The Death of theGods

By

Dmitri Mérejkowski

Translated by

Herbert Trench

Sometime Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford

Authorised English Version

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON The Knickerbocker Press

II Copyright 1901 by G. P. Putnam's Sons

Made in the United States of America

The Knickerbocker Press, New York III

MÉREJKOWSKI

Dmitri Mérejkowski is perhaps the most interesting and powerful of the younger Russian novelists, the only writer that promises to carry on the work of Tolstoi, Turgeniev, and Dostoievski. His books, which are already numerous, are animated by a single master-idea, the Pagano-Christian dualism of our human nature. What specially interests him in the vast spectacle of human affairs is the everlasting contest between the idea of a God-Man and the idea of a Man-God; that is to say, between the conception of a God incarnate for awhile (as in Christ) and the conception of Man as himself God—gradually evolving higher types of splendid and ruling character which draw after them the generations.

The novelist's own doctrine seems to be that both the Pagan and the Christian elements in our nature, although distinct elements, are equally legitimate and sacred. His teaching is that the soul and the senses have an equal right to be respected; that hedonism and altruism are equals, and that the really full man, the perfect man, is he who can ally in harmonious equilibrium the cult of Dionysus and the cult of Christ.

Mérejkowski conceives that European civilisation has been born of the tremendous conflict between these two main ideas. And he has embodied this conflict in a trilogy of novels,—three great historical romances. The first is entitled The Death of the Gods, and deals with the extraordinary career of the Roman Emperor. IV Julian the Apostate, who in the fourth century A.D. sought to revive the worship of the Olympians after Christianity had been adopted by Constantine the Great as the official religion of the Roman Empire.

The historical novel, pure and simple, exists no longer. Writers of genius who seem to write historical novels in reality are only transferring to the stage of the world a drama which is being played in their own souls. They transfer thither that drama in order to show that the struggle which is now going on in us is eternal. Mérejkowski sees the question, which is of supreme interest to us, being asked by the great spirits of a wealthy and imperial civilisation closely resembling our own, in the fourth century. And, what is of more interest still, he not only sees the momentous problem and places it before us with remarkable lucidity, but he also seems, in his own fashion, to arrive at a solution. Moreover, this novelist, this psychologist, is also an artist and a poet, possessed by what he somewhere calls the "Nostalgia of the Distant." With an ardour as of Flaubert in Salammbo, and with perhaps more skill than Sienkiewicz in Quo Vadis, the author of The Death of the Gods has succeeded in re-creating the wonderful rich scenes and characters of that remote

epoch. We see the racing stables of the Hippodrome of Constantinople, battles with wild German warriors round Strasburg, the interior of the baths at Antioch, dinners of epicures and men of letters at Athens, pictures of a Roman Emperor at his toilet-table, or of a lovelorn child in the Temple of Aphrodite. Before writing this first of his great romances Mérejkowski himself travelled through Asia Minor and Greece, visited Constantinople and Syria, and gathered everywhere living impressions to serve his art and his V thought. He was besides admirably prepared to handle a subject which had attracted him from youth. A delicate Hellenist, his first appearance in literary life was as a harmonious translator of Æschylus and Sophocles. Later, the Gnostics, the Fathers of the Eastern Church, the Greek Sophists (who represented the last throes of expiring Paganism and already dreamed of reviving it), were the young poet's objects of study. Thus was born the romance of The Death of the Gods, which he has continued later in The Resurrection of the Gods (of

which Leonardo da Vinci is the hero), and completed by The Anti-Christ, portraying the savage figure of Peter the Great, the creator (despite all natural obstacles) of St. Petersburg and of modern Russia.

In the first romance of the three the new Christian spirit is seen invading the soul of Julian himself, the last champion of expiring Paganism. It can even be seen in the little treatises, The Sun King and the Mother of the Gods, which Julian wrote in his feverish nights to defend his lost cause. Soon there remained to this singular man of all that first ardour but a feeling of impotent rage and unbridled pride—the Napoleonic lust of conquering the world. And so we see him in this book, in the midst of the mad expedition against Persia, where he was to meet his death, oversetting the altar of the gods who had betrayed him, and exclaiming: "The gods are no more; or rather, the gods do not yet exist. They are not. But they will be. We shall all be gods. We have but to dare!" A few days later he falls, vanquished by the Galilean, whose image haunts his deathbed. But at that last hour it is not the fierce God of the Arians (who educated Julian the Emperor) that he sees. He whom delirium calls up is Christus Pastophorus,—the Good Shepherd,—the Spirit VI

of gentleness and love. It is that Spirit who has dethroned the Olympians.

