IT was a scene of bitter disputation.A hawk-nosed young man with a pointing finger was prominent.His face worked violently, his lips moved very rapidly, but what he said was inaudible.
Behind him the little rufous man with the big eyes twitched at his robe and offered suggestions.
And behind these two clustered a great multitude of heated, excited, swarthy faces....
The emperor sat on his golden throne in the midst of the gathering, commanding silence by gestures, speaking inaudibly to them in a tongue the majority did not use, and then prevailing.
They ceased their interruptions, and the old man, Arius, took up the debate.For a time all those impassioned faces were intent upon him; they listened as though they sought occasion, and suddenly as if by a preconcerted arrangement they were all thrusting their fingers into their ears and knitting their brows in assumed horror; some were crying aloud and making as if to fly.Some indeed tucked up their garments and fled.They spread out into a pattern.They were like the little monks who run from St.Jerome's lion in the picture by Carpaccio.Then one zealot rushed forward and smote the old man heavily upon the mouth....
The hall seemed to grow vaster and vaster, the disputing, infuriated figures multiplied to an innumerable assembly, they drove about like snowflakes in a gale, they whirled in argumentative couples, they spun in eddies of contradiction, they made extraordinary patterns, and then amidst the cloudy darkness of the unfathomable dome above them there appeared and increased a radiant triangle in which shone an eye.The eye and the triangle filled the heavens, sent out flickering rays, glowed to a blinding incandescence, seemed to be speaking words of thunder that were nevertheless inaudible.It was as if that thunder filled the heavens, it was as if it were nothing but the beating artery in the sleeper's ear.The attention strained to hear and comprehend, and on the very verge of comprehension snapped like a fiddle-string.
"Nicoea!"
The word remained like a little ash after a flare.
The sleeper had awakened and lay very still, oppressed by a sense of intellectual effort that had survived the dream in which it had arisen.Was it so that things had happened? The slumber-shadowed mind, moving obscurely, could not determine whether it was so or not.Had they indeed behaved in this manner when the great mystery was established? Who said they stopped their ears with their fingers and fled, shouting with horror? Shouting? Was it Eusebius or Athanasius? Or Sozomen....Some letter or apology by Athanasius?...And surely it was impossible that the Trinity could have appeared visibly as a triangle and an eye.Above such an assembly.
That was mere dreaming, of course.Was it dreaming after Raphael? After Raphael? The drowsy mind wandered into a side issue.Was the picture that had suggested this dream the one in the Vatican where all the Fathers of the Church are shown disputing together? But there surely God and the Son themselves were painted with a symbol--some symbol--also? But was that disputation about the Trinity at all? Wasn't it rather about a chalice and a dove? Of course it was a chalice and a dove! Then where did one see the triangle and the eye? And men disputing?
Some such picture there was....
What a lot of disputing there had been! What endless disputing!
Which had gone on.Until last night.When this very disagreeable young man with the hawk nose and the pointing finger had tackled one when one was sorely fagged, and disputed; disputed.Rebuked and disputed."Answer me this," he had said....And still one's poor brains disputed and would not rest....About the Trinity....
The brain upon the pillow was now wearily awake.It was at once hopelessly awake and active and hopelessly unprogressive.It was like some floating stick that had got caught in an eddy in a river, going round and round and round.And round.Eternally--eternally--eternally begotten.
"But what possible meaning do you attach then to such a phrase as eternally begotten?"The brain upon the pillow stared hopelessly at this question, without an answer, without an escape.The three repetitions spun round and round, became a swiftly revolving triangle, like some electric sign that had got beyond control, in the midst of which stared an unwinking and resentful eye.
Every one knows that expedient of the sleepless, the counting of sheep.
You lie quite still, you breathe regularly, you imagine sheep jumping over a gate, one after another, you count them quietly and slowly until you count yourself off through a fading string of phantom numbers to number Nod....
But sheep, alas! suggest an episcopal crook.
And presently a black sheep had got into the succession and was struggling violently with the crook about its leg, a hawk-nosed black sheep full of reproof, with disordered hair and a pointing finger.A young man with a most disagreeable voice.
At which the other sheep took heart and, deserting the numbered succession, came and sat about the fire in a big drawing-room and argued also.In particular there was Lady Sunderbund, a pretty fragile tall woman in the corner, richly jewelled, who sat with her pretty eyes watching and her lips compressed.What had she thought of it? She had said very little.
