Hypatia — or New Foes with an Old Face by Charles Kingsley (e book reader TXT) 📗

‘Which is the true method of successful government. Your slave bids you farewell. Do not forget our bet. You dine with me to-morrow?’

And Raphael bowed himself out.

As he left the prefect’s door, he saw Miriam on the opposite side of the street, evidently watching for him. As soon as she saw him, she held on her own side, without appearing to notice him, till he turned a corner, and then crossing, caught him eagerly by the arm.

‘Does the fool dare!’

‘Who dare what?’

‘You know what I mean. Do you suppose old Miriam carries letters without taking care to know what is inside them? Will he apostatise? Tell me. I am secret as the grave!’

‘The fool has found an old worm-eaten rag of conscience somewhere in the corner of his heart, and dare not.’

‘Curse the coward! And such a plot as I had laid! I would have swept every Christian dog out of Africa within the year. What is the man afraid of?’

‘Hell-fire.’

‘Why, he will go there in any case, the accursed Gentile!’

‘So I hinted to him, as delicately as I could; but, like the rest of the world, he had a sort of partiality for getting thither by his own road.’

‘Coward! And whom shall I get now? Oh, if that Pelagia had as much cunning in her whole body as Hypatia has in her little finger, I’d seat her and her Goth upon the throne of the Caesars. But—’

‘But she has five senses, and just enough wit to use them, eh?’

‘Don’t laugh at her for that, the darling! I do delight in her, after all. It warms even my old blood to see how thoroughly she knows her business, and how she enjoys it, like a true daughter of Eve.’

‘She has been your most successful pupil, certainly, mother. You may well be proud of her.’

The old hag chuckled to herself a while; and then suddenly turning to Raphael—‘See here! I have a present for you;’ and she pulled out a magnificent ring.

‘Why, mother, you are always giving me presents. It was but a month ago you sent me this poisoned dagger.’

‘Why not, eh?—why not? Why should not Jew give to Jew? Take the old woman’s ring!’

‘What a glorious opal!’

‘Ah, that is an opal, indeed! And the unspeakable name upon it; just like Solomon’s own. Take it, I say! Whosoever wears that never need fear fire, steel, poison, or woman’s eye.’

‘Your own included, eh?’

‘Take it, I say!’ and Miriam caught his hand, and forced the ring on his finger. ‘There! Now you’re safe. And now call me mother again. I like it. I don’t know why, but I like it. And—Raphael Aben-Ezra—don’t laugh at me, and call me witch and hag, as you often do. I don’t care about it from any one else; I’m accustomed to it. But when you do it, I always long to stab you. That’s why I gave you the dagger. I used to wear it; and I was afraid I might be tempted to use it some day, when the thought came across me how handsome you’d look, and how quiet, when you were dead, and your soul up there so happy in Abraham’s bosom, watching all the Gentiles frying and roasting for ever down below. Don’t laugh at me, I say; and don’t thwart me! I may make you the emperor’s prime minister some day. I can if I choose.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ said Raphael, laughing.

‘Don’t laugh. I cast your nativity last night, and I know you have no cause to laugh. A great danger hangs over you, and a deep temptation. And if you weather this storm, you may be chamberlain, prime minister, emperor, if you will. And you shall be—by the four archangels, you shall!’

And the old woman vanished down a by-lane, leaving Raphael utterly bewildered.

‘Moses and the prophets! Does the old lady intend to marry me? What can there be in this very lazy and selfish personage who bears my name, to excite so romantic an affection? Well, Raphael Aben-Ezra, thou hast one more friend in the world beside Bran the mastiff; and therefore one more trouble—seeing that friends always expect a due return of affection and good offices and what not. I wonder whether the old lady has been getting into a scrape kidnapping, and wants my patronage to help her out of it.... Three-quarters of a mile of roasting sun between me and home!.... I must hire a gig, or a litter, or some-thing, off the next stand .... with a driver who has been eating onions.... and of course there is not a stand for the next half-mile. Oh, divine aether! as Prometheus has it, and ye swift-winged breezes (I wish there were any here), when will it all be over? Three-and-thirty years have I endured already of this Babel of knaves and fools; and with this abominable good health of mine, which won’t even help me with gout or indigestion, I am likely to have three-and-thirty years more of it....I know nothing, and I care for nothing, and I expect nothing; and I actually can’t take the trouble to prick a hole in myself, and let the very small amount of wits out, to see something really worth seeing, and try its strength at something really worth doing—if, after all, the other side the grave does not turn out to be just as stupid as this one.... When will it be all over, and I in Abraham’s bosom—or any one else’s, provided it be not a woman’s?’