The Death of Hypatia
BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.
["Hypatia was a mathematician of Alexandria, who taught her students the philosophy of Plato. Orestes, governor of Alexandria, admired the talents of Hypatia, and frequently had recourse to her for advice. He was desirous of curbing the too ardent zeal of St. Cyril, who saw in Hypatia one of the principal supports of paganism. The most fanatical followers of the bishop, in March, A.D. 415, seized upon Hypatia as she was proceeding to her school, forced her to descend from her chariot, and dragged her into a neighboring church, where she was put to death by her brutal foes. Canon Kingsley's historical romance has done much to make her name familiar to English readers" (Classical Dictionary). Raphael Aben-Ezra, a former pupil, converted to Christianity and returning to Alexandria, seeks audience with Hypatia to tell her of the Nazarene. Broken and discouraged, she still holds to her philosophy, but finally consents to hear what Raphael has to say of Christianity. It is almost time for her to lecture at the school, so she makes an appointment for Raphael the following day. She sends him from her until then with the words with which this cutting begins.]
es, come.... The Galilean.... If he conquers strong men, can the weak maid resist him? Come soon ... this afternoon.... My heart is breaking fast."
"At the eighth hour this afternoon?" asked Raphael.
"Yes.... At noon I lecture ... take my farewell, rather, forever, of the schools.... Gods! What have I to say?... And tell me about Him of Nazareth. Farewell!"
"Farewell, beloved lady! At the ninth hour you shall hear of Him of Nazareth."
As Raphael went down the steps into the street, a young man sprang from behind one of the pillars and seized his arm.
"Aha! my young Coryphæus of pious plunderers! What do you want with me?"
Philammon, for it was he, looked at him an instant, and recognized him.
"Save her! for the love of God, save her!"
"Whom?"
"Hypatia!"
"How long has her salvation been important to you, my good friend?"
"For God's sake," said Philammon, "go back and warn her! She will hear you—you are rich—you used to be her friend—I know you—I have heard of you.... Oh, if you ever cared for her—if you ever felt for her a thousandth part of what I feel—go in and warn her not to stir from home!"
"Of what is she to be warned?"
"Of a plot—I know that there is a plot—against her among the monks and parabolani. As I lay in bed this morning in Arsenius' room they thought I was asleep—"
"Arsenius? Has that venerable fanatic, then, gone the way of all monastic flesh, and turned persecutor?"
"God forbid! I heard him beseeching Peter, the reader, to refrain from something, I cannot tell what; but I caught her name.... I heard Peter say, 'She that hindereth will hinder till she be taken out of the way.' And when he went out in the passage I heard him say to another, 'That thou doest, do quickly!'"
"These are slender grounds, my friend."
"Ah, you do not know of what these men are capable."
"Do I not?"
"I know the hatred which they bear her, the crimes which they attribute to her. Her house would have been attacked last night had it not been for Cyril.... And I knew Peter's tone. He spoke too gently and softly not to mean something devilish. I watched all the morning for an opportunity of escape, and here I am! Will you take my message, or see her—"
"What?"
"God only knows, and the devil whom they worship instead of God."
Raphael hurried back into the house. "Could he see Hypatia?" She had shut herself up in her private room, strictly commanding that no visitor should be admitted.... "Where was Theon, then?" He had gone out by the canal gate half an hour before, and he hastily wrote on his tablet:
"Do not despise the young monk's warning. I believe him to speak the truth. As you love yourself and your father, Hypatia, stir not out to-day."
He bribed the maid to take the message up-stairs; and passed his time in the hall in warning the servants. But they would not believe him. It was true the shops were shut in some quarters, and the Museum gardens empty; people were a little frightened after yesterday. But Cyril, they had heard for certain, had threatened excommunication only last night to any Christian who broke the peace; and there had not been a monk to be seen in the streets the whole morning. And as for any harm happening to their mistress—impossible! "The very wild beasts would not tear her," said the huge negro porter, "if she were thrown into the amphitheater."
