CHAPTER 24 LOST LAMBS PART II Terrible and all but hopeless that thought flashed across him, as in the first revulsion of his conscience he plunged utterly and implicitly back again into the faith of his childhood, and all the dark and cruel theories popular in his day rose up before him in all their terrors. In the innocent simplicity of the Laura he had never felt their force, but he felt them now. If Pallagia were a baptized woman what was before her but unceasing penance? Before her as before him a life of cold and hunger, groans and tears, loneliness and hideous soul sickening uncertainty. Life was a dungeon for them both henceforth. Be it so, there was nothing else to believe in, no other rock of hope in earth or heaven. That at least promised a possibility of forgiveness, of amendment, of virtue, of reward, eye of everlasting bliss and glory, and even if she missed of that better for her the cell in the desert than a life of self-contented impurity. If that latter were her destiny, as Hypatia said, she should at least die fighting against it, defying it, cursing it.  And Hypatia had not even promised her a heaven. The resurrection of the flesh was too carnal a notion for her refined and lofty creed. And so his four-months dream swept away in a moment he hurried back to his chamber with one fixed thought before him, the desert, a cell for Pelagia, another for himself. There they would repent and pray and mourn out life side by side, if perhaps God would have mercy upon their souls. Yet perhaps she might not have been baptised after all, and then she was safe. Like other converts from paganism she might become a catechoman and go on to baptism where the mystic water would wash away in a moment all the past, and she would begin life afresh in the spotless robes of innocence. Yet he had been baptised he knew from Arsenius before he left Athens, and she was older than he. It was all but impossible yet he would hope, and breathless with anxiety and excitement he ran up the narrow stairs and found Miriam standing outside, her hand upon the bolt apparently inclined to dispute his passage. Is she still within? What if she be? Let me pass into my own room. Yours? Who has been paying the rent for you these four months past? You? What can you say to her? What can you do for her? Young pedant, you must be in love yourself before you can help poor creatures who are in love. But Philoman pushed past her so fiercely that the old woman was forced to give way, and with a sinister smile she followed him into the chamber. Pelagia sprang towards her brother. Will she? Will she see me? Let us talk no more of her, my beloved, said Philoman, laying his hands gently on her trembling shoulders and looking earnestly into her eyes. Better that we too should work out our deliverance for ourselves without the help of strangers. You can trust me? You? And can you help me? Will you teach me? Yes, but not here. We must escape. Nay, hear me one moment. Dearest sister, hear me. Are you so happy here that you can conceive of no better place? And? And, oh God, that it may not be true after all, but is there not a hell hereafter?  The old monk warned me of it. Oh, take his warning! And Philoman was bursting forth with some such words about the Lake of Fire and Brimstone as he had been accustomed to hear from Pambo and Arsenius, when Pelagia interrupted him. Oh, Miriam, is it true? Is it possible? What will become of me? Almost shrieked the poor child. What if it were true?  Will not the gospel save her from it, unbelieving Jew? Do not contradict me. I can save her. If she does what? Can she not repent? Can she not mortify these base affections? Can she not be forgiven? Oh, my Pelagia, forgive me for having dreamed one moment that I could make you a philosopher, when you may be a saint of God. Ah! He stopped short suddenly, as the thought about baptism flashed across him. And in a faltering voice asked, Are you baptized? Baptized? asked she, hardly understanding the term. Yes, by the bishop in the church. Ah! she said. I remember now, when I was four or five years old, a tank and women undressing, and I was bathed, too, and an old man dipped my head under the water three times. I have forgotten what it all meant. It was so long ago.  Philharmon recoiled with a groan. Unhappy child, may God have mercy on you. Will he not forgive me, then? You have forgiven me. He? He must be more good even than you. Why not? He forgave you, then, freely, when you were baptized. And there is no second pardon, unless—unless I leave my love, shrieked Pelagia. When the Lord forgave the blessed Magdalene freely, and told her that her faith had saved her, did she live on in sin, or even in the pleasures of this world? No. Though God had forgiven her, she could not forgive herself. She fled forth into the desert, and there, naked and barefoot, clothed only with her hair, and feeding on the herb of the field, she stayed fasting and praying till her dying day, never seeing the face of man, but visited and comforted by angels and archangels. And if she, she who never fell again, needed that long penance to work out her own salvation, O Pelagia, what will not God require of you, who have broken your baptismal vows and defiled the white robes, which the tears of penance only can wash clean once more? But I did not know. I did not ask to be baptized, cruel, cruel parents to bring me to it. And God, O why did he forgive me so soon? And to go into the deserts. I dare not. I cannot. See me how delicate and tender I am. I should die of hunger and cold. I should go mad with fear and loneliness. O brother, brother, is this the gospel of the Christians? I came to you to be taught how to be wise and good and respected, and you tell me that all I can do is live this horrible life of torture here on the chance of escaping torture forever. And how do I know that I shall escape it? How do I know that I shall make myself miserable enough? How do I know that he will forgive me after all? Is this true, Miriam? Tell me, or I shall go mad. Yes, said Miriam with a quiet sneer. This is the gospel and good news of salvation, according to the doctrine of the Nazarenes. I will go with you, cried Philoman. I will go. I will never leave you. I have my own sins to wash away. Happy for me if I ever do it. And I will build you a cell near mine, and kind men will teach us, and we will pray together night and morning for ourselves and for each other, and weep out our weary lives together. Better end them here at once, said Pelagia, with a gesture of despair, and dashed herself down on the floor. Philoman was about to lift her up. When Miriam caught him by the arm, and in a hurried whisper, are you mad? Will you not ruin your own purpose? Why did you tell her this? Why did you not wait, give her hope, time to collect herself, time to wean herself from her lover, instead of terrifying and disgusting her at the outset, as you have done? Have you a man's heart in you?   It cannot be greater than I fancy. Then see to it, for her poor darling, why even we Jews who know that all you Gentiles adoomed to Gehenna alike have some sort of hope for such a poor, untaught creature as that? And why is she untaught? Wretched that you are! You have had the training of her. You brought her up to sin and shame. You drove from her recollection the faith in which she was baptised. So much the better for her if the recollection will be just to make her no happier than it does already. Better to wake unexpectedly in Gehenna when you die than to endure over and above the dread of it here. And as for leaving her untaught, on your showing she has been taught too much already. Wiser it would be in you to curse your parents for having had her baptised, than me for giving her ten years' pleasure before she goes to the pit of Toffett.  The old Jebus is your friend, revile her as you will. She shall marry this Goth, an Arian heretic. She shall convert him and make a Catholic of him, if you like. At all events, if you wish to win her, you must win her my way. You have had your chance and spoiled it. Let me have mine. Pelagia, darling, up and be a woman. We will find a filther downstairs to give that ungrateful man that shall make him more mad about you before a day is over than ever you were about him. No, said Pelagia, looking up. No love potions. No poisons.  Do you doubt the old woman's skill? Do you think I shall make him lose his wits, as Callisphora did to her lover last year, because you would trust her old Magira's drugs instead of coming to me? No. No drugs. No magic. He must love me really or not at all. He must love me for myself because I am worth loving, because he honors, worships me, or let me die. I, whose boast was, even when I was basest, that I never needed such mean tricks, but conquered like Aphrodite, a queen in my own right. I have been my own love charm, when I cease to be that, let me die. One as mad as the other, cried Miriam, in utter perplexity. Hissed! What is that tramp upon the stairs? At this moment heavy footsteps were heard ascending the stairs. All three stopped aghast. Philemon, because he thought the visitors were monks in search of him, Miriam, because she thought they were arrestees' guards in search of her, and Pelagia, from vague dread of anything and everything. Have you been in a room, asked the duess? None. The old woman set her lips firmly, and drew her dagger.  