Hypatia. or New Foes with an Old Face

He bribed a maid to take the message upstairs; and passed his time in the hall in warning the servants. But they would not believe him. It was true the shops were shut in some quarters, and the Museum gardens empty; people were a little frightened after yesterday. But Cyril, they had heard for certain, had threatened excommunication only last night to any Christian who broke the peace; and there had not been a monk to be seen in the streets the whole morning. And as for any harm happening to their mistress—impossible! ‘The very wild beasts would not tear her,’ said the huge negro porter, ‘if she was thrown into the amphitheatre.’

–Whereat a maid boxed his ears for talking of such a thing; and then, by way of mending it, declared that she knew for certain that her mistress could turn aside the lightning, and call legions of spirits to fight for her with a nod.... What was to be done with such idolaters? And yet who could help liking them the better for it?

At last the answer came down, in the old graceful, studied, self-conscious handwriting.

‘It is a strange way of persuading me to your new faith, to bid me beware, on the very first day of your preaching, of the wickedness of those who believe it. I thank you: but your affection for me makes you timorous. I dread nothing. They will not dare. Did they dare now, they would have dared long ago. As for that youth—to obey or to believe his word, even to seem aware of his existence, were shame to me henceforth. Because he is insolent enough to warn me therefore I will go. Fear not for me. You would not wish me, for the first time in my life, to fear for myself. I must follow my destiny. I must speak the words which I have to speak. Above all, I must let no Christian say, that the philosopher dared less than the fanatic. If my Gods are Gods, then will they protect me: and if not, let your God prove His rule as seems to Him good.’

Raphael tore the letter to fragments.... The guards, at least, were not gone mad like the rest of the world. It wanted half an hour of the time of her lecture. In the interval he might summon force enough to crush all Alexandria. And turning suddenly, he darted out of the room and out of the house.

‘Quem Deus vult perdere-!’ cried he to Philammon, with a gesture of grief. ‘Stay here and stop her!—make a last appeal! Drag the horses’ heads down, if you can! I will be back in ten minutes.’ And he ran off for the nearest gate of the Museum gardens.

On the other side of the gardens lay the courtyard of the palace. There were gates in plenty communicating between them. If he could but see Orestes, even alarm the guard in time!....

And he hurried through the walks and alcoves, now deserted by the fearful citizens, to the nearest gate. It was fast, and barricaded firmly on the outside.

Terrified, he ran on to the next; it was barred also. He saw the reason in a moment, and maddened as he saw it. The guards, careless about the Museum, or reasonably fearing no danger from the Alexandrian populace to the glory and wonder of their city, or perhaps wishing wisely enough to concentrate their forces in the narrowest space, had contented themselves with cutting off all communication with the gardens, and so converting the lofty partition-wall into the outer enceinte of their marble citadel. At all events, the doors leading from the Museum itself might be open. He knew them every one, every hall, passage, statue, picture, almost every book in that vast treasure-house of ancient civilisation. He found an entrance; hurried through well-known corridors to a postern through which he and Orestes had lounged a hundred times, their lips full of bad words, their hearts of worse thoughts, gathered in those records of the fair wickedness of old.... It was fast. He beat upon it but no one answered. He rushed on and tried another. No one answered there. Another—still silence and despair!.... He rushed upstairs, hoping that from the windows above he might be able to call to the guard. The prudent soldiers had locked and barricaded the entrances to the upper floors of the whole right wing, lest the palace court should be commanded from thence. Whither now? Back—and whither then? Back, round endless galleries, vaulted halls, staircases, doorways, some fast, some open, up and down, trying this way and that, losing himself at whiles in that enormous silent labyrinth. And his breath failed him, his throat was parched, his face burned as with the simoom wind, his legs were trembling under him. His presence of mind, usually so perfect, failed him utterly. He was baffled, netted; there was a spell upon him. Was it a dream? Was it all one of those hideous nightmares of endless pillars beyond pillars, stairs above stairs, rooms within rooms, changing, shifting, lengthening out for ever and for ever before the dreamer, narrowing, closing in on him, choking him? Was it a dream? Was he doomed to wander for ever and for ever in some palace of the dead, to expiate the sin which he had learnt and done therein? His brain, for the first time in his life, began to reel. He could recollect nothing but that something dreadful was to happen—and that he had to prevent it, and could not.... Where was he now? In a little by-chamber.... He had talked with her there a hundred times, looking out over the Pharos and the blue Mediterranean.... What was that roar below? A sea of weltering yelling heads, thousands on thousands, down to the very beach; and from their innumerable throats one mighty war-cry—‘God, and the mother of God!’ Cyril’s hounds were loose.... He reeled from the window, and darted frantically away again.... whither, he knew not, and never knew until his dying day.

