{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11626/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11626","id":"gutenberg_11626","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11626","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Science fiction"],"text":"Made and Printed in Great Britain at _The Mayflower Press,\nPlymouth_. William Brendan & Son, Ltd.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nIN a former book, called _Lord of the World_, I attempted to\nsketch the kind of developments a hundred years hence which, I\nthought, might reasonably be expected if the present lines of\nwhat is called \"modern thought\" were only prolonged far enough;\nand I was informed repeatedly that the effect of the book was\nexceedingly depressing and discouraging to optimistic Christians.\nIn the present book I am attempting--also in parable form--not in\nthe least to withdraw anything that I said in the former, but to\nfollow up the other lines instead, and to sketch--again in\nparable--the kind of developments, about sixty years hence which,\nI think, may reasonably be expected should the opposite process\nbegin, and ancient thought (which has stood the test of\ncenturies, and is, in a very remarkable manner, being\n\"rediscovered\" by persons even more modern than modernists) be\nprolonged instead. We are told occasionally by moralists that we\nlive in very critical times, by which they mean that they are not\nsure whether their own side will win or not. In that sense no\ntimes can ever be critical to Catholics, since Catholics are\nnever in any kind of doubt as to whether or no their side will\nwin. But from another point of view every period is a critical\nperiod, since every period has within itself the conflict of two\nirreconcilable forces. It has been for the sake of tracing out\nthe kind of effects that, it seemed to me, each side would\nexperience in turn, should the other, at any rate for a while,\nbecome dominant, that I have written these two books.\n\nFinally if I may be allowed, I should wish to draw attention to\nmy endeavours to treat of the subject of \"religious persecution,\"\nsince I strongly believe that in some such theory is to be found\nthe explanation of such phenomena as those of Mary Tudor's reign\nin England, and of the Spanish Inquisition. In practically every\nsuch case, I think, it was the State and not the Church which was\nresponsible for so unhappy a policy; and that the policy was\ndirected not against unorthodoxy, as such, but against an\nunorthodoxy which, under the circumstances of those days, was\nthought to threaten the civil stability of society in general,\nand which was punished as amounting to treasonable, rather than\nto heretical, opinions.\n\nROBERT HUGH BENSON.\n\nROME Lent 1911\n\n\n\n\nTHE DAWN OF ALL\n\n\n\nPROLOGUE\n\nGradually memory and consciousness once more reasserted\nthemselves, and he became aware that he was lying in bed. But\nthis was a slow process of intense mental effort, and was as\nlaboriously and logically built up of premises and deductions as\nwere his theological theses learned twenty years before in his\nseminary. There was the sheet below his chin; there was a red\ncoverlet (seen at first as a blood-coloured landscape of hills\nand valleys); there was a ceiling, overhead, at first as remote\nas the vault of heaven. Then, little by little, the confused\nroaring in his ears sank to a murmur. It had been just now as the\nsound of brazen hammers clanging in reverberating caves, the\nrolling of wheels, the tramp of countless myriads of men. But it\nhad become now a soothing murmur, not unlike the coming in of a\ntide at the foot of high cliffs--just one gentle continuous note,\noverlaid with light, shrill sounds. This too required long\nargument and reasoning before any conclusion could be reached;\nbut it was attained at last, and he became certain that he lay\nsomewhere within sound of busy streets. Then rashly he leapt to\nthe belief that he must be in his own lodgings in Bloomsbury; but\nanother long slow stare upwards showed him that the white ceiling\nwas too far away.\n\nThe effort of thought seemed too much for him; it gave him a\nsense of inexplicable discomfort. He determined to think no more,\nfor fear that the noises should revert again to the crash of\nhammers in his hollow head. . . .\n\nHe was next conscious of a pressure on his lip, and a kind of\nshadow of a taste of something. But it was no more than a shadow:\nit was as if he were watching some one else drink and perceiving\nsome one else to swallow. . . . Then with a rush the ceiling came\nback into view: he was aware that he was lying in bed under a red\ncoverlet; that the room was large and airy about him; and that\ntwo persons, a doctor in white and a nurse, were watching him. He\nrested in that knowledge for a long time, watching memory\nreassert itself. Detail after detail sprang into view: farther\nand farther back into his experience, far down into the childhood\nhe had forgotten. He remembered now who he was, his story, his\nfriends, his life up to a certain blank day or set of days,\nbetween him and which there was nothing. Then he saw the faces\nagain, and it occurred to him, with a flash as of illumination,\nto ask. So he began to ask; and he considered carefully each\nanswer, turning it over and reflecting upon it with what seemed\nto him an amazing degree of concentration.