The door opened and in-walked, neither monks nor guard, but wolf and smid. Hey, day, young monk! cried the latter worthy, with a loud laugh. Veils here, too, eh? At your old trade, my worthy fortress of Helgate? Well, walk out now. We have a little business with this young gentleman, and slipping past the unsuspecting goths, Pelagia and Miriam hurried downstairs. The young one, at least, seemed a little ashamed of her errand. Now, wolf, speak low, and I will see that no one is listening at the door. Philoman faced his unexpected visitors with a look of angry inquiry. What right had they or any man to intrude at such a moment on his misery and disgrace? But he was disarmed the next instant by old wolf, who advanced to him, and looking him fully in the face with an expression which there was no mistaking, held out his broad, brown hand. Philoman grasped it, and then covering his face with his hands, burst into tears. You did right.   You were there, then, sobbed Philoman. We were. And what is more, said Smid, as the poor boy writhed at the admission, we were mightily minded, some of us, to have leapt down to you and cut you a passage out. One man, at least, whom I know of, felt his old blood as hot for a minute as a four-year-olds. The foul curse, and to hoot her, after all. Oh, that I may have one good hour's hewing at them before I die. And you shall, said wolf.  It is hopeless, hopeless. She will never leave her the amile. Are you so sure of that? She told me so with her own lips not ten minutes ago. That was she who went out as you entered. A curse of astonishment and regret burst from Smid. Had I but known her, by the soul of my fathers, she should have found that it was easier to come here than to go home again. Hush, Smid, better as it is. Boy, if I put her into your power, dare you carry her off? Philoman hesitated one moment. What I dare you know already. But it would be an unlawful thing, surely, to use violence. Settle your philosopher's doubts for yourself. I have made my offer. I should have thought that a man in his senses could give but one answer, much more a mad monk. You forget the money matters, Prince, said Smid with a smile. I do not. But I don't think the boy so mean as to hesitate on that account. He may as well know, however, that we promise to send all her trumpery after her, even to the amile's presence. As for the house, we won't trouble her to lend it us longer than we can help. We intend shortly to move into more extensive premises, and open business on a grander scale, as the shopkeepers say. Hey, Prince, her money, that money, God forgive her, answered Philoman. Do you fancy me base enough to touch it? But I am resolved. Tell me what to do, and I will do it. You know the lane which runs down to the canal, under the left wall of the house? Yes. And a door in the corner tower, close to the landing-place? I do. Be there with a dozen stout monks tomorrow, an hour after sundown, and take what we give you. After that, the concern is yours, not ours. Monks, said Philoman, I am at open feud with the whole order. Make friends with them, then, shortly suggested Smid. Philoman writhed inwardly. It makes no difference to you, I presume, whom I bring. No more than it does whether or not you picture into the canal and put a hurdle over her when you have got her, answered Smid, which is what a goth would do if he were in your place. Do not vex the poor lad friend, if he thinks he can mend her instead of punishing her in Freya's name, let him try. You will be there, then?    Therefore, mind, if you do not bring a good guard tomorrow night, your life will not be safe. The whole city is out in the streets, and Odin alone knows what will be done, and who will be alive, eight and forty hours hence. Mind you, the mob may do strange things, and they may see still stranger things done.  And if you are wise, let the men whom you bring with you be monks, though it cost your proud stomach. That's not fair, Prince. You're telling too much, interrupted Smid, while the filament gulped down the said proud stomach, and answered, Be it so. I've won my bet, Smid, said the old man, chuckling as the two tramped out into the street, to the surprise and fear of all the neighbours, while the children clapped their hands, and the street dogs felt it their duty to bark lustily at the strange figures of their unwanted visitors. No play, no pay, Wolf. We shall see to-morrow. I knew that he would stand the trial. I knew he was right at heart. At all events there is no fear of his ill-using the poor thing, if he loves her well enough to go down on his knees to his sworn foes for her. I don't know that, answered Wolf, with a shake of the head.  So perhaps they may fancy that he will like them all the more, the more miserable they make other people. However, it's no concern of ours. We have quite enough of our own to see to just now, but mind, no play, no pay. Of course not. How the streets are filling, we shall not be able to see the guards tonight at this mob thickens much more. We shall have enough to do to hold our own, perhaps.   Do you fancy no one understands Greek but yourself? Let them come, it may give us an excuse, and we can hold the house a week. But how can we get speech of the guards? We will slip round by water, and, after all, deeds will win them better than talk. They will be forced to fight on the same side as we, and most probably be glad of our help, for if the mob attacks anyone, it will begin with the prefect. And then, curse their shouting, let the soldiers once find our Amal at their head, and they will be ready to go with him a mile where they meant to go a yard. The goss will, and the markmen, and those datians and thracians, or whatever the Romans call them, but I hardly trust the Huns. The curse of heaven on their pudding faces and pig's eyes, there will be no love lost between us, but there are not twenty of them scattered in different troops. One of us can thrash three of them, and they will be sure to side with the winning party. Besides, plunder, plunder, comrade, when did you know a Hun turned back from that, even if he were only on the centre of a lump of tallow? As for the Gauls and Latins went on wolf meditatively, they belonged to any man who can pay them, which we can do, like all wise generals, one penny out of our own pocket, and nine out of the enemies. And the Amal is staunch? Staunch as his own hounds, now there is something to be done on the spot. His heart was in the right place after all, I knew it all along, but he could never in his life see four and twenty hours before him. Even now, if that pelagia gets him under her spell again, he may throw down his sword and fall as fast asleep as ever. Never fear, we have settled her destiny for her, as far as that is concerned. Look at the mob before the door, we must get in by the poston gate. Get in by the sewer like a rat, I go my own way. Draw old hammer and tongs, or run away. Not this time! And sword in hand the two marched into the heart of the crowd, who gave way before them like a flock of sheep. They know their intended shepherds already, said Smid, but at that moment the crowd, seeing them about to enter the house, raised a yell of goss, heathens, barbarians, and a rush from behind took place. If you will have it then, said Wolf, and the two long bright blades flashed round and round their heads, redder and redder every time they swung aloft. The old men never even checked their steady walk, and knocking at the gate went in, leaving more than one lifeless corpse at the entrance. We have put the coal in the thatch now with a vengeance, said Smid, as they wiped their swords inside. We have. Get me out a boat and half a dozen men, and I and Goderick will go round by the canal to the palace, and settle a thing or two with the guards. Why should not the Amal go, and offer our help himself to the prefect? What? Would you have him after that turn against the hound? For truth and honour's sake we must keep quiet in the matter. He will have no objection to keep quiet, trust him for that. But don't forget Sagaman Moneybag, the best of all orators, called Smid laughingly after him, as he went off to man the boat. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Alvera Hypatia by Charles Kingsley Chapter 25 Seeking After a Sign Part 1 What answer is he sent back, Father? Asked Hypatia as Theon re-entered her chamber after delivering that hapless letter to Philemon. Insolent that he is, he tore it to fragments and tied forth without a word.  