(I)
"So you go back to England to-morrow?" said Father Adrian, as
they sat a night or two later in the guest-room of the French
Benedictines, where the monk was staying.
"We start to-morrow night," said the old priest. "Monsignor is
infinitely better, and we must both get back to work. And you?"
"I stay here to finish the revising of my book," said the monk quietly.
* * * * *
The man who had lost his memory had piled impression on
impression during the last forty-eight hours. There was first the
case of the German girl. She had been examined by the same
doctors as those who had certified to her state half an hour
before the cure, and the result had been telegraphed over the
entire civilized world. The fracture was completely repaired; and
although she was still weak from her long illness, she gained
strength every hour. Then there was the case of the Russian. He
too had received back his sight, although not instantaneously; it
had come to him step by step. An hour ago he had been pronounced
healed, and had passed the usual tests in the examination-rooms.
But these cases, and others like them which the priests had
investigated, were only a part of the total weight of impressions
which Monsignor Masterman had received. He had seen here for
himself a relation between Science and Faith--a co-operation
between them, with the exigencies of each duly weighed and
observed by them both--which set Nature and Supernature before
him in a completely new light. As Mr. Manners had said at
Westminster a week or two before, the two seemed to have met at
last, each working from different quarters, on a platform on
which they could work side by side. The facts were no longer
denied by either party. Science allowed for the mysteries of
Faith; Faith recognized the achievements of Science. Each granted
that the other possessed a perfectly legitimate sphere of action
in which the methods proper to that sphere were imperative and
final. The scientist accepted the fact that Religion had a right
to speak in matters that lay beyond scientific data; the
theologian no longer denounced as fraudulent or disingenuous the
claims of the scientist to exercise powers that were at last
found to be natural. Neither needed to establish his own position
by attacking that of his partner, and the two accordingly,
without prejudice or passion, worked together to define yet
further that ever-narrowing range of ground between the two
worlds which up to the present remained unmapped. Suggestion, for
example, acting upon the mutual relations of body and mind, was
recognized by the theologian as a force sufficient to produce
phenomena which in earlier days he had claimed as evidently
supernatural. And, on the other side, the scientist no longer
made wild acts of faith in nature, in attributing to her
achievements which he could not for an instant parallel by any
deliberate experiment. In a word, the scientist repeated, "I
believe in God "; and the theologian, "I recognize Nature."
Monsignor sat apart in silence, while the others talked.
He had thought in Rome that he had reached interior conviction;
he understood now in Lourdes that his conviction had not gone so
deep as he had fancied. He had learned in Versailles that the
Church could reorganize society, in Rome that she could reconcile
nations; he had seen finally in Lourdes that she could
resolve philosophies.
And this very discovery made him the more timid. For he began to
wonder whether there were not yet further discoveries which he
would have to make--workings out and illustrations of the
principles he had begun to perceive. How, for example, he began
to ask himself, would the Church deal with those who did not
recognize her claims--those solitary individuals or groups here
and there who, he knew, still clung pathetically to the old
dreams of the beginning of the century--to the phantom of
independent thought and the intoxicating nightmare of democratic
government? It was certain now that these things were
dreams--that it was ludicrously absurd to imagine that a man
could profitably detach himself from Revelation and the stream of
tradition and development that flowed from it; that it was
ridiculous to turn creation upside-down and to attempt to govern
the educated few by the uneducated many. Yet people did
occasionally hold impossible and absurd theories. . . . How,
then, would these be treated by the Church when once her power
had been finally consolidated? How was she to reconcile the
gentleness of the Christian spirit with the dogmatism of the
Christian claim? . . . He recalled one or two hints that Father
Jervis had let drop, and he was conscious of a touch of fear.
He woke up to externals again at the sound of a sentence or
two from the monk.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "What was that?"
"I was saying that the news from Germany is disquieting."
"Why?"
"Oh! nothing definite. They expect trouble. They say that the
Emperor is extraordinarily interested in this girl's case, and
that the Socialists of Berlin are watching him. Berlin is their
last stronghold, you know."
"By the way," interrupted Father Jervis suddenly, "I've enquired
about that man with the curious name--Zola. I find he had quite a
vogue at one time. And now I come to think of it, I believe
Manners mentioned him."
"Zola?" mused the monk. "Yes, I'm nearly sure I've heard of him.
Wasn't he an Elizabethan?"
"No, no. He died at the end of the last century. I find he did
write a little romance about Lourdes. There was even a copy in
the library here. I hadn't time to look at it; but M. Meurot told
me it was one of those odd little attacks on religion that were
popular once. That's all I could find out."
Monsignor compressed his lips. Somewhere out of his abysmal
memory there lurked a consciousness that Zola had once been of
some importance; but he could add nothing to the discussion.
Dom Adrian stood up and stretched himself.
"It's time for bed," he said. "Look" (he nodded towards the
window), "the devotions are just ending."
From out of the luminous gulf beneath, beyond the tiers of roofs
that lay, step-like, between this hostel and the river, rose up
that undying song of Lourdes--that strange, haunting old melody of
the story of Bernadette, that for a hundred and fifty years had
been sung in this place--a ballad-like song, without grace of
music or art, which yet has so wonderful an affinity with the old
carols of Christendom, which yet is so unforgettable and so
affecting. As the three stood side by side looking out of the
window they saw the serpent of fire, that rope-coil of tapers
that, stretching round the entire Place, humped over the flights
of steps and the platforms set amongst the churches, writhes
incessantly on itself. But, even as they watched, the serpent grew
dim and patchy, and the lights began to go out, as group after
group broke away homewards. They had wished their Mother good
night, there in that great French town which has so wonderful an
aroma of little Nazareth; they had sung their thanksgivings; they
had offered their prayers. Now it was time to sleep under Her
protection, who was the Mother both of God and man. . . .
"Well, good night," said Monsignor. "We shall meet in London."
"I hope so," said the young monk gravely.
"I am afraid that young man will be in trouble," said Father
Jervis softly, as they came down the steps. "His book, you know."
"Eh?"
"Well, it's best not to talk of it. We shall soon know. He's as
brave as a lion."
PART II
CHAPTER I
(I)
Monsignor Masterman sat in his room at Westminster, busy at his
correspondence.
A week had passed since his return, and he had made extraordinary
progress. Even his face showed it. The piteous, bewildered look
that he had worn, as he first realized little by little how
completely out of touch he was with the world in which he had
found himself after his lapse of memory, had wholly disappeared;
and in its place was the keen, bright-eyed intelligence of a
typical ecclesiastic. It was not that his memory had returned.
Still, behind his sudden awakening in Hyde Park, all was a misty
blank, from which faces and places and even phrases started out,
for the most part unverifiable. Yet it seemed both to him and to
those about him that he had an amazing facility in gathering up
the broken threads. He had spent three or four days, after his
return from Lourdes, closeted in private with Father Jervis or
the Cardinal, and had found himself at last capable of
readmitting his secretaries and of taking up his work again. The
world in general had been informed of his nervous breakdown, so
that on the few occasions when he seemed to suffer small lapses
of memory no great surprise was felt.
He found, of course, a state of affairs that astonished him
enormously. For example, he discovered that as the Cardinal's
secretary he was an extremely important person in the country. He
had not yet ventured much on private interviews--these were for
the present chiefly conducted by the Cardinal, with himself
present; but his correspondence showed him that his good word was
worth having, even by men who were foremost in the government of
the day. There was, for instance, an immense amount of work to be
done on the subject of the relations of Church and State; for the
Church, it must be remembered, while not actually established,
stood for the whole religious sentiment of the country, and must
be consulted on every measure of importance. There was, further,
the matter of the restoration of Church property not yet finally
concluded in all its details, with endless adjustments and
compensations still under discussion. This morning it was on the
University question that he was chiefly engaged, and particularly
the question as to the relative numbers of the lay and clerical
Fellows on the old Catholic foundations.
* * * * *
A bell struck a single note; and one of his secretaries, sitting
at the broad table near the window, lifted the receiver to his
ear. Then he turned.
"His Eminence wishes to have a word with you, Monsignor,
on two matters."
Monsignor stood up.
"I'll come now, if it's convenient," he said. "I have to be at
Westminster at twelve."
The secretary spoke again through the telephone.
"His Eminence is ready," he said.
The Cardinal looked up as the priest came in a minute later.
"Ah! good morning, Monsignor. Yes, sit down there. There are just
two matters I want to have a word with you on. The first is as
regards a heresy-trial of a priest."
Monsignor bowed. It was his first experience of the kind, so
far as he could remember; and he did not yet fully understand
all that it meant.
"I wish you to select the judges. You'll look up the procedure,
if you forget? A Dominican must be on it, of course; so you
must communicate with the Provincial. The other two must be
seculars, as the accused is a Religious. He has elected to be
tried in England."
"Yes, your Eminence."
"He has behaved very reasonably, and refuses to take advantage of
the _Ne invitus_ clause."
"I forget at this moment," began Monsignor, vaguely conscious
that he had heard of this before.
"Oh! that gives him the right to suppress the book before
publication. It's part of the new legislation. He has sent the
thesis of his book, privately printed, to Rome, and it has been
condemned. He refuses to withdraw, as he is perfectly confident
of his orthodoxy. I understand that the book is not yet
completely finished, but he has his thesis clear enough. It is on
the subject of the miraculous element in religion."
"I beg your Eminence's pardon, but is the author a Benedictine
by any chance?"
The Cardinal smiled.
"Yes: I was coming to that. His name is Dom Adrian Bennett. He
is--or rather ought to be--a Westminster monk, but his return has
been deferred for the present."
"I met him at Lourdes, your Eminence."
"Ah! He is a very clever young man, and at the name time perfectly
courageous. . . . Well, you'll look up the procedure, if you're
not perfectly clear? And I should wish to have the names of the
judges by tomorrow night. The Canon Theologian of the diocese may
not be well enough to act. But you will make arrangements."
"Yes, your Eminence."
