XXVI. Miriam's Plot
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 Philammon 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 bids us welcome and honour beauty, whether in man or woman, as something of real worth—divine, heavenly, ay, though we know not how, in a most deep sense eternal; which makes our reason give the lie to all merely logical and sentimental maunderings of moralists about 'the fleeting hues of this our painted clay'; telling men, as the old Hebrew Scriptures tell them, that physical beauty is the deepest of all spiritual symbols; and that though beauty without discretion be the jewel of gold in the swine's snout, yet the jewel of gold it is still, the sacrament of an inward beauty, which ought to be, perhaps hereafter may be, fulfilled in spirit and in truth. Not only this, which whispered to him—and who shall say that the whisper was of the earth, or of the lower world?—'She is too beautiful to be utterly evil'; but the very defect in her creed which he had just discovered, drew him towards her again. She had no Gospel for the Magdalene, because she was a Pagan . . . . That, then, was the fault of her Paganism, not of herself. She felt for Pelagia. but even if she had not, was not that, too, the fault of her Paganism? And for that Paganism who was to be blamed? She? . . . . Was he the man to affirm that? Had he not seen scandals, stupidities, brutalities, enough to shake even his faith, educated a Christian? How much more excuse for her, more delicate, more acute, more lofty than he; the child, too of a heathen father? Her perfections, were they not her own?—her defects, those of her circumstances? . . . . And had she not welcomed him, guarded him, taught him, honoured him? . . . . Could he turn against her? above all now in her distress—perhaps her danger? Was he not bound to her, if by nothing else, by gratitude? Was not he, of all men, bound to believe that all she required to make her perfect was conversion to the true faith? . . . . And that first dream of converting her arose almost as bright as ever . . . . Then he was checked by the thought of his first utter failure . . . . At least, if he could not convert her, he could love her, pray for her . . . . No, he could not even do that; for to whom could he pray? He had to repent, to be forgiven, to humble himself by penitence, perhaps for years, ere he could hope to be heard even for himself, much less for another . . . . And so backwards and forwards swayed his hope and purpose, till he was roused from his meditation by the voice of the little porter summoning him to his evening meal; and recollecting, for the first time, that he had tasted no food that day, he went down, half-unwillingly, and ate.
But as he, the porter, and his negro wife were sitting silently and
sadly enough together, Miriam came in, apparently in high good
humour, and lingered a moment on her way to her own apartments
upstairs.
'Eh? At supper? And nothing but lentils and water-melons, when the
flesh-pots of Egypt have been famous any time these two thousand
years. Ah! but times are changed since then! . . . . You have worn
out the old Hebrew hints, you miserable Gentiles, you, and got a
Caesar instead of a Joseph! Hist, you hussies!' cried she to the
girls upstairs, clapping her hands loudly. 'Here! bring us down one
of those roast chickens, and a bottle of the wine of wines—the wine
with the green seal, you careless daughters of Midian, you, with
your wits running on the men, I'll warrant, every minute I've been
out of the house! Ah, you'll smart for it some day—you'll smart for
it some day, you daughters of Adam's first wife!'
Down came, by the hands of one of the Syrian slave-girls, the fowl
and the wine.