At least we have the jewels. The jewels? Let them be returned to their owner. Shall we defile ourselves by taking them as wages for anything? Above all, for that which is unperformed. But, my child, they were given to us freely. He bade me keep them, and, to tell you the truth, I must keep them. After this unfortunate failure, be sure of it. Every creditor we have will be clamouring for payment. Let them take our house and furniture and sell us as slaves then. Let them take all, provided we keep our virtue. Sell us as slaves. Are you mad? Not quite mad yet, father. Answered she with a sad smile. But how should we be worse than we are now? Were we slaves? Raphael Abenezer told me that he obeyed my precepts, when he went forth as a houseless beggar, and shall I not have the courage to obey them myself, if the need come? The thought of his endurance has shamed my luxury for this many a month. After all, what does the philosopher require, but bread and water, and the clear brook, in which to wash away the daily stains of his earthly prisoners? Let what is faded come. Hypatia struggles with the stream no more. My daughter. And have you given up all hope? So soon disheartened? What? Is this paltry accident to sweep away the purposes of years? Orestes remain still faithful. His guards have orders to garrison the Hoss for as long as we shall require them. Send them away, then. I have done no wrong, and I fear no punishment. You do not know the madness of the mob. They are shouting your name in the streets already, in company with Pelagias. Hypatia shuddered. Her name, in company with Pelagias, and to this she had brought herself? I have deserved it. I have sold myself to a lie and a disgrace. I have stooped to truckle, to intrigue. I have bound myself to a sordid trickster. Father. Never mention his name to me again. I have leaked myself with the impure and the blood thirsty, and I have my reward. No more politics for Hypatia from henceforth, my father. No more orations and lectures. No more pearls of divine wisdom cast before swine. I have sinned in divulging the secrets of the immortals to the mob. Let them follow their natures. Fool that I was, to fancy that my speech, my plots, could raise them above that which the gods had made them. Then you give up our lectures. Worse and worse, we shall be ruined utterly. We are ruined utterly already, or rasties. There is no help in him. I know the man too well, my father, not to know that he would give us up tomorrow to the fury of the Christians, where his own base life, even his own baser office, in danger. Too true. Too true, I fear, said the poor old man, wringing his hands in perplexity. What will become of us, of you, rather? What matter what happens to the useless old star-gazer? Let him die, to-day or next year is alike to him.  We may gather up enough, even without these jewels, which you refuse, to pay our voyage to Athens. And there shall we be safe with Plutarch. He will welcome you, and you shall be safe with him. He will welcome you, all Athens will welcome you. We will collect a fresh school, and you shall be Queen of Athens, as you have been Queen of Alexandria. No, father. What I know, henceforth, I will know for myself only. Hypatia will be from this day alone, with the immortal gods. You will not leave me, cried the old man, terrified. Never on earth answered she, bursting into real human tears, and throwing herself on his bosom. Never, never! Father of my spirit, as well as of my flesh, the parent who has trained me, taught me, educated my soul from the cradle to use her wings. The only human being who never misunderstood me, never thwarted me, never deceived me. My priceless child, and I have been the cause of your ruin. Not you, a thousand times not you. I only am to blame. I tampered with worldly politics. I tempted you on to fancy that I could effect what I so rashly undertook. Do not accuse yourself, unless you wish to break my heart. We can be happy together yet. A palm leaf hut in the desert, dates from the grove, and water from the spring. The monk dares to be miserable alone in such a dwelling, and cannot we dare to be happy together in it? Then you will escape. Not today. It were based to flee before danger comes. We must hold out at our post to the last moment, even if we dare not die at it like heroes. And to-morrow I go to the lecture-room, to the beloved museum, for the last time, to take farewell of my pupils. Unworthy as they are, I owe it to myself, and to philosophy, to tell them why I leave them. It will be too dangerous. Indeed it will. I could take the guards with me then, and yet, no, they shall never have occasion to impute fear to the philosopher. Let them see her go forth as usual on her errand, strong in the courage of innocence, secure in the protection of the guards. So, perhaps, some sacred awe, some suspicion of her diviners, may fall on them at last. I must go with you. No, I go alone. You might incur danger where I am safe. After all, I am a woman, and, fierce as they are, they will not dare to harm me. The old man shook his head. Look now, she said smilingly, laying her hands on his shoulders and looking into his face. You tell me that I am beautiful. You know, and beauty will tame the lion. Do you not think that this face might disarm even a monk? And she laughed and blushed so sweetly, that the old man forgot his fears, and as she intended that he should, kissed her and went his way for the time being, to command all manner of hospitality to the soldiers, whom he prudently determined to keep in his house as long as he could make them stay there. In pursuance of which, wise purpose, he contrived not to see a great deal of pleasant flutation between his valiant defenders and high-patious maids, who, by no means so prudish as their mistress, welcomed as a rare boon from heaven, an afternoon's chat with twenty tall men of war. So they gestured and laughed below, while old Theon, having brought out the very best old wine, and actually proposed in person, by way of mending matters, the health of the Emperor of Africa, locked himself into the library, and comforted his troubled soul with a tough problem of astronomy, which had been haunting him the whole day, even in the theatre itself.  She had smiled away her father's fears. She could not smile away her own. She felt, she hardly knew why, but she felt as clearly as if God had proclaimed it to her bodily ears, that the crisis of her life was come, that her political and active career was over, and that she must now be content to be for herself, and in herself alone, all that she was or might become. The world might be regenerated, but not in her day, the Gods restored, but not by her. It was a fearful discovery, and yet hardly a discovery. Her heart had told her for years, that she was hoping against hope, that she was struggling against a stream too mighty for her, and now the moment had come, when she must either be swept helpless down the current, or, by one desperate effort, win firm land, and let the tide roll on its own way henceforth. What if they did not care to be known? What if they were weary of worship and reverence from mortal men, and, self-sufficing in their own perfect bliss, wrecked nothing for the wheel or woe of earth? Must it not be so? Had she not proof of it in everything which she beheld? What did Isis care for her Alexandria? What did Athens care for her Athens? And yet Homer and Hesiod, those old Orphic singers, were of another mind. Whence got they that strange fancy of Gods counselling, warring, intermarrying with mankind, as with some kindred tribe? Zeus, father of gods and men. Those were words of hope and comfort, but were they true? Father of men? Impossible. Not father of Bellagia, surely. Not father of the base, the foul, the ignorant. Father of heroic souls only, the poets must have meant. But where were the heroic souls now? Was she one? If so, why was she deserted by the upper powers in her utter need? Was the heroic race indeed extinct? Was she merely assuming, in her self-conceit, an honour to which she had no claim? Or was it all a dream of these old singers? Had they, as some bold philosophers had said, invented gods in their own likeness, and palmed off on the awe and admiration of men their own fair phantoms? It must be so. If there were gods to know them was the highest bliss of man, then would they not teach men of themselves, unveil their own loveliness to a chosen few, even for the sake of their own honour, if not, as she had dreamed once, from love to those who bore a kindred flame to theirs, what if there were no gods? What if the stream of fate which was sweeping away their names were the only real power? What if that old pyronic notion were the true solution of the problem of the universe? What if there were no centre, no order, no rest, no goal, but only a perpetual flux, a down-rushing change, and before her dizzying brain and heart arose that awful vision of Lucretius, of the homeless universe, falling, falling, falling, forever from no wince, toward no wither, through the unending ages, by causeless and unceasing gravitation, while the changes and efforts of all mortal things were but the jostling of the dust atoms amid the everlasting storm. It could not be. There was a truth, a virtue, a beauty, a nobleness, which could never change, but which were absolute, the same forever. The God-given instinct of her woman's heart rebelled against her intellect, and in the name of God denied its lie. Yes, there was virtue, beauty, and yet might not there, too, be accidents of that enchantment which man calls mortal life, temporary and mutable accidents of consciousness. Brilliant sparks struck out by the clashing of the dust atoms. Who could tell? There were those ones who could tell. Did not Plotinus speak of a direct mystic intuition of the deity, an enthusiasm without passion, a still intoxication of the soul, in which she rose above life, thought, reason, herself, to that which she contemplated, the absolute, the first one, and united herself with that one, or rather became aware of that union which existed from the first moment in which she emanated from the one. Six times in a life of sixty years had Plotinus risen to that height of mystic union and known himself to be a part of God. Once had Porphyry attained the same glory. Hypatia, though often attempting, had never yet succeeded in attaining to any distinct vision of a being external to herself. Though practice, a firm will, and a powerful imagination, had long since made her an adept in producing, almost at will, that mysterious trance which was the preliminary step to supernatural vision. But her delight in the brilliant, and as she held divine imaginations which were at such times she rebelled, had always been checked and chilled by the knowledge, that in such matters, hundreds inferior to her in intellect and learning, I, saddest of all, Christian monks and nuns, boasted themselves her equals. Indeed, if their own account of their visions was to