Hypatia by Charles Kingsley (good books to read for young adults txt) 📕

she not do? What might she not make Africa? Give her ten years of power, and the hated name of Christian might be forgotten, and Athene Polias, colossal in ivory and gold, watching in calm triumph over the harbours of a heathen Alexandria …. But the price!

And she hid her face in her hands, and bursting into bitter tears, walked slowly away into her own chamber, her whole body convulsed with the internal struggle.

The old man looked after her, anxiously and perplexed, and then followed, hesitating. She was sitting at the table, her face buried in her hands. He did not dare to disturb her. In addition to all the affection, the wisdom, the glorious beauty, on which his whole heart fed day by day, he believed her to be the possessor of those supernatural powers and favours to which she so boldly laid claim. And he stood watching her in the doorway, praying in his heart to all gods and demons, principalities and powers, from Athene down to his daughter’s guardian spirit, to move a determination which he was too weak to gainsay, and yet too rational to approve.

At last the struggle was over, and she looked up, clear, calm, and glorious again.

‘It shall be. For the sake of the immortal gods—for the sake of art, and science, and learning, and philosophy …. It shall be. If the gods demand a victim, here am I. If a second time in the history of the ages the Grecian fleet cannot sail forth, conquering and civilising, without the sacrifice of a virgin, I give my throat to the knife. Father, call me no more Hypatia: call me Iphigenia!’

‘And me Agamemnon?’ asked the old man, attempting a faint jest through his tears of joy. ‘I daresay you think me a very cruel father; but—’

‘Spare me, father—I have spared you.’

And she began to write her answer.

‘I have accepted his offer—conditionally, that is. And on whether he have courage or not to fulfil that condition depends— Do not ask me what it is. While Cyril is leader of the Christian mob, it may be safer for you, my father, that you should be able to deny all knowledge of my answer. Be content. I have said this—that if he will do as I would have him do, I will do as you would have me do.’

‘Have you not been too rash? Have you not demanded of him something which, for the sake of public opinion, he dare not grant openly, and yet which he may allow you to do for yourself when once—’

‘I have. If I am to be a victim, the sacrificing priest shall at least be a man, and not a coward and a time-server. If he believes this Christian faith, let him defend it against me; for either it or I shall perish. If he does not—as he does not—let him give up living in a lie, and taking on his lips blasphemies against the immortals, from which his heart and reason revolt!’

And she clapped her hands again for the maid-servant, gave her the letter silently, shut the doors of her chamber, and tried to resume her Commentary on Plotinus. Alas! what were all the wire-drawn dreams of metaphysics to her in that real and human struggle of the heart? What availed it to define the process by which individual souls emanated from the universal one, while her own soul had, singly and on its own responsibility, to decide so terrible an act of will? or to write fine words with pen and ink about the immutability of the supreme Reason, while her own reason was left there to struggle for its life amid a roaring shoreless waste of doubts and darkness? Oh, how grand, and clear, and logical it had all looked half an hour ago! And how irrefragably she had been deducing from it all, syllogism after syllogism, the non-existence of evil!—how it was but a lower form of good, one of the countless products of the one great all-pervading mind which could not err or change, only so strange and recondite in its form as to excite antipathy in all minds but that of the philosopher, who learnt to see the stem which connected the apparently bitter fruit with the perfect root from whence it sprang. Could she see the stem there?— the connection between the pure and supreme Reason, and the hideous caresses of the debauched and cowardly Orestes? was not that evil pure, unadulterate with any vein of good, past, present, or future?

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True;—she might keep her spirit pure amid it all; she might sacrifice the base body, and ennoble the soul by the self-sacrifice …. And yet, would not that increase the horror, the agony, the evil of it-to her, at least, most real evil, not to be explained away-and yet the gods required it? Were they just, merciful in that? Was it like them, to torture her, their last unshaken votary? Did they require it? Was it not required of them by some higher power, of whom they were only the emanations, the tools, the puppets?—and required of that higher power by some still higher one—some nameless, absolute destiny of which Orestes and she, and all heaven and earth, were but the victims, dragged along in an inevitable vortex, helpless, hopeless, toward that for which each was meant?—And she was meant for this! The thought was unbearable; it turned her giddy. No! she would not! She would rebel! Like Prometheus, she would dare destiny, and brave its worst! And she sprang up to recall the letter …. Miriam was gone; and she threw herself on the floor, and wept bitterly.