But the gods do not perish utterly. Centuries pass, and from the bosom of the waters, like Aphrodite, from the bosom of the earth, like Cybele, they come forth again, serene and impassive. Popes, kings, great nobles, simple Florentine merchants welcome them, brought by galleys from the coasts of Hellas, or discovered by patient excavators of the antique soil. Their marble glory shines anew. The rays of Helios penetrate the soul of artists. The fires of Dionysus kindle the blood of the young men and the young women. It is the dawn of the Renaissance. Has then the God-Man conquered the Man-God? No; because, see, Savonarola is defying the gods of Olympus and the gods of the earth. The latter destroy him, but the Christ has reappeared, and the problem of the two forms of wisdom continues to be set in a form more august and more painful than ever before.

This is the subject of the Renaissance of the Gods, a romance of which the distinguished critic in the Revue des Deux Mondes, M. Theodore de Wyzewa, says that it "far surpasses the mass of the romances published in Russia during the last twenty-five years."

And since then, as before then, as at all times, at every fresh crisis, at every renewal of the creative process taking place within human consciousness, the two principles reappear. They struggle too in the soul of the strongest. Look at Peter the Great, whom old believers used to call "The Anti-Christ." He will be the hero of the third romance of the trilogy. We shall see therein the tragedy of the gentle Tsarevitch Alexis, servant of the Galilean and immolated victim of the new god; victim, that is, of human will incarnate in VII the genius of Peter, lifting itself above good and evil.

The above notes are largely taken, and partly translated, from an interesting paper on Mérejkowski by M. Prozor in the Mercure de France.

Herbert Trench.

1 St. Petersbourg, 24 Juin, 1901.

J'autorise par la présente Monsieur Herbert Trench à l'exclusion de tout autre, à traduire du russe en anglais mon roman intitulé La Mort des Dieux, qui est la première partie de ma trilogie Le Christ et l'Anti-Christ.

Dmitri de Mérejkowski.

[I hereby grant to Mr. Herbert Trench the exclusive authorisation for the English version of my romance entitled The Death of the Gods, this romance constituting the first division of the trilogy issued under the general title of Christ and the Anti-Christ.]

A similar authorisation has been granted to Mr. Trench for the two succeeding volumes of the trilogy, entitled, respectively, The Resurrection of the Gods and The Anti-Christ.

PART I

2

3

I

About two and a half miles from Cæsarea in Cappadocia, upon the woody spurs of Mount Argæus, and close to the great Roman road, bubbled a certain warm spring, famous for its healing virtues. A granite slab, adorned with rough sculpture and bearing a Greek inscription, proved that this spring had of old time been consecrated to the twin sons of Zeus, Castor and Pollux; but this by no means prevented the unbroken images of these Pagan demigods from being locally worshipped as St. Cosmas and St. Damian respectively.

On the other side of the road, opposite the sacred fountain, rose a little thatched tavern, flanked by a dirty stable, and by a shed where fowls and geese were dabbling in the mud. In this tavern, owned by one Syrax, a wily Armenian, could be bought goats'-milk cheese, black bread, honey, olive oil, and a thin sour wine, grown in neighbouring vineyards.

A screen divided the tavern into two compartments; one for the use of common folk, the other for guests of more importance. From the smoked ceiling hung hams curing, and odorous bunches of mountain herbs, proving that Fortunata, the wife of Syrax, was a careful housewife; a fact that did not save the dubious reputation of the establishment.

At night honest travellers dared not halt here, remembering sundry rumours about dark plots hatched in the cottage; but Syrax, ever scheming, and knowing whose hand to cross with silver, had never troubled 4 his head about rumour. The partition was formed by two slender columns, between which was stretched, in the manner of a door-curtain, an old chlamys (or outer garment) of faded wool, belonging to the mistress of the house. The little columns, wrought in a barefaced attempt at the Doric style, were the pride of the heart of Syrax and the single ornament of the tavern. Once gilded, they had long stood creviced and chipped and hopelessly cracked.

The stuff of the chlamys, when new, had been a bright violet; now it was a dirty blue, eked out by many patches, and stained with innumerable stains, due to the breakfasts, dinners, and suppers of ten years of the conjugal life of the hard-working Fortunata.

