Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (164 page)

AGATHON.
Be strong, dear brother!

PUBLIA.
Go, go to what awaits you, my only one!

JULIAN.
Hear and bethink you, you others —

AGATHON.
[To the prisoners
.] Choose between Christ and the Emperor!

THE PRISONERS.
Glory to God in the highest!

JULIAN.
Terrible is the Galilean’s power of delusion. It must be broken. Pass them by, the abominable crew! They cloud our gladness; they darken the day with their brooding death-hunger! — Flute players — men, women — why are you silent? A song — a song in praise of life, and light, and happiness.

THE PROCESSION OF APOLLO.
[Sings.
Gladsome with roses our locks to entwine; Gladsome to bathe in the sunlight divine!

THE PROCESSION OF PRISONERS.
Blissful to sleep ‘neath the blood-reeking sod; Blissful to wake in the gardens of God.

THE PROCESSION OF APOLLO.
Gladsome ‘mid incense-clouds still to draw breath.

THE PROCESSION OF PRISONERS.
Blissful in blood-streams to strangle to death.

THE PROCESSION OF APOLLO.
Ever for him who his godhead adoreth Deep draughts of rapture Apollo outpoureth.

THE PROCESSION OF PRISONERS.
Bones racked and riven, flesh seared to a coal, He shall make whole!

THE PROCESSION OF APOLLO.
Gladsome to bask in the light-sea that laves us!

THE PROCESSION OF PRISONERS.
Blissful to writhe in the blood-death that saves us!
[The processions pass each other during the singing. The crowd in the market-place looks on in dull silence.

SCENE THIRD.

The sacred grove around the temple of Apollo. The portico
,
supported by columns, and approached by a broad flight of steps, is seen among the trees in the background, on the left. A number of people are rushing about in the grove with loud cries of terror. Far away is heard the music of the procession.

WOMEN.
Mercy! The earth is quaking again!

A MAN IN FLIGHT.
Oh horror! Thunder beneath our feet — !

ANOTHER MAN.
Was it indeed so? Was it the earth that shook? A Woman. Did you not feel it? That tree there swayed so that the branches whistled through the air.

MANY VOICES.
Hark, hark, hark!

SOME.
‘Tis the roll of chariots on the pavements.

OTHERS.
‘Tis the sound of drums. Hark to the music — ; the Emperor is coming!
[The procession of Apollo advances from the right through the grove, and stations itself, amid music of flutes and harps, in a semicircle in front of the temple.

JULIAN.
[Turning towards the temple, with upstretched hands.]
I accept the omen! — Never have I felt myself in such close communion with the immortal gods. The Bow-Wielder is among us. The earth thunders beneath his tread, as when of old he stamped in wrath upon the Trojan shore. But ‘tis not on us he frowns. ‘Tis on those unhappy wretches who hate him and his sunlit realm. Yes, — as surely as good or evil fortune affords the true measure of the gods’ favour towards mortals, — so surely is the difference here made manifest between them and us. Where are the Galileans now? Some under the executioner’s hands, others flying through the narrow streets, ashy pale with terror, their eyes starting from their heads — a shriek between their half-clenched teeth — their hair stiffening with dread, or torn out in despair. And where are we? Here in Daphne’s pleasant grove, where the dryads’ balmy breath cools our brows, — here, before the glorious temple of the glorious god, lapped in the melodies of flute and lyre, — here, in light, in happiness, in safety, the god himself made manifest among us. Where is the God of the Galileans? Where is the Jew, the carpenter’s crucified son? Let him manifest himself. Nay, not he! ‘Tis fitting, then, that we should throng the sanctuary. There, with my own hands, I will perform the services which are so far from appearing to me mean and unbecoming, that I, on the contrary, esteem them above all others.
[He advances at the head of the procession
,
through the multitude
,
towards the temple.
A Voice.
[Calling out in the throng.]
Stay, ungodly one!

JULIAN.
A Galilean among us?

THE SAME VOICE.
No further, blasphemer!

JULIAN.
Who is he that speaks?

OTHER VOICES IN THE CROWD.
A Galilean priest. A blind old man. Here he stands.

