II

At the other end of the city there lived another clergyman. His name was

Arius, and it was a very long time indeed since the Bishop had asked him

to lunch. He took duty at St. Mark’s, a small church that stood on the

brink of the Mediterranean. The neighbourhood was of the best—palaces,

zoological gardens, lecture-rooms, etc.—and over some trees rose the

long back of the temple that Cleopatra had built to Antony. That temple

would make a seemly cathedral, Arius often thought, and the obelisks in

its forecourt—Cleopatra’s Needles—would be improved if they supported

statues of God the Father. The whole of Egypt was ripe for

Christianity—for the right kind of Christianity, that is to say: not for

the kind that was preached at the western end of the town.

Arius was elderly by now. Learned and sincere, tall, simple in his

dress, persuasive in his manner, he was accused by his enemies of

looking like a snake and of seducing, in the theological sense, seven

hundred virgins. The accusation amazed him. He had only preached what is

obviously true. Since Christ is the Son of God, it follows that Christ

is younger than God, and that there must have been a condition—no doubt

before time began—when the first Person of the Trinity existed, and the

Second did not. This has only to be stated to be believed, and only

those who were entirely possessed by the devil, like doddering Alexander

and slippery Athanasius, would state the contrary. The Emperor

Constantine (that lion-hearted warrior!) would certainly see the point,

provided it was explained to him. But Constantine so easily got mixed,

and there was indeed a danger that he would stamp the wrong type of

Christianity as official, and plunge the world into heresy for thousands

of years. How difficult everything was! One’s immediate duty was to

testify, so day after day Arius preached Arianism to the seven hundred

virgins, to the corpse of the Evangelist St. Mark who lay buried beneath

the church, and to the bright blue waves of the sea that in their

ceaseless advance have now covered the whole scene.

The quarrel between him and his bishop grew so fierce and spread so far

that Constantine was obliged to intervene and to beg his

fellow-Christians to imitate the Greek philosophers, who could differ

without shedding one another’s blood. It was just the sort of appeal

that everyone had been fearing that the Emperor would make. He was

insufficiently alive to eternal truth. No one obeyed, and in desperation

he summoned them to meet him at Nicæa on the Black Sea, and spent the

interval in trying to find out what their quarrel turned on. Two hundred

and fifty bishops attended, many priests, deacons innumerable. Among the

last named was Athanasius, who, thundering against Arius in full

conclave, procured his overthrow. Amid scenes of incredible violence the

Nicene Creed was passed, containing clauses (since omitted) in which

Arianism was anathematized. Arius was banished. Athanasius led his

tottering but triumphant bishop back to Alexandria, and the Emperor

returned to the town-planning and to the wardrobes of wigs and false

hair that sometimes solace the maturity of a military man.

The powers of Athanasius were remarkable. Like Arius, he knew what truth

is, but, being a politician, he knew how truth can best be enforced; his

career blends subtlety with vigour, self-abnegation with craft.

Physically he was blackish, but active and strong. One recognizes a

modern street type. Not one single generous action by him is recorded,

but he knew how to inspire enthusiasm, and before he died had become a

popular hero and set the pace to his century. Soon after his return from

Nicæa he was made Patriarch of Alexandria, but he had scarcely sat down

before Arius was back there too. The Emperor wished it. Could not

Christians imitate, etc...? No; Christians could not and would not; and

Athanasius testified with such vigour that he was banished in his turn,

and his dusty theological Odyssey begins. He was banished in all five

times. Sometimes he hid in a cistern, or in pious ladies’ houses, or in

the recesses of the Libyan desert; at other times, going farther afield,

he popped up in Palestine or France. Roused by his passage from older

visions, the soul of the world began to stir, and to what activity!

Heavy Romans, dreamy Orientals and quick Greeks all turned to theology,

and scrambled for the machinery of the Pagan State, wrenching this way

and that until their common heritage was smashed. Cleopatra’s temple to

Antony first felt the killing glare of truth. Arians and Orthodox

competed for its consecration, and in the space of six years its back

was broken and its ribs cracked by fire. St. Theonas’—the episcopal

church—was gutted, and Athanasius nearly killed by some soldiers on its

altar. And all the time everyone was writing—encyclicals as to the date

of Easter, animadversions against washing, accusations of sorcery,

complaints that Athanasius had broken a chalice in a church in a village

near Lake Mariout, replies that there was no chalice to break, because

there was no church, because there was no village—reams and reams of

paper on this subject travelling over the empire for years, and being

perused by bishops in Mesopotamia and Spain. Constantine died; but his

successors, whatever their faith, were drawn into the dance of theology,

none more so than Julian, who dreamed of Olympus. Arius died, falling

down in the streets of Alexandria one evening while he was talking to a

friend; but Arianism survived. Athanasius died too; but not before he

had weaned the Church from her traditions of scholarship and tolerance,

the tradition of Clement and Origen. Few divines have done more for her,

and her gratitude has been both profound and characteristic; she has

coupled his name to a Creed with which he had nothing to do—the

Athanasian.

Were his activities all about nothing? No! The Arian controversy

enshrined a real emotion. By declaring that Christ was younger than God

Arius tended to make him lower than God, and consequently to bring him

nearer to man—indeed, to level him into a mere good man and to forestall

Unitarianism. This appealed to the untheologically-minded—to Emperors,

and particularly to Empresses. It made them feel less lonely. But

Athanasius, who viewed the innovation with an expert eye, saw that while

it popularized Christ it isolated God, and raised man no nearer to

heaven in the long run. Therefore he fought it. Of the theatre of this

ancient strife no trace remains in Alexandria. Not even Cleopatra’s

Needle stands there now. But the strife still continues in the heart of

men, ever prone to substitute the human for the divine, and it is

probable that many an individual Christian to-day is an Arian without

knowing it.