\n\n\". . . So I am in Westminster Hospital,\" he considered. \"That is\nextraordinarily interesting and affecting. I have often seen the\noutside of it. It is of discoloured brick. And I have been\nhere . . . how long? how long, did they say? . . . Oh! that is a\nlong time. Five days! And what in the world can have happened to\nmy work? They will be looking out for me in the Museum. How can\nDr. Waterman's history get on without me? I must see about that\nat once. He'll understand that it's not my fault. . . .\n\n\"What's that? I mustn't trouble myself about that? But--Oh! Dr.\nWaterman has been here, has he? That's very kind--very kind and\nthoughtful indeed. And I'm to take my time, am I? Very well.\nPlease thank Dr. Waterman for his kindness and his\nthoughtfulness in enquiring. . . . And tell him I'll be with him\nagain in a day or two at any rate. . . . Oh! tell him that he'll\nfind the references to the thirteenth-century Popes in the black\nnotebook--the thick one--on the right of the fire-place. They're\nall verified. Thank you, thank you very much. . . . and . . . by\nthe way . . . just tell him I'm not sure yet about the\nPiccolomini matter. . . . What's that? I'm not to trouble\nmyself? . . . But . . . Oh! very well. Thank you. . . . Thank\nyou very much.\"\n\nThere followed a long pause. He was thinking still very hard\nabout the thirteenth-century Popes. It was really very tiresome\nthat he could not explain to Dr. Waterman himself. He was certain\nthat some of the pages in the thick black notebook were loose;\nand how terrible it would be if the book were taken out\ncarelessly, and some of the pages fell into the fire. They easily\nmight! And then there'd be all the work to do again. . . . And\nthat would mean weeks and weeks. . . .\n\nThen there came a grave, quiet voice of a woman speaking in his\near; but for a long time he could not understand. He wished it\nwould let him alone. He wanted to think about the Popes. He tried\nnodding and murmuring a general sort of assent, as if he wished\nto go to sleep; but it was useless: the voice went on and on. And\nthen suddenly he understood, and a kind of fury seized him.\n\nHow did they know he had once been a priest? Spying and\nbadgering, as usual! . . . No: he did not want a priest sent for.\nHe was not a priest any more; not even a Catholic. It was all\nlies--lies from the beginning to the end--all that they had\ntaught him in the seminary. It was all lies! There! Was that\nplain enough? . . .\n\nAh! why would not the voice be quiet? . . . He was in great\ndanger, was he? He would be unconscious again soon, would he?\nWell, he didn't know what they meant by that; but what had it to\ndo with him? No: he did not want a priest. Was that clear\nenough? . . . He was perfectly clear-headed; he knew what he was\nsaying. . . . Yes; even if he were in great danger . . . even if\nhe were practically certain to die. (That, by the way, was\nimpossible; because he had to finish the notes for Dr.\nWaterman's new History of the Popes; and it would take months.)\nAnyhow, he didn't want a priest. He knew all about that: he had\nfaced it all, and he wasn't afraid. Science had knocked all that\nreligious nonsense on the head. There wasn't any religion. All\nreligions were the same. There wasn't any truth in any of them.\nPhysical science had settled one half of the matter, and\npsychology the other half. It was all accounted for. So he\ndidn't want a priest anyhow. Damn priests! There! would they let\nhim alone after that? . . .\n\nAnd now as to the Piccolomini affair. It was certain that when\nAeneas was first raised to the Sacred College. . . .\n\nWhy . . . what was happening to the ceiling? How could he attend\nto Aeneas while the ceiling behaved like that? He had no idea\nthat ceilings in the Westminster Hospital could go up like lifts.\nHow very ingenious! It must be to give him more air. Certainly he\nwanted more air. . . . The walls too. . . . Ought not they also\nto revolve? They could change the whole air in the room in a\nmoment. What an extraordinarily ingenious . . . Ah! and he wanted\nit. . . . He wanted more air. . . . Why don't these doctors know\ntheir business better? . . . What was the good of catching hold\nof him like that? . . . He wanted air . . . more air . . . He\nmust get to the window! . . . Air . . . air! . . .\n\n\n\n\nPART I\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n\n(I)\n\nThe first objects of which he became aware were his own hands\nclasped on his lap before him, and the cloth cuffs from which\nthey emerged; and it was these latter that puzzled him. So\nengrossed was he that at first he could not pay attention to the\nstrange sounds in the air about him; for these cuffs, though\nblack, were marked at their upper edges with a purpled line such\nas prelates wear. He mechanically turned the backs of his hands\nupwards; but there was no ring on his finger. Then he lifted his\neyes and looked.