OTHERS AGAIN.
Away, away, with the shameless wretch!
[A blind
OLD MAN,
in priestly garments
,
and supported by two younger men, also dressed as priests
,
is pushed forward till he stands at the foot of the temple steps
,
facing the Emperor.

JULIAN.
Ah, what do I see? Tell me, old man, are not you Bishop Maris, of Chalcedon?

THE OLD MAN.
Yes, I am that unworthiest servant of the Church.

JULIAN.
“Unworthiest,” you call yourself; and I think you are not far wrong. If I mistake not, you have been one of the foremost in stirring up internal strife among the Galileans.

BISHOP MARIS.
I have done that which weighs me still deeper down in penitence. When you seized the empire, and rumour told of your bent of mind, my heart was beleagured with unspeakable dread. Blind and enfeebled by age, I could not conceive the thought of setting myself up against the mighty monarch of the world. Yes, — God have mercy on me — I forsook the flock I was appointed to guard, shrank timidly from all the perils that gathered frowning around the Lord’s people, and sought shelter here, in my Syrian villa —

JULIAN.
In truth a strange story! And you, timid as you say you are, you, who formerly prized the Emperor’s favour so highly, now step forth before me and fling insults in my very face!

BISHOP MARIS.
Now I fear you no longer; for now has Christ fully possessed my heart. In the Church’s hour of need, her light and glory burst upon me. All the blood you shed, — all the violence and wrong you do — cry out to heaven, and, re-echoing mightily, ring in my deaf ears, and show me, in my night of blindness, the way I have to go.

JULIAN.
Get you home, old man!

BISHOP MARIS.
Not till you have sworn to renounce your devilish courses. What would you do? Would dust rise up against the spirit? Would the lord of earth cast down the Lord of heaven? See you not that the day of wrath is upon us by reason of your sins? The fountains are parched like eyes that have wept themselves dry. The clouds, which ought to pour the manna of fruitfulness upon us, sweep over our heads, and shed no moisture. This earth, which has been cursed since the morning of time, quakes and trembles under the Emperor’s bloodguiltiness.

JULIAN.
What favour do you expect of your God for such excess of zeal, foolish old man? Do you hope that, as of old, your Galilean master will work a miracle, and give you back your sight?

BISHOP MARIS.
I have all the sight I desire; and I thank the Lord that he quenched my bodily vision, so that I — am spared from seeing the man who walks in a darkness more terrible than mine.

JULIAN.
Let me pass!

BISHOP MARIS.
Whither?

JULIAN.
Into the Sun-King’s house.

BISHOP MARIS.
You shall not pass. I forbid you in the name of the only God!

JULIAN.
Frantic old man! — Away with him!

BISHOP MARIS.
Ay, lay hands upon me! But he who dares to do so, his hand shall wither. The God of Wrath shall manifest himself in his might —

JULIAN.
Your God is no mighty God. I will show you that the Emperor is stronger than he —

BISHOP MARIS.
Lost creature! — Then must I call down the ban upon thee, thou recreant son of the church!

HEKEBOLIUS.
[Pale.]
My lord and Emperor, let not this thing be!

BISHOP MARIS.
[In a loud voice.]
Cursed be thou, Julianus Apostata! Cursed be thou, Emperor Julian! God the Lord hath spat thee forth out of his mouth! Cursed be thine eyes and thy hands! Cursed be thy head and all thy doings! Woe, woe, woe to the apostate! Woe, woe, woe —
[A hollow rumbling noise is heard. The roof and columns of the temple totter, and, are seen to collapse with a thundering crash, white the whole building is wrapped in a cloud of dust. The multitude utter shrieks of terror; many fee, others fall to the ground. There is breathless stillness for a while. Little by little the cloud of dust settles, and the temple of Apollo is seen in ruins.

BISHOP MARIS.
[Whose two conductors have fled, stands alone, and says softly.]
God has spoken.

JULIAN.
[Pale, and in a low voice.]
Apollo has spoken. His temple was polluted: therefore he crushed it.

BISHOP MARIS.
And I tell you it was that Lord who laid the temple of Jerusalem in ruins.

