Historical Miniatures

by August Strindberg

The people had risen as Julian entered, and many tribunes had shouted “Long live the Emperor!” but thereupon there followed an embarrassing silence, during which the Emperor was regarded with cold curiosity. When at last the latter was weary of waiting, he called his secretary, the Hebrew Eleazar, and commanded him to go to the prefecture in order to find out the reason of the defaulters’ absence, and at the same time he gave the signal for the play to commence.

The actors entered, and at the altar commenced to offer the ancient kind of sacrifice which used to serve as an introduction to tragedies. Since animal sacrifices had ceased in all religions, even in the Jewish after the destruction of the Temple, under Titus in A.D. 70, this unusual proceeding aroused great curiosity. The legionaries were inured to the sight of blood, but the citizens and their wives turned away when the goat was sacrificed to Dionysus. People sought to find the reason for Julian’s wish to reintroduce this custom in his laudable attempt to mingle all religions together, and to discover a deeper meaning in the ceremonies of all. The offering indeed was a gift, a sacrifice, and an expression of gratitude, but Maximus the mystic had also persuaded the Emperor that there were hidden powers in the blood itself, the source of life, which attracted spiritual forces of a lower order. Man shed his mother’s blood at his birth and the sacred institution of circumcision was intended to be a reminder of the bloody and painful operation of birth. Slaves were slaughtered on the graves of chieftains, and in the time of Julius Caesar the Romans had on one extraordinary occasion sacrificed three hundred prisoners. Captivated by this and by similar philosophical arguments, Julian was enticed into a course which was destined to lead to his destruction. After the sacrifice, at which the soldiers had laughed and the women had wept, the drama commenced in the poet’s original language. Greek was indeed spoken by all people of cultivation from Palestine to Gaul, but the uneducated did not know it, and therefore the citizens sat there inattentively.

As the chorus entered for the second time, Eleazar returned with news. “This is what has happened,” he said. “The Bishop of Sens, the Primate of the Church of Gaul, has entered the town, and is performing mass in the church. The high officials are present there, and they accordingly beg to be excused attending on the Emperor. They thought that he was aware that Christians never go to the theatre, and they rely upon the edict granting religious liberty.”

Julian turned white with rage. “Good! They shall pay for that! Now, my Jewish friend, Eleazar, you shall sit near and talk with me. The actors are wretched, and I cannot endure their pronunciation of Greek.”

Eleazar demurred, but the Emperor overruled his objections. The morning passed, and when the first part of the trilogy was at an end, part of the public seemed to wish to steal away; but the exits were closed, in order to avoid the fiasco of actors playing to an empty house, and the disrespect which would thereby be shown to the Emperor. But the discontent of the audience continually increased, for they were tired and hungry. They were also unpleasantly surprised by the presence of a Jew in the Emperor’s box. It was not, however, because he was a Jew, for hatred of the Jews arose much later, after the Crusades. During the first centuries after Christ, Jews were confused with Christians because people believed that the new religion came from Palestine and was a continuation of Mosaism. The hostile glances which were cast at Eleazar were therefore more on account of his mean appearance and position than of his religion. The favour shown him by the Emperor was especially a challenge to the Christians, in whose eyes he was an alien and a heathen.

When, in the second part of the trilogy, Prometheus was nailed to the rock, the spectators must have thought of the Crucified as the antitype, for the actor playing that part took that posture, extended his arms, and let his head sink on his breast. The common people became more attentive, and as they neither had learnt Greek nor were acquainted with mythology, they thought that the sufferings of Christ were being represented on the stage. Since this had never been done before, they were displeased, and half-audible conversations began. The Emperor was angry, but did not move a muscle. He was generally quiet, but when he was enraged his intelligence forsook him. He sat there in silence, revolving plans against these barbarians, who had forgotten the wisdom of the ancients. It was now past noon, and the impatience of the audience increased. Then the sky began to be covered with clouds and some flakes of snow fell slowly like white feathers. Those who had mantles drew them over their heads. The actors looked towards the Emperor’s box, but he did not move, although it had no roof. He was a soldier, and would not be afraid of anything so trivial as bad weather.

Now Prometheus began to prophesy to Io of the Deliverer who would be born to overthrow Zeus and deliver the fire-bringer. The educated Christians and the heathen looked at each other questioningly, when Io said, “What dost thou say? Shall my son be thy deliverer?” And when Prometheus answered, “He will be the third scion after ten generations,” a murmur broke out in the theatre. “Ten generations,” that was in round numbers 700 years—a period nearly extending to the birth of Christ, since the Christians reckoned dates from 763 A.D., the end of the mythological era, to which the drama belonged.

Julian perceived that he had “carried wood to the fire,” and helped the Christians without intending to do so. Aeschylus had prophesied Christ’s birth almost to the very year, and intimated that he would overthrow Zeus. The orthodox followers of Athanasius wished for no better weapon with which to crush the Arians, who denied the Deity of Christ.

The snow fell ever more thickly, till at last it was a snowstorm. Julian was as white as though he wore a shroud, but he did not move, for he was beside himself with rage against himself, against the demons who had enticed him to choose this play, and against the heavenly powers who mocked him.

The whole audience was covered with snow, and discussed theology; the rabble laughed and quarrelled. The only ones who were protected against the inclemency of the weather were the actors under the canopy. But the damp snow was heavy, and the linen awning presently bent and broke.