And Philammon?.... Sufficient for the chapter, as for the day, is the evil thereof.

CHAPTER XXVIII: WOMAN’S LOVE

Pelagia had passed that night alone in sleepless sorrow, which was not diminished by her finding herself the next morning palpably a prisoner in her own house. Her girls told her that they had orders—they would not say from whom—to prevent her leaving her own apartments. And though some of them made the announcement with sighs and tears of condolence, yet more than one, she could see, was well inclined to make her feel that her power was over, and that there were others besides herself who might aspire to the honour of reigning favourite.

What matter to her? Whispers, sneers, and saucy answers fell on her ear unheeded. She had one idol, and she had lost it; one power, and it had failed her. In the heaven above, and in the earth beneath, was neither peace, nor help, nor hope; nothing but black, blank, stupid terror and despair. The little weak infant soul, which had just awakened in her, had been crushed and stunned in its very birth-hour; and instinctively she crept away to the roof of the tower where her apartments were, to sit and weep alone.

There she sat, hour after hour, beneath the shade of the large windsail, which served in all Alexandrian houses the double purpose of a shelter from the sun and a ventilator for the rooms below; and her eye roved carelessly over that endless sea of roofs and towers, and masts, and glittering canals, and gliding boats; but she saw none of them—nothing but one beloved face, lost, lost for ever.

At last a low whistle roused her from her dream. She looked up. Across the narrow lane, from one of the embrasures of the opposite house-parapet bright eyes were peering at her. She moved angrily to escape them.

The whistle was repeated, and a head rose cautiously above the parapet.... It was Miriam’s. Casting a careful look around, Pelagia went forward. What could the old woman want with her?

Miriam made interrogative signs, which Pelagia understood as asking her whether she was alone; and the moment that an answer in the negative was returned, Miriam rose, tossed over to her feet a letter weighted with a pebble, and then vanished again.

‘I have watched here all day! They refused me admittance below. Beware of Wulf, of every one. Do not stir from your chamber. There is a plot to carry you off to-night, and give you up to your brother the monk; you are betrayed; be brave!’

Pelagia read it with blanching cheek and staring eyes; and took, at least, the last part of Miriam’s advice. For walking down the stair, she passed proudly through her own rooms, and commanding back the girls who would have stayed her, with a voice and gesture at which they quailed, went straight down, the letter in her hand, to the apartment where the Amal usually spent his mid-day hours.

As she approached the door, she heard loud voices within.... His!—yes; but Wulf’s also. Her heart failed her, and she stopped a moment to listen.... She heard Hypatia’s name; and mad with curiosity, crouched down at the lock, and hearkened to every word.

‘She will not accept me, Wulf.’

‘If she will not, she shall go farther and fare worse. Besides, I tell you, she is hard run. It is her last chance, and she will jump at it. The Christians are mad with her; if a storm blows up, her life is not worth—that!’

‘It is a pity that we have not brought her hither already.’

‘It is; but we could not. We must not break with Orestes till the palace is in our hands.’

‘And will it ever be in our hands, friend?’

‘Certain. We were round at every picquet last night, and the very notion of an Amal’s heading them made them so eager, that we had to bribe them to be quiet rather than to rise.’

‘Odin! I wish I were among them now!’

‘Wait till the city rises. If the day pass over without a riot, I know nothing. The treasure is all on board, is it not?’

‘Yes, and the galleys ready. I have been working like a horse at them all the morning, as you would let me do nothing else. And Goderic will not be back from the palace, you say, till nightfall!’

‘If we are attacked first, we are to throw up a fire signal to him, and he is to come off hither with what Goths he can muster. If the palace is attacked first, he is to give us the signal, and we are to pack up and row round thither. And in the meanwhile he is to make that hound of a Greek prefect as drunk as he can.’

