The Death of the Gods

by Dmitry Merezhkovsky

  Juventinus listened to the explanations of Evander. All this resembled some wild and torturing dream. His heart shivered, under a bitter flood of pity.

  Silence was at last restored; all looks turned towards the same spot, at the opposite extremity of the court, where Julian was standing. His face was clear and firm, and he wore an air of assumed indifference His garb was the simple white chlamys of the philosophers.

  “Old men and masters,” said Augustus, addressing the assembly, “we have thought it well to give evidence of our indulgence and compassion to all our subjects who profess the Galilean teaching. For those who are gone astray it is better to feel compassion than hatred; better to lead the obstinate to the truth by exhortation, and in no wise by harryings, blows, or corporeal tortures. Wishing to restore peace to the world, so long troubled by religious discord, I have called you, O learnéd Galileans, together. We shall hope that under our protection you will give an example of those lofty virtues which befit your wisdom and your spiritual divinity.”

  So, with the easy gestures of a practised speaker, he began a speech prepared beforehand. But the benevolent words were not lacking in ironic allusion.

  He made it clear he had not forgotten the stupid and coarse altercations that had taken place under Constantius, at the council of Milan. He mentioned, with an evil smile, those audacious persons who, regretting that they were no longer allowed to persecute or martyrise their brethren, had urged the ignorant populace into rebellion, poured oil on fire, and attempted to fill the world with fratricidal madness. These were the real enemies of humanity, and guilty of the greatest evil of all, namely, anarchy.

  And he finished his harangue by the following unexpected words—

  “We have called back from banishment your brothers, who had been hunted forth from the councils of Constantine and Constantius, because we desired to give liberty to all citizens of the Roman Empire. And for the complete suppression of discord, we confide to you, wise teachers, the duty of settling for Galileans a single and unique profession of faith. It is to this end that we have convoked you in our palace. Judge now, and authoritatively decide. In order to afford you full freedom of speech we will withdraw, and await your wise decision.”

  Before anyone had time to grasp the situation, or to answer this strange discourse, Julian, surrounded by his philosophic friends, left the court and disappeared.

  Everybody was dumb. Someone uttered a long sigh, and in the general silence the beating of pigeons’ wings and the rippling of the fountain alone were audible. Suddenly, on the raised marble daïs, which had served as tribune for Julian, appeared the kindly old man at whose provincial bearing and Armenian accent everybody had laughed.

  His face was red, his eyes burning with vehemence. The Emperor’s speech had offended the old bishop. Filled with fearless religious zeal, Eustace advanced towards the members of the council—

  “Fathers and brothers,” he exclaimed, and his voice was so stern and unshaken that no one thought of laughing at it—"Fathers and brothers, let us part in peace! He who has called us here, to seduce and to insult us, knows neither the canons of the Church nor the rules of the councils. He hates even the name of Jesus! Let us not be a sport to our enemies, let us restrain all angry words! I entreat you, in the name of the eternal God, let us separate in silence!”

  He pronounced these words in a loud and ringing voice, his eyes fixed on a raised gallery, curtained by purple hangings. The Emperor, surrounded by his Hellenist friends, had just appeared there. A murmur of fright and astonishment ran through the assembly. Julian gazed at Eustace, but the old man sustained his gaze. The Emperor’s face grew dark.

  At that moment the Donatist Purpuris brutally thrust off the bishop and took his place on the tribune.

  “Do not listen to him,” cried Purpuris; “do not let us separate, in scorn of the will of Augustus! The Cæcilians bear a grudge against him, because he has delivered us.”

  “No, in all truth, no, my brothers!” protested Eustace.

  “Leave us, ye accursed! We are not your brothers! We are the wheat-ears of God—you the straw destined for the burning!...” And waving his hand towards the apostate Emperor Purpuris continued in a solemn tone, as if chanting a nuptial song—

  “Behold our saviour! Look on him!... Glory, glory, to the most compassionate and learned Augustus!... Thou shalt trample on the snake and the reptile! Thou shalt conquer the lion, for the angels watch over thee in all thy doings.... Hail!”

  The congregation became unsettled. Some declared that the advice of Eustace must be followed. Others asked to be heard, not wishing to lose the opportunity of expounding their doctrines before a general religious council. Faces kindled and voices rose.

