Hypatia

by that act portions of Its essence. They speak no more, but It speaks in them, and their whole being, transmuted by that glorious sunlight into whose rays they have dared, like the eagle, to gaze without shrinking, becomes an harmonious vehicle for the words of Deity, and passive itself, utters the secrets of the immortal gods! What wonder if to the brute mass they seem as dreamers? Be it so.⁠ ⁠… Smile if you will. But ask me not to teach you things unspeakable, above all sciences, which the word-battle of dialectic, the discursive struggles of reason, can never reach, but which must be seen only, and when seen confessed to be unspeakable. Hence, thou disputer of the Academy!⁠—hence, thou sneering Cynic!⁠—hence, thou sense-worshipping Stoic, who fanciest that the soul is to derive her knowledge from those material appearances which she herself creates!⁠ ⁠… hence⁠—; and yet no: stay and sneer if you will. It is but a little time⁠—a few days longer in this prison-house of our degradation, and each thing shall return to its own fountain; the blood-drop to the abysmal heart, and the water to the river, and the river to the shining sea; and the dewdrop which fell from heaven shall rise to heaven again, shaking off the dust-grains which weighed it down, thawed from the earth-frost which chained it here to herb and sward, upward and upward ever through stars and suns, through gods, and through the parents of the gods, purer and purer through successive lives, till it enters The Nothing, which is The All, and finds its home at last.⁠ ⁠…”

And the speaker stopped suddenly, her eyes glistening with tears, her whole figure trembling and dilating with rapture. She remained for a moment motionless, gazing earnestly at her audience, as if in hopes of exciting in them some kindred glow; and then recovering herself, added in a more tender tone, not quite unmixed with sadness⁠—

“Go now, my pupils. Hypatia has no more for you today. Go now, and spare her at least⁠—woman as she is after all⁠—the shame of finding that she has given you too much, and lifted the veil of Isis before eyes which are not enough purified to behold the glory of the goddess.⁠—Farewell!”

She ended: and Philammon, the moment that the spell of her voice was taken off him, sprang up, and hurried out through the corridor into the street.⁠ ⁠…

So beautiful! So calm and merciful to him! So enthusiastic towards all which was noble! Had not she too spoken of the unseen world, of the hope of immortality, of the conquest of the spirit over the flesh, just as a Christian might have done? Was the gulf between them so infinite? If so, why had her aspirations awakened echoes in his own heart⁠—echoes too, just such as the prayers and lessons of the Laura used to awaken? If the fruit was so like, must not the root be like also?⁠ ⁠… Could that be a counterfeit? That a minister of Satan in the robes of an angel of light? Light, at least, it was purity, simplicity, courage, earnestness, tenderness, flashed out from eye, lip, gesture.⁠ ⁠… A heathen, who disbelieved?⁠ ⁠… What was the meaning of it all?

But the finishing stroke yet remained which was to complete the utter confusion of his mind. For before he had gone fifty yards up the street, his little friend of the fruit-basket, whom he had not seen since he vanished under the feet of the mob in the gateway of the theatre, clutched him by the arm, and burst forth, breathless with running⁠—

“The⁠—gods⁠—heap their favours⁠—on those who⁠—who least deserve them! Rash and insolent rustic! And this is the reward of thy madness!”

“Off with you!” said Philammon, who had no mind at the moment to renew his acquaintance with the little porter. But the guardian of parasols kept a firm hold on his sheepskin.

“Fool! Hypatia herself commands! Yes, you will see her, have speech with her! while I⁠—I the illuminated⁠—I the appreciating⁠—I the obedient⁠—I the adoring⁠—who for these three years past have grovelled in the kennel, that the hem of her garment might touch the tip of my little finger⁠—I⁠—I⁠—I⁠—”

“What do you want, madman?”

“She calls for thee, insensate wretch! Theon sent me⁠—breathless at once with running and with envy⁠—Go! favourite of the unjust gods!”

“Who is Theon?”

“Her father, ignorant! He commands thee to be at her house⁠—here⁠—opposite⁠—tomorrow at the third hour. Hear and obey! There they are coming out of the Museum, and all the parasols will get wrong! Oh, miserable me!” And the poor little fellow rushed back again, while Philammon, at his wits’ end between dread and longing, started off, and ran the whole way home to the Serapeium, regardless of carriages, elephants, and foot-passengers; and having been knocked down by a surly porter, and left a piece of his sheepskin between the teeth of a spiteful camel⁠—neither of which insults he had time to resent-arrived at the archbishop’s house, found Peter the Reader, and tremblingly begged an audience from Cyril.

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 to him that evening and receive his order when he should have had time to think over the matter. So forth Philammon went with his companions, through lanes and alleys hideous with filth and poverty, compulsory idleness and native sin. Fearfully real and practical it all was; but he saw it all dimly as in a dream. Before his eyes one face was shining; in his ears one silvery voice was ringing.⁠ ⁠… “He is a monk, and knows no better.⁠ ⁠…” True! And how should he know better? How could he tell how much more there was to know, in that great new universe, in such a cranny whereof his life had till now been past? He had heard