University of Virginia Library

Chamber in the Palace.
Constantia and her Women at domestic employments.
CONSTANTIA
(laying down her embroidery.)
'Tis a vain strife: my hand obeys me not.
I cannot bind my mind to useful thoughts,
Or mould my limbs to steadfast occupation.
Oh, little heart lie still! Virgilia!

VIRGILIA.
Madam?

CONSTANTIA.
'Tis strange, is 't not? no tidings yet
Have reached me from my husband. Know you aught—
Aught that can comfort me?

VIRGILIA.
Madam, 'tis said
The Cæsar hath fresh victories in Gaul.

CONSTANTIA.
I hate to hear of battles. This rude glory
Looks upon woman with a mournful eye;
Telling of blood-dissevered ties; sad stories
Of widows weeping by lone sepulchres,
And orphans flinging flowers on obscure graves.
Oh Julian! where art thou?

VIRGILIA.
Dear Madam, surely,
Surely the Prince is well; to-night, believe me,
Glad tidings of home-bending steps shall greet you.

CONSTANTIA.
My good Virgilia; gentle comforter!
Thou art most soothing ever. I do believe
In spite of this strange flutter at my heart,
These bodings, that, like frightful dreams oppress me,
These fretful visions, dull anxieties,
That make me start at every noise and tremble,
I do believe—alas! my heart again
Hath got the evil spirit in it, throbbing
As if the very blood would burst its channel,
Then sinking, faint, and sickly.

VIRGILIA.
Would to Heaven
We were once more at Athens. I remember
When you were yet unwedded—

CONSTANTIA.
Say not any thing
Slighting the bliss of wedlock: I would cherish
That as my greatest good.

VIRGILIA.
We were both girls;
You, like a vine, swelling your half-ripe clusters
Beneath the mellowing sun; we, like the leaves
Thick-clustering round to shelter you: nor wholly
Without appropriate beauty; yet most noted
As setting you off freshly. What a pleasure—
When morning opened out his urn of light
On top of grey Hymettus, or when evening
Pillowed her cheek upon the glossy wave,
With purple shadows curtained—how delicious
Was 't then to mount that old Acropolis,
And pace along the marble ramparts, viewing
Whate'er of nature or sublimest art
Stands beautiful around: things, though of earth,
That have an intellectual language!

CONSTANTIA.
Sweetly
We passed our days there. It was there I saw first
My Julian: he was standing in the Stoa,
Wrapped in his academic robe, amidst
A group of awful men, earth-honoured sages,
Discoursing deep philosophy. Go on.

VIRGILIA.
I call to memory too, the pleasant hours,
When, in the noon-tide, like gay butterflies,
We revelled in the sunshine—or, like bees,
Went culling the sweet flowers.

CONSTANTIA.
Or sat beneath
The temple-crowned height of Sunium. Oh,
I loved to stand on some high beetling rock,
Or dusky brow of savage promontory,
Watching the waves, with all their white crests dancing
Come, like thick-plumed squadrons, to the shore
Gallantly bounding.

VIRGILIA.
We had a sweet companion,
(Alas! now dead,) Tithona. She was fraught
As a full fountain with its sparkling waters,
From youth with exquisite thoughts—those graceful fables
(For fables they are surely) of old times,
When, as they said, the air, and earth, and sea,
Were peopled with divinities. You've not
Forgotten yet, how prettily she told
Her little stories, still embellishing
(As she proceeded with her fond enthusiasm
And memory of youthful tutelage,)
With eloquent mystery and most pagan fancy?
You have not these forgotten?

CONSTANTIA.
Could I forget?
I hear with tears: proceed—I love to listen.

VIRGILIA.
What strange adventures she would tell: of Nymphs
Beloved of Satyrs; and transformed maids
Wooed by the Tritons in the deep sea-cave,
Or sporting in their innocent coquetry
On dolphins' backs, round shell-borne Amphitrite
Along the heaving billows. There was not
A sun-beam, or a cloud, or casual shadow,
But had a tale, wild, sweet, imaginative,
To account for it; some illustration apt,
Some link that bound inanimate nature with
Her breathing soul.