"The second matter is exceedingly important." (The Cardinal began
to play with the pen that lay on his desk.) "And no rumour of it
must get out from this house. It may be made public at any
moment, and I wish you to know beforehand in order that you may
not be taken by surprise. Well, it is this. I have had
information that the Emperor of Germany will be received into the
Catholic Church to-night. I needn't tell you what that means. He
is quite fearless and quite conscientious; and there is not the
slightest doubt that he will, sooner or later, make it impossible
for the Socialists to congregate any longer in Berlin. That will
mean either civil war in Germany--(I hear the Socialists have
been in readiness for this for some time past)--or it will mean
their dispersal everywhere. Europe, at any rate, will have to
deal with them. However, that's in the future. The important
thing at the present is that we should be able to show our full
strength when the time comes. There will be thanksgivings
throughout England, of course, as soon as the news is published,
and I wish you to be in readiness to make what arrangements are
necessary. It was the Lourdes miracle, which you witnessed, that
has finished the affair. As you know, the Emperor has been on the
edge of this for months past."
The Cardinal spoke quietly and diplomatically enough; but the
other could see how deeply moved he was by this tremendous
development. The Emperor's position had been the one flaw in the
Catholic organization of Europe--and indeed of the world. Now the
last stone was laid, and the arch was complete. The single
drawback was that no statesman or prophet could conjecture with
certainty what the effect on the Socialists would be.
"And how are you, Monsignor?" asked the Cardinal suddenly,
smiling at him.
"I am getting on very well, your Eminence!"
"I should like to say that, for myself, I am more than
satisfied," went on the other. "You seem to me to have regained
all your old grip on things--and in some points to have more than
regained it. I have written to Rome----" (he broke off).
"It's the details that still trouble me, your Eminence. For
instance, in this heresy-trial, I cannot remember the procedure,
or the penalties, or anything else."
"That'll all come back," smiled the Cardinal. "After all, the
principles are the point. Well, I mustn't detain you. You're to
be at Westminster at twelve."
"Yes, your Eminence. We've nearly finished now. The monks are
very well satisfied. But the main body of them do not come to
Westminster until they formally re-enter. Cardinal Campello has
written to say that he will be with us on the 20th for certain."
"That is very good. . . . Then good morning, Monsignor."
(II)
It was nearly midnight before Monsignor Masterman pushed away the
book that lay before him and leaned back in his chair. He felt
sick and dazed at what he had read.
First, he had studied with extreme care the constitution of the
Heresy-Court, and had sent off a couple of hours ago the formal
letters to the Dominican Provincial and two other priests whom he
had selected. Then he had studied the procedure of the court, and
the penalties assigned.
At first he could not believe what he read. He had turned more
than once to the title-page of the great quarto, thinking that he
must find it to be a reprint of some medieval work. But the title
was unmistakable. The book was printed in Rome in the spring of
the present year, and contained an English supplement, dealing
with the actual relations of the Church laws with those of the
country. There were minor penalties for minor offences; there was
at every turn an escape for the accused. He might, even in the
last event, escape all penalties by a formal renouncement of
Christianity; but if not, if he persisted simultaneously in
claiming a place in the Church of Christ and in holding to a
theological opinion declared erroneous by the Court of Appeal
ratified by the Pope, he was to be handed over to the secular
arm; and by the laws of England--as well as of every other
European country except Germany--the penalty inflicted by the
secular arm was, in the instance of a tonsured clerk, death.
It was this that staggered the priest.
Somewhere within him there rose up a protest so overwhelmingly
strong as to evade even an attempt at deliberate analysis--a
protest that rested on the axiom that spiritual crimes deserved
only spiritual punishment. This he could understand. He perceived
clearly enough that no society can preserve its identity without
limitations; that no association can cohere without definite
rules that must be obeyed. He was sufficiently educated then to
understand that a man who chooses to disregard the demands of a
spiritual society, however arbitrary these demands may seem to
be, can no longer claim the privileges of the body to which he
has hitherto adhered. But that death--brutal physical
death--could by any civilized society--still less any modern
Christian society--be even an alternative penalty for heresy,
shocked him beyond description.
A ray of hope had shone on him when he first read the facts. It
might be, perhaps, that this was merely a formal sentence, as
were the old penalties for high treason abandoned long before
they were repealed. He turned to the index; and after a search
leaned back again in despair. He had seen half a dozen cases
quoted, within the last ten years, in England alone, in which the
penalty had been inflicted.
It was half an hour before he stood up, with one determination at
least formed in his mind--that he would consult no one. He had
learnt in the last few weeks sufficient distrust of himself to
refrain from formulating conclusions too soon, and he learnt
enough of the world in which he found himself to understand that
positions accepted as self-evident by society in general, which
yet seemed impossible to himself, after all occasionally turned
out to be at least not ridiculous.
But to think that it was the young monk with whom he had talked
at Lourdes who was to be the centre of the process he himself had
to prepare! . . . He understood now some of the hints that Dom
Adrian Bennett had let fall.
(III)
A card was brought up to him a couple of evenings later as he
sat at his desk; and as he turned it over Father Jervis
himself hurried in.
"May I speak to you alone an instant?" he said; and glanced at
the secretaries, who rose and went out without a word.
"You look unwell," said the old priest keenly, as he sat down.
Monsignor waved a deprecatory hand.
"Well--I'm glad I caught you in time," went on the other. "I saw
the man come in; and wondered whether you knew about him."
"Mr. Hardy?"
"Yes--James Hardy."
"Well--I just know he's not a Catholic; and something of a politician."
"Well, he's quite the shrewdest man the secularists have got.
He's a complete materialist. And I've not the slightest doubt
he's heard of your illness and has come to see whether he can
fish anything out of you. He's exceedingly plausible; and very
dangerous. I don't know what he's come about, but you may be
certain it's something important. It may be to do with the
Religious Houses; or the Bill for the re-establishment of the
Church. But you may depend upon it, it's something vital. I
thought I'd better remind you who he is."
The priest stood up.
"Thank you very much, father. Is there anything else? Have you
any news for me?"
Father Jervis smiled.
"No, Monsignor. You know more than I do, now. . . . Well, I'll
tell Mr. Hardy you'll see him. Number one parlour?"
"That'll do very well. Thanks."
It was growing towards dusk as Monsignor Masterman passed down
the corridor a few minutes later; and he paused a moment to
glance out upon the London street through the tall window at the
end. Not that there was anything particular to be seen there;
indeed the street, at the moment he looked, was entirely empty.
But he looked up for an instant at the great electric news-sheet
where the headlines were displayed, above the corner shop on the
way to Victoria Street where the papers were sold. But there was
no news. There was the usual announcement of the weather
conditions, a reference to one or two land-cases, and a
political statement.
Then he went on.
The parlour with the glass doors was lighted, and a man in a
black lawyer's dress stood up to greet him as he came in. He was
rosy-faced and genial, clean shaven, above the middle-height, and
his manner was very deferential and attractive.
The first minute or two was taken up by Mr. Hardy's
congratulations on the other's appearance, and on his complete
recovery. There was not a trace of anxiety or nervousness in his
manner; and the priest almost insensibly found himself beginning
to discount his friend's warning. Then, quite suddenly, the other
turned to business.
"Well, I suppose I must come to the point. What I want to ask is
this, Monsignor. Can you tell me in confidence (I assure you I
will be discreet) whether the ecclesiastical authorities here
realize the rush of Socialists that is bound to come, so soon as
the Emperor's conversion is publicly announced."
"I----" began the priest.
"One moment, please, Monsignor. I do not in the least want to
force any confidences. But you know we infidels"--(he smiled
charmingly and modestly)--"we infidels regard you as our best
friends. The State seems to know nothing of mercy. But the Church
is always reasonable. And we poor Socialists must live somewhere.
So I wished----"
"But my dear sir," began Monsignor. "I think you're assuming too
much. Has the Emperor shown any signs---?"
Across the other's face he suddenly saw pass a look of complete
vacancy, as if he were no longer attending; and, simultaneously,
he heard a sudden sound which he could not at first identify,
through the open windows looking on to Ambrosden Avenue.
"What is that?" exclaimed the lawyer sharply; and stood up.
Again from the street there rose the roar of voices, cheering,
followed by a sharp punctuating cry.
"Come this way," said the priest. "We can see from the corridor."
When they reached the window the whole aspect of the street had
changed. Half-way from where they stood, to the end where the
sheet placard was erected, was a gathering, surging mob,
increasing as they looked. From the left, from behind the west
end of the cathedral clock a continual stream poured in, met by
two others, the one, down the avenue, of figures that ran and
gesticulated, the other from the direction of Victoria Street.
And from the whole arose gusts of cheering, marking the pauses in
the speech of some tiny figure which, mounted beside the
news-sheet, appeared to be delivering a speech.
Monsignor glanced at the news-sheet, and there, in gigantic
letters, over the space where the weather had been discussed just
now, was the announcement made public at the very instant when
the leader of the English Socialists was attempting to discover
the truth of the rumour that had reached him:--
THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY WAS RECEIVED INTO THE CATHOLIC CHURCH ON
THURSDAY EVENING.
And beneath it:
PROCLAMATION TO THE SOCIALISTS EXPECTED TO-NIGHT.
Monsignor read it, unconscious of all else except the astounding
fact. Then he turned to speak, but found himself alone.
(IV)
London went soberly mad with enthusiasm that night, and
Monsignor Masterman, standing on the cathedral roofs with half
a dozen priests, watched what could be seen of the excitement
for half an hour, before going downstairs for the _Te Deum_ in
the great church.
The cathedral was, indeed, largely, the centre round which
the-enthusiasm concentrated itself. Two other whirlpools eddied
in Parliament Square, and round St. Paul's, where the Archbishop
of London preached a sermon from the steps. Even these facts,
although in a sense he knew they must be so, drove home into the
priest's mind the realization of how the Church was, once again,
as five hundred years ago, the centre and not merely a department
of the national life.
In every direction, as he leaned over Ambrosden Avenue, as he
looked down Francis Street to right and left, everywhere nothing
of the streets was visible under the steadily moving pavement of
heads. Every space between the tall houses resembled the flow of
an intricate stream, with its currents, its eddies, its
back-waters, beneath the clear radiance of the artificial light.