\n\nHe was seated on some kind of raised chair beneath a canopy. A\ncarpet ran down over a couple of steps beneath his feet, and\nbeyond stood the backs of a company of ecclesiastics--secular\npriests in cotta, cassock, and biretta, with three or four\nbare-footed Franciscans and a couple of Benedictines. Ten yards\naway there rose a temporary pulpit with a back and a\nsounding-board beneath the open sky; and in it was the tall\nfigure of a young friar, preaching, it seemed, with extraordinary\nfervour. Around the pulpit, beyond it, and on all sides to an\nimmense distance, so far as he could see, stretched the heads of\nan incalculable multitude, dead silent, and beyond them again\ntrees, green against a blue summer sky.\n\nHe looked on all this, but it meant nothing to him. It fitted on\nnowhere with his experience; he knew neither where he was, nor at\nwhat he was assisting, nor who these people were, nor who the\nfriar was, nor who he was himself. He simply looked at his\nsurroundings, then back at his hands and down his figure.\n\nHe gained no knowledge there, for he was dressed as he had never\nbeen dressed before. His caped cassock was black, with purple\nbuttons and a purple cincture. He noticed that his shoes shone\nwith gold buckles; he glanced at his breast, but no cross hung\nthere. He took off his biretta, nervously, lest some one should\nnotice, and perceived that it was black with a purple tassel. He\nwas dressed then, it seemed, in the costume of a Domestic\nPrelate. He put on his biretta again.\n\nThen he closed his eyes and tried to think; but he could remember\nnothing. There was, it seemed, no continuity anywhere. But it\nsuddenly struck him that if he knew that he was a Domestic\nPrelate, and if he could recognize a Franciscan, he must have\nseen those phenomena before. Where? When?\n\nLittle pictures began to form before him as a result of his\nintense mental effort, but they were far away and minute, like\nfigures seen through the wrong end of a telescope; and they\nafforded no explanation. But, as he bent his whole mind upon it,\nhe remembered that he had been a priest--he had distinct memories\nof saying mass. But he could not remember where or when; he could\nnot even remember his own name.\n\nThis last horror struck him alert again. _He did not know who he\nwas_. He opened his eyes widely, terrified, and caught the eye of\nan old priest in cotta and cassock who was looking back at him\nover his shoulder. Something in the frightened face must have\ndisturbed the old man, for he detached himself from the group and\ncame up the two steps to his side.\n\n\"What is it, Monsignor?\" he whispered.\n\n\"I am ill . . . I am ill . . . father,\" he stammered.\n\nThe priest looked at him doubtfully for an instant.\n\n\"Can you . . . can you hold out for a little? The sermon\nmust be nearly---\"\n\nThen the other recovered. He understood that at whatever cost he\nmust not attract attention. He nodded sharply.\n\n\"Yes, I can hold out, father; if he isn't too long. But you must\ntake me home afterwards.\"\n\nThe priest still looked at him doubtfully.\n\n\"Go back to your place, father. I'm all right. Don't attract\nattention. Only come to me afterwards.\"\n\nThe priest went back, but he still glanced at him once or twice.\n\nThen the man who did not know himself set his teeth and resolved\nto remember. The thing was too absurd. He said to himself he\nwould begin by identifying where he was. If he knew so much as to\nhis own position and the dresses of those priests, his memory\ncould not be wholly gone.\n\nIn front of him and to the right there were trees, beyond the\nheads of the crowd. There was something vaguely familiar to him\nabout the arrangement of these, but not enough to tell him\nanything. He craned forward and stared as far to the right as he\ncould. There were more trees. Then to the left; and here, for the\nfirst time, he caught sight of buildings. But these seemed very\nodd buildings--neither houses nor arches--but something between\nthe two. They were of the nature of an elaborate gateway.\n\nAnd then in a flash he recognized where he was. He was sitting,\nunder this canopy, just to the right as one enters through Hyde\nPark Corner; these trees were the trees of the Park; that open\nspace in front was the beginning of Rotten Row; and Something\nLane--Park Lane--(that was it!)--was behind him.\n\nImpressions and questions crowded upon him quickly now--yet in\nnone of them was there a hint as to how he got here, nor who he\nwas, nor what in the world was going on. This friar! What was he\ndoing, preaching in Hyde Park? It was ridiculous--ridiculous and\nvery dangerous. It would cause trouble. . . .\n\nHe leaned forward to listen, as the friar with a wide gesture\nswept his hand round the horizon. \"Brethren,\" he cried, \"Look\nround you! Fifty years ago this was a Protestant country, and the\nChurch of God a sect among the sects. And to-day--to-day God is\nvindicated and the truth is known. Fifty years ago we were but a\nhandful among the thousands that knew not God, and to-day we rule\nthe world. 'Son of man, can these dry bones live?' So cried the\nvoice of God to the prophet. And behold! they stood up upon their\nfeet, an exceeding great army. If then He has done such things\nfor us, what shall He not do for those for whom I speak? Yet He\nworks through man. 