be believed, her superiors, by the same methods which she employed. Four, by celibacy, rigorous fasts, perfect bodily quiescence, and intense contemplation of one thought, they too pretended to be able to rise above the body into the heavenly regions, and to behold things unspeakable, which nevertheless, like most other unspeakable things, contrived to be most carefully detailed and loised abroad. And it was with a half-feeling of shame that she prepared herself that afternoon for one more, perhaps one last attempt to scale the heavens, as she recollected how many illiterate monk and nun, from Constantinople to the Thebode, was probably employed at that moment exactly as she was. Still, the attempt must be made. In that terrible abyss of doubt she must have something palpable, real, something beyond her own thoughts and hopes and speculations, whereon to raise to a weary faith, her weary heart, perhaps this time, at least, in her extremist need, a God might vouchsafe some glimpse of his own beauty. A theme might pity at last, or if not a theme, some archetype, angel, demon. And then she shuddered the thought of those evil and deceiving spirits, whose delight it was to delude and tempt the votaries of the gods in the forms of angel of light. But even in the face of that danger, she must make the trial once again. Was she not pure and spotless as a theme's self? Would not her innate purity enable her to discern by an instinctive antipathy those foul beings beneath the fairest mask? At least, she must make the trial. And so, with the look of intense humility, she began to lay aside her jewels and her upper robes. Then, bearing her bosom and her feet, and shaking her golden tresses loose, she laid herself down upon the conch, crossed her hands upon her breast, and with upturned ecstatic eyes waited for that which might befall. There she lay, hour after hour, as her eye gradually kindled, her bosom heaved. Her breath came fast, but there was no more sign of life in those straight still limbs, and list this feet and hands than in Pygmalion's ivory bride. Before she bloomed into human flesh and blood, the sun sank towards his rest. The roar of the city grew louder and louder without. The soldiers reveled and laughed below. But every sound passed through unconscious ears, and went its way unheeded. Faith, hope, reason itself were staked upon the result of that daring effort to scale the highest heaven. And by one continuous effort of her practised will, which reached its highest virtue as mystics hold in its own suicide, she chained down her senses from every sight and sound, and even her mind from every thought, and lay utterly self-resigned, self-emptied, till consciousness of time and place had vanished, and she seemed to herself alone in the abyss. She dared not reflect, she dared not hope, she dared not rejoice, lest she should break the spell. Again and again had she broken it at this very point by some sudden and tumultuous yielding to her own joy or awe, but now her will held firm. She did not feel her own limbs, hear her own breath, a light bright mist, an endless network of glittering films, coming, going, uniting, resolving themselves was about her and around her. Was she in or out of the body? The network faded into an abyss of still clear light. A still warm atmosphere was around her, thrilling through and through her. She breathed the light and floated in it as a moat in the midday beam, and still her will held firm, far away, miles and aeons and abysses away through the interminable depths of glory, a dark and shadowy spot. It neared and grew, a dark glow ringed with rainbows. What might it be? She dared not hope. It came nearer, nearer touched her. The centre quivered, flickered, took form, a face, a god's? No, pelagias, beautiful, sad, craving, reproachful, indignant, awful. Hypatia could bear no more, and sprang to her feet with a shriek to experience in its full bitterness the fearful revulsion of the mystic, when the human reason and will which he has spurned reassured their god-given rights, and after the intoxication of the imagination come its prostration and collapse. And this, then, was the answer of the gods, the phantom of her whom she had despised, exposed, spurned from her. No, not their answer, the answer of my own soul, full that I have been, I have been exerting my will most while I pretended to resign at most. I have been the slave of every mental desire while I tried to trample on them. What if that network of light, that blaze, that globe of darkness, have been, like the face of pelagia, the phantoms of my own imagination? I, even of my own senses, what if I have mistaken for deity my own self? What if I have been my own light, my own abyss? Am I not my own abyss, my own light, my own darkness? And she smiled bitterly as she said it, throwing herself again upon the couch, buried her head in her hands, exhausted equally, in mind and in body. Hypatia, by Charles Kingsley, Chapter 25, Seeking After a Sign, Part 2 At last she rose and sat, careless of her dishevelled looks, gazing out into vacancy. O, for a sign, for a token, O, for the golden days of which the poets sang, when gods walked among men, fought by their side as friends, and yet are these old stories credible, pious, even modest? Does not my heart revolt from them? Who has shared more than I in Plato's contempt for the foul deeds, the degrading transformations which Homer imputes to the gods of Greece? Must I believe them now? Must I stoop to think that gods, who live in a region above all sense, will deign to make themselves palpable to those senses of ours which are whole aeons of existence below them, degrade themselves to the base accidents of matter? Yes, that rather than nothing. Be it even so. Better, better, better to believe that Aries fled shrieking and wounded from a mortal man, better to believe in Zeus's adulteries and Hermes' thefts, than to believe that gods have never spoken face to face with men? Let me think, lest I go mad, that beings from that unseen world for which I hunger have appeared, and held communion with mankind, such as no reason or sense could doubt, even though those beings were more capricious and baser than ourselves? Is there, after all, an unseen world? Oh, for a sign, a sign! Haggard and Dizzy, she wandered into her chamber of the gods, a collection of antiques, which she kept there rather as matters of taste than of worship.  Oh, that they could speak, and set her heart at rest. At the lower end of the room stood a palace, completely armed with aegis, spear and helmet, a gem of Athenian sculpture, which she had brought from some merchants off to the sack of Athens by the gods. There it stood, severely fair, but the right hand alas was gone, and there the maimed arm remained extended, as if in sad mockery of the faith of which the body remained, while the power was dead and vanished. She gazed long and passionately on the image of her favourite goddess, the ideal to which she had longed for years to assimilate herself, till, was it a dream, was it a frolic of the dying sunlight, or did those lips really bend themselves into a smile? Impossible! No, not impossible, had not only a few years before the image of Hecate smiled on a philosopher, were there not stories of moving images and winking pictures, and all the material miracles by which a dying faith strives desperately, not to deceive others, but to persuade itself of its own sanity? It had been, it might be, it was! No, there the lips were, as they had been from the beginning, closed upon each other in that stony self-collected calm which was only not a snare, the wonder, if it was one, had passed, and now, did her eyes play her false, or were the snakes round that Medusa's head upon the shield, all writhing, grinning, glaring at her with stony eyes, longing to stiffen her with terror into their own likeness? No, that too, passed, would that even it had stayed, for it would have been a sign of life? She looked up at the face once more, but in vain, the stone was stone, and, ere she was aware, she found herself clasping passionately the knees of the marble. Athene, palace, adored, ever virgin, absolute reason springing unbegotten from the nameless one, hear me, Athene, have mercy on me, speak if it be to curse me, thou who alone wieldest the lightnings of thy father, wield them to strike me dead if thou wilt, only do something, something to prove thine own existence, something to make me sure that anything exists beside this gross miserable matter, and my miserable soul. I stand alone in the centre of the universe, I fall and sicken down the abyss of ignorance, and dart and boundless blank and darkness. O have mercy, I know that thou art not this, thou art everywhere and in all things, but I know that this is a form which pleases thee, which symbolises thy nobleness. I know that thou hast dain to speak to those who, oh, what do I know? Nothing, nothing, nothing, and she clung there, bedwing with scolding tears the cold feet of the image, while there was neither sign, nor voice, nor any that answered. On a sudden she was startled by a wrestling near, and, looking round, saw close behind her the old Jewess. Cry aloud, his thag in a tone of bitter scorn, cry aloud, for she is a goddess, either she is talking or pursuing, or she is on a journey, or perhaps she has grown old.  