Here and there actors were seen gesticulating in dumb show, for
all sounds were drowned in the steady subdued roar of voices.
There was no delirium, no horse-play; the citizens were too well
disciplined. Occasionally from this point or that a storm of
cheering broke out as some great man was recognized.
About half-past nine mounted policemen began to make their
appearance from Victoria Street, and an open way was gradually
formed leading to a cleared space in front of the Cathedral. Ten
minutes later cars began to follow, as the great folks began to
arrive for the _Te Deum_, and almost simultaneously the bells
broke out, led by the solemn crash of the great "St. Edward"
from the campanile.
(V)
They read in the morning the full text of the proclamation to
the Socialists.
As Monsignor Masterman carne up from breakfast, he felt his arm
taken, and there was Father Jervis, his clever old face lit up by
excitement. He too carried a morning paper under his arm.
"I want to have a talk with you about this," he said, "Have you
seen the Cardinal yet?"
"I'm to see him at ten. I feel perfectly helpless. I don't
understand in the least."
"Have you read it through yet?"
"No, I glanced at it only. I wish you'd help me through, father."
The old priest nodded.
"Well, we'll read every word of it first,"
As they passed into the sitting-room, the prelate slipped forward
the little door-plate that announced that he was within, but
engaged. Then, without a word, they sat down, and there was dead
silence for twenty minutes, broken only by the rustle of turning
pages, and an occasional murmur of raised voices from the groups
that still wandered round the Cathedral--pools of that vast river
that had filled every channel last night. Father Jervis uttered a
small exclamation once or twice.
Monsignor laid down the sheets at last and sighed.
"Finished, father?"
"Oh, yes! I've been re-reading. Now let us talk."
Father Jervis turned back to the front page, settled the paper on
his knee, and leaned back.
"The main point is this," he said. "Repressive measures will be
passed in Germany, as soon as the act can be got through. That
will mean that Germany will be brought up into line with the rest
of Europe, America, Australia, and half Asia, throughout her
whole empire. That will mean again that our own repressive
measures will really and truly be put into force. At present they
are largely inoperative."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, we've got laws against things like blasphemy and heresy,
and particularly the dissemination of heresy, and all the rest;
but they're practically never put into force except in very
flagrant cases. For instance, Socialist and infidel speeches can
be delivered freely in what are called private houses, which are
really clubs. Well, that sort of thing cannot possibly go on. The
infidels have complained of tyranny, of course--that's part of
the game. As a matter of fact they've been perfectly free, unless
they gave actually public offence. They've distributed their
pamphlets and done what they liked. Well, of course it was
impossible to be really strict so long as Germany was lax. They
could always meet in Berlin, and have their pamphlets printed
there; and we could do nothing. But, you see, the whole
situation's changed with the Emperor's conversion. He's one of
those heavy, consistent men--quite stupid, of course--who act
their principles right out to the farthest detail. So long as he
was agnostic he allowed almost anything to go on. And now he's a
Christian he'll understand that that must stop. He's responsible
before God, you see, as the ruler----"
"But the people. What of the people?"
Father Jervis stared.
"The people? Why, they're the ruled, aren't they?"
"But--er--democracy----"
"Democracy? Why, no one believes in that, of course. How could they?"
"Go on, father."
"But, Monsignor, you must get that clear. You must remember we're
really educated people, not half-educated."
Monsignor twitched with irritation. He could not understand even yet.
"Father, do you mean that the people won't resent this sudden
change of front on the part of the Emperor? Certainly, if
they're really liberally-minded they'll tolerate his following
his own conscience. But how can they justify his suddenly
dictating to them?"
The priest leaned forward a little. His old manner came back, and
once more he spoke to Monsignor as to a child.
"Monsignor, listen carefully, please. I assure you you're
completely out of date. What the German people will say now is
this: 'Up to now the Emperor has been agnostic, and therefore he
has not allowed any laws against heresy. Now he is a Catholic,
and therefore he will cause laws to be passed against heresy.'"
"And they won't resent that?" snapped the prelate, now
thoroughly irritated.
Father Jervis lifted a pacific hand.
"My dear friend, the Germans--like all other educated
nations--believe that their ruler is meant by God to rule them.
And they also believe that Catholicism is the true religion. Very
well, then. When a ruler is Catholic they obey him implicitly,
because they know that he will be kept straight in all matters of
right and wrong by the Pope, who is the Representative of God. In
non-vital matters they will obey him because he is their ruler,
and therefore they are bound in conscience to do so."
"And when the ruler is not Catholic?"
"Again, in non-vital matters they will obey him. And in vital
matters--supposing, that is, he passed a law against Christianity
(which, of course, nowadays no man could certainly do)--then they
would appeal to the Pope, and, if the law was enforced, disobey
it and take the penalties."
"Then the Pope is the real ruler--the final court of appeal?"
"Certainly. Who else should be? Isn't he the Vicar of Christ?"
There was a pause.
"There," said the priest more easily. "And now we really must get
back to the point. I said just now that the conversion of the
Emperor will mean a tightening up of repressive measures against
the infidels everywhere. They won't be allowed to congregate, or
disseminate their views any longer."
"Yes?"
"Well, the point is, what will happen? There must be an
explosion or a safety-valve. And even if there is an explosion
there must be a safety-valve afterwards, or there will be
another explosion."
"What you told me about America----"
"That was on the tip of my tongue," said Father Jervis. "And I
expect that'll be the solution."
"Let's see," said Monsignor reflectively, "you told me there were
certain cities in America where infidels were tacitly allowed to
have things their own way--I think you mentioned Boston?"
"I did."
"And you think that that will be officially authorized now--I
mean that there will be definite colonies where the infidels will
be allowed complete liberty?"
"Under restrictions--yes."
"What sort of restrictions?"
"Well, they won't be allowed to have an army or an aery----"
"Eh?"
"An aery," repeated Father Jervis--"an air-fleet, I mean. That
wouldn't do: they might make war."
"I see."
"I don't see what better safety-valve could be suggested. They
could work out their own ideas there as much as they liked. Of
course, details would come later."
"And the rest of the Proclamation?" asked the other,
lifting the sheet.
"I think we've got at the essentials," said the priest, glancing
again at his own copy, "and at the immediate results. Of course,
all his other measures don't come into force till the Houses pass
them. In fact, nothing of the Proclamation has force until that
happens. I expect the Bill for the Establishment of Catholicism
will take some time. We shall get ours through before that.
They'll pass a few small measures immediately, no doubt--as to
the Court chaplains and so on."
There was a pause.
"I really think we've got at the principles," said the priest
again, meditatively. "Are they clear to you?"
Monsignor rose.
"I think so," he said. "I'm very much obliged, Father. I'm sorry
I was stupid just now; but you know it's extraordinarily
bewildering to me. I still don't seem to be able to grasp all you
said about Democracy."
The old priest smiled reassuringly.
"Well, you see, the universal franchise reduced Democracy _ad
absurdum_ fifty years ago. Even the uneducated saw that. And then
there came the reaction to the old king-idea again."
Monsignor shook his head.
"I don't see how the people ever consented to give up the power
when once they'd got it."
"Why, in the same way that kings used to lose it in the old
days--by revolution."
"Revolution? Who revolted?"
"The many who were tyrannised over by the few. For that's what
democracy really means."
Monsignor smiled at what he conceived to be a paradox.
"Well, I must go to the Cardinal," he said. "It's just on ten o'clock."
CHAPTER II
(I)
It was three weeks later that the Benedictines took formal
possession of Westminster Abbey, and simultaneously that
Pontifical High Mass was sung in the University churches of
Oxford, Cambridge, and Durham, to mark the inauguration of
their new life.
Monsignor Masterman was appointed to attend upon the Cardinals in
the Abbey; and as he awoke that morning, it seemed to him once
more as if he were living in a dream of strange and intoxicating
unreality. Everywhere in the house, as he passed along the
corridors, as he gave and received last instructions before
starting, there seemed the same tension of expectancy. Finally,
as he went up to the Cardinals' rooms to announce the start, he
found the two prelates, both in their scarlet, sitting in
silence, looking out over the crowded silent streets.
He bowed at the door without speaking, and then, turning, led the way.
As they came down to the door where the horsed State carriages
were waiting, for a moment the wall and the avenue of faces, in
front and to right and left, struck him almost with a sense of
hostility. A murmur that was almost a roar greeted the gleam of
scarlet as the Cardinals came out; then silence again, and a surge
of down-bent heads as the two raised their hands in blessing.
Monsignor himself sat facing the Cardinals in the glass coach, as
at a foot-pace the six white horses, with grooms and postillions,
drew them slowly past the long length of the Cathedral, round to
the right, and into Victoria Street. There he drew a long breath,
for he had never seen or dreamed of such a sight as that which
met him. From end to end of the side street, and in the direction
of Old Victoria Station, across the roadway as well, from every
window and from every roof, looked a silent sea of faces, that
broke into sound and rippling motion as the last carriage came in
sight. He had not realized till this moment the tremendous appeal
to the imagination which this formal restoration of the old Abbey
to the sons of its original founders and occupants made to the
popular mind. Here again there had been working in his mind an
undefined sense that the Church had her interests, and the nation
hers. He had not understood that the two were identified once
more; and identified, too, to a degree which had perhaps never
before been reached. Even in medieval days there had been crises
and even periods during which the secular power stood on one side
and the sacred on another; as when Henry had faced St. Thomas,
with the nation torn in factions behind the two champions. But
the lesson, it seemed, had been learned at last; Caesar had
learned that God was his ultimate sanction: and Church and
nation, now perhaps for the first time, stood together as soul
and body united in one personality.
If Victoria Street suggested such a thought as this, Parliament
Square drove it home. As the coach drew up at the west door of
the Abbey, and Monsignor stepped out with his robes about him, he
heard, like a ground-bass to the ecstatic pealing of the bells
overhead, the great roar of welcome roll out over the wide space,
reverberate back from Westminster Hall and the Government
Buildings opposite, and die down into heart-shaking silence
again, as the vermilion flash was seen at the Abbey doors. The
great space was filled in every foot with a crowd that was of one
heart and soul in its welcome of this formal act of restitution.