Whereat the maid boxed his ears for talking of such a thing: and then, by way of mending it, declared that she knew for certain that her mistress could turn aside the lightning and call legions of spirits to fight for her with a nod.... What was to be done with such idolaters. And yet who could help liking them the better for it?
At last the answer came down, in the old, graceful, studied, self-conscious handwriting:
"I dread nothing. They will not dare. Did they dare now, they would have dared long ago. As for that youth—to obey or to believe his word, even to seem aware of his existence, were shame to me henceforth. Because he is insolent enough to warn me, therefore I will go. Fear not for me. You would not wish me, for the first time in my life, to fear for myself. I must follow my destiny. I must speak the words which I have to speak. Above all, I must let no Christian say that the philosopher dared less than the fanatic. If my gods are gods, then will they protect me; and if not, let your God prove His rule as seems to Him good."
Raphael tore the letter to fragments.... The guards, at least, were not gone mad like the rest of the world. It wanted half an hour of the time for her lecture. In the interval he might summon force enough to crush all Alexandria.
And turning suddenly, he darted out of the room and out of the house.
"Stay here and stop her! Make a last appeal," cried he to Philammon, with a gesture of grief. "Drag the horses' heads down, if you can! I will be back in ten minutes." And he ran off for the nearest gate of the Museum gardens.
On the other side of the gardens lay the courtyard of the palace. There were gates in plenty communicating between them. If he could but see Orestes, even alarm the guard in time!...
And he hurried through the walks and alcoves, now deserted by the fearful citizens, to the nearest gate. It was fast and barricaded firmly on the outside.
Terrified, he ran on to the next; it was barred also. He saw the reason in a moment, and maddened as he saw it. The guards, careless about the Museum, or reasonably fearing no danger from the Alexandrian populace to the glory and wonder of their city, or perhaps wishing wisely enough to concentrate their forces in the narrowest space, had contented themselves with cutting off all communication with the gardens. At all events, the doors leading from the Museum itself might be open. He knew them, every one. He found an entrance, hurried through well-known corridors to a postern through which he and Orestes had lounged a hundred times. It was fast. He beat upon it; but no one answered. He rushed on and tried another. No one answered there. Another—still silence and despair!... He rushed up-stairs, hoping that from a window above he might be able to call the guard. The prudent soldiers had locked and barricaded the entrances to the upper floors of the whole right wing, lest the palace court should be commanded from thence. Whither now? Back—and whither then? And his breath failed him, his throat was parched, his face burned as with the simoon wind, his legs were trembling under him. His presence of mind, usually so perfect, failed him utterly. He was baffled, netted. His brain, for the first time in his life, began to reel. He could recollect nothing but that something dreadful was to happen—and that he had to prevent it, and could not.... Where was he now? In a little by-chamber. What was that roar below?... A sea of weltering heads, thousands on thousands down into the very beach; and from their innumerable throats one mighty war-cry—"God, and the Mother of God!" Cyril's hounds were loose....
He reeled from the window, and darted frantically away again ... whither, he knew not, and never knew until his dying day.
Philammon saw Raphael rush across the streets into the Museum gardens. His last words had been a command to stay where he was, and the boy obeyed him, quietly ensconced himself behind a buttress, and sat coiled up on the pavement ready for a desperate spring.
There Philammmon waited a full half-hour. It seemed to him hours, day, years. And yet Raphael did not return; and yet no guards appeared.
What meant that black knot of men some two hundred yards off, hanging about the mouth of the side street, just opposite the door which led to her lecture-room? He moved to watch them; they had vanished. He lay down again and waited.... There they were again. It was a suspicious post. That street ran along the back of the Cæsareum, a favorite haunt of monks, communicating by innumerable entries and back buildings with the great church itself.... He knew that something terrible was at hand. More than once he looked out from his hiding place—the knot of men were still there; ... it seemed to have increased, to draw nearer. If they found him, what would they not suspect? What did he care? He would die for her if it came to that—not that it would come to that; but still he must speak to her—he must warn her.