What? Her naughty doll will not speak to her, will it not? Or even open its eyes, because the wires are grown rusty? Well, we will find a new doll for her if she chooses. Be gone, hag! What do you mean by intruding here? said Hypatia, springing up. But the old woman went on cruelly. Why not try the fair young gentleman over there? Pointing to a copy of the Apollo, which we call Belvedere. What's his name? All maids are always cross and jealous, you know. But he, he could not be cruel to such a sweet face as that. Try the fair young lad, or perhaps, if you are bashful, the old Jewess might try him for you. These last words were spoken with so marked a significance, that Hypatia, in spite of her disgust, found herself asking the hag what she meant. She made no answer for a few seconds, but remained looking steadily into her eyes with a glance of fire, before which even the proud Hypatia, as she had done once before, quailed utterly. So deep was the understanding, so dogged the purpose, so fearless the power, which burned within those withered and shrunken sockets. Shall the old witch call him up, the fair young Apollo, with the beauty bloom upon his chin? He shall come, he shall come. I warrant him he must come, civilly enough, when old Miriam's finger is once held up. To you, Apollo, the God of Light, obey a Jewess. A Jewess! And you, a Greek, almost yelled the old woman, and who are you who ask? And who are your gods, your heroes, your devils, you children of yesterday, compared with us? You, who were a set of half-naked savages, squabbling about the siege of Troy, when our Solomon, amid splendours such as Rome and Constantinople never saw, was controlling demons and ghosts, angels and archangels, principalities and powers by the ineffable name. What science have you that you have not stolen from the Egyptians and Caldees? And what had the Egyptians which Moses did not teach them? And what have the Caldees which Daniel did not teach them? What does the world know but from us, the fathers and the masters of magic, us, the lords of the inner secrets of the universe? Come, you Greek baby, as the priests in Egypt said of your forefathers, always children, craving for a new toy, and throwing it away next day. Come to the fountain-head of all your paltry wisdom. Name what you will see, and you shall see it. Hypatia was cowed, for of one thing there was no doubt that the woman utterly believed her own words, and that was the state of mind of which she had seen so little, that it was no wonder if it acted on her with that overpowering sympathetic force, with which it generally does, and perhaps ought to, act on the human heart. Besides, her school had always looked to the ancient nations of the east for the primeval founts of inspiration, the mysterious lore of mighty erasers long gone by. Might she not have found it now? The duet saw her advantage in a moment, and ran on, without giving her time to answer. What sort shall it be, then, by glass and water, or by the moonlight on the wall, or by the sieve, or by the meal, by the symbols, or by the stars, by the table of the twenty-four elements by which the empire was promised to Theodosius the Great, or by the sacred counters of the Assyrians, or by the sapphire of the Hecatech Sphere? Shall I threaten, as the Egyptian priests used to do, to tear Osiris again in pieces, or to divulge the mysteries of Isis? I could do so, if I chose, for I know them all, and more, or shall I use the inethible name on Solomon's seal, which we, alone, of all the nations of the earth know? No. It would be a pity to waste that upon a heathen. It shall be by the sacred wafer. Look here! Here they are, the wonder-working atomies. Eat no food this day, except one of these every three hours, and come to me to-night, at the house of your porter, Eudemian, bringing with you the black agate, and then, why then, what you have the heart to see, you shall see? Hypatia took the wafers, hesitating. But what are they? And you profess to explain Homer. Whom did I hear the other morning lecturing away so glibly on the Nepent, which Helen gave the heroes, to fill them with the spirit of joy and love? How was it an allegory of the inward inspiration, which flows from spiritual beauty, and all that? Pretty enough, fair lady. But the question still remains. What was it? And I say it was this. Take it, and try. And then confess, that while you can talk about Helen, I can act her, and know a little more about Homer than you do, after all. I cannot believe you. Give me some sign of your power, or how can I trust you? A sign. A sign. Kneel down, then, there, with your face toward the north. You are overtaw for the poor old cripple. I? I never note to human being. Then consider that you kneel to the handsome idol there, if you will, but kneel. And constrained by that glittering eye, Hypatia knelt before her. Have you faith? Have you desire? Will you submit? Will you obey? Self-will and pride, see nothing, know nothing. If you do not give up yourself, neither God nor devil will care to approach. Do you submit? I do, I do! cried poor Hypatia, in an agony of curiosity and self-distrust, while she felt her eye quailing, and her lips loosening more and more every moment, under that intolerable fascination. The old woman drew from her bosom a crystal, and placed the point against Hypatia's breast, a cold shiver rammed through her. The witch waved her hands mysteriously round her head, muttering from time to time. Down, down, proud spirit, and then placed the tips of her skinny fingers on the victim's forehead. Gradually her eyelids became heavy. Again and again she tried to raise them, and dropped them again before those fixed glaring eyes. And in another moment she lost consciousness. When she awoke, she was kneeling in a distant part of the room, with dishevelled hair and garments. What was it so cold that she was clasping in her arms, the feet of Apollo, the hag stood by her, chuckling to herself, and clapping her hands? How came I here? What have I been doing, saying such pretty things, paying the fair youth there such compliments, as he will not be rude enough to forget in his visit tonight? A charming prophetic trance you have had! Ha-ha! You are not the only woman who is wiser asleep than awake. Well, you will make a very pretty Cassandra, or Ecclesia, if you have the sense.  Are you satisfied now? Will you have any more signs? Shall the old juice blast those blue eyes blind, to show that she knows more than the heathen? Oh, I believe you, I believe, cried the poor exhausted maiden, I will come, and yet. Ah, yes, you had better settle first how he shall appear. As he wills, let him only come, only let me know that he is a god. Abamnon said that gods appeared in a clear, steady, unbearable light, amid a choir of all the lesser deities, archangels, principalities, and heroes, who derive their life from them. Abamnon was an old fool then. Do you think young Phoebus ran after Daphne with such a mobity's heels? Or the jove, when he swam up to Lida, headed a whole nile flock of ducks and plover and curlews? Ah, he shall come alone, to you alone. And then you may choose for yourself between Cassandra and Clitea. Farewell. Do not forget your wafers, or the agate, either, and talk with no one between now and sunset. And then, my pretty lady, and, laughing to herself, the old hag glided from the room. Hypatia sat trembling with shame and dread. She, as a disciple of the more purely spiritualistic school of porphyry, had always looked with aversion, with all but contempt, on those theergic arts which were so much lauded and employed by Iamblichus Abamnon, and those who clung lovingly to the old priestly rites of Egypt and Caldia. They had seemed to her vulgar toys, tricks of legerdomain, suited only for the wonder of the mob. She began to think of them with more favour now. How did she know that the vulgar did not require signs and wonders to make them believe? How indeed! For did she not want such herself? And she opened Abamnon's famous letter to porphyry, and read earnestly over, for the twentieth time his subtle justification of magic, and felt it to be unanswerable. Magic? What was not magical? The whole universe, from the planets over her head to the meanest pebble at her feet, was utterly mysterious, ineffable, miraculous, influencing and influenced by affinities and repulsions as unexpected, as unfathomable as those which, as Abamnon said, drew the gods towards those sounds, those objects which, either in form or colour or chemical properties were symbolic of or akin to themselves. What wonder in it, after all? Was not love and hatred, sympathy and antipathy the law of the universe? Philosophers, when they gave mechanical explanations of natural phenomena, came no nearer to the real solution of them. The mysterious why remained untouched. All their analyses could only darken with big words the plain fact that the water hated the oil with which it refused to mix. The lime loved the acid which it eagerly received into itself, and, like a lover, grew warm with the rapture of affection. Why not? What right had we to deny sensation, emotion to them any more than to ourselves? Was not the same universal spirit stirring in them as in us? And was it not by virtue of that spirit that we thought and felt and loved? Then why not they, as well as we? If the one spirit permeated all things, if its all energising presence linked the flower with the crystal as well as with the demon and the god, must it not link together also the two extremes of the great chain of being, bind even the nameless one itself to the smallest creature which bore its creative impress? What greater miracle in the attraction of a god or an angel by material incense, symbols and spells than in the attraction of one soul to another by the material sounds of the human voice? Was the affinity between spirit and matter implied in that more miraculous than the affinity between the soul and the body, than the retention of that soul within that body, or by the breathing of material air, the eating of material food, or even if the physicists were right and the soul were but a material product or energy of the nerves and the soul law of the universe, the laws of matter, then was not magic even more probable than rational? Was it not fair by every analogy to suppose there might be other higher beings than ourselves obedient to those laws, and therefore possible to be attracted, even as human beings were by the bates of material sights and sounds? If spirit pervaded all things, then was magic probable? If nothing but matter had existence, magic was morally certain. All that remained in either case was the test of experience, and had not that test been applied in every age and asserted to succeed? What more rational, more philosophic action than to try herself those methods and ceremonies which she was assured on every hand had never failed, but through the ignorance or unfitness of the neophyte? Abamnon must be right. She dared not think him wrong, for if this last hope failed, what was there lived? But to eat and drink. For tomorrow we die. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Part 1 of Hypatia This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nadine Godboulet. Hypatia by Charles Kingsley. Chapter 26. Miriam's Plot. Part 1 He who has worshipped a woman, even against his will and conscience, knows well how storm may follow storm and earthquake, earthquake, before his idol be utterly overthrown. And so Philaman found that evening, as he sat pondering over the strange chances of the day. For, as he pondered, his old feelings towards Hypatia began, in spite of the struggles of his conscience and reason, to revive within him. Not only pure love of her great loveliness, the righteous instinct which pits us welcome and honor beauty, whether in man or woman, as something of real worth, divine, heavenly, I, though we know not how, in a most deep sense eternal, which makes our reason give the lie to all merely loutical and sentimental moutherings of moralists about the fleeting use of these 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 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, of the lower world, she is too beautiful to be utterly evil. But the very defect in her creed which she 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, told him, honored 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 unwinningly, 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 humor, and lingered a moment on her way to her own apartments upstairs. Hey, at supper? And nothing but lentils and watermelons, when the fleshpots of Egypt have been famous any time these two thousand years. Ha! But times are changed since then.  You and get a Caesar instead of a Joseph. Cry G 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.  Down came, by the hands of one of the Syrian slave girls, the fowl and the wine. There, now, we'll all sub together, wine that maketh glad the horde of man. Youth, you were a monk once, so you have read all about that, hey? And about the best wine which goes down sweetly, cozying 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 Bilzebub 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 ember. Drink, ye children of Jihina, 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. Philaman 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 negroes refused with fear and trembling. She had a vow on her. Satan possess you and your vow. Drink, you call out of tofu. Do you think it is poisoned?  Drink, I say, or I'll turn you pea-green from head to foot. The negroes put the cup to her lips and contrived, for her own reasons, to spear the contents unobserved. A very fine lecture that of the Lady Hypatias the other morning on Helen's Nepenthe, quote 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 Mithus I never did hear. Did you ever, my Philharmonidian? Aha, she and I were talking about that half an hour ago, said Miriam. What, have you seen her? asked Philharmon, with a flutter of the heart. If you mean did she mention you, why, then yes. How, how? Talked of a young feebus apolo, without mentioning names, certainly, but in the most sensible and practical and hopeful way the wisest speech that I have heard from her this twelve month. Philharmon blushed scarlet, and that, thought he, in spite of what passed this morning. Why, what is the matter with our host? He has taken Sonamon's advice and forgotten his sorrow. And so indeed he had, for he was sleeping sweetly, with open luck luster eyes, and a modelling smile at the ceiling, while the negrous, with her head fallen on her chest, seemed equally unconscious of their presence. Who else see, quoth Miriam, and taking up the lamp, she held the flame unceremoniously to the arm of each of them, but neither winced nor stirred. Surely your wine is not drugged, said Philharmon in trepidation. Why not? What has made them beasts? May make us angels. You seem none the less lively for it, do I? But drugged wine? Why not? The same who made wine made poppy juice. Both will make men happy. Why not use both? It is poison! It is the nepentee, as I told Hypatia, whereof she was twaddling mysticism this morning. Drink, child, drink! I have no mind to put you to sleep tonight. I want to make a man of you, or rather to see whether you are one. And she drained another cup, and then went on, half-talking to herself. Aye, it is poison, and music is poison, and woman is poison according to the new creed, pagan and Christian, and wine will be poison, and meat will be poison some day, and we shall have a world full of mad nepugatnessers, eating grass like oxen. It is poisonous, and brutal, and devilish to be a man, and not a monk, and a new nuke, and a dry branch.   I am the only man who keeps his manhood. The only man who is not ashamed to be what God has made him is your Jew.   Drink, I say, and believed that God had really made the world and not the devil, and had given them the lordship over it, as you will find out to your cost some day. Philemon heard, and could not answer, and on she rambled. And music, too, our priests were not afraid of Sakvat and Saltery, Delcimer and Trumpet, in the house of the lord, for they knew who had given them the cunning to make them. Our prophets were not afraid of calling for music, when they wished to prophesy, and letting it soften and raise their souls, and open and quicken them till they saw into the inner harmony of things, and beheld the future in the present, for they knew who made the melody in harmony, and made them the outward symbols of the inward song which runs through sun and stars, storm and tempest, fulfilling his word, in that these sham philosophers, the heathen, are wiser than those Christian monks. Try it, try it, come with me, leave these sleepers here, and come to my rooms. You long to be as wise as Solomon, then get at wisdom as Solomon did, and give your heart first to no folly and madness. You have read the book of the preacher? Poor Philaman, he was no longer master of himself. The arguments, the wine, the terrible spell of the old woman's voice and eye, and the strong overpowering will which showed out through them, dragged him along in spite of himself. As if in a dream he followed her up the stairs.  So, you have on the white tunic I gave you, and now you look as a human being should. And you have been to the bath today? Well, you have the comfort of feeling now like other people, and having that alabaster skin as white as it was created, instead of being tanned like a brute's hide. Drink, I say. I—what was that face that figure made for? Bring a mirror here, hersey. There, look in that and judge for yourself. Were those lips rounded for nothing? Why were those eyes set in your head and made to sparkle bright as jewels, sweet as mountain honey? Why were those curls laid ready for soft fingers to twine themselves among them, and look all the whiter, among the glossy black nuts? Judge for yourself. Holas, poor filament. And after all, thought he, is it not true, as well as pleasant?  One of the slave girls sat down on the divan, and took up a double flute, while the other rose, and accompanying the plaintive dreamy air with a slow dance, and delicate twinglings of her silver armlets and enclets, and the cystrum which she held aloft. She floated gracefully round and round the floor, and sang, Why were we born but for bliss? Why are we ripe but to fall? Dream not that you take and bar thee from beauty like water and sunshine, the heirloom of all. Leaps were made only to kiss, hands were made only to toy, eyes were made only to lure on the lonely, the longing, the loving, and round them in joy. Alas for poor filament! And yet no, the very poison brought with it its own antidote, and, shaken of by one strong effort of will, the spell of the music and the wine, he sprang to his feet. Never! If love means no more than that, if it is to be a mere delicate self-indulgence, worse than the brutes, because it requires the prostration of noble faculties, and a selfishness the more huge in proportion to the greatness of the soul which is crushed inward by it, then I will have none of it. I have had my dream, yes, but it was of one who should be at once my teacher and my pupil, my deptor and my queen, who should lean on me and yet support me, supply my defects, all the witherless alight, as the old moon fills up the circle of the new, labour with me side by side in some great work, rising with me forever as I rose, and this is the base substitute? Never! Whether or not