Within, the monks waited, headed by their abbot, in a wide circle
of some hundred persons, in the extreme end of the nave about the
door. The proper formalities were carried out; and the seculars,
led by the Cardinals, passed up the enormous church, between the
tapestries that hung from every pillar, to the music of the _Ecce
Sacerdos magnus_.
The old monuments were gone, of course--removed to St.
Paul's--and for the first time for nearly three hundred years it
was possible to see the monastic character of the church as its
builders had designed it. Over the screen hung now again the
Great Rood with Mary and John; and the altars of the Holy Cross
and St. Benedict stood on either side of the choir-gates.
And so they waited, the Cardinals in their thrones beside the
high-altar, and the man who had lost his memory beside them;
while the organ pealed out continuously overhead and endless
footsteps went to and fro over the carpeted ways and the open
stone spaces of the transepts. Once more upon this man, so
bewildered by this new world in which he found himself,
descended a flood of memories and half-perceived images. He
looked up to the far-off vaulted roof and the lantern beneath
the central tower; he looked down the long row of untenanted
stalls; across the transepts, clean and white again now as at
the beginning, filled from end to end across the floor with the
white of surplices and the dusky colours of half the religious
habits of the world; he caught here and there the gleam of
candle-flames and gold and carving from the new altars, set back
again, so far as might be, in their old stations; and again it
seemed to him that he had lived in some world of the
imagination, as if he saw things which kings and prophets had
desired to see and had not seen unless in visions of faith and
hope that never found fulfilment.
He whispered softly to himself sometimes; old forgotten names and
scenes and fragments came back. It seemed to him as if in some
other life he had once stood here--surely there in that
transept--a stranger and an outcast--watching a liturgy which was
strange to him, listening to music, lovely indeed to the ear, yet
wholly foreign in this home of monks and prayer. Surely great
statues had stood before them--statesmen in perukes who silently
declaimed secular rhetoric in the house of God, swooning women,
impossible pagan personifications of grief, medallions, heathen
wreaths, and broken columns. Yet here as he looked there was
nothing but the decent furniture of a monastic church--tall
stalls, altars, images of the great ones of heaven, wide eloquent
spaces that gave room to the soul to breathe. . . . He had
dreamed the other perhaps; he had read histories; he had seen
pictures. . . .
The organ broke off in full blast; and under the high roofs came
pealing the cry of a trumpet. He awoke with a start; the
Cardinals were already on their feet at a gesture from a master
of ceremonies. Then he stepped into his place and went down with
them to the choir-gates to meet the King. . . .
(II)
It was in the Jerusalem chamber when the King was gone, a couple
of hours later, that the new abbot of Westminster came up to him.
He was a small, rosy man with very clear, beautiful eyes.
"Can you speak to me for five minutes, Monsignor?" he said.
The other glanced across at the Cardinals.
"Certainly, father abbot."
The two went out, down a little passage, and into a
parlour. They sat down.
"It's about Dom Adrian," said the abbot abruptly.
Monsignor checked the sudden shock that ran through him. He knew
he must show no emotion.
"It's terribly on my conscience," went on the other, with
distress visibly growing as he spoke. "I feel I ought to have
seen which way he was going. He was one of my novices, you know,
before we were transferred. . . . He would have been here to-day
if all had been well. He was to have been one of my monks. I
suggested his name."
Monsignor Masterman began to deprecate the
self-accusation of the other.
"Yes, yes," said the abbot sharply. "But the point is whether
anything can be done. The trial begins on Monday, you see."
"Will he submit?"
The abbot shook his head.
"I don't think so. He's extraordinarily determined. But I wanted
to know if you could give me any hope on the other side. Could
you do anything for him with the Cardinal, or at Rome?"
"I . . . I will speak to the Cardinal, certainly, if you wish.
But----"
"Yes, I know. But you know a great deal depends on the temper
of the court. Facts depend for their interpretation upon the
point of view."
"But I understand that it's definite heresy--that he denies that
there is any distinction between the miracles of the Church and----"
The abbot interrupted.
"Yes, yes, Monsignor. But for all that there's a great deal in
the way these things are approached. You see there's so much
neutral ground on which the Church has defined nothing."
"I am afraid, from what I've seen of the papers, that Dom Adrian
will insist on a clear issue."
"I'm afraid so: I'm afraid so. We'll do our best here to persuade
him to be reasonable. And I thought that if you would perhaps do
your best on the other side--would tell the Cardinal, as from
yourself, what you think of Dom Adrian."
Monsignor nodded.
"If we could but postpone the trial for a while," went on the
abbot almost distractedly. "That poor boy! His face has been with
me all to-day."
For an instant Monsignor almost gave way. He felt himself on the
point of breaking out into a burst of protest against the whole
affair--of denouncing the horror and loathing that during these
last days had steadily grown within him--a horror that so far he
had succeeded in keeping to himself. Then once more he crushed it
down, and stood up for fear his resolution should give way.
"I will do what I can, my lord," he said coldly.
(III)
A great restlessness seized upon the man who had lost his
memory that night.
He had thought after his return from abroad that things were well
with him again--that he had learned the principles of this world
that was so strange to him; and his busy days--all that had to be
done and recovered, and his success in doing it--these things at
once distracted and soothed him. And now once more he was back in
his bewilderment.
One great principle it was which confused his whole outlook--the
employment of force upon the side of Christianity. Here, on the
large scale, was the forcible repression of the Socialists; on a
small scale, the punishment of a heretic. What kind of religion
was this that preached gentleness and practised violence? . . .
Between eleven and twelve o'clock he could bear it no longer. The
house was quiet, and the lights for the most part gone out. He
took his hat and thin cloak, throwing this round him so as to
hide the purple at his throat, went softly down the corridors and
stairs, and let himself out noiselessly into Ambrosden Avenue. He
felt he must have air and space: he was beginning almost to hate
this silent, well-ordered ecclesiastical house, where wheels ran
so smoothly, so inexorably, and so effectively.
He came out presently into Victoria Street and turned westwards.
He did not notice much as he went. Only his most superficial
faculties paid attention to the great quiet lighted thoroughfare,
to the few figures that moved along, to the scattered sentinels
of the City of Westminster police in their blue and silver, who
here and there stood at the corners of the cross-streets, who
saluted him as he went by; to the little lighted shrines that
here and there hung at the angles. Certainly it was a Catholic
city, he perceived in his bitterness, drilled and disciplined by
its religion; there was no noise, no glare, no apparent evil. And
the marvel was that the people seemed to love to have it so! He
remembered questioning a friend or two soon after his return to
England as to the revival of these Curfew laws, and the
xtraordinary vigilance over morals; and the answer he had
received to the effect that those things were taken now as a
matter of course. One priest had told him that civilization in
the modern sense would be inconceivable without them. How else
could the few rule the many? . . .
He came down, across Parliament Square, to the river at last,
walking swiftly and purposelessly. A high gateway, with a
guard-room on either side, spanned the entrance to the wide
bridge that sprang across to Southwark, and an officer stepped
out as he approached, saluted, and waited.
He drove down his impatience with an effort, remembering the
_espionage_ (as he called it) practised after nightfall.
"I want to breathe and look at the river," he said sharply.
The officer paused an instant.
"Very good, father," he said.
Ah, this was better! . . . The bridge, empty from end to end, so
far as he could see, ran straight over to the south side, where,
once again, there rose up the guard-house. He turned sharply when
he saw it, and leaned on the parapet looking eastwards.
The eternal river flowed beneath him, clean and steady and
strong, between the high embankments. (He knew by now all about
the lock-system that counteracted the ebb and flow of the tides.)
Scarcely a hundred yards away curved out another bridge, and
behind that another and another, down into the distance, all
outlined in half-lights that shone like stars and flashed back
like heaven itself from the smooth-running water beneath. An
extraordinary silence lay over all--the silence of a sleeping
city--though it was scarcely yet midnight, and though the city
itself on either side of the river lay white and glowing in the
lights that burned everywhere till dawn.
At first it quieted him--this vision of earthly peace, this
perfection to which order and civilization had come; and then, as
he regarded it, it enraged him. . . .
For was not this very vision an embodiment of the force that he
hated? It was this very thing that oppressed and confined his
spirit--this inexorable application of eternal principles to
temporal affairs. Here was a city of living men, each an
individual personality, of individual tastes, thoughts, and
passions, each a world to himself and monarch of that world. Yet
by some abominable trick, it seemed, these individuals were not
merely in external matters forced to conform to the Society which
they helped to compose, but interiorly too; they actually had
been tyrannized over in their consciences and judgments, and
loved their chains. If he had known that the fires of revolt lay
there sleeping beneath this smooth exterior he would have hated
it far less; but he had seen with his own eyes that it was not
so. The crowds that had swarmed a while ago round the Cathedral,
pouring in and filling it for the _Te Deum_ of thanksgiving that
one more country had been brought under the yoke; the sea of
faces that had softly applauded and bowed beneath the blessing of
those two Cardinals in scarlet; the enthusiasm, the more amazing
in its silent orderliness, which had greeted the restoration of
the old national Abbey to its Benedictine founders--even the very
interviews he had had with quiet, deferential men, who, he
understood, stood at the very head of the secular powers; the
memory of the young King kissing the ring of the abbot at the
steps into the choir--all these things proved plainly enough that
by some supernatural alchemy the very minds of men had been
transformed, that they were no longer free to rebel and resent
and assert inalienable rights--in short, that a revolution had
passed over the world such as history had never before known,
that men no longer lived free and independent lives of their own,
but had been persuaded to contribute all that made them men to
the Society which they composed.
He perceived now clearly that it was this forced contribution
that he hated---this merging of the individual in the body, and
the body one of principles that were at once precise and
immutable. It was the extinction of Self.
Then, almost without perceiving the connection, he turned in his
mind to Christianity as he conceived it to be--to his ideal
figure of Christ; and in an instant he saw the contrast, and why
it was that the moral instinct within him loathed and resented
this modern Christian State.