‘The Greek will see him under the table. He has drugs, I know, as all these Roman rascals have, to sober him when he likes; and then he sets to work and drinks again. Send off old Smid, and let him beat the armourer if he can.’

‘A very good thought!’ said Wulf, and came out instantly for the purpose of putting it in practice.

Pelagia had just time to retreat into an adjoining doorway: but she had heard enough; and as Wulf passed, she sprang to him and caught him by the arm.

‘Oh, come in hither! Speak to me one moment; for mercy’s sake speak to me!’ and she drew him, half against his will, into the chamber, and throwing herself at his feet, broke out into a childlike wail.

Wulf stood silent, utterly discomfited by this unexpected submission, where he had expected petulant and artful resistance. He almost felt guilty and ashamed, as he looked down into that beautiful imploring face, convulsed with simple sorrow, as of a child for a broken toy..... At last she spoke.

‘Oh, what have I done-what have I done? Why must you take him from me? What have I done but love him, honour him, worship him? I know you love him; and I love you for it.—I do indeed! But you—what is your love to mine? Oh, I would die for him—be torn in pieces for him—now, this moment!....

Wulf was silent.

‘What have I done but love him? What could I wish but to make him happy? I was rich enough, praised, and petted;.... and then he came,.... glorious as he is, like a god among men—among apes rather—and I worshipped him: was I wrong in that? I gave up all for him: was I wrong in that? I gave him myself: what could I do more? He condescended to like me—he the hero! Could I help submitting? I loved him: could I help loving him? Did I wrong him in that? Cruel, cruel Wulf!....’

Wulf was forced to be stern, or he would have melted at once.

‘And what was your love worth to him? What has it done for him? It has made him a sot, an idler, a laughing-stock to these Greek dogs, when he might have been their conqueror, their king. Foolish woman, who cannot see that your love has been his bane, his ruin! He, who ought by now to have been sitting upon the throne of the Ptolemies, the lord of all south of the Mediterranean—as he shall be still!’

Pelagia looked tip at him wide-eyed, as if her mind was taking in slowly some vast new thought, under the weight of which it reeled already. Then she rose slowly.

‘And he might be Emperor of Africa.’

‘And he shall be; but not—’

‘Not with me!’ she almost shrieked. ‘No! not with wretched, ignorant, polluted me! I see—oh God, I see it all! And this is why you want him to marry her—her—’

She could not utter the dreaded name.

Wulf could not trust himself to speak; but he bowed his head in acquiescence. ...............

‘Yes—I will go—up into the desert—with Philammon—and you shall never hear of me again. And I will be a nun, and pray for him, that he may be a great king, and conquer all the world. You will tell him why I went away, will you not? Yes, I will go,—now, at once—’

She turned away hurriedly, as if to act upon her promise, and then she sprang again to Wulf with a sudden shudder.

‘I cannot, Wulf!—I cannot leave him! I shall go mad if I do! Do not be angry;—I will promise anything—take any oath you like, if you will only let me stay here. Only as a slave—as anything—if I may but look at him sometimes. No—not even that—but to be tinder the same roof with him, only—Oh, let me be but a slave in the kitchen! I will make over all I have to him—to you—to any one! And you shall tell him that I am gone—dead, if you will.—Only let me stay! And I will wear rags, and grind in the mill.... Even that will be delicious, to know that he is eating the bread which I have made! And if I ever dare speak to him—even to come near hint—let the steward hang me up by the wrists, and whip me, like the slave which I deserve to be!… And then shall I soon grow old and ugly with grief, and—there will be no more danger then, dear Wulf, will there, from this accursed face of mine? Only promise me that, and—There he is calling you! Don’t let him come in and see me!—I cannot bear it! Go to him, quick, and tell him all.—No, don’t tell him yet....’

And she sank down again on the floor, as Wulf went out murmuring to himself—

‘Poor child! poor child! well for thee this clay if thou wert dead, and at the bottom of Hela!’

And Pelagia heard what he said.

Gradually, amid sobs and tears, and stormy confusion of impossible hopes and projects, those words took root in her mind, and spread, till they filled her whole heart and brain.

‘Well for me if I were dead?’

And she rose slowly.