JULIAN.
If it be so, then the churches of the Galilean shall be closed, and his priests shall be driven with scourges to raise up that temple anew.

BISHOP MARIS.
Try, impotent mail! Who has had power to restore the temple of Jerusalem since the Prince of Golgotha called down destruction upon it?

JULIAN.
I have the power! The Emperor has the power! Your God shall be made a liar. Stone by stone will I rebuild the temple of Jerusalem in all its glory, as it was in the days of Solomon.

BISHOP MARIS.
Not one stone shall you add to another; for it is accursed of the Lord.

JULIAN.
Wait, wait; you shall see — if you could see — you who stand there forsaken and helpless, groping in the darkness, not knowing where you next may place your foot.

BISHOP MARIS.
Yet I see the glare of the lightning that shall one day fall upon you and yours.
[He gropes his way out.
Julian
remains behind
,
surrounded by a handful of pale and terrified attendants.

ACT THIRD
.

SCENE FIRST.

 
In Antioch. An open colonnade, with statues and a fountain in front of it. To the left, under the colonnade, a flight of steps leads up to the Imperial Palace. A company of Courtiers, Teachers, Poets, and Orators — among them the court-physician,
ORIBASES,
and the poet,
HERACLIUS
— are assembled, some in the colonnade, some around the fountain; most of them are dressed in ragged cloaks, with matted hair and beards.

HERACLIUS.
I can endure this life no longer. To rise with the sun, plunge into a cold bath, run or fence oneself weary —

ORIBASES.
‘Tis all very wholesome.

HERACLIUS.
Is it wholesome to eat seaweed and raw fish?

A COURTIER.
Is it wholesome to have to devour meat in great lumps, all bloody, as it comes from the butcher?

HERACLIUS.
‘Tis little enough meat I have seen for the past week. Most of it goes to the altars. Ere long, methinks, we shall be able to say that the ever venerable gods are the only meat-eaters in Antioch.

ORIBASES.
Still the same old mocker, Heraclius.

HERACLIUS.
Why, of what are you thinking, friend? Far be it from me to mock at the Emperor’s wise decrees. Blessed be the Emperor Julian! Does he not follow in the footsteps of the immortals? For, tell me, does not a certain frugality seem nowadays to reign, even in the heavenly housekeeping?

A COURTIER.
Ha-ha-ha! there you are not far wrong.

HERACLIUS.
Look at Cybele, formerly so bounteous a goddess, whose statue the Emperor lately found in an ash-pit —

ANOTHER COURTIER.
It was in a dunghill —

HERACLIUS.
Like enough; fertilising is Cybele’s business. But look at this goddess, I say; — in spite of her hundred breasts, she flows neither with milk nor honey. [A
circle of laughing hearers has gathered round him. While he is speaking
,
the
Emperor Julian
has come forward on the steps in the colonnade, unnoticed by those below. He wears a tattered cloak, with a girdle of rope; his hair and beard are unkempt, his fingers stained with ink; in both hands, under his arms, and stuck in his belt, he holds bundles of parchment rolls and papers. He stops and listens to
Heraclius
with every sign of exasperation.

HERACLIUS.
[Continuing.]
It seems as though this wet-nurse of the world had become barren. We might almost think that she had passed the age when women — A Courtier.
[Observing
Julian.] Fie, fie, Heraclius, — shame on you! [Julian
signs to the courtier to be silent.

HERACLIUS.
[
Continuing
.] Well, enough of her. But is Ceres in the same case? Does she not display a most melancholy — I had almost said an imperial — parsimony? Yes, believe me, if we had a little more intercourse with high Olympus nowadays, we should hear much to the same tune. I dare swear that nectar and ambrosia are measured out as sparingly as possible. Oh Zeus, how gaunt must thou have grown! Oh roguish Dionysus, how much is there left of the fulness of thy loins? Oh wanton, quick-flushing Venus, — oh Mars, inauspicious to married men —

JULIAN.
[In great wrath.]
Oh most shameless Heraclius. Oh scurvy, gall-spitting, venom-mouth —

HERACLIUS.
Ah, my gracious Emperor!