For it was a gentle Figure that stood to him for Christ--God?
yes, in some profound and mysterious way, but, for all earthly
purposes of love and imitation, a meek and persuasive Man whose
kingdom was not of this world, who repudiated violence and
inculcated love; One who went through the world with simple tasks
and soft words, who suffered without striking, who obeyed with no
desire to rule.
And what had this tranquil, tolerant Figure in common with the
strong discipline of this Church that bore His name--a Church
that had waited so long, preaching His precepts, until she grew
mighty and could afford to let them drop: this Church which,
after centuries of blood and tears, at last had laid her hands
upon the sceptre, and ruled the world with whom she had pleaded
in vain so long; this Church who, after two thousand years of
pain, had at last put her enemies under her feet--"repressed" the
infidel and killed the heretic?
And so the interior conflict went on within this man, who found
within him a Christianity with which the Christian world in which
he lived had no share or part. He still stared out in the soft
autumn night at the huge quiet city, his chin on his hands and
his elbows on the parapet, half perceiving the parable at which
he looked. Once it was this river beneath him that had made the
city; now the city set the river within bars and ordered its
goings. Once it was Christianity--the meek and gentle spirit of
Christ--that had made civilization; now civilization had fettered
Christianity in unbreakable chains. . . . Yet even as he resented
and rebelled, he felt he dared not speak. There were great forces
about him, forces he had experienced for himself--Science tamed
at last, self-control, organization, and a Peace which he could
not understand. Every man with whom he had to do seemed kind and
tender; there was the patient old priest who taught him and bore
with him as with a child, the fatherly cardinal, the quiet,
serene ecclesiastics of the house in which he lived, the
controlled crowds, the deferential great men with whom he talked.
But it was their very strength, he saw, that made them tender;
the appalling power of the machine, which even now he felt that
he but half understood, was the very thing that made it run so
smoothly. It had the horror of a perfectly controlled steel
piston that moves as delicately as a feather fan.
For he saw how inexorable was that strength which controlled the
world; how ruthless, in spite of smooth and compassionate words,
towards those who resisted it. The Socialists were to be
"repressed"; the heretic was to be tried for his life; and in all
that wide world in which he lived it seemed that there was not
one Christian who recoiled, not one breath of public opinion that
could express itself.
And he--he who hated it--must take his part. A Fate utterly
beyond his understanding had set him there as a wheel in that
mighty machine; and he must revolve in his place motionlessly and
unresistingly in whatever task was set before him. . . .
Once only, as he stared out at the great prosperous view, did his
heart sicken and fail him. He dropped his face upon his hands,
and cried to the only Christ whom he knew in silence. . . .
CHAPTER III
(I)
It was not until the afternoon of the third day, as the trial of
Dom Adrian Bennett drew to its close, that the man who had lost
his memory could no longer resist the horrible fascination of the
affair, and presented himself at the door of the court-room. He
had learned that morning that the end of the trial was in sight.
It was outside a block of buildings somewhere to the north of St.
Paul's Cathedral that the car set him down. He learned at the
porter's lodge the number of the court, and then passed in,
following his directions, through a quadrangle that was all
alight with scarlet creepers, where three or four ecclesiastics
saluted him, up a staircase or two, and found himself at last at
a tall door bearing the number he wanted. As he hesitated to
knock, the door opened, and a janitor came out.
"Can I go in?" asked the priest. "I am from Archbishop's House."
"I can take you into the gallery at the back, Monsignor," said
the man. "The body of the court is full."
"That will do."
They went round a corner together and came to a door up three or
four stairs. The janitor unlocked this and threw it back. Farther
steps rose within the doorway, and Monsignor as he set foot on
the first had a vivid impression that the court he was
approaching was crowded with people. There was no sound at first,
but an atmosphere of intense and expectant force.
It was a little curtained gallery in which the priest found
himself, not unlike a box at a theatre, looking out upon the
court from the corner immediately adjacent to the wall against
which the raised seats of the judges were placed. He looked round
the court, himself sitting a little back in a kind of shame,
first identifying the actors in this dreadful drama. He was glad
that the gallery had no other occupant than himself.
First there were the judges--three men sitting beneath a
canopied roof, beneath which, over their heads, hung a large
black and white crucifix. He knew them, all three. There was the
Dominican in the centre--one of that Order which has had charge
of heresy-courts since the beginning--a large-faced, kindly
featured, rosy man, with a crown of white hair, leaning back now
with closed eyes, listening, and obviously alert; on his right,
farther from the spectator, sat the Canon-Theologian of
Westminster, a small, brown-faced man with black eyes, looking
considerably younger than his years; and on this side the third
judge, pale and bald and colourless--a priest who held the
degree of Doctor in Physical Science as well as in Theology--he
at this instant was drumming gently with a large white hand on
the edge of his desk.
Beneath the judges' dais was the well of the court, very much,
somehow, as Monsignor had expected (for this was his first
experience in a Church court), with the clerks' table
immediately beneath the desks, and half a dozen ecclesiastics
ranged at it. Some strange-looking instruments stood within
reach of the presiding clerk, but he recognized these as the
mechanical recorders, of which he had had some experience
himself. They were of the nature of phonographs, and by an
exceedingly ingenious and yet very simple system could be made
to repeat aloud any part of the speeches or answers that had
been uttered in the course of the trial. At either end of the
clerks' table rose up a structure like a witness-box, slightly
below the level of the judges' desks. Opposite the desks was the
lightly railed dock for the prisoner. The rest of the court was
seated for the public, and as the spectator saw, was completely
filled, chiefly with ecclesiastics. Even the gangways were
thronged with standing figures. And over all hung that air of
intense expectancy and attention.
He glanced once more round the court, once more at the judges.
Then he allowed himself to look full at the prisoner, whom he had
not seen since his departure from Lourdes.
Dom Adrian was just as he remembered him, perhaps a shade paler
from the fierce attention of the last three days, but he had the
same serene, confident air; his eyes were bright and luminous,
and his voice (for he was speaking at this moment) perfectly
natural and controlled.
It was hard at first to pick up the thread of what he was saying.
He had a sheet or two of paper before him, to which he referred
as he spoke, and he seemed to be summing up, in a very allusive
manner, some earlier speeches of his. Technical terms made their
appearance from time to time, and decrees were quoted by their
initial Latin words--decrees which conveyed nothing to the
listener in the gallery. It was difficult too, at this distance,
to understand the very swift Latin which he spoke in a
conversational voice that was almost casual. His whole air was of
one who is interested, but not overwhelmingly concerned, in the
subject under debate.
He ended at last, and bowed.
Obviously they were not at a very critical part of the trial,
thought Monsignor. He felt extraordinarily reassured. He had
expected more of a scene.
The Dominican opened his eyes and took up a pen. He glanced at
his companions, but they made no sign or movement.
"You have made it perfectly clear," he said. "Nothing could be
clearer. I see" (he turned slightly to right and left, and his
fellow-judges nodded gently in acquiescence)--"I see no reason to
modify what I said just now, and the judgment of the court must
stand. Nothing can be clearer to my mind--and I must say that my
assessors wholly concur, as you heard just now--nothing can be
clearer than that you have contradicted in the most express terms
the decrees in question, and that you have refused to modify or
to withdraw any of the theses under dispute. Further, you have
refused to avail yourself of any of the releases which are
perfectly open to you by law. You declined all those openings
which I indicated to you, and you appear determined to push the
matter to extremes. I must tell you then plainly that I see
nothing for it but the forwarding of our opinions to Rome, and I
cannot hold out to you the smallest prospect that you will meet
with a different judgment from the highest court."
He paused a moment.
There was a profound silence in the court. As Monsignor Masterman
glanced round, unable to understand what it was that caused this
sense of tremendous tension, he noticed a head or two in that
array of faces drop suddenly as if in overwhelming emotion. He
looked at the prisoner; but there was no movement there. The
young monk had put his papers neatly together, and was standing,
upright and motionless, with his hands clasped upon them. The
Dominican's voice went on abruptly:
"Have you anything further to say before the court dissolves?"
"I should like to express my sense of the extreme fairness and
considerateness of my judges," said the monk, "and to say again,
as at the beginning, that I commit my cause unreservedly into
the hands of God."
The three judges rose together; a door opened behind and they
disappeared. Instantly a buzz of tongues began and the sound of
shifting feet. As Monsignor glanced back again at the dock,
amazed at the sudden change of scene, he saw the monk's head
disappearing down the staircase that led below from the dock. He
still did not understand what had happened. He still thought that
it was some minor stage of the process that was finished,
probably on some technical point.
(II)
He still sat there wondering, thinking that he would let the
corridors clear a little before he went out again, and asking
himself what it was that had caused that obvious sensation during
the judge's last words. To all outward appearance, nothing could
be less critical than what he had seen and heard. Plainly the
trial was going against the prisoner, but there had been no
decision, no sentence. The inquisitors and the prisoner had
talked together almost like friends discussing a not very vital
matter. And yet the sensation had been overwhelming. . . .
As he rose at last, still watching the emptying court, he heard a
tap on the door, and before he could speak, the Abbot of
Westminster rustled up the steps, in his habit and cross and gold
chain. His face looked ominously strained and pale.
"I . . . I saw you from the court, Monsignor. For God's
sake . . . sit down again an instant. Let me speak with you."
Monsignor said nothing. He could not even now understand.
"I must thank you for your kind offices, Monsignor. I know you did
what you could. His Eminence sent for me after he had seen you.
And . . . and I must ask you to help us again . . . at Rome."
"Certainly--anything . . . . But----"
"I fear it's hopeless," went on the abbot, staring out into the
empty court, where an usher was moving quickly about from table
to table setting papers straight. "But any chance that there is
must be taken. . . . Will you write for us, Monsignor? or better
still, urge the Cardinal? There is no time to lose."
"I don't understand, my lord," said the prelate abruptly,
suddenly convinced that more had happened than he knew. "I was
only here just at the end, and . . . . what is it I can do?"
The abbot looked at him.