CONSTANTIA.
It was her custom—thus;
When clouds were swift careering through the sky,
And lights and shades shot o'er the mountain's side,
Then would she say the spirits of the air
Held their deft revels 'twixt the earth and sun,
Casting light shadows downward. Was 't not so?

VIRGILIA.
Ay, and the Nereids, when 'tis stormy.

CONSTANTIA.
True;
She loved to tell, how, when the wind blows strong
Ashore, the Nereids then do love to gather
Their flocks from the green deep of troubled ocean;
Then might you see the fleecy fools all hurrying,
Crowding, and tumbling one a-top the other,
Into some sheltered cove, or sunny basin;
Rank after rank still rushing up the shore,
Leaving their white coats tufting every rock,
Then vanishing.

VIRGILIA.
I do remember too,
She told me of a mermaid once, that lay
Along the scooped side of a hollow wave,
Singing such dulcet music, that the ear,
Like a wooed damsel, trembled with delight.

CONSTANTIA.
I thank thee, sweet Virgilia, for these thoughts:
Thou hast weaned me from unprofitable sorrow,
At least for the moment—and Heaven knows, this life
Should not be preyed upon by phantoms. Welcome,
(To Eusebia, entering.
My sister, mother, friend! welcome, oh welcome!
I stand in need of comfort. It is good
To see some face we love, to press some hand
That hath the warmth of kindred feeling in it
When we feel desolate. But why is this?
Thy hand withdrawn, thy face averted from me?
Art thou a messenger of grief—Eusebia?
Eusebia, speak to me—my Julian?—speak!

EUSEBIA.
Appease your vain alarm. He lives, is well:
But—

CONSTANTIA.
Oh, delay me not: this long pause kills me.
Speak, speak!

EUSEBIA.
Constantia, I have loved him with
A love that few but wives or mothers feel:
I loved him, for the life I saved: I loved him
For the proud structure of his fame and fortunes,
Raised by my skill: I loved him, as he grew
Blessed in your loving him ('twas my work too),
And now—How can I hate?

CONSTANTIA.
Hate! good Heaven!
Whither does all this tend?

EUSEBIA.
I dare not tell thee.

CONSTANTIA.
Knowest thou Virgilia? Ah! thy face looks sad:
All faces are turned from me. Oh, I knew
Some terrible misfortune overhung me—
I had prophetic warnings.

Enter an Officer, who whispers Eusebia.
EUSEBIA.
What 's to be done? so near! terrible conflict!
Nay, nay, no compromise with duty. No:
At any price the rebel must be stopped.

CONSTANTIA.
Rebel!—my brain will burn. All, all, I see it.
Rebel!—then fratricide! It cannot be.
Oh, thrones are built on graves. He dies who falls!
Who—what art thou? say quickly.

Enter MAXIMUS.
MAXIMUS.
Hail, Augusta

CONSTANTIA.
Behold the Empress there: be her's the greeting.

MAXIMUS.
Julian,—the Emperor—bade me thus salute
His wife—Constantia. Therefore hail, Augusta!
The circle of the diadem is narrow
And will not fit two heads. I kiss thy hand.

(Kneeling.
CONSTANTIA.
Off, off, there 's spotted pestilence upon thee.
I dare not touch thee. Rebel!

MAXIMUS.
Madam, that title
The event alone determines. Honour may
Look doubtfully on points at issue—but
I humbly think that when the die is cast,
And the game won, the goodly stake and glory
May be conceded to the conqueror.

CONSTANTIA.
Traitor!

MAXIMUS.
Recall the name, lady—if mine,
At least I bear it in good company.
(Rising.
'Tis not for me, the Pontifex of Gods,
To kneel at human feet. The Emperor bade me
Deliver these few lines, penned in some haste:
He will be presently here. Madam, be comforted,
(Turning to Eusebia.
The heart of memory is soft, yet bears
Indelible impressions. You have done
Deeds that have stood in good report—kind services
To Julian, when he needed them, that live,
Stored in his treasury of grateful thoughts.
For your sake hath Augustus bade me say,
The slayer shall be spared.