In the clean half of the tavern, on a single narrow couch, which was torn in many places, Marcus Scuda, Roman tribune of the ninth cohort of the sixteenth legion, was lolling before a tankard-strewn table. A dandy provincial, he had one of those faces at the sight of which prosperous slaves and second-rate courtesans would inevitably exclaim with heartfelt admiration: "What a handsome man!"

At his feet, in an uncomfortable but respectful attitude, a red-faced man sat, panting. His bald head was fringed with grey hair, brushed towards the temples. He was the centurion of the eighth centuria, Publius Aquila.

Farther off, twelve soldiers, stretched on the floor, were playing at knuckle-bones.

"By Hercules!" cried Scuda, "I'd rather be the meanest beggar in Constantinople than the first man in a mouse-trap like this. Can you call this an existence, Publius? Answer me honestly. Is this living? To think that outside barracks and camps the future has 5 nothing in store for one; that one must rot in this sickening marsh without ever catching a glimpse of the world again!"

"Yes," assented Publius; "it's a fact that life here isn't precisely gay; but on the other hand, it's peaceful!"

The knuckle-bones pre-occupied the attention of the old captain. Pretending to listen to the gossipings of his superior officer, and fully to agree with the drift of his remarks, he followed with an interested eye the game of the legionaries. He said to himself, "If the red aims well, he'll certainly win."

However, by way of politeness, Publius asked Scuda, with a show of attention—

"Why, by the way, have you brought down on yourself the indignation of the Prefect Helvidius?"

"A woman, a friend of mine, was at the bottom of it, a girl...."

And Marcus Scuda, in a fit of garrulous intimacy, confided to the ear of the old centurion that the Prefect, "that old goat of a Helvidius," had grown jealous on account of the special favours conferred on him, Marcus, by a certain frail lady, a Lydian.

Now Scuda wanted, by rendering some important service, to win back the good-will of the Prefect; and he had resolved upon a plan.

Not far from Cæsarea, in the fortress of Macellum, dwelt Julian and Gallus, the cousins of the reigning Emperor Constantius, and the nephews of Constantine the Great. These two were the last representatives of the luckless house of the Flavii. On his accession to the throne, fearing rivals, Constantius had assassinated his uncle, the father of Julian and Gallus, Julian Constantius, the brother of Constantine. But Julian and 6 Gallus themselves had been spared, and imprisoned in the solitary castle of Macellum, where they lived oppressed by perpetual fear of death. In great perplexity, knowing that the new Emperor loathed the two orphans who reminded him of his crime, Helvidius, Prefect of Cæsarea, desired, but dreaded, to divine the will of his master.

Scuda, the adroit tribune, possessed by visions of a career at Court, grasped, from chance words of his superior officer, that the latter dared not take upon himself the heavy responsibility, and trembled lest the current rumour about an escape of the heirs of Constantine should be realised in fact. At this point Scuda made up his mind to go to Macellum, seize the prisoners, and bring them to Cæsarea under the safeguard of his legionaries, well assured that he had nothing to fear from these orphaned minors, abandoned by the world and hated by the Emperor. By this valiant proceeding, Scuda counted on regaining the favours of the Prefect Helvidius, so unhappily lost on account of the auburn-haired lady of Lydia. Nevertheless, being of a suspicious nature, he only communicated to Publius part of his plan.

"And what do you propose now, Scuda? Have you received instructions from Constantinople?"

"I have received nothing; nobody knows anything; but there is an everlasting hawking about of rumours, don't you see? There are endless veiled hopes and hints, unfinished phrases, threats and warnings, allusions.... Any idiot can do what he has been told to do. But this is a matter of guessing the mute will of our master. That's a job that brings reward. Come, let us make the venture, take the risk. The great thing is to be speedy and stout-hearted, and to 7 trust in the Holy Cross!... I confide myself to you, Publius. Perhaps we shall be drinking at Court, you and I, before many days are over; and, by God, a better wine than this!"

Through the little barred window filtered the troubled light of a melancholy dusk. It was raining monotonously. A single clay wall, full of crevices, separated the room from the stable. The acrid odour of dung came though, and the clucking of hens, the shrill chirping of chickens, and the grunting of pigs was audible. There came also the steady noise of a liquid falling into a sonorous can, as if the good wife were milking her cow. The soldiers, discussing their winnings, were quarrelling among themselves in undertones. Close against the floor, through the frail lath and plaster, a hog had thrust his fat, pink snout. Caught in too narrow a slit, he could not draw out his muzzle and was groaning piteously. Publius mused—

"By Jupiter! we're nearer the courtyard of the cattle than the court of the Emperor!"