'How shall they hear without a preacher?' Do\nyou see to it then that there are not wanting labourers in that\nvineyard of which you have heard. Already the grapes hang ready\nto pluck, and it is but we that are wanting. . . . Send forth\nthen labourers into My vineyard, cries the Lord of all.\"\n\nThe words were ill-chosen and commonplace enough, and uttered in\nan accent indefinably strange to the bewildered listener, but the\nforce of the man was tremendous, as he sent out his personality\nover the enormous crowd, on that high vibrant voice that\ncontrolled, it seemed, even those on the outskirts far up the\nroads on either side. Then with a swift sign of the cross,\nanswered generally by those about the pulpit, he ended his sermon\nand disappeared down the steps, and a great murmur of talk began.\n\nBut what in the world was it all about, wondered the man under\nthe canopy. What was this vineyard? and why did he appeal to\nEnglish people in such words as these? Every one knew that the\nCatholic Church was but a handful still in this country.\nCertainly, progress had been made, but. . . .\n\nHe broke off his meditations as he saw the group of\necclesiastics coming towards him, and noticed that on all sides\nthe crowd was beginning to disperse. He gripped the arms of the\nchair fiercely, trying to gain self-command. He must not make a\nfool of himself before all these people; he must be discreet and\nsay as little as possible.\n\nBut there was no great need for caution at present. The old\npriest who had spoken to him before stepped a little in advance\nof the rest, and turning, said in a low sentence or two to the\nBenedictines; and the group stopped, though one or two still\neyed, it seemed, with sympathy, the man who awaited him. Then the\npriest came up alone and put his hand on the arm of the chair.\n\n\"Come out this way,\" he whispered. \"There's a path behind,\nMonsignor, and I've sent orders for the car to be there.\"\n\nThe man rose obediently (he could do nothing else), passed down\nthe steps and behind the canopy. A couple of police stood there\nin an unfamiliar, but unmistakable uniform, and these drew\nthemselves up and saluted. They went on down the little pathway\nand out through a side-gate. Here again the crowd was tremendous,\nbut barriers kept them away, and the two passed on together\nacross the pavement, saluted by half a dozen men who were pressed\nagainst the barriers--(it was here, for the first time, that the\nbewildered man noticed that the dresses seemed altogether\nunfamiliar)--and up to a car of a peculiar and unknown shape,\nthat waited in the roadway, with a bare-headed servant, in some\nstrange purple livery, holding the door open.\n\n\"After you, Monsignor,\" said the old priest.\n\nThe other stepped in and sat down. The priest hesitated for an\ninstant, and then leaned forward into the car.\n\n\"You have an appointment in Dean's Yard, Monsignor, you remember.\nIt's important, you know. Are you too ill?\"\n\n\"I can't. . . . I can't. . . .\" stammered the man.\n\n\"Well, at least, we can go round that way. I think we ought, you\nknow. I can go in and see him for you, if you wish; and we can at\nany rate leave the papers.\"\n\n\"Anything, anything. . . . Very well.\"\n\nThe priest got in instantly; the door closed; and the next\nmoment, through crowds, held back by the police, the great car,\nwith no driver visible in front through the clear-glass windows,\nmoved off southward.\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nIt was a moment before either spoke. The old priest broke the\nsilence. He was a gentle-faced old man, not unlike a very shrewd\nand wide-awake dormouse; and his white hair stood out in a mass\nbeneath his biretta. But the words he used were unintelligible,\nthough not altogether unfamiliar.\n\n\"I . . . I don't understand, father,\" stammered the man.\n\nThe priest looked at him sharply.\n\n\"I was saying,\" he said slowly and distinctly, \"I was saying that\nyou looked very well, and I was asking you what was the matter.\"\n\nThe other was silent a moment. How, to explain the\nthing! . . . Then he determined on making a clean breast of it.\nThis old man looked kindly and discreet. \"I . . . I think it's a\nlapse of memory,\" he said. \"I've heard of such things. I . . . I\ndon't know where I am nor what I'm doing. Are you . . . are you\nsure you're not making a mistake? Have I got any right----?\"\n\nThe priest looked at him as if puzzled.\n\n\"I don't quite understand, Monsignor. What can't you remember?\"\n\n\"I can't remember anything,\" wailed the man, suddenly broken down.\n\"Nothing at all. Not who I am, nor where I'm going, or where I come\nfrom. . . . What am I? Who am I? Father, for God's sake tell me.\"\n\n\"Monsignor, be quiet, please. You mustn't give way. Surely----\"\n\n\"I tell you I can remember nothing. . . . It's all gone. I don't\nknow who you are. I don't know what day it is, or what year it\nis, or anything----\"\n\nHe felt a hand on his arm, and his eyes met a look of a very\npeculiar power and concentration. He sank back into his seat\nstrangely quieted and soothed.