"That was the end," he said quietly. "Did you not hear the sentence?"
Monsignor shook his head. A kind of sickness seemed to rise from
his heart and envelop him.
"I heard nothing," he said. "I came in during Dom Adrian's
last speech."
The abbot licked his dry lips; there was a wondering sort of
apprehensiveness in his eyes.
"That was the last formality," he said. "Sentence was given
twenty minutes ago."
"And----"
The abbot bowed his head, plucking nervously at his cross.
"It has to go to Rome to be ratified," he said hurriedly. "There
will be a week or two of delay. Dom Adrian refused any release.
But . . . but he knows there is no hope."
Monsignor Masterman leaned back and drew a long breath. He
understood now. But he perceived he must give no sign. The abbot
talked on rapidly; the other caught sentences and names here and
there: he grasped that there was no real possibility of a
reversal of the judgment, but that yet every effort must be made.
But it was only with one part of his mind, and that the most
superficial, that he attended to all this. Interiorly he was
occupied wholly with facing the appalling horror that, with the
last veil dropped at last, now looked him in the eyes.
He stood up at last, promising he would see the Cardinal that
night; and then his resolve leapt to the birth.
"I should like to see Dom Adrian alone," he said quietly; "and I
had better see him at once. Can you arrange that?" The abbot
stopped at the door of the gallery.
"Yes," he said, "I think so. Will you wait here, Monsignor?"
(III)
Monsignor Masterman lifted his eyes as the door closed, and saw
the young monk standing before him, beside the little table.
He had sat down again in the gallery while the abbot was gone,
watching mechanically the ushers come into the court and remove
the recording-boxes one by one; and meantime in his soul he
watched also, rather than tried to arrange, the thoughts that
fled past in ceaseless repetition. He could plan nothing,
formulate nothing. He just perceived, as a man himself sentenced
to death might perceive, that the Supreme Horror was a reality at
last. The very ordinariness of the scene he had witnessed, the
familiarity of some of the faces (he had sat next at dinner, not
a week ago, the brown-faced Canon-Theologian), the conversational
manner of the speakers, the complete absence of any dramatic
solemnity--these things increased the terror and repugnance he
felt. Were the preliminaries of Death for Heresy so simple as all
that? Was the point of view that made it possible so utterly
accepted by everyone as to allow the actual consummation to come
about so quietly? . . .
The thing seemed impossible and dreamlike. He strove to hold
himself quiet till he could understand. . . . But at the sight
of the young monk, paled and tired-looking, yet perfectly
serene, his self-control broke down. A spasm shook his face; he
stretched out his hands blindly and helplessly, and some sound
broke from his mouth.
He felt himself taken by the arm and led forward. Then he slipped
into a chair, and dropped his face in his hands upon the table.
It was a few moments before he recovered and looked up.
"There, there, Monsignor," said the monk. ". . . I didn't expect
this. There's nothing to----"
"But . . . but----"
"It's a shock to you, I see. . . . It's very kind. . . . But I
knew it all along. Surely you must have known----"
"I never dreamt of it. I never thought it conceivable. It's
abominable; it's----"
"Monsignor, this isn't kind to me," rang out the young voice
sternly; and the elder man recovered himself sharply. "Please talk
to me quietly. Father Abbot tells me you will see the Cardinal."
"I'll do anything--anything in my power. Tell me what I can do."
He had recovered himself, as under a douche of water, at the
sharpness of the monk's tone just now. He felt but one thing at
this instant, that he would strain every force he had to hinder
this crime. He remained motionless, conscious of that sensation
of intense tightness of nerve and sinew in which an overpressed
mind expresses itself.
The monk sat down, on the farther side of the table.
"That's better, Monsignor," he said, smiling. . . . "Well, there's
really not much to do. Insanity seems the only possible plea."
He smiled again, brilliantly.
"Tell me the whole thing," said the prelate suddenly and
hoarsely. "Just the outline. I don't understand; and I can do
nothing unless I do."
"You haven't followed the case?"
Monsignor shook his head. The monk considered again.
"Well," he said. "This is the outline; I'll leave out technical
details. I have written a book (which will never see the light
now) and I sent an abstract of it to Rome, giving my main thesis.
It's on the miraculous element in Religion. I'm a Doctor in
Physical Science, you know, as well as in Theology. Now there's a
certain class of cure (I won't bother you with details, but a
certain class of cure) that has always been claimed by
theologians as evidently supernatural. And I'll acknowledge at
once that one or two of the decrees of the Council of 1960
certainly seem to support them. But my thesis is, first, that
these cures are perfectly explicable by natural means, and
secondly, that therefore these decrees must be interpreted in a
sense not usually received by theologians, and that they do not
cover the cases in dispute. I'm not a wilful heretic, and I
accept absolutely therefore that these decrees, as emanating from
an ecumenical council, are infallibly true. But I repudiate
entirely--since I am forced to do so by scientific fact (or, we
will say, by what I am persuaded is scientific fact)--the usual
theological interpretation of the wording of the decrees. Well,
my judges take the other view. They tell me that I am wrong in
my second point, and therefore wrong also in my first. They tell
me that the decrees do categorically cover the class of cure I
have dealt with; that such cures have been pronounced by the
Church therefore to be evidently supernatural; and that therefore
I am heretical in both my points. On my side, I refuse to submit,
maintaining that I am differing, not from the Catholic Church as
she really is, (which would be heretical), but from the Catholic
Church as interpreted by these theologians. I know it's rash of
me to set myself against a practically universal and received
interpretation; but I feel myself bound in conscience to do so.
Very well; that is the point we have now reached. I could not
dream of separating myself from Catholic Unity, and therefore
that way of escape is barred. There was nothing for it, then, but
for my judges to pronounce sentence; and that they did, ten
minutes before you came in. (I saw you come in, Monsignor.) I am
sentenced, that is to say, as an obstinate heretic--as refusing
to submit to the plain meaning of an ecumenical decree. There
remains Rome. The whole trial must go there _verbatim_. Three
things may happen. Either I am summoned to explain any statements
that may seem obscure. (That certainly will not happen. I have
been absolutely open and clear.) Or the sentence may be quashed
or modified. And that I do not think will happen, since I have,
as I know, all the theologians against me."
There was a pause.
The prelate heard the words, and indeed followed their sense with
his intellect; but it appeared to him as if this concise analysis
had no more vital connection with the real facts than a doctor's
diagnosis with the misery of a mourner. He did not want analysis;
he wanted reassurance. Then he braced himself up to meet the
unfinished sentence. "Or----" he murmured.
"Or the sentence will be ratified," said the monk quietly. And
again there was silence. It was the monk again who broke it.
"Where Father Abbot seems to think you can help me perhaps,
Monsignor, is in persuading the Cardinal to write to Rome. I do
not quite know what he can do for me; but I suppose the idea is
that he may succeed in urging that the point is a disputed one,
and that the case had better wait for further scientific as well
as theological investigation."
Monsignor flung out his hands suddenly. The strain had reached
breaking-point.
"What's the good!" he cried. "It's the system--the whole system
that's so hateful . . . hateful and impossible."
"What?"
"It's the system," he cried again. "From beginning to end it's
the system that's wrong. I hate it more every day. It's brutal,
utterly brutal and unchristian." He stared miserably at the
young monk, astonished at the cold look in his eyes.
The monk looked at him questioningly--without a touch of
answering sympathy, it seemed--merely with an academic interest.
"I don't understand, Monsignor. What is it that you----"
"You don't understand! You tell me you don't understand! You who
are suffering under it! Why----"
"You think I'm being unjustly treated? Is that it? Of course I
too don't think that----"
"No, no, no," cried the elder man. "It's not you in particular. I
don't know about that--I don't understand. But it's that any
living being can live under such tyranny--such oppression of free
thought and judgment! What becomes of science and discovery under
a system like this? What becomes of freedom--of the right to
think for oneself? Why----"
The young monk leaned a little over the table.
"Monsignor, you don't know what you are saying. Tell me quietly
what it is that's troubling you. Quietly, if you please. I can't
bear much more strain."
The man who had lost his memory mastered himself with an effort.
His horror had surged up just now and overwhelmed him altogether,
but the extraordinary quiet of the other man and his apparently
frank inability to understand what was the matter brought him
down again to reality. Subconsciously, too, he perceived that it
would be a relief to himself to put his developing feeling into
words to another.
"You wish me to say? Very well---"
He hesitated again for words.
"You are sure you'd better? I know you've been ill. I
don't want to---"
Monsignor waved it away with a little gesture.
"That's all right," he said. "I'm not ill now. I wish to God I were!"
"Quietly, please," said the young man.
He swallowed in his throat and rearranged himself in his chair.
He felt himself alone and abandoned, even where he had been
certain of an emotional sympathy.
"I know I'm clean against public opinion in what I think. I've
learnt that at last. I thought at first that it was the other
way, as . . . as I think it must have been a hundred years ago.
But I see now that all the world is against me--all except
perhaps the people who are called infidels."
"You mean the Socialists?"
"Yes, I suppose so. Well, it seems to me that the Church is . . ."
(he hesitated, to pick his words) "is assuming an impossible
attitude. Take your own case; though that's only one: it's the
same everywhere. There are the sumptuary and domestic laws;
there's the 'repression,' as they call it, of the Socialists. But
take your own case. You are perfectly satisfied that your
conclusions are scientific, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"You're a Christian and a Catholic. And yet, because these
conclusions of yours are condemned--not answered, mind you, or
refuted by other scientists--but just condemned--condemned by
ecclesiastics as contrary to what they assume to be
true--you . . . you care----"
He broke off, struggling again with fierce emotion. He felt a
hand on his arm.
"Monsignor, you're too excited. May I ask you some
questions instead?"
Monsignor nodded.
"Well, don't take my case only. Take the system, as you said just
now. I really want to know.... You think that the Socialists
ought not to be repressed--that every man ought to be free to
utter his opinions, whatever they may be. Is that it?"
"Yes."
"However revolutionary they may be?"
Monsignor hesitated. He had considered this point before. He felt
his answer was not wholly satisfactory. But the monk went on.