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TIMOTHY THE CAT

AND TIMOTHY WHITEBONNET

“Miaou!”

Such was the terrible sound which, half way through the fifth century,

disturbed the slumbers of certain Monophysite monks. Their flesh crept.

Moved by a common impulse, each stole from his cell, and saw, in the

dimly lighted corridor, a figure even more mysterious than

pussy’s—something that gibbered and bowed and said, in hollow and

sepulchral tones, “Consecrate Timothy.” They stood motionless until the

figure disappeared, then ran this way and that in search of it. There

was nothing to be seen. They opened the convent doors. Nothing to be

seen except Alexandria glimmering, still entirely marble; nothing except

the Pharos, still working and sending out from the height of five

hundred feet a beam visible over a radius of seventy miles. The streets

were quiet, owing to the absence of the Greek garrison in Upper Egypt.

Having looked at the tedious prospect, the monks withdrew, for much had

to be done before morning: they had to decide whether it was an angel or

a devil who had said “Miaou.” If the former, they must do penance for

their lack of faith; if the latter, they were in danger of hell-fire.

While they argued over a point that has puzzled the sharpest of saints,

the attention of some of them began to wander, and to dwell on one who

was beyond doubt a devil—Proterius, whom the Emperor had imposed on them

as their Patriarch, and who slept in a convent hard by. They cursed

Proterius. They reflected too that in the absence of the garrison he no

longer slept safely, that they were Egyptians and numerous, he a Greek

and alone. They cursed him again, and the apparition reappeared

repeating, “Consecrate Timothy.” Timothy was one of their own number and

the holiest of men. When, after an interval, they ran to his cell, they

found him upon his knees in prayer. They told him of the ghostly

message, and he seemed dazed, but on collecting himself implored that it

might never be mentioned again. Asked whether it was infernal, he

refused to reply. Asked whether it was supernal, he replied, “You, not

I, have said so.” All doubts disappeared, and away they ran to find some

bishops. Melchite or Arian or Sabæan or Nestorian or Donatist or

Manichæan bishops would not do: they must be Monophysite. Fortunately

two had occurred, and on the following day Timothy, struggling piously,

was carried between Cleopatra’s Needles into the cathedral and

consecrated Patriarch of Alexandria and of all the Preaching of St.

Mark. For he held the correct opinion as to the Nature of Christ—the

only possible opinion: Christ has a single Nature, divine, which has

absorbed the human: how could it be otherwise? The leading residential

officials, the municipal authorities, and the business community thought

the same; so, attacking Proterius, who thought the contrary, they

murdered him in the Baptistery, and hanged him over the city wall. The

Greek garrison hurried back, but it was too late. Proterius had gone,

nor did the soldiers regret him, for he had made more work than most

bishops, having passed the seven years of his episcopate in a constant

state of siege. Timothy, for whom no guards need be set, was a great

improvement. Diffident and colloquial, he won everyone’s heart, and

obtained, for some reason or other, the surname of the Cat.

Thus the _coup d’église_ had succeeded for the moment. But it had to

reckon with another monk, a second Timothy, of whom, as events proved,

the angel had really been thinking. He was Timothy Whitebonnet, so

called from his headgear, and his life was more notable than the Cat’s,

for he lived at Canopus, where the air is so thick with demons that only

the most robust of Christians can breathe. Canopus stood on a promontory

ten miles east of Alexandria, overlooking the exit of the Nile. Foul

influences had haunted it from the first. Helen, a thousand years ago,

had come here with Paris on their flight towards Troy, and though the

local authorities had expelled her for vagabondage, the ship that

carried her might still be seen, upon summer nights, ploughing the waves

into fire. In her train had followed Herodotus, asking idle questions of

idle men; Alexander, called the Great from his enormous horns; and

Serapis, a devil worse than any, who, liking the situation, had summoned

his wife and child and established them on a cliff to the north, within

sound of the sea. The child never spoke. The wife wore the moon. In

their honour the Alexandrians used to come out along the canal in barges

and punts, crowned with flowers, robed in gold, and singing spells of

such potency that the words remained, though the singers were dead, and

would slide into Timothy Whitebonnet’s ear, when the air seemed

stillest, and pretend to him that they came from God. Often, just as a

sentence was completed, he would realize its origin, and have to

expectorate it in the form of a toad—a dangerous exercise, but it taught

him discernment, and fitted him to play his part in the world. He

learned with horror of the riots in the metropolis, and of the elevation

of the heretical Cat. For he knew that Christ has two Natures, one

human, the other divine: how can it be otherwise?

At Constantinople there seems to have been a little doubt. Leo, the

reigning emperor, was anxious not to drive Egypt into revolt, and

disposed to let Alexandria follow the faith she preferred. But his

theologians took a higher line, and insisted on his sending a new

garrison. This was done, the Cat was captured, and Whitebonnet dragged

from Canopus and consecrated in his place. There matters rested until

the accession of Basiliscus, who sent a new garrison to expel

Whitebonnet. Once more the Cat ruled bloodily until the Emperor Zeno

took the other view, and sending a——

However, the curtain may drop now. The controversy blazed for two

hundred years, and is smouldering yet. The Copts still believe, with

Timothy the Cat, in the single Nature of Christ; the double Nature,

upheld by Timothy Whitebonnet, is still maintained by the rest of

Christendom and by the reader. The Pharos, the Temple of Serapis—these

have perished, being only stones, and sharing the impermanence of

material things. It is ideas that live.

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