\n\n\"Now, Monsignor, listen to me. You know who I am\"--(he broke\noff). \"I'm Father Jervis. I know about these things. I've been\nthrough the psychological schools. You'll be all right presently,\nI hope. But you must be perfectly quiet----\"\n\n\"Tell me who I am,\" stammered the man.\n\n\"Listen then. You are Monsignor Masterman, secretary to the Cardinal.\nYou are going back to Westminster now, in your own car----\"\n\n\"What's been going on? What was all that crowd about?\"\n\nStill the eyes were on him, compelling and penetrating.\n\n\"You have been presiding at the usual midday Saturday sermon in\nHyde Park, on behalf of the Missions to the East. Do you remember\nnow? No! Well, it doesn't matter in the least. That was Father\nAnthony who was preaching. He was a little nervous, you noticed.\nIt was his first sermon in Hyde Park.\"\n\n\"I saw he was a friar,\" murmured the other.\n\n\"Oh! you recognized his habit then? There, you see; your\nmemory's not really gone. And . . . and what's the answer to\n_Dominus vobiscum_?\"\n\n\"_Et cum spiritu tuo._\"\n\nThe priest smiled, and the pressure on the man's arm relaxed.\n\n\"That's excellent. It's only a partial obscurity. Why didn't you\nunderstand me when I spoke to you in Latin then?\"\n\n\"That was Latin? I thought so. But you spoke too fast; and I'm\nnot accustomed to speak it.\"\n\nThe old man looked at him with grave humour. \"Not accustomed to\nspeak it, Monsignor! Why----\" (He broke off again.) \"Look out of\nthe window, please. Where are we?\"\n\nThe other looked out. (He felt greatly elated and comforted. It\nwas quite true; his memory was not altogether gone then. Surely\nhe would soon be well again!) Out of the windows in front, but\nseeming to wheel swiftly to the left as the car whisked round to\nthe right, was the Victoria Tower. He noticed that the hour\npointed to five minutes before one.\n\n\"Those are the Houses of Parliament,\" he said. \"And what's that\ntall pillar in the middle of Parliament Square?\"\n\n\"That's the image of the Immaculate Conception. But what did you\ncall those buildings just now?\"\n\n\"Houses of Parliament, aren't they?\" faltered the man, terrified\nthat his brain was really going.\n\n\"Why do you call them that?\"\n\n\"It is their name, isn't it?\"\n\n\"It used to be; but it isn't the usual name now.\"\n\n\"Good God! Father, am I mad? Tell me. What year is it?\"\n\nThe eyes looked again into his.\n\n\"Monsignor, think. Think hard.\"\n\n\"I don't know. . . . I don't know. . . . Oh, for God's sake! . . .\"\n\n\"Quietly then. . . . It's the year nineteen hundred and\nseventy-three.\"\n\n\"It can't be; it can't be,\" gasped the other. \"Why, I remember\nthe beginning of the century.\"\n\n\"Monsignor, attend to me, please. . . . That's better. It's the\nyear nineteen hundred and seventy-three. You were born in the\nyear--in the year nineteen hundred and thirty-two. You are just\nforty years old. You are secretary and chaplain to the\nCardinal--Cardinal Bellairs. Before that you were Rector of St.\nMary's in the West. . . . Do you remember now?\"\n\n\"I remember nothing.\"\n\n\"You remember your ordination?\"\n\n\"No. Once I remember saying Mass somewhere. I don't know where.\"\n\n\"Stay, we're just there.\" (The car wheeled in swiftly under an\narchway, whisked to the left, and drew up before the cloister\ndoor.) \"Now, Monsignor, I'm going in to see the Prior myself and\ngive him the papers. You have them?\"\n\n\"I. . . I don't know.\"\n\nThe priest dived forward and extracted a small despatch-box from\nsome unseen receptacle.\n\n\"Your keys, please, Monsignor.\"\n\nThe other felt wildly about his person. He saw the steady eyes of\nthe old priest upon him.\n\n\"You keep them in your left-hand breast pocket,\" said the priest\nslowly and distinctly.\n\nThe man felt there, fetched out a bundle of thin, flat keys, and\nhanded them over helplessly. While the priest turned them over,\nexamining each, the other stared hopelessly out of the window,\npast the motionless servant in purple who waited with his hand on\nthe car-door. Surely he knew this place. . . . Yes; it was Dean's\nYard. And this was the entrance to the cloister of the Abbey. But\nwho was \"the Prior,\" and what was it all about?\n\nHe turned to the other, who by now was bending over the box and\nextracting a few papers laid neatly at the top.\n\n\"What are you doing, father? Who are you going to see?\"\n\n\"I am going to take these papers of yours to the Prior--the\nPrior of Westminster. The Abbot isn't here yet. Only a few of\nthe monks have come.\"\n\n\"Monks! Prior! . . . Father!\"\n\nThe old man looked him in the eyes again.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said quietly. \"The Abbey was made over again to the\nBenedictines last year, but they haven't yet formally taken\npossession. And these papers concern business connected with the\nwhole affair--the relations of seculars and regulars. I'll tell\nyou afterwards. I must go in now, and you must just remain here\nquietly. Tell me again. What is your name? Who are you?\"\n\n\"I. . . I am Monsignor Masterman. . . secretary to\nCardinal Bellairs.\"\n\nThe priest smiled as he laid his hand on the door.\n\n\"Quite right,\" he said. \"Now please sit here quietly, Monsignor,\ntill I come back.\"\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nHe sat in perfect silence, waiting, leaning back in his corner\nwith closed eyes, compelling himself to keep his composure.