At Constantinople Julian organised Bacchic processions. Seated in a
chariot drawn by white mules, he held in his right hand a golden
thyrsus, surmounted by cedar-fruit, and in the other a cup garlanded
with ivy. The rays of the sun flooded the crystal wine-cup with
vermilion. On each side of the chariot paced tame leopards, sent from
the island of Serendib. In front, Bacchantes sang to the beat of
timbrels, waving bright torches; and through the clouds of smoke lads,
wearing the horns of Fauns, spilt wine into goblets. As they pushed
laughing along, the red wine often splashed the bare shoulder of some
Bacchante, and dashed the sunshine with rosy spray. An obese old man,
a certain rascally money-lender--who, by the way, was head of the
Imperial Treasury,--mounted on an ass, played the part of Silenus to
perfection. The Bacchantes danced along, waving their hands towards
the Emperor--
O Bacchus, ever girt with gleaming cloud!
Thousands of voices intoned the chant from the _Antigone_ of
Sophocles--
But now be glad of Victory! She meets our gladness with an
answering smile; And Thebes, the many-charioted, hears
far-resounding praise. Now then have done with wars,--forget your
strifes! Visit all temples of the gods with night-long dance and
song; And thou, O Theban Bacchus, lead our mirth! Lead thou, and
shake the earth!
Suddenly Julian heard a burst of laughter, the shrill scream of a
woman, and the quavering voice of an old man--
"Ah, my pretty chicken!"
It was the Bacchic priest, a good-humoured septuagenarian, who had
pinched the bare elbow of a comely Bacchante. Julian's face darkened,
and he summoned the old dotard, who ran up, still dancing--
"My friend," whispered Julian in his ear, "observe the dignity which
befits your age and rank!"
"I am a simple and unlearned man. And I may venture to tell your
Majesty that while philosophy is beyond me, I venerate the gods. Ask
anyone you please on that head--I have always been faithful to them.
Only ... when I see a pretty girl ... my blood gets up! I am an old
satyr...." Seeing the displeased face of the Emperor he stopped,
assumed a more solemn air, and relapsed into still denser stupidity.
"Who is that young girl?" asked Julian.
"She who is carrying the sacred vessels on her head?"
"Yes."
"A courtesan of Chalcedon...."
"What!... You have authorised a courtesan to touch the holy vessels of
the gods with her foul hands!"
"But, divine Augustus, you yourself ordained this procession. Who was
there to choose from? All the noble women are Galileans. And then ...
none of them would have consented to have exhibited themselves
half-naked...."
"Then they are all...."
"No, no! Some of them are dancing-girls, tragic actresses, horsewomen
from the Hippodrome. See how gay they are and free from false shame!
Believe me, the people like that! That's what they want. And there's
a patrician woman!..."
The last-named was a Christian, an old maid looking out for husbands.
On her head rose a helmet-shaped wig, a galerum made of blond hair
powdered with gold--thickly covered with gems as an Indian idol;
impudently painted, she drew her tiger-skin across her withered bosom,
and smiled affectedly.
Julian looked down on the people with a sudden impulse of distaste.
Rope-dancers, drunken legionaries, venal women, circus-riders,
gymnasts, actors, swarmed and wantoned all round him.
The procession arrived at a place where four streets met. One of the
Bacchantes ran to a tavern, whence came an unpleasant smell of rancid
frying fish, and bought some greasy cakes for three obols. These she
ate, greedily licking her lips; and finished by wiping her hands on
the purple silk of her robes, which had been granted for the
procession by the Imperial Treasury.
The chorus of Sophocles soon became wearisome. Husky voices took up a
street-song. The whole proceeding appeared to Julian to have been
desecrated. A drunken man was picked up; and some thieves, playing the
part of Fauns, were arrested. They defended themselves, and a fight
ensued. The only personages in the whole company whose demeanour
remained dignified and beautiful were the panthers.
At last they drew near the temple. Julian came down from his chariot.
"Can I really present myself before the altar of Dionysus surrounded
by this human refuse?"
A chill of disgust ran through his body. He saw the brutal faces
wasted with debauchery, corpse-like through their paint; the painful
nudity of bodies deformed by fasting and anæmia. He breathed the
atmosphere of low wine-shops, houses of ill-fame. The breath of the
crowd, tainted with rotten fish and sour wine, smote him through the
aromatic smoke. Scrolls of papyrus were stretched out to him from
every side:
"I was promised a place in your stables.... I have been paid nothing
for renouncing Christ...."
"Don't desert us, Divine Augustus! Protect us! We denied for your sake
the faith of our fathers!... If you give us up what will become of
us?"
These were the voices drowned by the chorus of the feast.
Julian went into the temple, and contemplated the marvellous statue of
Dionysus. His eyes, weary with human deformity, reposed on the pure
lines of that divine body. He became oblivious of the crowd as if he
were alone--the only man amidst a herd of animals.
The Emperor proceeded to the sacrifice. The people watched with
amazement the Roman Cæsar, as Pontifex Maximus, in his zeal for
religion doing the work of a slave--splitting wood, bringing twigs,
drawing water, and cleansing the altar.