The Death of the Gods

by Dmitry Merezhkovsky

  Gnyphon glanced at the dirty wall against which he was leaning, on which Pagan urchins had drawn the usual impious caricatures of the Christians.

  Gnyphon turned and spat with indignation.

  On one side of the crowded market-place they observed the portrait of Julian, arrayed in all the symbols of Imperial power. The winged god Hermes was coming down from the clouds towards him. The portrait was fresh and the colours not yet dry.

  Now according to the Roman law every passer-by had to salute any picture of Augustus.

  The Agoranome, or inspector of the market, stopped a little old woman carrying a large basket of cabbages.

  “I never salute the gods,” wept the old woman. “My father and mother were Christians.”

  “You haven’t got to salute the god, but the Emperor!”

  “But the Emperor is alongside of the god! So how should I salute him?”

  “No matter! You were told to salute and not to argue!”

  Gnyphon dragged Zotick farther on as quickly as possible.

  “Devilish trick,” he grumbled, “either salute the accursed Hermes, or be accused of insulting the sovereign! No way out!... Oh! oh! oh! the day of Antichrist! In one way or another we’re always sinning! When I see you, Zotick, envy gnaws my very soul. You live with your dunghill goddess, and have no cares.”

  They reached the Temple of Dionysus, hard by a Christian monastery, the windows and doors of which were fast barred as against the approach of an enemy. The Hellenists accused the monks of having pillaged the temple.

  When Gnyphon and Zotick went into the temple, carpenters and timberers were already at work. The planks which had been used to close the quadrilateral to the sky were dragged down, and the sun poured into the gloomy building.

  “Just look at the cobwebs, look, look!” Between the capitals of the columns hung masses of grey webs, which were being hastily cleaned away by means of rag-mops on immense poles. A bat, disturbed in his lair, flew away from a dark crevice, rushing hither and thither to hide himself from the light, striking himself against all the corners. The rustling of his soft wings could be distinctly heard. Zotick began sorting the rubbish and throwing it into baskets while the old man mumbled, “Ah, these cursed fellows! what foulness they have heaped up!”

  A great bunch of rusty keys was brought up and the treasure-room opened. The monks had carried off everything of value. Precious stones encrusted on the sacrificial cups were gone, the gold and purple adornments on the vestments had been torn off. When the splendid sacrificial robe was displayed a brown cloud of moths escaped from its folds. At the bottom of the hollow of a tripod, Gnyphon saw a handful of ashes, the remains of myrrh burned before the triumph of the Christians by the last priest during the last sacrifice.

  From this heap of sacred rubbish, poor rags, and broken goblets, rose a perfume of death and mildew, a sad and tender odour, as of incense to gods profaned.

  A gentle melancholy came over Gnyphon’s heart. He smiled, remembering something perhaps of his childhood; sweet cakes of barley and thyme, field daisies and jessamine which he used to carry with his mother to the altar of the village goddess; his childish prayers, not to the distant God, but to the little gods polished by the frequent touch of hands, carven in beechwood—the holy Penates. He pitied the vanished gods, and sighed sadly, but suddenly returned to himself and muttered—

  “Suggestions of the Devil!”

  The workmen were carrying up a heavy slab of marble, an antique bas-relief, stolen many years before and discovered in the hovel of a cobbler whose kitchen oven it had served to repair. Philomena, the old wife of a neighbouring clothier, a devout Christian, hated the cobbler’s wife, who used to let her ass stray into Philomena’s cabbage-yard. War had been maintained between them for years, but the Christian woman was in the end triumphant; for acting on her information the workmen had penetrated into the cobbler’s house, and in order to carry off the bas-relief and slab had been obliged to demolish the oven.

