Hypatia — or New Foes with an Old Face

  CHAPTER IX: THE SNAPPING OF THE BOW

  Cyril heard Philammon's story and Hypatia's message with a quiet smile,and then dismissed the youth to an afternoon of labour in the city,commanding him to mention no word of what had happened, and to come tohim that evening and receive his order when he should have had timeto think over the matter. So forth Philammon went with his companions,through lanes and alleys hideous with filth and poverty, compulsoryidleness and native sin. Fearfully real and practical it all was; but hesaw it all dimly as in a dream. Before his eyes one face was shining; inhis ears one silvery voice was ringing.... 'He is a monk, and knows nobetter.'.... True! And how should he know better? How could he tellhow much more there was to know, in that great new universe, in sucha cranny whereof his life had till now been past? He had heard but oneside already. What if there were two sides? Had he not a right-that is,was it not proper, fair, prudent, that he should hear both, and thenjudge?

  Cyril had hardly, perhaps, done wisely for the youth in sending him outabout the practical drudgery of benevolence, before deciding for himwhat was his duty with regard to Hypatia's invitation. He had notcalculated on the new thoughts which were tormenting the young monk;perhaps they would have been unintelligible to him bad he known of them.Cyril had been bred up under the most stern dogmatic training, in thosevast monastic establishments, which had arisen amid the neighbouringsaltpetre quarries of Nitria, where thousands toiled in voluntarypoverty and starvation at vast bakeries, dyeries, brick-fields, tailors'shops, carpenters' yards, and expended the profits of their labour, noton themselves, for they had need of nothing, but on churches, hospitals,and alms. Educated in that world of practical industrial production aswell as of religious exercise, which by its proximity to the greatcity accustomed monks to that world which they despised; entangled fromboyhood in the intrigues of his fierce and ambitious uncle Theophilus,Cyril had succeeded him in the patriarchate of Alexandria withouthaving felt a doubt, and stood free to throw his fiery energy and clearpractical intellect into the cause of the Church without scruple, even,where necessary, without pity. How could such a man sympathise with thepoor boy of twenty, suddenly dragged forth from the quiet cavern-shadowof the Laura into the full blaze and roar of the world's noonday? He,too, was cloister-bred. But the busy and fanatic atmosphere of Nitria,where every nerve of soul and body was kept on a life-long artificialstrain, without rest, without simplicity, without human affection, wasutterly antipodal to the government of the remote and needy, thoughno less industrious commonwealths of Coenobites, who dotted the lonelymountain-glens, far up into the heart of the Nubian desert. In such aone Philammon had received, from a venerable man, a mother's sympathy aswell as a father's care; and now he yearned for the encouragement of agentle voice, for the greeting of a kindly eye, and was lonely and sickat heart.... And still Hypatia's voice haunted his ears, like a strainof music, and would not die away. That lofty enthusiasm, so sweet andmodest in its grandeur--that tone of pity--in one so lovely it couldnot be called contempt--for the many; that delicious phantom of being anelect spirit, unlike the crowd.... 'And am I altogether like the crowd?'said Philammon to himself, as he staggered along under the weight of agroaning fever-patient. 'Can there be found no fitter work for me thanthis, which any porter from the quay might do as well? Am I not somewhatwasted on such toil as this? Have I not an intellect, a taste, a reason?I could appreciate what she said.--Why should not my faculties beeducated? Why am I only to be shut out from knowledge? There is aChristian Gnosis as well as a heathen one. What was permissible toClement'--he had nearly said to Origen, but checked himself on theedge of heresy--'is surely lawful for me! Is not my very craving forknowledge a sign that I am capable of it? Surely my sphere is the studyrather than the street!'