  “Let a Cæcilian enter one of our churches now” exulted Purpuris, “and we’ll place our hands on his head, not to choose him as our shepherd, but to crack his skull!”

  Many forgot the purpose of the meeting and engaged in subtle discussions, seeking converts. The Basilidian, Triphon, who hailed from Egypt, surrounded by curious hearers, exhibited a transparent chrysolith amulet, bearing the mysterious word “Abraxa.”

  “He who shall understand the meaning of the word Abraxa,” Triphon was saying to the group around him, “shall receive all freedom, shall become an immortal, and, tasting all sins, be sullied by none. Abraxa represents by letters the number of the mountains in heaven, three hundred and sixty-five. Above the three hundred and sixty-five celestial spheres, above the hierarchies of angels and archangels, there is a certain Nothingness, nameless, and more beautiful than any light, a motionless and sterile Nothingness....”

  “The motionless and sterile nothingness is in your own stupid head!” growled an Arian bishop, striding straight up to Triphon.

  The Gnostic, according to his custom, became silent, locking his lips in a contemptuous smile, and raising a forefinger—

  “Wisdom! Wisdom!” he ejaculated, and vanished in the crowd.

  The prophetess of Papusa, among her anxious Copts, stood up, terrible, pale, half-swooning, and groaned, as if her troubled eyes saw nothing, as if her ears heard nothing—

  “Maran Atha“—"The Lord is coming!”

  The disciples of the youth Epiphanes, a Pagan demi-god or Christian martyr, worshipped in the oratories of Cephalonia, were declaiming brotherhood and equality—

  “There are no laws but these: Destroy all; let all be in common—women, lands, riches, like earth, air, and sun!”

  The Ophites, serpent-worshippers, raised above their heads a cross, round which a tame adder was coiling—

  “The wisdom of the Serpent,” they said, “gives man a knowledge of good and evil; behold the saviour, Ophiomorphos, the serpentiform! Fear nothing! Hearken to him! Taste the forbidden fruit, and ye shall be even as gods!”

  A perfumed and curled Marcosianist, lifting on high a crystal cup full of water with the skilful gestures of a juggler, invited curiosity—

  “Look at this miracle! the water’s going to boil and be turned into blood!”

  Colabasians were there, counting their fingers with inconceivable celerity, and demonstrating that all the numbers of Pythagoras, every mystery of heaven and earth, were comprised in the letters of the Greek alphabet—

  “Alpha, Omega—the beginning and the end, and between them the Trinity; Beta, Gamma, Delta—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit! You see how simple it is!”

  Fabionites, gluttonous Carpocratians, debauched Barbelonites stood up, preaching such follies that hearers possessing a vestige of morality put their fingers in their ears. Many strove to move their audiences by the attractive force over the imagination possessed by madness and monstrosity. Every man was certain of his own gospel. Yet all were enemies. Even the minute sect, hidden in remote provinces of Africa, the Rogationists, were certain that Christ returning upon earth would find the true comprehension of the Gospel only amongst themselves, in a few Mauritanian villages, and nowhere else.

  Evander of Nico
media, forgetting Juventinus, could scarcely scribble down the new heresies on his tablets fast enough, happy as a collector who has lit upon a new set of trinkets.

  And meantime, in the upper gallery, the young Emperor, surrounded by his white-robed philosophic friends, was gazing down upon the maddened tumult with malign satisfaction. The Pythagorean Proclus, Nymphidian, Priscus, Ædesius, old Iamblicus, the pious bishop Hekobolis, were at his side. They neither laughed nor jested. Their faces remained almost impassive and their attitude a becoming one; only from time to time across their closed lips flitted a furtive and pitying smile. From the shadow of the purple hangings they looked down on the spectacle, as gods must regard the hostilities of men, or circus-lovers the beasts of the arena. It was indeed a banquet for Hellenic sages.

  In the midst of the general confusion the effeminate young Caïnite leapt on the tribune and shouted, with such conviction in his voice that everybody turned round, overwhelmed at the impiety—

  “Blessed be rebels against God! Blessed be Cain, Shem, Judas, the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah! Blessed be their brother, the Angel of Infinite Darkness!”