His interest in the game had melted away. The tribune after his excess of confidence himself felt sad. Through the window he looked at the grey sky, dissolving itself into water, at the muzzle of the pig, the thick lees of wine in the tankards, the dirty soldiers. Anger mounted to his brain.

He struck the table, which swayed on its uneven legs, with his fist.

"Hi, rascality! betrayer of Christ, Syrax, come here! What wine do you call that, you scoundrel?"

The innkeeper ran up. He wore hair and beard frizzled into fine ringlets, black as ebony, with bluish shadows. Fortunata used to say, in her hours of conjugal tenderness, that the beard of Syrax was like a 8 bunch of the grapes of Samos. His eyes were also black and extraordinarily brilliant, and a honeyed smile never left his purple lips. He resembled a caricature of Bacchus, and was black and sugary from every point of view. To appease the wrath of Scuda, the innkeeper took to witness Moses and Deidamia, Christ and Hercules, that his wine was superexcellent. But the tribune was obstinate, declaring that he knew in whose house Glabrio, a rich merchant of Lyrnas, had recently been assassinated; and that he, Scuda, would denounce Syrax in the proper quarters. Terrified, the Armenian rushed to the cellars, and brought back thence in triumph a strange bulky bottle, flat at its base, narrow-necked, covered with mildew, and grey with age. Through the mouldiness in places the glass was visible, no longer transparent, but irised, and upon the label of cypress-wood attached to the neck of

the bottle could be deciphered the initial letters of "Anthosmium" and below "Annorum Centum."

But Syrax assured the couple that even in the reign of the Emperor Diocletian the wine had been more than a hundred years old.

"Black wine?" asked Publius, with respect.

"Black as tar, and sweet smelling as nectar. Ho! Fortunata! for this wine bring summer glasses, cups of crystal, and bring too the whitest snow from the ice-tub."

Fortunata brought in two glasses. Her healthy face was of a dull pallor like thick cream, and with her came in the smell of country freshness, milk, and manure.

The landlord gazed at the bottle amorously, and kissed its neck; then with caution he raised the waxen seal. The wine flowed black and odorous in a thick jet, dissolving the snow, while the crystal of the cups became dull and cloudy under the action of cold. 9

Thereupon Scuda, who had pretensions to learning (he was capable of confusing Hecuba with Hecate), declaimed proudly the only line of Martial he could remember—

Candida nigrescant vetulo crystalla Falerno!

"Wait a moment. Here is something still better," and Syrax plunged his hand into his pocket, drew thence a minute flask carved out of onyx, and with a sensual smile poured into the wine a drop of precious Arabian cinnamon. The drop fell, and, like a creaming pearl, melted into the black liquor. A strangely heavy perfume filled the room.

While the tribune was slowly drinking, Syrax made a clacking noise with his tongue, murmuring, "The wines of Biblos, of Lesbos, of Lathea in Chios, of Icaria ... are less than nothing to this wine!"

Night was falling. Scuda gave the order to get ready to march. The legionaries began putting on their armour, fastened the greave protecting the right leg, and took up bucklers and lances. When they entered the outer hall, the Icarian shepherds, who were brigands rather than shepherds, seated near the fire, rose respectfully before the Roman tribune. Scuda, full of a sense of his own rank and valour, felt the blood burning in his veins and his head buzzing with the effect of the marvellous liquor.

On the threshold a man approached him. He wore a strange oriental costume—a white tunic, striped with broad red bands, and on his head a high head-dress of woven camel's hair, and a towering Persian tiara. Scuda halted. The visage of the Mede was finely cut, lengthy and meagre, and yellow of hue rather than olive. The narrow and piercing eyes 10 sparkled maliciously, but all his movements were calm and majestic. He was one of those wandering magicians who haughtily declared themselves Chaldeans, seers, and mathematicians. He announced to the tribune that his name was Nogodarès. Sojourning by chance with Syrax, he was travelling from the distant Hyrcania towards the coasts of the Ionian sea, to meet the celebrated warlock philosopher, Maximus of Ephesus. The magician begged for authority to prove his art and to divine the happy fortune of the tribune.