"Look at those fellows dressed in black, Julian! They are shadows of night-fall, shadows of death. Soon there will not be a single ancient white robe left, nor a single sun-steeped piece of marble.... All is over!"
So spoke the young sophist, Antoninus, son of the prophetess Sospitra and of Ædesius, the Neo-Platonist. He was standing with Julian on the terrace of the temple of Pergamos, in bright sunshine, under a sky of cloudless blue. Along the foot of the balustrade was carven the revolt of the Titans. The gods were triumphing; and the hoofs of the winged horses crushing the serpent bodies of the antique giants. Antoninus pointed to the carving—
"Ah! Julian, the Olympians conquered the Titans, but now the Olympians in their turn will be beaten by barbaric gods. These temples will become tombs...."
Antoninus was a handsome youth, straight-limbed as one of the old statues, but his health had been broken for years by an incurable malady, and his face had become yellow, lean, and melancholy.
"I pray the gods," went on Antoninus, "I entreat the gods not to suffer me to see that night—that I may die before it comes. Rhetoricians, sophists, poets, sages, artists, none of us are wanted any more. We are born in too late a day.... All is over for us!"
"And suppose you are mistaken?" hazarded Julian.
"No, all's over! We are not as our forefathers! We are sick, strength fails us."
Julian's face seemed as worn and haggard as that of Antoninus. The projecting lower lip gave him an expression of taciturn arrogance. The thick eyebrows were knitted in bitter obstinacy; precocious wrinkles already furrowed his cheeks. The long nose had grown longer than ever; and his always strange eyes were now burning with a dry, feverish, disagreeable fire. He still wore the monkish habit. During the day he still attended church, as hitherto; worshipped relics; read the gospels in public, and was preparing to take orders. Sometimes all this hypocrisy seemed to him worse than useless. He foresaw that Gallus would not escape a premature death, and knew that he himself might expect it at any moment.
But his nights Julian was wont to pass in the great library of Pergamos, where he was studying the works of the great foe of Christianity, Libanius. He attended the lectures of the Greek sophists, Ædesius of Pergamos, Chrisantius of Sardinia, Priscius of Thesephros, Eusebius of Minos, Prœres, and Nymphidian. These taught him much about what he had already heard from Iamblicus, of thetriadof the Neo-Platonists, and of the "divine ecstasy." He said to himself—
"All that is not what I am seeking; they are hiding something from me!"
Priscius, imitating Pythagoras, had passed five years in silence, keeping to a vegetarian diet, and using neither raiment of wool nor sandal of leather. He wore a cloak of pure white linen and sandals of palm leaves stitched together.
"In our age," he used to say, "the thing of moment is to be able to hold one's tongue, and to meditate on dying worthily."
Thus Priscius, despising all things, awaited what hecalled the catastrophe, that is to say, the complete victory of Christianity over the Hellenists.
The wily and prudent Chrisantius, when the subject of the gods was touched on, would cast his eyes to heaven, avowing that he dared not talk about them, knowing nothing, and having forgotten what he had learnt on the subject. And he advised others to follow his own example. As for magic, miracles, and phantasms, he would hear nothing about them, declaring that they were criminal deceptions, forbidden by the Imperial laws.
Julian had no appetite, slept ill; his blood was boiling with passion and impatience. Every morning on awaking he would wonder—
"Is it to be to-day?"
He would worry the poor sages with ceaseless questions concerning mysteries and miracles. Some of them he shocked, especially Chrisantius, who was in the habit of acquiescence in all the opinions which seemed to him most foolish.
On one occasion Ædesius, a timid and learned old man, pitying Julian, said to him—
"My boy, I want to die quietly; you are young yet. Leave me alone. Address yourself to my disciples; they will reveal to you everything I have taught. Yes, there are many things about which we are afraid to speak, and when you shall have been initiated into the greater mysteries, you will perhaps be ashamed at having been born a mere mortal, and of having remained one up till now."
Euthemus of Minda, a disciple of Ædesius, and a jealous and malicious fellow, declared to Julian: "There are no more such things as miracles. Don't expect any. Men have badgered the gods too long. Magic is a lie, and those who believe in it are idiots.But if you are still hungry for wisdom, and absolutely must have illusions, go to Maximus. He despises our dialectical philosophy, and yet himself.... But I don't like speaking ill of my friends. Just hear, however, what happened lately in a temple of Hecate whither Maximus had conducted us to prove his art. When we had gone in and adored the goddess, he said to us: 'Sit down, and you shall see a miracle.' We sat down. He threw on the altar a phimian-seed, muttering something,—a hymn I suppose,—and then we saw the statue of Hecate smile at us! Maximus said to us: 'Fear nothing when you shall see the two torches held by the goddess kindle of themselves. Behold!' Before he had finished the sentence the lamps were alight, self-kindled!"
"The miracle, in fact, was accomplished!" cried Julian.
"Yes; our emotion was so great that we prostrated ourselves. But when I came out of the temple I asked myself, 'Is what Maximus does worthy of true philosophy?' Read Pythagoras, Plato—there shall you find wisdom. By divine dialectic to lift the heart of man—is not that finer than any miracle?"
But Julian was listening no more; his eyes sparkled as he gazed at the surly face of Euthemus, and he murmured as he went forth from the school—
"Keep your books and your dialectics! I seek life and faith! Can they exist without miracles? I thank thee, Euthemus, thou hast pointed me to the man I have sought for long."
With a bitter smile the sophist answered—
"Nephew of Constantine, you have not improved upon your ancestors. Miracles were not necessary to the faith of Socrates!"