  The bishop Purpuris, who for an hour past had not been able to get a hearing, to relieve his feelings rushed at the Caïnite and raised his sinewy hand to close the lips of the blasphemer.

  A crowd dragged him back.

  “Father, it is unbecoming!”

  “Let me be, let me be! I will not endure such abomination,” roared Purpuris; “take this, seed of Cain!”

  And the bishop spat in his face.

  A general fray followed, which would have enlarged into a battle if Roman soldiers had not intervened. These parted the Galileans, with the words—

  “You must not act so in this place! Have you not got enough churches to fight each other in?”

  Purpuris was dragged off, and ordered to quit the atrium.

  He called out—

  “Leona, deacon Leona!”

  The deacon thrust the soldiers aside, felled two of them to the earth, freed Purpuris, and set the terrible mace of the Circumcellions whirling above the heads of the heresiarchs.

  “Glory to God!” shouted the African, seeking a victim.

  Suddenly the club sank out of his loosened hands. All stood petrified. Then a sharp cry, uttered by one of the Coptic servants of the prophetess of Papusa, rent the general hush. Kneeling, his face transfigured by fear, he pointed to the tribune—

  “The Devil! The Devil! Look at the Prince of Evil!”

  It was Julian the Emperor, on the marble daïs above the crowd, in his white chlamys, his arms crossed on his breast. Terrible glee burned in his eyes; and to many indeed, at that moment, the recreant prince appeared dreadful as Satan, his brother.

  “Is this how you fulfil the law of love, Galileans?” he said to the dumbfounded assembly. “How much your mercy and forgiveness are worth!... Verily the wild animals have more compassion than brethren like you! In the words of your Master: “Woe upon you, law-makers, because you have taken the key of the house, and, hindering others from entering, have not entered in yourselves! Woe to you, Pharisees!...”

  And enjoying their silence he added after a pause—

  “If you cannot rule yourselves, Galileans, I say to you, in order to prevent greater misfortunes, you shall now obey, and submit yourselves to me!”

  * * *

  VII

  Just as Julian, leaving the Atrium of Constantine, was descending the great flight of steps and proceeding to sacrifice in the direction of the little Temple of Tyche, the goddess of happiness, near the palace, the old bishop Maris, blind, white-haired, and bent double, approached him, led by a child. A great crowd had gathered at the foot of the staircase. With a solemn gesture, the bishop stopped the Emperor and said to him—

  “Listen, peoples, tribes, young and old, all that be upon the earth, listen to me! And ye powers above, Angels, who will blot out soon this martyr-maker! It is not the Amorite king who shall fall, nor Ogyges, King of Thebes, but the Serpent, the Great Spirit, the revolted Assyrian, the common enemy, who shall cause a multitude of threats and violences upon earth! Hear, O heaven, and inspire the earth!... And thou also, Cæsar, listen to my prophecy, for to-day, by my mouth, God speaks!... Thy days are numbered! Soon wilt thou perish! Like dust lifted by the tempest, like the hiss of an arrow, like the noise of thunder, like the swiftness of light! The spring of Castaly shall be dried up forever, and a mockery to us that pass by! Apollo shall become again a worthless idol, Daphne a tree bewept in fable, and the grass shall grow in your temples overturned. O! abominations of Sennacherib! so we have foretold it. We Galileans—despised of the earth—adorers of the Crucified—ignorant disciples of the fishermen of Capernaum—we, weakened by long fasting, half-dead, who struggle in vain, we nevertheless shall overcome you!... Unfold to me, Imperial sophist, your speeches, your syllogisms, your antitheses; and we shall see how, on our side, ignorant fishermen can speak!

  “David shall chant again—David, who with his strange pebbles from the brook slew Goliath. Thanks be to Thee, O Lord! the Church to-day is purified by persecution! O pure virgins, kindle your torches, array the bishop with a fair robe, for our ornament is the robe of Christ!”

  The old man almost chanted the last words as in a liturgy, and the crowd, with emotion, murmured approval. Someone cried out aloud—

  “Amen!”

  “Have you finished, old man?” asked Julian, calmly.

  The Emperor had listened to the long speech imperturbably, as if it had been addressed to someone else.