  This was a terrible blow to the cobbler’s wife. Brandishing her shovel, she called down vengeance from all the gods on the impious; pulled her hair out in handfuls, groaning over her scattered pots and pans while her children squealed round her like the young birds of a devastated nest. But the bas-relief was carried off, despite her struggles, and Philomena set about the work of cleansing it. The draper’s wife zealously scrubbed the marble which had been blackened by smoke and made greasy with spilt broth. Little by little the severe lines of the divine sculpture became visible. The young Dionysus, naked and proud, lay half-reclined, as if fatigued by Bacchic feasting, letting his hand, which held a cup, fall idly. A leopardess was licking up the last drops from the goblet, and the god, giver of joy to all living things, was gazing with a benign smile at the strength of the beast subdued by the grape. The bas-relief was hauled into position. The jeweller, clambering up before the image of Dionysus, inlaid the orbits of the god with two splendid sapphires, to serve as eyes.

  “What’s he doing there?” asked Gnyphon.

  “Can’t you see? They are eyes.”

  “Yes, certainly, but where do the stones come from?”

  “From the monastery.”

  “But why have the monks allowed it?”

  “How could they prevent it? The divine Augustus Julian himself ordered it. The god’s blue eyes were used as an ornament on the robe of the Crucified that’s all.... They talk about charity and justice, and they themselves are the worst of brigands! See how beautifully the stones fit into their old setting!...”

  The god fixed his sapphire eyes on Gnyphon. The old man recoiled and crossed himself, seized with dread.

  “Lord have mercy on us! It’s horrible!”

  Remorse filled his soul, and while sweeping he began, as was his wont, to talk to himself—

  “Gnyphon! Gnyphon! what a poor creature you are!... Just like a mangy dog one might say.... You’re ending your days in a nice way! Why have you gone and damned yourself? The fiend has over-tempted you!... And now you go into everlasting fire without a chance of salvation. You’ve smirched soul and body, Gnyphon, by serving the abomination of the heathen!... Better had it been for thee hadst thou never been born!”

  “What are you groaning at, old man?” Philomena the draper’s wife enquired.

  “My heart is heavy!... Oh, how heavy!”

  “Are you a Christian?”

  “Christian?—I am a betrayer of Christ!” answered Gnyphon, using his broom vigorously.

  “Would you like me to take away your sin so that not a trace of heathen defilement shall stick to you? You see I’m a Christian too, and yet afraid of nothing. Do you think I’d have undertaken work like this, if I hadn’t known how to purify myself after it?”

  Gnyphon stared at her, incredulous.

  But the draper’s wife, having ascertained that nobody could hear them, muttered mysteriously—

  “Yes!... there is a means! I must tell you about it! A pilgrim made me a present of a little bit of Egyptian wood, called persis, which grows at Hermopolis, in the Thebaïd. When Jesus and His mother on their ass were going through the gates of the town, the persis tree bowed down before them to the earth; and ever since it has been a miraculous healer. I’ve got a little splinter of it, and I’ll break off a bit for you. There’s such a power in that wood, that if you put a bit into a vat of water and leave it there for a night the water becomes holy. You’ll just wash yourself from head to foot in it, and the heathen abomination will leave you like magic, and you’ll feel yourself light and pure. Isn’t it written in the Bible, ‘Thou shalt dip in the water and shalt become as white as snow’?”

  “Oh, my benefactress!” groaned Gnyphon, “save me! Give me a chip of that wonderful wood!”

  “Ah! you may well call it precious!... Just to do a good turn to a neighbour I’ll give it you for a drachma.”

  “What’s that you’re saying, mother? Why, I never earned a drachma in my life! Will you take three obols?”

&nb
sp; “Miser!” cried the draper’s wife indignantly.

  “You stick at a drachma!... Isn’t your immortal soul worth so much?”

  “But after all do you think I shall be quite pure?” objected Gnyphon. “Perhaps the sin has so soaked into me that nothing can....”

  “I’ll solemnly swear to it,” insisted the draper’s wife. “Try it and you’ll feel the miracle at once!... Your soul will shine like the sun—as pure as a white dove....”

  * * *

  II

  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!

  Thousands of voices intoned the chant from the Antigone of 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!

  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 the brutal 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 put that fire 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 is that 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!”