EUSEBIA.
Away, away!
I know thee, Maximus: beneath that mantle
Thou hidest much hypocrisy. Ambition
Within those philosophic folds lies watching,
Even like the ambushed wolf, in act to spring.
Go, Maximus, and dole in other ears
Thy honeyed poison.

MAXIMUS.
Empress, (as thou wert,
And shalt be yet, spite of false fate,) directress
Of man's more feeble judgment! Well I know
The love thou bear'st to Julian, and the sway
Thy counsel should have o'er him. Hear me then—
I 've owed thee something.

EUSEBIA.
Else those preaching lips
Had now been mouldering in the elements;
And the wind singing through thee.

MAXIMUS.
Even so.
I kept my faith and live—I thank thee for it—
My turn comes now: I rule, and I would save thee
For better days. Bend to the blast and live—
Resist, and be uprooted!

EUSEBIA.
Tempter, tempter!
Enter Sallust as from a journey.
Worthy old man, good Sallust, thou arrivest
Most opportunely. Saucy traitors tread
Thy master's hearth with insolent defiance:
Rebellion starts us in our very palace,
Nay grasps with impious hand our awful person.
In good time dost thou come. Nay, Sir, how 's this?
Thine eyes are wet: thy furrowed cheek is pale
With more than time: even as a ravelled page
Where sorrow writes dim characters.

CONSTANTIA.
Oh, Sallust!
What new misfortune waits us? What of my brother?

SALLUST.
Mother of Rome, thou art a widow! Princess,
Thou hast no brother!

(Constantia and Eusebia throw themselves into each other's arms.)
MAXIMUS
(to the attendants.)
Bear in those royal mourners to their chamber.
Weak, shallow women! fathomless and witless.
You see the way, yet fear to tread it; long
With full as deep desires as men, yet shrink
From the accomplishment. You would be great,
Yet lack the daring; and when nobler hands
Have toiled for you, your appetite grows squeamish,
And, with most exquisite acting, ye reject
That which you crave.
(Turning to Sallust.
Why, Sallust, 'tis auspicious news.

SALLUST.
Not so.
Though it relieves thee from the garb of treason.

MAXIMUS.
Add, too, it gives some breathing time for prayer
To certain grey-beards, and saves heads on shoulders
That else had made acquaintance with the scaffold.
How died he?

SALLUST.
At Tarsus—suddenly.

MAXIMUS.
No matter:
That he is dead suffices—but behold,
Here comes the reaper of the harvest.
Enter Julian attended.
Both kneeling.
Cæsar,
Julian Augustus, hail!

JULIAN
(with agitation.)
Where is Constantia?

MAXIMUS.
I gave your letter to the Empress; bending
In homage as became me. She thereat
Seemed moved, and honoured me with epithets,
Excuse me that I blazon not abroad.
Then came this messenger of your good fortune,
Sallust, from Tarsus; where your enemy,
The shedder of your household blood, lies dead.
'Tis not for me to judge or censure—but
If Julian pushes yon closed door aside,
He 'll gather his Constantia's thoughts, and hear
How wives discuss the actions of their husbands,
In no equivocal language.

(Julian rushes into the inner chamber. (Exeunt.
The Imperial Chamber, immediately before day-break.
JULIAN.
I cannot sleep! Ten thousand, thousand thoughts
Crowd in my restless bosom. Phantasy
At this lone hour invokes her spectral train,
Shadowy suggestions—incontrollable.
A fearful hope is busy here, and Memory
Sits like a pallid mourner at my side:
My heart is swollen with expectation,
I know not wherefore—a dull weight is there—
Sighing I heave it off, but it returns.
My eyes are dim with watching: a broad seal
Pressed on my brow by some invisible hand,
Scorches my brain. Oh, sleep! Oh, gentle sleep!
Would I might court thee on a peasant's pallet:
I have not slumbered since I wore a crown!

CONSTANTIA
(entering.)
Julian, my husband!
The morning light has dawned. Where hast thou been?
These vigils will destroy thee.