And her peace of mind would certainly not have been improved, could she have seen old Miriam hurry home with her letter to a dingy house in the Jews’ quarter, where it was un-sealed, read, and sealed up again with such marvellous skill, that no eye could have detected the change; and finally, still less would she have been comforted could she have heard the conversation which was going on in a summer-room of Orestes’ palace, between that illustrious statesman and Raphael Aben-Ezra, who were lying on two divans opposite each other, whiling away, by a throw or two of dice, the anxious moments which delayed her answer.

‘Trays again! The devil is in you, Raphael!’

‘I always thought he was,’ answered Raphael, sweeping up the gold pieces….

‘When will that old witch be back?’

‘When she has read through your letter and Hypatia’s answer.’

‘Read them?’

‘Of course. You don’t fancy she is going to be fool enough to carry a message without knowing what it is? Don’t be angry; she won’t tell. She would give one of those two grave-lights there, which she calls her eyes, to see the thing prosper.’

‘Why?’

‘Your excellency will know when the letter comes. Here she is; I hear steps in the cloister. Now, one bet before they enter. I give you two to one she asks you to turn pagan.’

‘What in? Negro-boys?’

‘Anything you like.’

‘Taken. Come in, slaves?’

And Hypocorisma entered, pouting.

‘That Jewish fury is outside with a letter, and has the impudence to say she won’t let me bring it in!’

‘Bring her in then. Quick!’

‘I wonder what I am here for, if people have secrets that I am not to know,’ grumbled the spoilt youth.

‘Do you want a blue ribbon round those white sides of yours, you monkey?’ answered Orestes. ‘Because, if you do, the hippopotamus hide hangs ready outside.’

‘Let us make him kneel down here for a couple of hours, and use him as a dice-board,’ said Raphael, ‘as you used to do to the girls in Armenia.’

‘Ah, you recollect that?—and how the barbarian papas used to grumble, till I had to crucify one or two, eh? That was something like life! I love those out-of-the-way stations, where nobody asks questions: but here one might as well live among the monks in Nitria. Here comes Canidia! Ah, the answer? Hand it here, my queen of go-betweens!’

Orestes read it—and his countenance fell.

‘I have won?’

‘Out of the room, slaves! and no listening!’

‘I have won then?’

Orestes tossed the letter across to him, and Raphael read—

‘The immortal gods accept no divided worship; and he who would command the counsels of their prophetess must remember that they will vouchsafe to her no illumination till their lost honours be restored. If he who aspires to be the lord of Africa dare trample on the hateful cross, and restore the Caesareum to those for whose worship it was built—if he dare proclaim aloud with his lips, and in his deeds, that contempt for novel and barbarous superstitions, which his taste and reason have already taught him, then he would prove himself one with whom it were a glory to labour, to dare, to die in a great cause. But till then—’

And so the letter ended.

‘What am I to do?’

‘Take her at her word.’

‘Good heavens! I shall be excommunicated! And—and—what is to become of my soul?’

‘What will become of it in any case, my most excellent lord?’ answered Raphael blandly.

‘You mean—I know what you cursed Jews think will happen to every one but yourselves. But what would the world say? I an apostate! And in the face of Cyril and the populace! I daren’t, I tell you!’

‘No one asked your excellency to apostatise.’

‘Why, what? What did you say just now?’

‘I asked you to promise. It will not be the first time that promises before marriage have not exactly coincided with performance afterwards.’

‘I daren’t—that is, I won’t promise. I believe, now, this is some trap of your Jewish intrigue, just to make me commit myself against those Christians, whom you hate.’

‘I assure you, I despise all mankind far too profoundly to hate them. How disinterested my advice was when I proposed this match to you, you never will know; indeed, it would be boastful in me to tell you. But really you must make a little sacrifice to win this foolish girl. With all the depth and daring of her intellect to help you, you might be a match for Romans, Byzantines, and Goths at once. And as for beauty—why, there is one dimple inside that wrist, just at the setting on of the sweet little hand, worth all the other flesh and blood in Alexandria.’

‘By Jove! you admire her so much, I suspect you must be in love with her yourself. Why don’t you marry her? I’ll make you my prime minister, and then we shall have the use of her wits without the trouble of her fancies. By the twelve Gods! If you marry her and help me, I’ll make you what you like!’

Raphael rose and bowed to the earth.

‘Your serene high-mightiness overwhelms me. But I assure you, that never having as yet cared for any one’s interest but my own, I could not be expected, at my time of life, to devote myself to that of another, even though it were to yours.’

‘Candid!’

‘Exactly so; and moreover, whosoever I may marry, will be practically, as well as theoretically, my private and peculiar property …. You comprehend.’

‘Candid again.’

‘Exactly so; and waiving the third argument, that she probably might not choose to marry me, I beg to remark that it would not be proper to allow the world to say, that I, the subject, had