Emperor and Galilean

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.

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.

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! 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!

[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?

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; 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.