\n\nIt was, at any rate, good luck that he had fallen in with such a\nfriend as this--Father Jervis, was it not?--who knew all about\nhim, and, obviously, could be trusted to be discreet. He must\njust attend to his instructions quietly then, and do what he was\ntold. No doubt things would come back soon. But how very curious\nthis all was about Hyde Park and Westminster. He could have\nsworn that England was a Protestant country, and the Church just\na tiny fragment of its population. Why, it was only recently\nthat Westminster Cathedral was built--was it not? But then this\nwas the year seventy-three . . . and . . . and he could not\nremember in what year the Cathedral was built. Then again the\nhorror and bewilderment seized him. He gripped his knees with\nhis hands in an agony of consternation. He would go mad if he\ncould not remember. Or at least----Ah! here was Father Jervis\ncoming back again.\n\nThe two sat quite silent again for a moment, as the car moved off.\n\n\"Tell me,\" said the priest suddenly, \"don't you remember faces,\nor people's names?\"\n\nThe other concentrated his mind fiercely for a moment or two.\n\n\"I remember some faces--yes,\" he said. \"And I remember some names.\nBut I cannot remember which faces belong to which names. . . . I\nremember . . . I remember the name Archbishop Bourne;\nand . . . and a priest called Farquharson----\"\n\n\"What have you been reading lately? . . . Ah! I forgot. Well; but\ncan't you remember the Cardinal . . . Cardinal Bellairs?\"\n\n\"I've never heard of him.\"\n\n\"Nor what he looks like?\"\n\n\"I haven't a notion.\"\n\nThe priest again was silent.\n\n\"Look here, Monsignor,\" he said suddenly, \"I'd better take you\nstraight up to your rooms as soon as we arrive; and I'll have a\nnotice put up on your confessional that you are unable to attend\nthere to-day. You'll have the whole afternoon--after four at\nleast--to yourself, and the rest of the evening. We needn't tell a\nsoul until we're certain that it can't be helped, not even the\nCardinal. But I'm afraid you'll have to preside at lunch to-day.\"\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"Mr. Manners is coming, you know, to consult with the Cardinal;\nand I think if you weren't there to entertain him----\"\n\nMonsignor nodded sharply, with compressed lips.\n\n\"I understand. But just tell me who Mr. Manners is?\"\n\nThe priest answered without any sign of discomposure.\n\n\"He's a member of the Government. He's the great Political\nEconomist. And he's coming to consult with the Cardinal about\ncertain measures that affect the Church. Do you remember now?\"\n\nThe other shook his head. \"No.\"\n\n\"Well, just talk to him vaguely. I'll sit opposite and take care\nthat you don't make any mistakes. Just talk to him generally.\nTalk about the sermon in Hyde Park, and the Abbey. He won't\nexpect you to talk politics publicly.\"\n\n\"I'll try.\"\n\nThe car drew up as the conversation ended; and the man who had\nlost his memory glanced out. To his intense relief, he\nrecognized where he was. It was the door of Archbishop's House,\nin Ambrosden Avenue; and beyond he perceived the long northern\nside of the Cathedral.\n\n\"I know this,\" he said.\n\n\"Of course you do, my dear Monsignor,\" said the priest\nreassuringly. \"Now follow me: bow to any one who salutes you; but\ndon't speak a word.\"\n\nThey passed in together through the door, past a couple of\nliveried servants who held it open, up the staircase and beyond\nup the further flight. The old priest drew out a key and unlocked\nthe door before them; and together they turned to the left up the\ncorridor, and passed into a large, pleasant room looking out on\nto the street, with a further door communicating, it seemed, with\na bedroom beyond. Fortunately they had met no one on the way.\n\n\"Here we are,\" said Father Jervis cheerfully. \"Now, Monsignor, do\nyou know where you are?\"\n\nThe other shook his head dolorously.\n\n\"Come, come; this is your own room. Look at your writing-table,\nMonsignor; where you sit every day.\"\n\nThe other looked at it eagerly and yet vaguely. A half-written\nletter, certainly in his own handwriting, lay there on the\nblotting-pad, but the name of his correspondent meant nothing to\nhim; nor did the few words which he read. He looked round the\nroom--at the bookcases, the curtains, the _prie-Dieu_ . . . And\nagain terror seized him.\n\n\"I know nothing, father . . . nothing at all. It's all new! For\nGod's sake! . . .\"\n\n\"Quietly then, Monsignor. It's all perfectly right. . . . Now I'm\ngoing to leave you for ten minutes, to arrange about the places\nat lunch. You'd better lock your door and admit no one. Just look\nround the rooms when I'm gone----Ah!\"\n\nFather Jervis broke off suddenly and darted at an arm-chair, where\na book lay face downwards on the seat. He snatched up the book,\nglanced at the pages, looked at the title, and laughed aloud.\n\n\"I knew it,\" he said; \"I was certain of it. You've got hold of\nManners' History, Look! you're at the very page.