  And then his fellow-labourers--he could not deny it to himself--began togrow less venerable in his eyes. Let him try as he might to forget theold priest's grumblings and detractions, the fact was before him. Themen were coarse, fierce, noisy.... so different from her! Their talkseemed mere gossip--scandalous too, and hard-judging, most of it; aboutthat man's private ambition, and that woman's proud looks; and who hadstayed for the Eucharist the Sun-day before, and who had gone out afterthe sermon; and how the majority who did not stay could possibly dare togo, and how the minority who did not go could possibly dare to stay....Endless suspicions, sneers, complaints.... what did they care for theeternal glories and the beatific vision? Their one test for all men andthings, from the patriarch to the prefect, seemed to be--did he or itadvance the cause of the Church?--which Philammon soon discovered tomean their own cause, their influence, their self-glorification. And thepoor boy, as his faculty for fault-finding quickened under the influenceof theirs, seemed to see under the humble stock-phrases in which theytalked of their labours of love, and the future reward of their presenthumiliations, a deep and hardly-bidden pride, a faith in theirown infallibility, a contemptuous impatience of every man, howevervenerable, who differed from their party on any, the slightest, matter.They spoke with sneers of Augustine's Latinising tendencies, and withopen execrations of Chrysostom, as the vilest and most impious ofschismatics; and, for aught Philammon knew, they were right enough. Butwhen they talked of wars and desolation past and impending, without aword of pity for the slain and ruined, as a just judgment of Heavenupon heretics and heathens; when they argued over the awful strugglefor power which, as he gathered from their words, was even then pendingbetween the Emperor and the Count of Africa, as if it contained but onequestion of interest to them--would Cyril, and they as his bodyguard,gain or lose power in Alexandria? and lastly, when at some mention ofOrestes, and of Hypatia as his counsellor, they broke out into openimprecations of God's curse, and comforted themselves with the prospectof everlasting torment for both; he shuddered and asked himselfinvoluntarily--were these the ministers of a Gospel?--were these thefruits of Christ's Spirit?.... And a whisper thrilled through the inmostdepth of his soul--'Is there a Gospel? Is there a Spirit of Christ?Would not their fruits be different from these?'

  Faint, and low, and distant, was that whisper, like the mutter of anearthquake miles below the soil. And yet, like the earthquake-roll, ithad in that one moment jarred every belief, and hope, and memory of hisbeing each a hair's-breadth from its place.... Only one hair's-breadth.But that was enough; his whole inward and outward world changed shape,and cracked at every joint. What if it were to fall in pieces? His brainreeled with the thought. He doubted his own identity. The very light ofheaven had altered its hue. Was the firm ground on which he stood afterall no solid reality, but a fragile shell which covered--what?

  The nightmare vanished, and he breathed once more. What a strange dream!The sun and the exertion must have made him giddy. He would forget allabout it.

  Weary with labour, and still wearier with thought, he returned thatevening, longing and yet dreading to be permitted to speak with Hypatia.He half hoped at moments that Cyril might think him too weak for it;and the next, all his pride and daring, not to say his faith and hope,spurred him on. Might he but face the terrible enchantress, and rebukeher to her face! And yet so lovely, so noble as she looked! Couldhe speak to her, except in tones of gentle warning, pity, counsel,entreaty? Might he not convert her--save her? Glorious thought! to winsuch a soul to the true cause! To be able to show, as the firstfruits ofhis mission, the very champion of heathendom! It was worth while to havelived only to do that; and having done it, to die.

  The archbishop's lodgings, when he entered them, were in a state offerment even greater than usual. Groups of monks, priests, parabolani,and citizens rich and poor, were banging about the courtyard, talkingearnestly and angrily. A large party of monks fresh from Nitria, withragged hair and beards, and the peculiar expression of countenance whichfanatics of all creeds acquire, fierce and yet abject, self-consciousand yet ungoverned, silly and yet sly, with features coarsened anddegraded by continual fasting and self-torture, prudishly shrouded fromhead to heel in their long ragged gowns, were gesticulating wildly andlo
udly, and calling on their more peaceable companions, in no measuredterms, to revenge some insult offered to the Church.

  'What is the matter?' asked Philammon of a quiet portly citizen, whostood looking up, with a most perplexed visage, at the windows of thepatriarch's apartments.

  'Don't ask me; I have nothing to do with it. Why does not his holinesscome out and speak to them? Blessed virgin, mother of God! that we werewell through it all!--'

  'Coward!' bawled a monk in his ear. 'These shopkeepers care for nothingbut seeing their stalls safe. Rather than lose a day's custom, theywould give the very churches to be plundered by the heathen!'

  'We do not want them!' cried another. 'We managed Dioscuros and hisbrother, and we can manage Orestes. What matter what answer he sends?The devil shall have his own!'

  'They ought to have been back two hours ago: they are murdered by thistime.'

  'He would not dare to touch the archdeacon!'