"Suppose these opinions were subversive of all law and order.
Suppose there were men who preached murder and
adultery--doctrines that meant the destruction of society. Would
you allow these, too, to publish their opinions broadcast?"
"Of course, you must draw the line somewhere," began
Monsignor. "Of course----"
"Where?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You said that we must draw the line somewhere. I ask you where?"
"Well, that, of course, must be a matter of degree."
"Surely it must be one of principle. . . . Can't you give me any
principle you would allow?"
The passion of just now seemed wholly gone. Monsignor had an
uncomfortable sense that he had behaved like a child and
that this young monk was on firmer ground than himself. But
again he hesitated.
"Well, would you accept this principle?" asked Dom Adrian. "Would
you say that every society has a right to suppress opinions which
are directly subversive of the actual foundations on which itself
stands? Let me give an instance. Suppose you had a country that
was a republic, but that allowed that other forms of government
might be equally good. (Suppose, for instance, that while all
acquiesced more or less in the republic, yet that many of the
citizens personally preferred a monarchy.) Well, I suppose you
would say it was tyranny for the republic to punish the
monarchists with death?"
"Certainly."
"So should I. But if a few of the citizens repudiated all forms of
government and preached Anarchy, well, I suppose you would allow
that the government would have a perfect right to silence them?"
"I suppose so."
"Of course," said Dom Adrian quietly. "It was what you allowed
just now. Society may, and must, protect itself."
"What's that got to do with it? These Socialists are not
Anarchists. You're not an atheist. And even if you were, what
right would the Church have to put you to death?"
"Oh! that's what you're thinking, is it, Monsignor? But really,
you know, Society must protect itself. The Church can't interfere
there. For it isn't for a moment the Church that punishes with
death. On the contrary, the Catholic authorities are practically
unanimous against it."
Monsignor made an impatient movement.
"I don't understand in the least," he said. "It seems to me----"
"Well, shall I give you my answer?"
Monsignor nodded.
The monk drew a breath and leaned back once more.
To the elder man the situation seemed even more unreal and
impossible than at the beginning. He had come, full of fierce and
emotional sympathy, to tell a condemned man how wholly his heart
was on his side, to repudiate with all his power the abominable
system that had made such things possible. And now, in five
minutes, the scene had become one of almost scholastic
disputation; and the heretic, it seemed--the condemned
heretic--was defending the system that condemned him to a man who
represented it as an official! He waited, almost resentfully.
"Monsignor," said the young man, "forgive me for saying so; but
it seems to me you haven't thought this thing out--that you're
simply carried away by feeling. No doubt it's your illness. . . .
Well, let me put it as well as I can. . . ."
He paused again, compressing his lips. He was pale, and evidently
holding himself hard in hand; but his eyes were bright and
intelligent. Then he abruptly began again.
"What's wrong with you, Monsignor," he said, "is that you don't
realize--again, no doubt, owing to your loss of memory--that you
don't realize that the only foundation of society at the present
day is Catholicism. You see we _know_ now that Catholicism is
true. It has reasserted itself finally. Every other scheme has
been tried and has failed; and Catholicism, though it has never
died, has once more been universally accepted. Even heathen
countries accept it _de facto_ as the scheme on which the life of
the human race is built. Very well, then, the man who strikes at
Catholicism strikes at society. If he had his way society would
crumble down again. Then what can Catholic society do except
defend itself, even by the death penalty? Remember, the Church
does not kill. It never has; it never will. It is society that
puts to death. And it is certainly true to say that theologians,
as a whole, would undoubtedly abolish the death penalty to-morrow
if they could. It's an open secret that the Holy Father would do
away with it to-morrow if he could."
"Then why doesn't he? Isn't he supreme?" snapped the other bitterly.
"Indeed not. Countries rule themselves. He only has a veto if an
actually unchristian law is passed. And this is not actually
unchristian. It's based on universal principles."
"But----"
"Wait an instant. . . . Yes, the Church sanctions it in one
sense. So did the Church approve of the death penalty in the case
of murder--another sin against society. Well, Christian society a
hundred years ago inflicted death for the murder of the body;
Christian society to-day inflicts death for a far greater crime
against herself--that is, murderous attacks against her own
life-principle."
"Then the old Protestants were right after all," burst in
Monsignor indignantly; "they said that Rome would persecute
again if she could."
"If she could?" said the monk questioningly.
"If she was strong enough."
"No, no, no!" cried the other, beating his hand on the table in
gentle impatience; "it would be hopelessly immoral for the Church
to persecute simply because she was strong enough--simply because
she had a majority. She never persecutes for mere opinions. She
has never claimed her right to use force. But, as soon as a
country is convincedly Catholic--as soon, that is to say, as her
civilization rests upon Catholicism _and nothing else_, that
country has a perfect right to protect herself by the death
penalty against those who menace her very existence as a civilized
community. And that is what heretics do; and that is what
Socialists do. Whether the authorities are right or wrong in any
given instance is quite another question. Innocent men have been
hanged. Orthodox Catholics have suffered unjustly. Personally I
believe that I myself am innocent; but I am quite clear that _if I
am a heretic_" (he leaned forward again and spoke slowly), "_if I
am a heretic_, I must be put to death by society."
Monsignor was dumb with sheer amazement, and a consciousness that
he had been baffled. He felt he had been intellectually tricked;
and he felt it an additional outrage that he had been tricked by
this young monk with whom he had come to sympathize.
"But the death penalty!" he cried. "Death! that is the horror. I
understand a spiritual penalty for a spiritual crime--but a
physical one. . . ."
Dom Adrian smiled a little wearily.
"My dear Monsignor," he said, "I thought I had explained that it
was for a crime against society. I am not put to death for my
opinions; but because, holding those opinions, which are
declared heretical, and refusing to submit to an authoritative
decision, I am an enemy of the _civil state_ which is upheld
solely by the sanctions of Catholicism. Remember it is _not_ the
Church that puts me to death. That is not her affair. She is a
spiritual society."
"But death! death, anyhow!"
The man's face grew grave and tender.
"Is that so dreadful," he said, "to a convinced Catholic?"
Monsignor rose to his feet. It seemed to him that his whole moral
sense was in danger. He made his last appeal.
"But Christ!" he cried; "Jesus Christ! Can you conceive that
gentle Lord of ours tolerating all this for one instant! I cannot
answer you now; though I am convinced there is an answer. But is
it conceivable that He who said, 'Resist not evil,' that He who
Himself was dumb before his murderers----"
Dom Adrian rose too. An extraordinary intensity came into his
eyes, and his face grew paler still. He began in a low voice, but
as he ended his voice rang aloud in the little room.
"It is you who are dishonouring our Lord," he said. "Certainly He
suffered, as we Catholics too can suffer, as you shall see one
day--as you have seen a thousand times already, if you know
anything of the past. But is that all that He is? . . . Is He
just the Prince of Martyrs, the supreme Pain-bearer, the silent
Lamb of God? Have you never heard of the wrath of the Lamb? of
the eyes that are as a flame of fire? of the rod of iron with
which He breaks in pieces the kings of the earth? . . . The
Christ you appeal to is nothing. It is but the failure of a Man
with the Divinity left out . . . the Prince of sentimentalists,
and of that evil old religion that once dared to call itself
Christianity. But the Christ we worship is more than that--the
Eternal Word of God, the Rider on the White Horse, conquering and
to conquer.... Monsignor, you forget of what Church you are a
priest! It is the Church of Him who refused the kingdoms of this
world from Satan, that He might win them for Him self. He has
done so! _Christ reigns!_ . . . Monsignor, that is what you have
forgotten! Christ is no longer an opinion or a theory. He is a
Fact. _Christ reigns!_ He actually rules this world. And the
world knows it."
He paused for one second, shaking with his own passion. Then he
flung out his hands.
"Wake up, Monsignor! Wake up! You are dreaming. Christ is the
King of men again, now--not of just religiously minded devots. He
rules, because He has a right to rule. . . . And the civil power
stands for Him in secular matters, and the Church in spiritual. I
am to be put to death! Well, I protest that I am innocent, but
not that the crime charged against me does not deserve death. I
protest, but I do not resent it. Do you think I fear death? . .
Is that not in His hands too? . . . Christ reigns, and we all
know it. And you must know it too!"
All sensation seemed to have ebbed from the man who
listened. . . . He was conscious of a white ecstatic face with
burning eyes looking at him. He could no longer actively resist
or rebel. It was only by the utmost effort that he could still
keep from yielding altogether. Some great pressure seemed to
enfold and encircle him, threatening his very existence as an
individual. So tremendous was the force with which the words were
spoken, that for an instant it seemed as if he saw in mental
vision that which they described--a Supreme Dominant Figure,
wounded indeed, yet overmastering and compelling in His
strength--no longer the Christ of gentleness and meekness, but a
Christ who had taken His power at last and reigned, a Lamb that
was a Lion, a Servant that was Lord of all; One that pleaded no
longer, but commanded. . . .
And yet he clung still desperately and blindly to his old ideal.
He pushed off from him this dominating Presence; his whole self
and individuality would not yield to Him who demanded the
sacrifice of both. He saw this Christ at last, and by a flash of
intuition perceived that this was the key to this changed world
he found so incomprehensible; and yet he would not have it--he
would not have this Man to rule over him. . . .
He made one last effort; the vision passed and he stood up,
feeling once more sensation come back, understanding that he had
saved himself from an extinction more utter than that of death.
"Well," he said quietly--so quietly that he almost deceived
himself too,--"well, I will remember what you say, Dom Adrian,
and I will do what I can with the Cardinal."
CHAPTER IV
(I)
"I'm afraid it's been a great shock," said Father Jervis
soothingly. "And I'm not surprised, after your illness. . . . Yes
I quite see your point. Of course it must seem very
strange. . . . Now what about coming over to Ireland for a week?
The Cardinal will be delighted, I'm sure."
The blow had fallen this morning--a fortnight after the
trial had ended.