JULIAN.
Ay, my love,
The brain hath need of rest: the limbs are strong
In spite of many hardships; but the mind—
The mind should have repose. Constantia, wherefore
Is sleep an alien to these royal chambers?
I cannot find beneath this purple robe
On all the down of the imperial pillow
Even with thy form of beauty stretched beside me,
One natural slumber: my eyes are ever open
Upon the past and future. I am denied
Oblivion! It was not so, Constantia.
It was not so!

CONSTANTIA.
My Lord, forbear these thoughts.
We have been happy, and again shall be so:
You will redeem all yet.

JULIAN.
It cannot be.
My subjects in revolt, my crown at stake,
My glory questioned; the bright world of fame
For which my very soul was bartered, all
Trembling like foam upon the stormy waters!
I have defied my God, and will not now
Strike my proud banner to audacious man!

CONSTANTIA.
Julian, the empire of the earth is thine,
What would you more?

JULIAN.
The Roman Capitol
Contains the shrines of many demigods,
Mortals, by human worship deified.
They trod this world in glory—therefore man
Hath clothed them with immortal attributes.

CONSTANTIA.
My husband, come to rest; these watchful nights
Disturb you.

JULIAN.
Nay, you do believe me mad—
Call me ambitious, say, that I despise
The folly that has made me so, and scorn
The ministering wickedness that crouches round me—
Your eye distresses me.

CONSTANTIA.
Oh, Julian, why
Should wisdom and infirmity be brothers?
Virtue and vice both wedded to one heart
Do breed a hell on earth.

JULIAN.
I know it—feel it.
I have not trod in vain the crooked ways:
I have not trampled down opposing nature
Unwitting of the peril and the penance.
I have attained that height to which the eye
Looks with a stupid wonder. I have felt
The longings, and enjoyed the full fruition;
And what the price? He that has scaled steep mountains,
And walked the misty precipice's edge
On loose and slippery rocks, hath felt the danger
Press, like a giant hand, his shivering heart,
Till drops of ice would start.

CONSTANTIA.
But you have reach'd—

JULIAN.
Reach'd what?—a lonely pinnacle, from whence
The earth looks boundless, but without a feature.
There do I stand, a mark for every storm
To hiss around—or, haply, seen as one
Whose darkened outline moves along a height
Spotting the evening's glow.

CONSTANTIA.
Oh, do not say
The lot of greatness cannot be a happy one.
Good deeds make happy hearts. The monarch's crown
Encircles a vast sphere:—'tis his to raise
Unheeded worth from base obscurity;
To soothe the sorrow-laden; to crush oppression;
Reform the profligate manners of bad times—
Oh, 'tis a glorious office.

JULIAN.
Know yet not,
How monarchs are oppressed by stately burdens?
They have not leisure for mere private good.
The lowly station can alone recall
The flying hour by its appropriate virtue,
And make for memory paths of pleasantness.
But see, through yonder casement, the young sunbeam
Looks in with salutation—beautiful type
Of those great aspirations that subdue,
Mould, and exalt, this mortal case of man
To that which makes him more than man; which filling
His perishable veins with fire from Heaven
Clothe him i' th' immortality of fame!

CONSTANTIA.
How cool and moist comes in this morning air:
Nature awakens with a sigh, and tears
Are on her beautiful countenance: a veil
Of tender mist partially hangs around her,
As if to hide some sorrow ere she smiles.
Surely there is infection in these objects;
Gazing, a tender pleasure steals upon me,
Yet could I weep.

JULIAN.
All natural objects have
An echo in the heart. This flesh does thrill
And has connexion by some unseen chain
With its original source and kindred substance.
The mighty forest, the proud tides of ocean,
Sky-cleaving hills, and, in the vast of air,
The starry constellations; and the sun,
Parent of life exhaustless—these maintain
With the mysterious mind and breathing mould
A co-existence and community.

CONSTANTIA.
Julian, in our first love you talked to me
Thus, and I never feel the morning air,
Or look upon the rising of the sun,
Without some sweet associate emotion.
Our early love was happy. Was it not?

