Among Russian writers whose works have achieved European reputation, prominence must be given to Dmitri Merejkowski.  The son of a court official, Merejkowski was born in 1866, and began to write verses at the age of fifteen, his first volume of poems appearing in 1888.  Then, nine years later, came the first of his great trilogy, “The Death of the Gods,” which is continued in “The Resurrection of the Gods,” and completed by “Anti-Christ,” the last-named having for its central character the figure of Peter the Great, the creator of modern Russia.  “The Death of the Gods,” by many considered the finest of the three, is a vivid picture of the times of the Roman Emperor Julian, setting forth the doctrine that the pagan and the Christian elements in human nature are equally legitimate and sacred, a doctrine which, in its various guises, runs through the trilogy.

I.—­Julian’s Boyhood

All was dark in the great palace at Macellum, an ancient residence of Cappadocian princes.  Here dwelt Julian and Gallus, the youthful cousins of the reigning Emperor Constantius, and the nephews of Constantine the Great.  They were the last representatives of the hapless house of the Flavii.  Their father, Julian Constantius, brother of Constantine, was murdered by the orders of Constantius on his accession to the throne, and the two orphans lived in constant fear of death.

Julian was not asleep.  He listened to the regular breathing of his brother, who slept near him on a more comfortable bed, and to the heavy snore of his tutor Mardonius in the next room.  Suddenly the door of the secret staircase opened softly, and a bright light dazzled Julian.  Labda, an old slave, entered, carrying a metal lamp in her hand.

The old woman, who loved Julian, and held him to be the true successor of Constantine the Great, placed the lamp in a stone niche above his head, and produced honey cakes for him to eat.  Then she blessed him with the sign of the cross and disappeared.

A heavy slumber fell on Julian, and then he awoke full of fears.  He sat up on his bed, and listened in the silence to the beatings of his own heart.  Suddenly, voices and steps resounded from room to room.  Then the steps approached, the voices became distinct.

The boy called out, “Gallus, wake up!  Mardonius, can’t you hear something?”

Gallus awoke, and at the same moment old Mardonius, with his grey hair all dishevelled, entered and rushed towards the secret door.

“The soldiers of the Prefect! ...  Dress! ...  We must fly! ...” he exclaimed.

Mardonius was too late; all he could do was to draw an old sword and stand in warlike attitude before the door, brandishing his weapon.  The centurion, who was drunk, promptly seized him by the throat and threw him out of the way, and the Roman legionaries entered.

“In the name of the most orthodox and blessed Augustus Constantius Imperator!  I, Marcus Scuda, Tribune of the Fretensian Legion, take under my safeguard Julian and Gallus, sons of the Patrician Julius Flavius.”