  'He will dare anything. Cyril should never have sent them forth as lambsamong wolves. What necessity was there for letting the prefect know thatthe Jews were gone? He would have found it out for himself fast enough,the next time he wanted to borrow money.'

  'What is all this about, reverend sir?' asked Philammon of Peter theReader, who made his appearance at that moment in the quadrangle,walking with great strides, like the soul of Agamemnon across the meadsof Asphodel, and apparently beside himself with rage.

  'Ah! you here? You may go to-morrow, young fool! The patriarch can'ttalk to you. Why should he? Some people have a great deal too muchnotice taken of them, in my opinion. Yes; you may go. If your head isnot turned already, you may go and get it turned to-morrow. We shall seewhether he who exalts himself is not abased, before all is over!' And hewas striding away, when Philammon, at the risk of an explosion, stoppedhim.

  'His holiness commanded me to see him, sir, before--'

  Peter turned on him in a fury. 'Fool! will you dare to intrude yourfantastical dreams on him at such a moment as this?'

  'He commanded me to see him,' said Philammon, with the true soldierlikediscipline of a monk; 'and see him I will in spite of any man. I believein my heart you wish to keep me from his counsels and his blessing.'

  Peter looked at him for a moment with a right wicked expression, andthen, to the youth's astonishment, struck him full in the face, andyelled for help.

  If the blow had been given by Pambo in the Laura a week before,Philammon would have borne it. But from that man, and comingunexpectedly as the finishing stroke to all his disappointment anddisgust, it was intolerable; and in an instant Peter's long legs weresprawling on the pavement, while he bellowed like a bull for all themonks in Nitria.

  A dozen lean brown hands were at Philammon's throat as Peter rose.'Seize him! hold him!' half blubbered he. 'The traitor! the heretic! Heholds communion with heathens!'

  'Down with him!' 'Cast him out! Carry him to the archbishop!' whilePhilammon shook himself free, and Peter returned to the charge.

  'I call all good Catholics to witness! He has beaten an ecclesiastic inthe courts of the Lord's house, even in the midst of thee, O Jerusalem!And he was in Hypatia's lecture-room this morning!'

  A groan of pious horror rose. Philammon set his back against the wall.

  'His holiness the patriarch sent me.'

  'He confesses, he confesses! He deluded the piety of the patriarch intoletting him go, under colour of converting her; and even now he wantsto intrude on the sacred presence of Cyril, burning only with the carnaldesire that he may meet the sorceress in her house to-morrow!'

  'Scandal!' 'Abomination in the holy place!' and a rush at the poor youthtook place.

  His blood was thoroughly up. The respectable part of the crowd, as usualin such cases, prudently retreated, and left him to the mercy of themonks, with an eye to their own reputation for orthodoxy, not to mentiontheir personal safety; and he had to help himself as he could. He lookedround for a weapon. There was none. The ring of monks were baying at himlike hounds round a bear: and though he might have been a match for anyone of them singly, yet their sinewy limbs and determined faces warnedhim that against such odds the struggle would be desperate.

  'Let me leave this court in safety! God knows whether I am a heretic;and to Him I commit my cause! The holy patriarch shall know of youriniquity. I will not trouble you; I give you leave to call me heretic,or heathen, if you will, if I cross this threshold till Cyril himselfsends for me back to shame you.'

  And he turned, and forced his way to the gate, amid a yell of derisionwhich brought every drop of, blood in his body into his cheeks. Twice,as he went down the vaulted passage, a rush was made on him from behind,but the soberer of his persecutors checked it. Yet he could not leavethem, young and hot-headed as he was, without one last word, and on thethreshold he turned.

  'You! who call yourselves the disciples of the Lord, and are more likethe demoniacs who abode day and night in the tombs, crying and cuttingthemselves with stones--'

  In an instant they rushed upon him; and, luckily for him, rushed alsointo the arms of a party of ecclesiastics, who were hurrying inwardsfrom the street, with faces of blank terror.

  'He has refused!' shouted the foremost. He declares war against theChurch of God!'

  'Oh, my friends,' panted the archdeacon, 'we are escaped like the birdout of the snare of the fowler. The tyrant kept us waiting two hours athis palace-gates, and then sent lictors out upon us, with rods and axes,telling us that they were the only message which he had for robbers andrioters.'