this was unconsciously forced into words by the vehemence of his passion, or whether the old Jew is heard or pretended to hear, the footstep coming up the stair, she at all events sprang instantly to her feet. Hissed! Silence, girls! I hear a visitor. What mad maiden has come to beg a love-charm of the polled witch at this time of night, or have the Christian bloodhounds tracked the old loudness of Judah to her den at last? We'll see. And she drew a dagger from her girdle, and stepped boldly to the door. As she went out she turned. So, my brave young Apollo, you do not admire a simple woman? You must have something more learned in intellectual and spiritual and so forth. I wonder whether Eve, when she came to Edom in the garden, brought with her a certificate of proficiency in the seven sciences? Well, well, like must after like. Perhaps we shall be able to suit you after all. Vanish, daughters of Midian. End of Chapter 26, Part 1 Chapter 26, Part 2 of Hypatia This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nadine Kertboulez, Hypatia by Charles Kingsley, Chapter 26, Miriam's Plot, Part 2 The girls vanished accordingly, whispering and laughing, and Philaman found himself alone. Although he was somewhat soothed by the old woman's last speech, yet a sense of terror, of danger, of coming temptation, kept him standing sternly on his feet, looking warily round the chamber, lest a fresh siren should emerge from behind some curtain or heap of pillows. On one side of the room he perceived a doorway, filled by a curtain of ghosts, from behind which came the sound of whispering voices. His fear, growing with the general excitement of his mind, rose into anger as he began to suspect some snare, and he faced round towards the curtain and stood like a wild beast at day, ready, with uplifted arm, for all evil spirits, male or female. And he will show himself how shall I cast him, whispered a well-known voice. Could it be Hypatias? And then the guttural Hebrew accent of the old woman answered, as you spoke of him this morning, Oh, I will tell him all, and he must, he must have mercy, but he, so awful, so glorious. What the answer was, he could not hear, but the next moment a sweet heavy scent, as of narcotic gums, filled the room, mutterings of incantations, and then a blaze of light in which the curtain vanished, and disclosed to his astonished eyes, enveloped in a glory of luminous smoke, the hag standing by a tripod, and, kneeling by her, Hypatia herself, roped in pure white, glittering with diamonds and gold, her lips parted, her head thrown back, her arms stretched out in an agony of expectation. In an instant, before he had time to stir, she had sprung through the blaze and was kneeling at his feet. Phoebus, beautiful, glorious, ever young, hear me only a moment, only this once. Her drapery had good fire from the tripod, but she did not heed it. Philemon instinctively clasped her in his arms, and crushed it out as she cried, have mercy on me, tell me the secret, I will obey thee, I have no self, I am thy slave, kill me if the wilt, but speak. The blaze sank into a soft, warm mellow gleam, and beyond it, what appeared?  He saw it. What thoughts flashed through him, like the lightning bolt, at that blessed sign of infinite self-sacrifice, I say not. Let those who know it judge for themselves. But in another instant he had spurned from him the poor deluded maiden, whose idolatrous ecstasies he so instantly were not meant for himself, and rushed desperately across the room, looking for an outlet. He found a door in the darkness, a room, a window, and in another moment he had leapt twenty feet into the street, rolled over, bruised and bleeding, rose again like an anteus, with new strength, and darted off towards the archbishop's house.  For as Philaman fled, she had recognized those well-known features, and the veil was lifted from her eyes, and the hope and the self-respect of the instaughter were gone forever. Her righteous wrath was too deep for up-breedings. Slowly she rose, returned into the inner room, wrapped her cloak deliberately around her, and went silently away, with one look at the Jews of Salem's corn and defiance. I can afford a few silky looks tonight, said the old woman to herself, with a smile, as she picked up from the floor the price for which she had been plotting so long, reveals half of the black air gate. I wonder whether she will miss it. Perhaps she will have no fancy for its company any longer, now that she has discovered what over-pulpable archangels appear when she rubs it. But if she does try to recover it, why? Let her try her strength with mine, or rather with a Christian mob. And then, drawing from her bosom the other half of the talisman, she fitted the two pieces together, again and again, fingering them over, and pouring upon them with tear-brimming eyes, till she had satisfied herself that the fracture still fitted exactly. While she murmured to herself from time to time, oh, that he were here, oh, that he would return now, now, it may be too late tomorrow. Stay, I will go and consult the tariff. It may know where he is. And she departed to her incantations, while Hypatia threw herself upon her bed at home, and filled the chamber with a long, low wailing as of a child in pain, until the dreary dawn broke on her shame and her despair. And then she rose, and rousing herself for one great effort, calmly prepared a last oration in which she intended to bid farewell forever to Alexandria and to the schools. Philaman, meanwhile, was striding desperately up the main street, which led towards the Serapium. But he was not destined to arrive there as soon as he had hoped to do.  The mass seemed endless. Thousands of torches flared above their heads, and from the horde of the procession rose a solemn chant, in which Philaman soon recognized a well known Catholic hymn. He was half-minded to turn up some by-street and escape meeting them. But on attempting to do so, he found every avenue which he tried similarly blocked up by a tributary stream of people. And, almost ere he was aware, was entangled in the vanguard of the great column. Let me pass, cried he, in a voice of entreaty. Passed, though heathen? In vain he protested his Christianity. Originist, Donatist, heretic, whether should a good Catholic be going tonight, save to the Caesarean. My friends, my friends, I have no business at the Caesarean, cried he, in utter despair. I am on my way to seek a private interview with the Patriarch on matters of importance.  What, is Sera with you? He annulled his clergy. Better so, better in public, said Philaman to himself, and, turning, he joined the crowd. Onward, with chant and dirge, they swept out through the sun-gate, upon the harbour esplanade, and wheeled to the right along the quay, while the torchlight bathed in a red glare the great front of the Caesarean, and the tall obelisks before it, and the masts of the thousand ships which lay in the harbour on their left, and last, but not least, before the huge dim mass of the palace which bounded the esplanade in front, a long line of glittering helmets and curises, behind a barrier of cables which stretched from the shore to the corner of the museum. There was a sudden halt, a low ominous growl, and then the mob pressed onward from behind, searched up almost to the barrier. The soldiers dropped the points of their lenses, and stood firm. Again the mob recoiled, again searched forward. Fierce cries arose, some of the boldest stooped to pick up stones, but, luckily, the pavement was to firm for them. Another moment, and the whole soldiery of Alexandria would have been fighting for life and death against fifty thousand Christians. But Cyril had not forgotten his generalship. Reckless as that night's events proved him to be about arousing the passions of his subjects, he was yet far too wary to risk the odium and the danger of a night attack, which, even if successful, would have cost the lives of hundreds. He knew well enough the numbers and the courage of the enemy, and the certainty that, in case of a collision, no quarter would be given or accepted on either side. Besides, if a battle must take place, and that, of course, must happen sooner or later, it must not happen in his presence and under his sanction. He was in the right now, and the rest is in the wrong, and in the right he would keep, at least till he's expressed to Byzantium should have returned, and the rest is was either prescribed or superseded. So looking forward to some such chance as this, the weary prelate had schooled his aide de camp, the deacons of the city, and went on his way up the steps of the Caesarium, knowing that they could be trusted to keep the peace outside. And they did their work well. Before a blow had been struck, or even an insult passed on either side, they had burst through the front rank of the mob, and by start threats of excommunication, enjoyed not only peace, but absolute silence until the sacred ceremony, which was about to take place, should be completed, and enforced their commons by marching up and down like centuries, between the hostile ranks for the next weary two hours, till the very soldiers broke out into expressions of admiration, and the tribune of the cohort, who had no great objection, but also no great wish, fight, paid them high-flown complement on their loadable endeavours to maintain public order, and received the somewhat ambiguous reply, that the weapons of their warfare were not carnal, that they wrestled, not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers. An answer which the tribune, being now somewhat sleepy, thought it best to leave