Hypatia

the lie to all merely logical and sentimental maunderings of moralists about “the fleeting hues of this our painted clay”; telling men, as the old Hebrew Scriptures tell them, that physical beauty is the deepest of all spiritual symbols; and that though beauty without discretion be the jewel of gold in the swine’s snout, yet the jewel of gold it is still, the sacrament of an inward beauty, which ought to be, perhaps hereafter may be, fulfilled in spirit and in truth. Not only this, which whispered to him⁠—and who shall say that the whisper was of the earth, or of the lower world?⁠—“She is too beautiful to be utterly evil”; but the very defect in her creed which he had just discovered, drew him towards her again. She had no Gospel for the Magdalene, because she was a Pagan.⁠ ⁠… That, then, was the fault of her Paganism, not of herself. She felt for Pelagia, but even if she had not, was not that, too, the fault of her Paganism? And for that Paganism who was to be blamed? She?⁠ ⁠… Was he the man to affirm that? Had he not seen scandals, stupidities, brutalities, enough to shake even his faith, educated a Christian? How much more excuse for her, more delicate, more acute, more lofty than he; the child, too of a heathen father? Her perfections, were they not her own?⁠—her defects, those of her circumstances?⁠ ⁠… And had she not welcomed him, guarded him, taught him, honoured him?⁠ ⁠… Could he turn against her? above all now in her distress⁠—perhaps her danger? Was he not bound to her, if by nothing else, by gratitude? Was not he, of all men, bound to believe that all she required to make her perfect was conversion to the true faith?⁠ ⁠… And that first dream of converting her arose almost as bright as ever.⁠ ⁠… Then he was checked by the thought of his first utter failure.⁠ ⁠… At least, if he could not convert her, he could love her, pray for her.⁠ ⁠… No, he could not even do that; for to whom could he pray? He had to repent, to be forgiven, to humble himself by penitence, perhaps for years, ere he could hope to be heard even for himself, much less for another.⁠ ⁠… And so backwards and forwards swayed his hope and purpose, till he was roused from his meditation by the voice of the little porter summoning him to his evening meal; and recollecting, for the first time, that he had tasted no food that day, he went down, half-unwillingly, and ate.

But as he, the porter, and his negro wife were sitting silently and sadly enough together, Miriam came in, apparently in high good humour, and lingered a moment on her way to her own apartments upstairs.

“Eh? At supper? And nothing but lentils and watermelons, when the fleshpots of Egypt have been famous any time these two thousand years. Ah! but times are changed since then!⁠ ⁠… You have worn out the old Hebrew hints, you miserable Gentiles, you, and got a Caesar instead of a Joseph! Hist, you hussies!” cried she to the girls upstairs, clapping her hands loudly. “Here! bring us down one of those roast chickens, and a bottle of the wine of wines⁠—the wine with the green seal, you careless daughters of Midian, you, with your wits running on the men, I’ll warrant, every minute I’ve been out of the house! Ah, you’ll smart for it some day⁠—you’ll smart for it some day, you daughters of Adam’s first wife!”

Down came, by the hands of one of the Syrian slave-girls, the fowl and the wine.

“There, now; we’ll all sup together. Wine, that maketh glad the heart of man!⁠—Youth, you were a monk once, so you have read all about that, eh? and about the best wine which goes down sweetly, causing the lips of them that are asleep to speak. And rare wine it was, I warrant, which the blessed Solomon had in his little country cellar up there in Lebanon. We’ll try if this is not a very fair substitute for it, though. Come, my little man-monkey, drink, and forget your sorrow! You shall be temple-sweeper to Beelzebub yet, I promise you. Look at it there, creaming and curdling, the darling! purring like a cat at the very thought of touching human lips! As sweet as honey, as strong as fire, as clear as amber! Drink, ye children of Gehenna; and make good use of the little time that is left you between this and the unquenchable fire!”

And tossing a cup of it down her own throat, as if it had been water, she watched her companions with a meaning look, as they drank.

The little porter followed her example gallantly. Philammon looked, and longed, and sipped blushingly and bashfully, and tried to fancy that he did not care for it; and sipped again, being willing enough to forget his sorrow also for a moment; the negress refused with fear and trembling⁠—“She had a vow on her.”

“Satan possess you and your vow! Drink, you coal out of Tophet! Do you think it is poisoned? You, the only creature in the world that I should not enjoy ill-using, because everyone else ill-uses you already without my help! Drink, I say, or I’ll turn you pea-green from head to foot!”

The negress put the cup to her lips, and contrived, for her own reasons, to spill the contents unobserved.

“A very fine lecture that of the Lady Hypatia’s the other morning, on Helen’s nepenthe,” quoth the little porter, growing philosophic as the wine-fumes rose. “Such a power of extracting the cold water of philosophy out of the bottomless pit of Mythus, I never did hear. Did you ever, my Philammonidion?”

“Aha! she and I were talking about that half an hour ago,” said Miriam.

“What! have you seen her?” asked Philammon, with a flutter of the heart.

“If you mean, did she mention you⁠—why, then, yes!”

“How?⁠—how?”

“Talked of a young Phoebus Apollo⁠—without mentioning names, certainly, but in the most sensible,