At last, a curricle, glittering with silver, rattled round the corner and stopped opposite him. She must be coming now. The crowd had vanished. Perhaps it was, after all, a fancy of his own. No; there they were, peeping round the corner, close to the lecture-room—the hell-hounds! A slave brought out an embroidered cushion, and then Hypatia herself came forth, looking more glorious than ever; her lips set in a sad, firm smile; her eyes uplifted, inquiring, eager, and yet gentle, dimmed by some great inward awe, as if her soul were far away aloft, and face to face with God.
In a moment he sprang up to her, caught her robe convulsively, threw himself on his knees before her.
"Stop! Stay! You are going to destruction!"
Calmly she looked down upon him.
"Accomplice of witches! Would you make of Theon's daughter a traitor like yourself?"
He sprang up, stepped back, and stood stupefied with shame and despair....
She believed him guilty then!... It was the will of God!
The plumes of the horses were waving far down the street before he recovered himself, and rushed after her, shouting he knew not what.
It was too late! A dark wave of men rushed from the ambuscade, surged up round the car, ... swept forward.... She had disappeared, and, as Philammon followed breathless, the horses galloped past him madly homeward with the empty carriage.
Whither were they dragging her? To the Cæsareum, the church of God Himself? Impossible! Why thither of all places of the earth? Why did the mob, increasing momentarily by hundreds, pour down upon the beach, and return brandishing flints, shells, fragments of pottery?
She was upon the church steps before he caught them up, invisible among the crowd; but he could track her by the fragments of her dress.
Where were her gay pupils now? Alas! they had barricaded themselves shamefully in the Museum at the first rush which swept her from the door of the lecture-room. Cowards! He would save her.
And he struggled in vain to pierce the dense mass of parabolani and monks, who, mingled with the fish-wives and dock workers, leaped and yelled around their victim. But what he could not do another and a weaker did—even the little porter. Furiously—no one knew how or whence—he burst up, as if from the ground in the thickest of the crowd, with knife, teeth and nails, like a venomous wild-cat, tearing his way toward his idol. Alas! he was torn down himself, rolled over the steps, and lay there half dead in an agony of weeping, as Philammon sprang up past him into the church.
Yes! On into the church itself! Into the cool, dim shadow, with its fretted pillars, and lowering domes, and candles, and incense, and blazing altar, and great pictures looking down from the walls athwart the gorgeous gloom. And right in front, above the altar, the colossal Christ, watching unmoved from off the wall, his right hand raised to give a blessing—or a curse!
On, up the nave, fresh shreds of her dress strewing the holy
pavement—up the chancel steps themselves—up to the altar—right underneath the great, still Christ; and there even those hell-hounds paused....
She shook herself free from her tormentors, and, springing back, rose for one moment to her full height, naked, snow-white against the dusky mass around—shame and indignation in those wide, clear eyes, but not a stain of fear. With one hand she clasped her golden locks around her, the other long, white arm was stretched upward toward the great, still Christ, appealing—and who dare say, in vain?—from man to God. Her lips were opened to speak; but the words that should have come from them reached God's ear alone; for in an instant Peter struck her down, the dark mass closed over her again, ... and then wail on wail, long, wild, ear-piercing, rang along the vaulted roofs, and thrilled like the trumpet of avenging angels through Philammon's ears.
Crushed against a pillar, unable to move in the dense mass, he pressed his hands over his ears. He could not shut out those shrieks! When would they end? What in the name of the God of mercy were they doing? Tearing her piecemeal? Yes, and worse than that. And still the shrieks rang on, and still the great Christ looked down on Philammon with that calm, intolerable eye, and would not turn away. And over his head was written in the rainbow, "I am the same, yesterday, to-day, and forever!" The same as he was in Judæa of old, Philammon? Then what are these, and in whose temple? And he covered his face with his hands and longed to die.
It was over. The shrieks had died away into moans; the moans to silence.