  'Back to the patriarch!' and the whole mob streamed in again, leavingPhilammon alone in the street--and in the world.

  Whither now?

  He strode on in his wrath some hundred yards or more before he askedhimself that question. And when he asked it, he found himself in nohumour to answer it. He was adrift, and blown out of harbour upon ashoreless sea, in utter darkness; all heaven and earth were nothing tohim. He was alone in the blindness of anger.

  Gradually one fixed idea, as a light-tower, began to glimmer through thestorm.... To see Hypatia, and convert her. He had the patriarch's leavefor that. That must be right. That would justify him--bring him back,perhaps, in a triumph more glorious than any Caesar's, leading captive,in the fetters of the Gospel, the Queen of Heathendom. Yes, there wasthat left, for which to live.

  His passion cooled down gradually as he wandered on in the fadingevening light, up one street and down another, till he had utterly losthis way. What matter? He should find that lecture-room to-morrow atleast. At last he found himself in a broad avenue, which he seemed toknow. Was that the Sun-gate in the distance? He sauntered carelesslydown it, and found himself at last on the great Esplanade, whither thelittle porter had taken him three days before. He was close then to theMuseum, and to her house. Destiny had led him, unconsciously, towardsthe scene of his enterprise. It was a good omen; he would go thitherat once. He might sleep upon her doorstep as well as upon any other.Perhaps he might catch a glimpse of her going out or coming in, evenat that late hour. It might be well to accustom himself to the sightof her. There would be the less chance of his being abashed to-morrowbefore those sorceress eyes. And moreover, to tell the truth, hisself-dependence, and his self-will too, crushed, or rather laid tosleep, by the discipline of the Laura, had started into wild life, andgave him a mysterious pleasure, which he had not felt since he was adisobedient little boy, of doing what he chose, right or wrong, simplybecause he chose it. Such moments come to every free-willed creature.Happy are those who have not, like poor Philammon, been kept by a hotbedcultivation from knowing how to face them? But he had yet to learn,or rather his tutors had to learn, that the sure path toward willingobedience and manful self-restraint, lies not through slavery, butthrough liberty.

  He was not certain which was Hypatia's house; but the door of the Museumhe could not forget. So there he sat himself down under the garden wall,soothed by the cool night, and the holy silence, and the rich perfume ofthe thousand foreign flowers which fill
ed the air with enervating balm.There he sat and watched, and watched, and watched in vain for someglimpse of his one object. Which of the houses was hers? Which was thewindow of her chamber! Did it look into the street? What business hadhis fancy with woman's chambers?.... But that one open window, with thelamp burning bright inside--he could not help looking up to it--he couldnot help fancying--hoping. He even moved a few yards to see better thebright interior of the room. High up as it was, he could still discernshelves of books--pictures on the walls. Was that a voice? Yes! awoman's voice--reading aloud in metre--was plainly distinguishable inthe dead stillness of the night, which did not even awaken a whisper inthe trees above his head. He stood, spellbound by curiosity.

  Suddenly the voice ceased, and a woman's figure came forward to thewindow, and stood motionless, gazing upward at the spangled star-worldoverhead, and seeming to drink in the glory, and the silence, and therich perfume.... Could it be she? Every pulse in his body throbbedmadly.... Could it be? What was she doing? He could not distinguish thefeatures; but the full blaze of the eastern moon showed him an upturnedbrow, between a golden stream of glittering tresses which hid herwhole figure, except the white hands clasped upon her bosom.... Was shepraying? were these her midnight sorceries?....

  And still his heart throbbed and throbbed, till he almost fancied shemust hear its noisy beat--and still she stood motionless, gazing uponthe sky, like some exquisite chryselephantine statue, all ivory andgold. And behind her, round the bright room within, painting, books, awhole world of unknown science and beauty.... and she the priestess ofit all....inviting him to learn of her and be wise! It was a temptation!He would flee from it!--Fool that he was!--and it might not be she afterall!

  He made some sudden movement. She looked down, saw him, and shuttingthe blind, vanished for the night. In vain, now that the temptation haddeparted, he sat and waited for its reappearance, half cursing himselffor having broken the spell. But the chamber was dark and silenthenceforth; and Philammon, wearied out, found himself soon wanderingback to the Laura in quiet dreams, beneath the balmy, semi-tropic night.