire out."
The flames jetted up, illumining the Emperor's face.
Dipping the holy water brush into a shallow cup, a silver patine used to cover the chalice, he besprinkled the sacrificial water over the heads of the crowd. Some grimaced, others started, at feeling the cold drops on their faces.
When all the ceremonies were over, Julian remembered that he had prepared a philosophical discourse for the people.
"Men," said he, "the god Dionysus is the beginning of your souls' liberty. Dionysus breaks every chain that binds you; he mocks the strong, sets free the slave...."
But he perceived such a dull stupidity upon every face, such an expression of tedium and weariness, that the words died on his lips. A mortal disgust for humanity arose in his heart. He made a sign to the lance-bearers to come round him.
Grumbling and disappointed, the crowd dispersed.
"I'm going straight to church to get absolution. Do you think I shall be forgiven?" said one of the Fauns, snatching off his own false beard and horns with an angry gesture.
"It wasn't worth losing one's soul for that, eh?" observed with wrath a lady of doubtful reputation.
"Nobody wants your soul, or would give three obols for it!"
"The cursed devils!" yelled a drunkard. "They didn't give us enough wine to get the taste of it!"
In the sacristy of the temple the Emperor washed face and hands, took off the splendid Dionysian dress, and put on again the simple white tunic of the Pythagoreans. The sun was declining, and he waited the fall of dusk to retrace his way to the palace unperceived.
Julian went into the sacred wood of Dionysus, where the silence was broken only by the humming of bees and the tinkle of a brook. A sound of steps made him turn round. It was his old friend, one of Maximus' favourite pupils, the young Alexandrian doctor, Oribazius.
They walked on the narrow path side by side. The sun was shining through large golden leaves of the vine.
"Look!" said Julian smiling. "Here great Pan is still alive!"
Then in a lower tone he added, hanging his head—
"Oribazius!... You saw it?"
"Yes," responded the student. "But perhaps the fault lay with you, Julian.... What did you hope for?"
The Emperor made no answer.
They came near a little ruined temple that ivy had invaded and overrun. Fragments lay about in the deep grass. A single column only remained standing; and on its lovely capital, clear-cut as the petals of a lily, shone the last rays of sunset.
The friends sat down on the flags together and inhaled the air, sweet with mint and thyme and wormwood. Julian put the leaves aside and pointing to an antique broken bas-relief—
"Oribazius! That is what I hoped for!"
The bas-relief represented a religious procession of the ancient Athenians.
"That is what I desired ... beauty like theirs! Why from day to day do men become more and more deformed and misfeatured? Where are the immortal old men, the austere heroes, the proud lads, the pure women in their white and floating robes? Where isthat strength, that gaiety of heart? Galileans! Galileans! what have you done with these things?"
He gazed at the bas-relief with eyes full of infinite sadness and infinite love.
"Julian," asked Oribazius, gently, "do you believe in Maximus?"
"Yes."
"Wholly?"
"What do you mean?"
"I've always thought, Julian, that you suffer from the same malady as your enemies, the Christians!"
"What malady?"
"Faith in miracles."
Julian shook his head.
"If there be neither miracles nor gods my whole life is a madness!... No, we won't speak of that. And do not be too hard upon me on account of my love for ancient ceremonies. I scarcely can explain it to you. The old simple things stir tears in me; and I love the evening more than the morning, autumn better than spring. I love all that is fleeting!... even the perfume of flowers that have faded.... What would you have, my friend? The gods shaped me so!... That pleasant melancholy, that golden faery twilight, are necessary to me. In the depth of antiquity there is to me something ineffably gracious and fair such as I find in no other region—the shining of sunset on marble mellowed by time. Do not rob me of the mad love of what is no more. Everything that has been, is fairer than the thing that is! Remembrance has more power over my soul than hope...."
Julian was silent, and with a smile on his lips looked into the distance, his head leaning back against the column.
"You speak as a poet," answered Oribazius. "But the dreams of a poet are perilous when the fate of a world is in his hands. Ought not he who reigns over men to be something more than a poet?"
"Whose life is higher?"
"That of the creator of anewlife?..."
"New! new!" exclaimed Julian. "To be plain with you, your novelty sometimes strikes terror into me! It seems to me to be cold and hard as death. I tell you, my heart is in antiquity. The Galileans, like you, are always seeking novelty and stamping the old idols under foot!... Trust me, new life lies only in what is old; immortal is it and proud, however it be thus insulted!"
He drew himself up to his full height, pale and haughty, his eyes brilliant—
"They think that Hellas is dead!... And from every quarter of the compass black monks come swooping down, like ravens, on its marble body, and pick at it, joyously shrieking, 'Hellas is dead!' But they forget that Hellas cannot die, that Hellas is in our hearts! Hellas is the divine beauty of man upon earth. She but slumbers, and when she shall awake, woe to the crows of Galilee!"
"Julian," murmured Oribazius, "I fear for you.... You wish to accomplish the impossible.... Crows do not feed on the living, and the dead do not rise again.... Ah, Cæsar! what if the miracle does not succeed?"
"I have no fear. My defeat shall be my victory!" exclaimed the Emperor, with so radiant a happiness on his young face that Oribazius was thrilled, as if the miracle was now to be achieved. "Glory to the rejected! Glory to the conquered! But before mydestruction," he added with a proud smile, "we will fight a good fight!... I would that my enemies were worthy of my hate, and not of my contempt!... In truth I love my enemies. They teach me to feel and measure my own force! They bring into my heart the gaiety of Dionysus. Or it shall be the old Titan, snapping his chains, and kindling anew the Promethean fire! Titan against Galilean!... Rejoice, tribes and peoples of the earth! I am the messenger of life who shall set you free! Iamthe Anti-Christ!"