‘Well for me if I were dead? And why not? Then it would indeed be all settled. There would be no more danger from poor little Pelagia then....’

She went slowly, firmly, proudly, into the well-known chamber.... She threw herself upon the bed, and covered the pillow with kisses. Her eye fell on the Amal’s sword, which hung across the bed’s-head, after the custom of Gothic warriors. She seized it, and took it down, shuddering.

‘Yes!.... Let it be with this, if it must be. And it must be. I cannot bear it! Anything but shame! To have fancied all my life—vain fool that I was!—that every one loved and admired me, and to find that they were despising me, hating me, all along! Those students at the lecture-room door told me I was despised. The old monk told me so—Fool that I was! I forgot it next day!—For he—he loved me still!—All—how could I believe them, till his own lips had said it?.... Intolerable!.... And yet women as bad as I am have been honoured—when they were dead. What was that song which I used to sing about Epicharis, who hung herself in the litter, and Leaina, who bit out her tongue, lest the torture should drive them to betray their lovers? There used to be a statue of Leaina, they say, at Athens,—a lioness without a tongue.... And whenever I sang the song, the theatre used to rise, and shout, and call them noble and blessed.... I never could tell why then; but I know now!—I know now! Perhaps they may call me noble, after all. At least, they may say “She was a—a—but she dare die for the man she loved!”.... Ay, but God despises me too, and elates me. He will send me to eternal fire. Philammon said so—though he was my brother. The old monk said so—though he wept as he said it.... The flames of hell for ever! Oh, not for ever! Great, dreadful God! Not for ever! Indeed, I did not know! No one taught me about right and wrong, and I never knew that I had been baptized—Indeed, I never knew! And it was so pleasant—so pleasant to be happy, and praised, and loved, and to see happy faces round me. How could I help it? The birds there who are singing in the darling, beloved court—they do what they like, and Thou art not angry with them for being happy! And Thou wilt not be more cruel to me than to them, great God—for what did I know more than they? Thou hast made the beautiful sunshine, and the pleasant, pleasant world, and the flowers, and the birds—Thou wilt not send me to burn for ever and ever? Will not a hundred years be punishment enough-or a thousand? Oh God! is not this punishment enough already,—to have to leave him, just as just as I am beginning to long to be good, and to be worthy of him?.... Oh, have mercy—mercy—mercy—and let me go after I have been punished enough! Why may I not turn into a bird, or even a worm, and come back again out of that horrible place, to see the sun shine, and the flowers grow once more? Oh, am I not punishing myself already? Will not this help to atone?.... Yes—I will die!—and perhaps so God may pity me!’

And with trembling hands she drew the sword from its sheath and covered the blade with kisses.

‘Yes—on this sword—with which he won his battles. That is right—his to the last! How keen and cold it looks! Will it be very painful?.... No—I will not try the point, or my heart might fail me. I will fall on it at once: let it hurt me as it may, it will be too late to draw back then. And after all it is his sword—It will not have the heart to torture me much. And yet he struck me himself this morning!’

And at that thought, a long wild cry of misery broke from her lips, and rang through the house. Hurriedly she fastened the sword upright to the foot of the bed, and tore open her tunic.... ‘Here—under this widowed bosom, where his head will never lie again! There are footsteps in the passage! Quick, Pelagia! Now—’

And she threw up her arms wildly, in act to fall....

‘It is his step! And he will find me, and never know that it is for him I die!’

The Amal tried the door. It was fast. With a single blow he burst it open, and demanded—

‘What was that shriek? What is the meaning of this? Pelagia!’

Pelagia, like a child caught playing with a forbidden toy, hid her face in her hands and cowered down.

‘What is it?’ cried he, lifting her.

But she burst from his arms.

‘No, no!—never more! I am not worthy of you! Let me die, wretch that I am! I can only drag you down. You must be a king. You must marry her—the wise woman!’

‘Hypatia! She is dead!’

‘Dead?’ shrieked Pelagia.

‘Murdered, an hour ago, by those Christian devils.’

Pelagia put her hands over her eyes, and burst into tears. Were they of pity or of joy?… She did not ask herself; and we will not ask her.

‘Where is my sword? Soul of Odin! Why is it fastened here?’