First, the answer had come back from Rome that the sentence was
ratified--a sentence simply to the effect that the Church could
no longer protect this tonsured and consecrated son of hers from
the secular laws. But, as Monsignor knew privately, an urgent
appeal had been made by Rome to remit the penalty in this
instance, as in others. Then the formalities of handing over the
monk to the secular authorities had taken place, in accordance
with the Clergy Discipline Amendment Act of 1964--an Act by
which the secular houses of Representatives had passed a code of
penalties for clerks condemned by the ecclesiastical
courts--clerks, that is to say, who had availed themselves of
Benefit of Clergy and had submitted themselves to ecclesiastical
jurisdiction. Under that Act Dom Adrian had been removed to a
secular prison, his case had been re-examined and, in spite of
the Pope's appeal, the secular sentence passed. And this morning
Monsignor had read that the sentence had been carried out. . . .
He neither knew nor dared to ask in what form. It was enough
that it was death.
There had been a scene with the startled secretaries. Fortunately
Monsignor had been incoherent. One of them had remained with him
while the other ran for Father Jervis. Then the two laymen had
left the room, and the priests alone together.
Things were quieter now. Monsignor had recovered himself, and was
sitting white and breathless with his friend beside him.
"Come to Ireland for a week," said the old man again, watching
him with those large, steady, bright eyes of his. "It is
perfectly natural, under the circumstances, that the thing
should be a shock. To us, of course----"
He broke off as Monsignor looked up with a strange white
glare in his eyes.
"Well, well," said the old man. "You must give yourself a chance.
You've been working magnificently; I think perhaps a little too
hard. And we don't want another breakdown. . . . Then I take
you'll come to Ireland? We'll spend a perfectly quiet week, and
be back in time for the meeting of Parliament."
Monsignor made a small movement of assent with his head. (He had
had Ireland explained to him before.)
"Then I'll leave you quietly here for a little. Call me up if you
want me. I'll tell the secretaries to work in the next room. I'll
see the Cardinal at once, and we'll go by the five o'clock boat.
I'll arrange everything. You needn't give it a thought."
A curious process seemed to have been at work upon the mind of
the man who had lost his memory, since his interview with the
monk immediately after the trial. At first a kind of numbness had
descended upon him. He had gone back to his business, his
correspondence, his interviews, his daily consultation with the
Cardinal, and had conducted all these things efficiently enough.
Yet, underneath, the situation arranged itself steadily and
irresistibly. It had become impressed upon him that, whether for
good or evil, the world was as it was; that Christian
civilization had taken the form which he perceived round him, and
that to struggle against it was as futile, from a mental point of
view, as to resent the physical laws of the universe. Nothing
followed upon such resistance except intense discomfort to
oneself. It might be insupportably unjust that one could not fly
without wings, yet the fact remained. It might be intolerably
unchristian that a tonsured clerk should be put to death for
heresy, yet he was put to death, and not a soul, it seemed (not
even the victim himself) resented it. Dom Adrian's protest had
been not against the execution of heretics, but against the
statement that he was a heretic. But he had refused to submit to
a decision which he acknowledged as authoritative, and found no
fault therefore with the consequence of such refusal. The
condemnation, he granted, was perfectly legal and therefore
extrinsically lust; and it was the penalty he had to pay for an
individualism which the responsible authorities of the State
regarded as dangerous to the conditions on which society rested.
And the rest was the business of the State, not of the Church.
The scheme then was beginning to grow clear to this man's
indignant eyes. Even the "repression" of the Socialists fitted
in, logically and inexorably. And he began to understand a little
more what Dom Adrian had meant. There stood indeed, imminent over
the world (whether ideally or actually was another question) a
tremendous Figure that was already even more Judge than
Saviour--a Personality that already had the Power and reigned;
one to whose feet all the world crept in silence, who spoke
ordinarily and normally through His Vicar on earth, who was
represented on this or that plane by that court or the other; one
who was literally a King of kings; to whose model all must be
conformed; to whose final judgment every creature might appeal if
he would but face that death through which alone that appeal
might be conveyed. Such was the scheme which this priest began to
discern; and he saw how the explanation of all that bewildered
him lay within it. Yet none the less he resented it; none the less
he failed to recognize in it that Christianity he seemed once to
have known, long ago. Outwardly he conformed and submitted.
Inwardly he was a rebel.
He sat on silent for a few minutes when his friend had left him,
gradually recovering balance. He knew his own peril well enough,
but he was not yet certain enough of his own standpoint--and
perhaps not courageous enough--to risk all by declaring it. He
felt helpless and powerless--like a child in a new school--before
the tremendous forces in whose presence he found himself. For the
present, at least, he knew that he must obey. . . .
(II)
"You will be astonished at Ireland," said Father Jervis a few hours
later, as they sat together in the little lighted cabin on their
way across England. "You know, of course, the general outlines?"
Monsignor roused himself.
"I know it's the Contemplative Monastery of Europe," he said.
"Just so. It's also the mental hospital of Europe. You see it's
very favourably placed. None of the great lines of volors pass
over it now. It's entirely secluded from the world. Of course
there are the secular business centres of the country, as they
always were, in north and south--Dublin and Belfast; they're like
any other town, only rather quieter. But outside these you might
say that the whole island is one monastic enclosure. I've brought
a little book on it I thought you might like to look at."
He handed a little volume out of his bag. (It was printed on the
usual nickel-sheets, invented by Edison fifty years before.)
"And to-night?" asked Monsignor heavily.
"To-night we're staying at Thurles. I made all arrangements
this afternoon."
"And our programme?"
Father Jervis smiled.
"That'll depend on the guest-master," he said, "We put ourselves
entirely under his orders, as I told you. He'll see us to-night
or to-morrow morning; and the rest is in his hands."
"What's the system?" asked Monsignor suddenly and abruptly
looking at him.
"The system?"
"Yes."
Father Jervis considered.
"It's hard to put it into words," he said. "I suppose you might
say that they used atmosphere and personality. They're the
strongest forces we know of--far stronger, of course, than
argument. It's very odd how they used to be neglected---"
"Eh?"
"Yes; until quite recently there was hardly any deliberate use of
them at all. Well, now we know that they effect more than any
persuasion . . . or . . . or . . . diet. And of course enclosed
Religious naturally become experts in interior self-command, and
therefore can apply these things better than anyone else."
He waved his hands vaguely and explanatorily.
"It's impossible to put it into words," he said. "The very
essence of it is that it can't be."
Monsignor sighed and looked drearily out of the window.
* * * * *
As the hours of the day had gone by it had been this dreariness
that had deepened on him, after the violent emotions of the
morning. It was as if he already saw himself beaten down and
crushed by those forces he had begun to recognize. And even this
reminder that he was passing for a few days under a tyranny that
was yet more severe failed to requicken any resentment. Inwardly
the fire smouldered still red and angry; outwardly he was passive
and obedient, and scarcely wished to be otherwise.
There was nothing of interest to be seen out of the window. The
autumn evening was drawing in, and the far-off horizon of hills,
with the rim of the sea already visible beyond it, was dark and
lead-coloured under the darkening sky. He thought vaguely of Dom
Adrian, in that melancholy and ineffective mood which evening
suggests . . . he had been alive at this hour last night and
now . . . Well, he had passed to the Secret which this world
interpreted now so confidently. . . .
They halted above Dublin, and he watched, as weeks ago at Brighton,
the lighted stage swing outside the windows. He noted a couple of
white-frocked monks or friars, hooded in black, standing among the
rest. Then he watched the stage drop out of sight, and the lights
of Dublin spin eastwards and vanish. Then he turned listlessly to
the book his friend had given him, and began to read.
As he stood himself on the platform at Thurles, bag in hand (they
brought no servants to Ireland), it seemed to him that already
there was a certain sense of quietness about him. He told himself
it was probably the result of self-suggestion. But, for all that,
it seemed curiously still. Beneath he saw great buildings,
flattened under the height at which he stood--court after court,
it appeared, each lighted invisibly and as clear as day. Yet no
figures moved across them; and in the roadways that ran here and
there was no crawling stream of ant-like beings such as he had
seen elsewhere. Even the officials seemed to speak in undertones;
and Father Jervis said no word at all. Then, as he felt the swift
dropping movement beneath his feet, he saw the great lighted ship
he had just left whirl off westwards, resembling a gigantic
luminous moth, yet without bell or horn to announce its journey.
He followed his friend out through the doorway of the
ground-platform to which the stage descended, and into the
interior of a great white car that waited--still with a strange
sense of irresponsibility and heaviness. He supposed that all was
well--as well as could be in a world such as this. Then he leaned
back and closed his eyes. There were three or four others in the
great car, he noticed; but all were silent.
He opened them again as the car stopped. But the priest beside
him made no movement. He looked out and saw that the car was
halted between two high walls and in front of a great arched
gateway. Even as he looked the gates rolled back noiselessly and
the car moved through. (The others had got out, he noticed.)
It seemed, as they sped on, as if they were going through the
streets of some strange dead city. All through which they passed
was perfectly visible in the white artificial light. Now they ran
between high walls; now along the side of a vast courtyard; now a
structure resembling the side of a cloister slid by them swiftly
and steadily--gone again in an instant. It was not until
afterwards that he realized that there had hardly been one window
to be seen; and not one living being.
And then at last the car stopped, and a monk in brown opened the
door of the car.
(III)
Monsignor woke next morning, already conscious of a certain sense
of well-being, and looked round the little white room in which he
lay, agreeably expectant.
* * * * *
Last night had helped to soothe him a little. He had supped with
his friend in a small parlour downstairs, after having been
warned not to speak, except in case of absolute necessity, to
the lay-brother who waited on them; and after supper had had
explained to him more at length what the object of the
expedition really was. It was the custom, he heard, for persons
suffering from overstrain or depression, whether physical,
mental, or spiritual, to come across to Ireland to one of those
Religious Houses with which the whole country was covered. The
only thing demanded of these retreatants was that they should
obey, absolutely and implicitly, the directions given to them
during their stay, and that their stay should not be less than
for three full days.
"We shall not meet after to-night," said Father Jervis, smiling,
"I shall be under as strict orders as you."