JULIAN.
Happy? Oh, yes, most innocently happy!
(Sweet woman, thou hast always been so.) Happy?
Would I had only studied thy sweet looks,
Had sought Divinity but on thy lips,
Had asked no other empire but thy beauty—
But I have been beset by ravenous appetites;
Passions have preyed upon my heart and thriven;
The ladder of my wild ambition
Hath yielded steps for evil thoughts to mount.
Happy?—even you have almost lost the charm,
(And how I love thee, witness all ye powers
Divine or fabled,) thou that wert once my all—
I am a ruin.

(He walks apart abstractedly.
CONSTANTIA
(aside.)
My unhappy Julian!
Ah, what a wreck is that majestic mind!
Thy very features are not what they were,
Then were thy beauties shadows, and the light
That cast them from thee,—is it all departed?
(Julian throws himself upon a couch.
He sinks upon that couch—oh, weary, weary!
Last night he slept not: haply he may sleep
Now and be soothed. Perhaps the breath of music
May prove more eloquent than my poor words:
It is the medicine of the breaking heart.
(Music plays, she approaches him.
His eyes are closed. Thou art indeed a ruin,
But grand and glorious in thy desolation,
Like a decaying temple. I would be
The weed that gathers round thy broken pillars,
The bird that nestles in thy lonely chambers,
The pilgrim kneeling at thy shattered altar,
The faithful light that shines with equal warmth
On the deserted arch and festal palace.
How pale he is, and yet how beautiful!
I 'll kiss him as he dreams.
(Music again and song.

Enter Eusebia.
CONSTANTIA.
Oh, art thou come? my best Eusebia.
This is a cordial to my heart. See there,
My hope, my fear, my love, my all! Behold him
How desolate—desolate. He has not slept.
There is no comfort for him. In his bosom
Lurks a coiled adder; and that golden crown
Presses his temple like a ring of fire.

EUSEBIA.
Let me approach—softly, I will not wake him.
Pale countenance, I would peruse thee. No,
Thou 'rt guiltless of that deed—if that in truth
He died by any mortal hand. No, No!
Thou hast been full of guilt, but not of that;
And strangely wert thou tempted—
Enter Maximus.
There, alas!
The tempter comes—ill omens follow him.
What does this bad man here?

CONSTANTIA.
He has strange influence
Over his mind, and ever like a fiend
Exerts it for his torture. He is to me
Courteous, but never meets my eye; and yet
I oft feel his on me scowling, and tremble.

MAXIMUS.
(approaching.
Ladies, an humble subject proffers duty.
You taste the breath of the morn's infancy:
'Tis healthful in its sweetness. Have I licence
To see the Emperor?

CONSTANTIA.
He has but just wooed sleep:
Disturb him not—it were unkind.

MAXIMUS.
Nay, Madam,
My errand, like the heel of Mercury,
Hath a swift wing on 't, and may not delay.

CONSTANTIA.
Do thou then, dear Eusebia, since it must be,
Breathe on him softly and so waken him.

(Eusebia stoops and kisses his forehead.
JULIAN
(awakening.)
Oh, world!
Must I again look on thee? Who art thou?
My mother? for by that name I must call you,
The willing slave of custom, duty, and love—
Thou art most welcome. After tedious vigils,
The sight of such a morning face as thine is,
(Pale, though it be with sorrow, yet most fresh
In the kind streaks of womanly affections)
Braces the spring of the mind: for 'tis with me,
As with a sick man, viewing once again
Fields, waters, woods, and the blue bending skies—
Or, as the sudden shadow of a cloud,
With its light breeze just starting on the wing,
Upon a sultry day.

EUSEBIA.
Julian, 'tis true,
My womanly affections have subdued me
(Mysterious in their mastery) to follow
The triumph of thy chariot-wheel—but, nay,
I come for mutual comfort, and renounce
These sad reflections. Pray you, look cheerfuller,
Methought you did just now. Are you not satisfied?
I cease vain murmuring.

JULIAN.
'Twere best, 'twere best!
But whom hast thou brought here? Like a conspirator
He stands i' th' shade, wrapped in his silent cloak:
It is not safe to be o'erlooked. Oh, pardon—
Pardon, Lord Pontifex, I do confess
At such an hour thou wert (with shame I own it)
An unknown apparition, and unlooked for.