JULIAN.
Oh ribald scoffer at all sacred things! And this must I endure — to hear your croaking tongue the instant I leave my library to breathe the fresh morning air!
[He comes nearer.
Know you what I hold under my left arm? No, you do not know. ‘Tis a polemic against you, blasphemous and foolish Heraclius!

HERACLIUS.
What, my Emperor, — against me?

JULIAN.
Yes, a treatise against you. A treatise with which my indignation has this very night inspired me. Think you I could be other than wroth at your most unseemly behaviour yesterday? How strange was the licence you allowed yourself in the lecture-hall, in my hearing, and that of many other earnest men? Had we not to listen for hours together to the shameful fables about the gods which you must needs retail? How dared you repeat such fictions?
W
ere they not lies, from first to last?

HERACLIUS.
Ah, my Emperor, if you call that lying, then both Ovid and Lucian were liars.

JULIAN.
What else? Oh, I cannot express the indignation that seized me when I understood whither your impudent address was tending.
“
Man, let nothing surprise you,” I was tempted to say with the comic poet, when I heard you, like an ill-conditioned cur, barking forth, not expressions of gratitude, but a string of irrational nursery-tales, and ill-written to boot. For your verses were bad, Heraclius; — that I have proved in my treatise. How I longed to arise and leave the hall when I saw you, as in a theatre, making a spectacle both of Dionysus and of the great immortal after whom you are named! If I constrained myself to keep my seat, I can assure you ‘twas more out of respect to the players — if I dare call them so — than to the poet. But ‘twas most of all for my own sake. I feared it might seem as though I were fleeing like a frightened dove. Therefore I made no sign, but quietly repeated to myself that verse of Homer:
“
Bear it, my heart, for a time; heavier things hast thou suffered.” Endure, as before, to hear a mad dog yelp at the eternal gods. Yes, I see we must stomach this and more. We are fallen on evil days. Show me the happy man who has been suffered to keep his eyes and ears uncontaminated in this iron age!

ORIBASES.
I pray you, my noble master, be not so deeply moved. Let it comfort you that we all listened with displeasure to this man’s folly.

JULIAN.
That is in nowise the truth! I read in the countenances of most of you something far different from displeasure while this shameless mountebank was babbling forth his ribaldries, and then looking round the circle with a greasy smile, just as though he had done something to be proud of.

HERACLIUS. — Alas, my Emperor, I am most unhappy —

JULIAN.
That you may well be; for this is, in truth, no trifling matter. Think you the legends of the gods have not a serious and weighty purpose? Are they not destined to lead the human spirit, by an easy and pleasant path, up to the mystic abodes where reigns the highest god, — and thereby to make our souls capable of union with him? How can it be otherwise? Was it not with that view that the old poets invented such legends, and that Plato and others repeated them, and even added to their number? Apart from this purpose, I tell you, these stories would be fit only for children or barbarians, — and scarcely for them. But was it children and barbarians, pray, that you had before you yesterday? Where do you find the audacity to address me as if I were a child? Do you think yourself a sage, and entitled to a sage’s freedom of speech, because you wear a ragged cloak, and carry a beggar’s staff in your hand? A Courtier. How true, my Emperor! No, no, it needs more than that.

JULIAN.
Ay? Does it indeed? And what? To let your hair grow, perhaps, and never clean your nails? Oh hypocritical Cleon! I know you, one and all. Here, in this treatise, I have given you a name which — ; you shall hear —
He searches through the bundles of papers. At that moment
Libanius
enters from the right
,
richly, clad, and with a haughty mien.

ORIBASES.
[In a low tone
.] Ah, you come in the nick of time, most honoured Libanius!

JULIAN.
[Continuing his search
.] Where can it be —

LIBANIUS.
[To
Oribases.] What mean you, friend?

ORIBASES.
The Emperor is much enraged; your coming will pacify him.

JULIAN.
Ah, here I have it —
[With annoyance.
What does that man want?