unexplained. In the meanwhile, they had passed up the steps of the temple a gorgeous line of priests, among whom glittered, more gorgeous than all, the stately figure of the pontiff. They were followed close by thousands of monks, not only from Alexandria and Nitria, but from all the adjoining towns and monasteries. And as Philaman, unable for some half hour more to force his way into the church, watched their endless stream, he could well believe the boast which he had so often heard in Alexandria, that one half of the population of Egypt was at that moment in religious orders. After the monks, the lady began to enter, but even then so fast was the crowd, and so dense the crush upon the steps, that before he could force his way into the church, Cyril Sermon had begun. What when he out for sea, a man clothed in soft raiment? Nay, such are in King's palaces, and in the palaces of prefects, who would needs be emperors, and cast away the Lord's bonds from them, of whom it is written, that he that sitteth in the heavens, laugheth them to scorn, and taketh the wicked in their own snare, and maketh the devices of princes of non-effect. I, in King's palaces, and in Theodos too, where the rich of this world pour in faith, deny their covenant, and defile their baptismal robes, that they may do honor to the devourers of the earth. Woe to them who think that they may partake of the cup of the Lord and the cup of devils. Woe to them who will praise with the same mouth Aphrodite the fiend, and her of whom it is written, that he was born of a pure virgin. Let such be excommunicate from the cup of the Lord, and from the congregation of the Lord, till they have purged away their sins by penance, and by almsgiving. But for you, ye poor of this world, rich in faith, you whom the rich despise, hail before the judgment seats, and blaspheme that holy name whereby ye are called, what when ye out into the wilderness to see? A prophet? I, and more than a prophet, a martyr. More than a prophet, more than a king, more than a prefect whose theater was the sands of the desert, whose throne was the cross, whose crown was bestowed, not by heathen philosophers and daughters of Satan, deceiving men with the works of their fathers, but by angels and art-angels, a crown of glory, the victor's laurel, which grows forever in the paradise of the highest heaven.  Oh, Thrice blessed, who has merited the honor of the cross itself, what can follow, but that one so honored in the flesh, should also be honored in the life which he now lives?  Yes, it were impiety to doubt it. Consecrated by the cross, this flesh shall not only rest in hope, but work in power, approach and be healed, approach and see the glory of the saints, the glory of the poor, approach and learn that that which man despises, God hath highly esteemed, that that which man rejects, God accepts, that that which man punishes, God rewards, approach and see how God hath chosen the foolish things of this world to confound the wise and the weak things of this world to confound the strong.  Man casts away the harlot like a faded flower, when he has tempted her to become the slave of sin for a season, and the Son of God calls her, the defiled, the despised, the forsaken, to himself, accepts her tears, blesses her offering, and declares that her sins are forgiven, for she hath loved much, while to whom little is forgiven the same loveth little. Philaman heard no more. With the passionate and impulsive nature of a Greek fanatic, he burst forward through the crowd towards the steps which led to the choir, and above which, in front of the altar, stood the corpse of Amonius and closed in a coffin of glass beneath a gorgeous canopy, and never stopping till he found himself in front of Cyril's pulpit, he threw himself upon his face, upon the pavement, spread out his arms in the form of a cross, and lay silent and motionless before the feet of the multitude. There was a sudden whisper and rustle in the congregation, but Cyril, after a moment's pause, went on. Man, in his pride and self-sufficiency, despises humiliation and penance, and the broken and the contrite horde, and tells thee that only as long as thou dost well unto thyself will he speak well of thee. The Son of God says that he that humbled himself, even as this our penitent brother, he it is who shall be exalted. He it is of whom it is written that his father saw him afar off, and ran to meet him, and Bate put the best robe on him, and a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, and make merry and be glad with the choir of angels who rejoice over one sinner that repenteth. Arise, my son, whosoever thou art, and go in peace for this night, remembering that he who said, my belly cleaveth unto the pavement hath also said, rejoice not against me, Satan, my enemy, for when I fall I shall arise. A thunder clap of applause, surely as pardonable as any an Alexandrian church ever heard, followed these dexterous, and yet most righteous, turn of the patriarch's oratory. But Philaman raised himself slowly and fearfully to his knees, and blushing scarlet endured the gaze of ten thousand eyes. Suddenly, from beside the pulpit, an old man sprang forward, and clasped him round the neck. It was Arsinius, my son, my son, subbed he, almost aloud. Slave as well as son, if you will, whispered Philaman, one boon from the patriarch, and then home to the Laura forever. Oh, twice-blessed night, rolled on above the deep rich voice of zero, which beholds at once the coronation of a martyr, and the conversation of a sinner, which increases at the same time the ranks of the church triumphant and of the church militant, and pierces celestial essences with a twofold rapture of thanksgiving, as they welcome on high a victorious and on earth a repentant brother. And at a sign from zero, Peter the reader stepped forward and led away, gently enough, the two weepers, who were welcomed as they passed by the blessings and prayers, and tears even, of those fierce fanatics of nitria. Nay, Peter himself, as he turned to leave them together in the sacristy, held out his hand to Philaman. I ask your forgiveness, said the poor boy, who plunged eagerly and with a sort of delight into any and every self-abasement. And I accord it, quoth Peter, and return to the church, look in, and probably feeling, in a far more pleasant mood than usual. End of chapter 26


I am only answering questions to larger public who don't do any practice. At some point I will stop the entertainment, totally. I am not the sort to give you a conclusion. I am a process. If you are willing to be a process of growth, I am there for you.  The idea of doing sadhana is all the questions will burn, not that you'll find answers. Don't ever believe, your intellect will know, it will not know. I have hundreds of questions. Oh! I would just ask one. I would like to know the practices you offer, like atta-yoga, shambhurya and sakri-jalana, and the process of samsana. If one follows this intensely, get involvement. A lot of… A lot of my questions get answered. Yeah, none of your questions will be answered. I am only answering questions to larger public who don't do any practice. Those who are practicing every day intensely, am I taking any of their questions or answering any questions? No, I don't. Because the idea of doing sadhana is all the questions will burn, not that you'll find answers. If your questions are gone, what do answers mean? People who don't do anything about their internal well-being. But think, by asking a question and hearing an answer, their life is going to be settled, we are still entertaining them, okay? At some point I will stop the entertainment, totally. Right now it's still on. At some point it'll be only available to those who are intensely doing their sadhana. For the rest, they must listen to the YouTube. Because you know old cinema is always entertaining, because you need to understand this, questions are coming from a place which can never know. That place from which you're asking questions is not capable of knowing anything. It wants a conclusion. I am not the sort to give you a conclusion. I am a process. If you are willing to be a process of growth, I'm there for you.  This is an ongoing process, and the process becomes so beautiful and heady that you don't care where is the conclusion. Then you don't have any questions. So if I do all my sadhana, you're talking about it like it's some torturous process that if I do all this, will all my questions get answered. See, this happened. Shankaran Pillai... This is not fair. It's not always funny. Sometimes he's serious. Shankaran Pillai filed for divorce. In the divorce, whatever the form that he filed in the court, he said that I want separation because of illness and exhaustion. The judge looked at this and asked, what is this illness and exhaustion? So Shankaran Pillai said that's my lawyer's job. I only said I'm sick and tired of her. So questions can be answered in many ways. So as a beginner, if you have questions, because that is how yearning begins in the form of questions, it's okay. We are not against questions, but I want you to know the place from which all these questions are manufactured, that place is incapable of knowing.  Don't do that. No, you must do it somewhere in your bathroom, at least you must do that. You should not do it everywhere. So you do this vibe to clean your nostrils. So after some time if you ask, can my finger breathe? It can clean up the passage, but it cannot breathe. So don't ever believe your intellect will know. It will not know. It asks questions because it's like that right now. It's okay. Nothing wrong with it.