MAXIMUS.
And yet, Sir, I would flatter me, there is
That intimate intelligence of minds,
That interchange of thought, identity
Of habits and of memory, and hopes
That we should know each other?

JULIAN.
Ay, true, true!
But why thus early must we slight our pillows?
Sleep 's but a feeble foretaste of calm death,
Yet half partakes oblivion. Why should we wake
To stretch the mind out on untimely racks?

MAXIMUS.
It grieves me, Sir, to be the messenger
Of sorrow.

JULIAN.
Thereat ease your mind:—I care not.
The current of my blood 's tempestuous,
And, like the air, I'm liveliest after storms.
Does disaffection take a tangible shape?
A head this sword can reach? If so, 'tis well.

MAXIMUS.
No, Sir, your enemies are circumspect,
And rather shew like th' unsubstantial shadows
That mock the traveller in the desert. Truly
These Nazarenes are hydra-headed. Nay
Their very blood hath seed in 't, and springs up
A crop of holy disputants;—hot zealots
Armed at all points. The old tale was no fable.

JULIAN.
Is this all?

MAXIMUS.
No; they 've vowed for their new altar
A victim; not redress, but stern revenge.
They seek not vantage of encountered arms
On a fair field, with allies at their back,
But, added to that chance, the slow, sure step
Of the assassin.

JULIAN.
Ha! 'tis indeed a sure step—
A short solution of much strife. Oh, Maximus,
Raise not those thoughts of horror. They awake
All deadly passions in me.

MAXIMUS.
So, let it be.
They are not common rebels,—they assail
By fraud and force our awful laws, dear habits,
Ancient religion, chosen sovereign.
They have won the Persian Sapor too. Read there:
This paper, black with well-known signatures,
Telleth some terrible truths—peruse and judge.
Meanwhile I venture to retire. I need not
Point out what is inevitable.

(Exit.
JULIAN
(after perusing with violent agitation.)
There is no penalty that earthly mould
Can bear, or man devise, or wrath inflict,
Commensurate with their crime. Down, damned thought!
It is not retribution! No, no, no.
I never did a deed like this.—Away,
Vain spectres of the brain!—I slew no friend;
I trampled down no benefactor. Hence!
I will not now look back.

CONSTANTIA
(timidly approaching.)
My lord! my husband!

JULIAN
(not heeding her.)
Thou too, old Mark?
Oh, treachery, treachery!—my earliest friend!
Nay then—one wide proscription strike ye all.

CONSTANTIA.
Turn not away—turn not away, my love:
I would approach thee in the humbleness
And sorrowful abasement of bruised love,
Gently to probe thy griefs and so to cure them.

JULIAN.
Thou, thou, my wife, his sister? Get thee gone,
Fair woman:—touch not madness in his mood.
Go, go.

EUSEBIA.
Retire Constantia; press him not—
Be blind to this, or seem so.

(Aside.)
(Exeunt.
JULIAN
(alone.)
Why have I made
This heart the lair of passion? wherefore trained
My soul to lion-like ambition? Thus
To be the chase of jackals! Read, proud spirit—
Read, who and what thy pitiful hunters are.
Nature why hast thou made me thus? Thou shouldst
Have cased my heart in iron; trained my lip,
Even at my mother's breast, to blood; and leagued
My spirit with the vulture. Be it so.
Just kings make happy subjects—so, alas!
Bad subjects cause the tyranny they curse.
Why am I thus enforced? Weak, wretched victims!
My life ye aim at, reekless of your own:
Ye play deep stakes, nor calculate the loss.
Vain plotting knaves! Chartered conspirators,
That sit in mockery of justice; thus
Dispensing doom—when you yourselves are judged.
Ripe though ye be to shedding, justice must be
A hardy reaper to embrace you all.
Great Gods! what names are here? Mercy, farewell!
In vain ye shall not paint me thus—a monster:
Ye make the tyrant that ye feign—now tremble!

(Exit.