ORIBASES.
Sire, this is —

JULIAN.
No matter, no matter! Now you shall hear whether I know you or not. There are among the wretched Galileans a number of madmen who call themselves penitents. These renounce all earthly possessions, and yet demand great gifts of the fools who treat them as holy men and almost as objects of worship. Behold, you are like these penitents, except that I shall give you nothing. For I am not so foolish as those others. Yes, yes, were I not firm on that point, you would soon overrun the whole court with your shamelessness. Nay, do you not already do so? Are there not many among you who would come again, even if I drove them away? Oh my dear friends, what can this lead to? Are you lovers of wisdom? Are you followers of Diogenes, whose garb and habits you ape? In truth, you do not haunt the schools nearly so much as you besiege my treasurer. What a pitiful and despicable thing has not wisdom become because of you! Oh, hypocrites and babblers without understanding! Oh you — But what is yonder fat man seeking?

ORIBASES.
Sire, it is the chief magistrate of the city —

JULIAN.
The chief magistrate must wait. The matters we have in hand must take precedence of all meaner affairs. How now? Why this air of impatience? Is your business so weighty —

LIBANIUS.
By no means, sire; I can come another day.
[He is going.

ORIBASES.
Sire, do you not recognise this distinguished man? This is the rhetorician Libanius.

JULIAN.
What? Libanius? Impossible. Libanius here — the incomparable Libanius! I cannot believe it.

LIBANIUS.
I thought the Emperor knew that the citizens of Antioch had chosen me as their chief magistrate.

JULIAN.
Assuredly I knew it. But when I made my entrance into the city, and the magistrates came forth to greet me with an oration, I looked in vain for Libanius. Libanius was not among them.

LIBANIUS.
The Emperor had uttered no wish to hear Libanius speak on that occasion.

JULIAN.
The orator Libanius ought to have known what were the Emperor’s wishes in that respect.

LIBANIUS.
Libanius knew not what changes time and absence might have wrought. Libanius therefore judged it more becoming to take his place among the multitude. He chose, indeed, a sufficiently conspicuous position; but the Emperor deigned not to let his eyes fall on him.

JULIAN.
I thought you received my letter the day after —

LIBANIUS.
Your new friend Priscus brought it to me.

JULIAN.
And none the less — perhaps all the more — you held aloof — ?

LIBANIUS.
Headache and weighty business —

JULIAN.
Ah, Libanius, in bygone days you were not so chary of your presence.

LIBANIUS.
I come where I am bidden. Ought I to be intrusive? Would you have me stand in the way of the Emperor’s much-honoured Maximus?

JULIAN.
Maximus never appears at court.

LIBANIUS.
And for good reason. Maximus holds a court of his own. The Emperor has conceded him a whole palace.

JULIAN.
Oh my Libanius, have I not conceded you my heart? How can you envy Maximus his palace?

LIBANIUS.
I envy no man. I do not even envy my colleagues Themistius and Mamertinus, although you have conferred on them such signal proofs of your favour. Nor do I envy Hekebolius, whose wealth you have increased by such princely presents. I even rejoice to be the only man to whom you have given nothing. For I well know the reason of the exception. You wish the cities of your empire to abound in everything, and most of all in oratory, knowing that it is that distinction which marks us off from the barbarians. Now you feared that I, like certain others, might, if you gave me riches, become lukewarm in my art. The Emperor has therefore preferred to let the teacher of his youth remain poor, in order to hold him the closer to his craft. Thus do I interpret a course of action which has astonished some whom I forbear to name. ‘Tis for the honour and well-being of the state that you have given me nothing. I am to lack riches that I may abound in eloquence.

JULIAN.
And I, my Libanius, have also understood the reason why the teacher of my youth has let me pass many months here in Antioch without presenting himself. Libanius doubtless deemed that any services his former pupil may have rendered to the gods, to the state, or to learning, were not great enough to deserve celebration by the man who is called the king of eloquence. Libanius no doubt thought that meaner orators were better fitted to deal with such trivial things. Moreover, Libanius has remained silent out of care for the balance of my mind. You feared, doubtless, to see the Emperor intoxicated with arrogance, reeling like one who in his thirst has drunk too deeply of the leaf crowned wine-bowl, had you lavished on him any of that art which is the marvel of Greece, and raised him, so to speak, to the level of the gods, by pouring out before him so precious a libation.