‘I was going to—Do not be angry!.... They told me that I had better die, and—

The Amal stood thunderstruck for a moment.

‘Oh, do not strike me again! Send me to the mill. Kill me now with your own hand! Anything but another blow!’

‘A blow?—Noble woman!’ cried the Amal, clasping her in his arms.

The storm was past; and Pelagia had been nestling to that beloved heart, cooing like a happy dove, for many a minute before the Amal aroused himself and her....

‘Now!—quick! We have not a moment to lose. Up to the tower, where you will be safe; and then to show these curs what comes of snarling round the wild wolves’ den!’

CHAPTER XXIX: NEMESIS

And was the Amal’s news true, then?

Philammon saw Raphael rush across the street into the Museum gardens. His last words had been a command to stay where he was; and the boy obeyed him. The black porter who let Raphael out told him somewhat insolently, that his mistress would see no one, and receive no messages: but he had made up his mind: complained of the sun, quietly ensconced himself behind a buttress, and sat coiled up on the pavement, ready for a desperate spring. The slave stared at him: but he was accustomed to the vagaries of philosophers; and thanking the gods that he was not born in that station of life, retired to his porter’s cell, and forgot the whole matter.

There Philammon awaited a full half-hour. It seemed to him hours, days, years. And yet Raphael did not return: and yet no guards appeared. Was the strange Jew a traitor? Impossible!—his face had shown a desperate earnestness of terror as intense as Philammon’s own.... Yet why did he not return?

Perhaps he had found out that the streets were clear; their mutual fears groundless.... What meant that black knot of men some two hundred yards off, hanging about the mouth of the side street, just opposite the door which led to her lecture-room? He moved to watch them: they had vanished. He lay down again and waited.... There they were again. It was a suspicious post. That street ran along the back of the Caesareum, a favourite haunt of monks, communicating by innumerable entries and back buildings with the great Church itself.... And yet, why should there not be a knot of monks there? What more common in every street of Alexandria? He tried to laugh away his own fears. And yet they ripened, by the very intensity of thinking on them, into certainty. He knew that something terrible was at hand. More than once he looked out from his hiding-place—the knot of men were still there;.... it seemed to have increased, to draw nearer. If they found him, what would they not suspect? What did he care? He would die for her, if it came to that—not that it could come to that: but still he must speak to her—he must warn her. Passenger after passenger, carriage after carriage passed along the street: student after student entered the lecture-room; but he never saw them, not though they passed him close. The sun rose higher and higher, and turned his whole blaze upon the corner where Philammon crouched, till the pavement scorched like hot iron, and his eyes were dazzled by the blinding glare: but he never heeded it. His whole heart, and sense, and sight, were riveted upon that well-known door, expecting it to open....

At last a curricle, glittering with silver, rattled round the corner and stopped opposite him. She must becoming now. The crowd had vanished. Perhaps it was, after all, a fancy of his own. No; there they were, peeping round the corner, close to the lecture-room—the hell-hounds! A slave brought out an embroidered cushion—and then Hypatia herself came forth, looking more glorious than ever; her lips set in a sad firm smile; her eyes uplifted, inquiring, eager, and yet gentle, dimmed by some great inward awe, as if her soul was far away aloft, and face to face with God.

In a moment he sprang up to her, caught her robe convulsively, threw himself on his knees before her—

‘Stop! Stay! You are going to destruction!’

Calmly she looked down upon him.

‘Accomplice of witches! Would you make of Theon’s daughter a traitor like yourself?’

He sprang up, stepped back, and stood stupefied with shame and despair....

She believed him guilty, then!.... It was the will of God!

The plumes of the horses were waving far down the street before he recovered himself, and rushed after her, shouting he knew not what.

It was too late! A dark wave of men rushed from the ambuscade, surged up round the car.... swept forward.... she had disappeared! and as Philammon followed breathless, the horses galloped past him madly homeward with the empty carriage.

Whither were they dragging her? To the Caesareum, the Church of God Himself? Impossible! Why thither of all places of the earth? Why did the mob, increasing momentarily by hundreds, pour down upon the beach, and return brandishing flints, shells, fragments of pottery?

She was upon the church steps before he caught them up, invisible among the crowd; but he could track her by the fragments of her dress.