\"\n\nHe held it up for the other to see. Monsignor looked at it, still\nonly half comprehending, and just noticing that the paper had a\npeculiar look, and saw that the running dates at the top of the\npages contained the years 1904-1912. The priest shook the book in\ngentle triumph. A sheet of paper fell out of it, which he picked\nup and glanced at. Then he laughed again.\n\n\"See,\" he said, \"you've been making notes of the very period--no\ndoubt in order to be able to talk to Manners. That's the time he\nknows more about than any living soul. He calls it the 'crest of\nthe wave,' you know. Everything dated from then, in his opinion.\"\n\n\"I don't understand a word----\"\n\n\"See here, Monsignor,\" interrupted the priest in mild glee,\n\"here's a subject to talk about at lunch. Just get Manners on to\nit, and you'll have no trouble. He loves lecturing; and he talks\njust like a history-book. Tell him you've been reading his\nHistory and want a bird's-eye view.\"\n\nMonsignor started.\n\n\"Why, yes,\" he said, \"and that'll tell me the facts, too.\"\n\n\"Excellent. Now, Monsignor, I must go. Just look round the rooms\nwell, and get to know where things are kept. I'll be back in ten\nminutes, and we'll have a good talk before lunch as to all who'll\nbe there. It'll all go perfectly smoothly, I promise you.\"\n\n\n\n(IV)\n\nWhen the door closed Monsignor Masterman looked round him slowly\nand carefully. He had an idea that the mist must break sooner or\nlater and that all would become familiar once again. It was\nperfectly plain, by now, to his mind, what had happened to him;\nand the fact that there were certain things which he recognized,\nsuch as the Cathedral, and Hyde Park, and a friar's habit, and\nArchbishop's House--all this helped him to keep his head. If he\nremembered so much, there seemed no intrinsic reason why he\nshould not remember more.\n\nBut his inspection was disappointing. Not only was there not one\narticle in the room which he knew, but he did not even understand\nthe use of some of the things which he saw. There was a row of\nwhat looked like small black boxes fastened to the right-hand\nwall, about the height of a man's head; and there was some kind\nof a machine, all wheels and handles, in the corner by the nearer\nwindow, which was completely mysterious to him.\n\nHe glanced through into the bedroom, and this was not much\nbetter. Certainly there was a bed; there was no mistake about\nthat; and there seemed to be wardrobes sunk to the level of the\nwalls on all sides; but although in this room he thought he\nrecognized the use of everything which he saw, there was no\nsingle thing that wore a familiar aspect.\n\nHe came back to his writing-table and sat down before it in\ndespair. But that did not reassure him. He took out one or two of\nthe books that stood there in a row--directories and\naddress-books they appeared chiefly to be--and found his name\nwritten in each, with here and there a note or a correction, all\nin his own handwriting. He took up the half-written letter again\nand glanced through it once more, but it brought no relief. He\ncould not even conjecture how the interrupted sentence on the\nthird page ought to end.\n\nAgain and again he tried to tear up from his inner consciousness\nsomething which he could remember, closing his eyes and sinking\nhis head upon his hands, but nothing except fragments and\nglimpses of vision rose before him. It was now a face or a scene\nto which he could give no name; now a sentence or a thought that\nowned no context. There was no frame at all--no unified scheme in\nwhich these fragments found cohesion. It was like regarding the\npieces of a shattered jar whose shape even could not be\nconjectured. . . .\n\nThen a sudden thought struck him; he sprang up quickly and ran\ninto his bedroom. A tall mirror, he remembered, hung between the\nwindows. He ran straight up to this and stood staring at his own\nreflection. It was himself that he saw there--there was no doubt\nof that--every line and feature of that keen, pale,\nprofessorial-looking face was familiar, though it seemed to him\nthat his hair was a little greyer than it ought to be.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n\n(I)\n\n\"I shall be delighted, Monsignor,\" said the thin, clever-faced\nstatesman, in his high, dry voice; \"I shall be delighted to\nsketch out what seem to me the principal points in the\ncentury's development.\"\n\nA profound silence fell upon all the table.\n\nReally, Monsignor Masterman thought to himself, as he settled\ndown to listen, he had done very well so far. He had noticed the\nold priest opposite smiling more than once, contentedly, as\ntheir eyes met.\n\nFather Jervis had come to him as he had promised, for half an\nhour's good talk before lunch; and they had spent a very earnest\nthirty minutes together. First they had discussed with great care\nall the persons who would be present at lunch--not more than\neight, besides themselves; the priest had given him a little plan\nof the table, showing where each would sit, and had described\ntheir personal appearance and recounted a salient fact or two\nabout every one. These were all priests except Mr. Manners\nhimself and his secretary. The rest of the time had been occupied\nin information being given to the man who had lost his memory,\nwith regard to a few very ordinary subjects of conversation--the\nextraordinary fairness of the weather; a new opera produced with\nunparalleled success by a \"well-known\" composer of whom Monsignor\nhad never heard; a recent Eucharistic congress in Tokio, from\nwhich the Cardinal had just returned; and the scheme for\nredecorating the interior of Archbishop's House.