  “Here are my hands, executioners ... bind them!... Lead me to death!... Lord, I accept Thy crown!”

  The bishop raised his faded eyes skyward.

  “Do you imagine, brave man, that I shall send you to execution?” said Julian. “You are mistaken. I shall bid you go in peace. In my heart there is no anger whatever against you....”

  “What is he saying?” the crowd asked each other.

  “Tempt me not! I will not deny Christ. Hence, enemy of mankind! Headsman, lead me to death!... I am ready....”

  “There are no headsmen here, my friend; they are only simple good folk, like yourself. Set your mind at rest. My existence is more wearisome and ordinary than you imagine. I have heard you with curiosity, for I admire eloquence, even when it is Galilean!... And how much there was in it ... the abomination of Sennacherib, the king of the Amorites, the stones of David and Goliath! The style of your discourse can scarcely be called simple. Read our Demosthenes, Plato, and particularly Homer. These were really simple in their words as children, or gods. Yes, Galileans, learn the greatness of calm from them!... God, remember, was not in the tempest but in the silence. That is all my lesson. That is all my vengeance, since vengeance you must have from me....”

  “May God strike thee blind, renegade!” began Maris.

  “God’s wrath will not give thee back sight by striking me blind!” answered Julian.

  “I thank God for my blindness!” exclaimed the old man; “it does not allow me to see your damned face, Apostate!”

  “What spitefulness! in so frail a body! You are always speaking of humility and love, Galileans; and yet what hate is in every one of your words! I have just quitted an assemblage where the Fathers of the Church were ready to fly at each other like wild beasts. And now comes this unbridled speech of yours! Why this hatred? Am I not your brother? Oh, if you knew at this moment how kindly my heart feels towards you! May the Olympians soften your cruel and suffering soul, poor blind man! Go in peace, and remember that the Galileans are not the only men who can pardon!...”

  “Believe him not, brethren!... It is a trick, a snare of the Serpent. God of Israel, have no mercy!”

  Paying no attention to the curses of the old man, Julian, in his white tunic, made his way through the crowd with the haughty bearing of one of the old sages.

  * * *

  VIII

  It was a stormy night. At rare intervals a weak moon-ray darted bet
ween hurrying black clouds and mingled itself strangely with the throbbings of lightning. A warm salt-laden wind was blowing violently. On the left shore of the Bosphorus a horseman was approaching a lonely ruin. In immemorial Trojan times this fortification had been used as a watch-tower. It was now little more than a heap of stones and half-demolished walls, overgrown by tall grass. But at its foot a small chamber still served as shelter to shepherds and poor travellers.

  Tethering his horse under a dismantled doorway, and brushing through the burdock-leaves, the rider knocked at a low door—

  “It is I, Meroë! Open!...”

  An old Egyptian woman opened the door and admitted him to the interior of the tower. The traveller came near a torch which lighted up his face. He was Julian the Emperor.

  The two went out, the old woman, who knew the place well, leading Julian by the hand. Parting the briers and thistles she revealed a low entry in one face of a little ravine in the cliff, and went down the steps within. The sea lay near, and the shock of the waves below made the cliff tremble, but arched rockwalls completely sheltered them from the wind. The Egyptian halted—

  “Here, my lord, is a lamp, and the key. You must turn it twice. The monastery-door is open. If you meet the guardian brother, fear nothing; I have given him money. Only make no mistake; it is in the upper passage, the third cell to the left.”

  Julian opened the door and took a long time descending a steep slope of huge stone-hewn steps. The tunnel soon became a passage, so narrow that two men could not pass each other in it. This secret way joined the watch-tower on the opposite bank of the chasm with a new Christian monastery.

  Julian emerged high above the sea, but still between steep cliffs washed by the tide. He began to climb a narrow rocky stair by daylight. Arrived at the summit he found a brick wall, which he climbed with some difficulty. He found himself in the little cloistered garden.

  He penetrated farther into a small court, in which the walls were hung with wild roses. The air was full of perfume. The shutters of one of the windows on the ground floor were not closed from within. Julian gently opened them, and entered through the window. A gust of imprisoned air filled his nostrils with odours of moisture, incense, mice, medicinal herbs, and fresh apples, with which the cautious nuns had filled their stores.