\n\nThere had not been time for more; but these subjects, under the\nadroit handling of Father Jervis, had proved sufficient; and up\nto the preconcerted moment when Monsignor had uttered the\nsentence about his study of Mr. Manners' _History of Twentieth\nCentury Development_ which had drawn from the author the words\nrecorded above, all had gone perfectly smoothly.\n\nThere had been a few minor hitches; for example, the food and the\nmanner of serving it and the proper method of consuming it had\nfurnished a bad moment or two; and once Monsignor had been\nobliged to feign sudden deafness on being asked a question on a\nsubject of which he knew nothing by a priest whose name he had\nforgotten, until Father Jervis slid in adroitly and saved him.\nYet these were quite unnoticed, it appeared, and could easily be\nattributed to the habit of absent-mindedness for which, Monsignor\nMasterman was relieved to learn, he was almost notorious.\n\nAnd now the crisis was past and Mr. Manners was launched.\nMonsignor glanced almost happily round the tall dining-room, from\nwhich the servants had already disappeared, and, with his glass\nin his hand, settled himself down to listen and remember.\n\n  *   *   *   *   *\n\n\"The crisis, to my mind, in the religious situation,\" began the\nstatesman, looking more professional than ever, with his closed\neyes, thin, wrinkled face, and high forehead--\"the real crisis is\nto be sought in the period from 1900 to 1920.\n\n\"This was the period, you remember, of tremendous social\nagitation. There was the widespread revolution of the Latin\ncountries, beginning with France and Portugal, chiefly against\nAuthority, and most of all against Monarchy (since Monarchy is\nthe most vivid and the most concrete embodiment of authority);\nand in Teutonic and Anglo-Saxon countries against Capital and\nAristocracy. It was in these years that Socialism came most near\nto dominating the civilized world; and, indeed, you will remember\nthat for long after that date it did dominate civilization in\ncertain places.\n\n\"Now the real trouble at the bottom of all this was the state in\nwhich Religion found itself. And you will find, gentlemen,\" said\nthe quasi-lecturer in parenthesis, glancing round the attentive\nfaces, \"that Religion always is and always has been at the root\nof every world-movement. In fact it must be so. The deepest\ninstinct in man is his religion, that is, his attitude to eternal\nissues; and on that attitude must depend his relation to temporal\nthings. This is so, largely, even in the case of the individual;\nit must therefore be infinitely more so in large bodies or\nnations; since every crowd is moved by principles that are the\nleast common multiple of the principles of the units which\ncompose it. Of course this is universally recognized now; but it\nwas not always so. There was a time, particularly at this period\nof which I am now speaking, when men attempted to treat Religion\nas if it were one department of life, instead of being the whole\nfoundation of every and all life. To treat it so is, of course,\nto proclaim oneself as fundamentally irreligious--and, indeed,\nvery ignorant and uneducated.\n\n\"To resume, however:\n\n\"Religion at this period was at a very strange crisis. That it\ncould possibly be treated in the way I have mentioned shows how\nvery deeply irreligion had spread. There is no such thing, of\ncourse, really as Irreligion--except by a purely conventional\nuse of the word: the 'irreligious' man is one who has made up\nhis mind either that there is no future world, or that it is so\nremote, as regards effectivity, as to have no bearing upon\nthis. And that is a religion--at least it is a dogmatic\ncreed--as much as any other.\n\n\"The causes of this state of affairs I take to have been as follows:\n\n\"Religion up to the Reformation had been a matter of authority,\nas it is again now; but the enormous development of various\nsciences and the wide spread of popular 'knowledge' had, in the\nfirst flush, distracted attention from that which is now, in all\ncivilized countries, simply an axiom of thought, viz., that a\nRevelation of God must be embodied in a living authority\nsafeguarded by God. Further, at that time science and exact\nknowledge generally had not reached the point which they reached\na little later--of corroborating in particular after particular,\nso far as they are capable of doing so, the Revelation of God\nknown as Catholicism; and of knowing their limitations where they\ncannot. Many sciences, at this time, had gone no further than to\nestablish certain facts which appeared, to the very imperfectly\neducated persons of that period, to challenge and even to refute\ncertain facts or deductions of Revelation. Psychology, for\nexample, strange as it now appears in our own day, actually\nseemed to afford other explanations of the Universe than that of\nRevelation. (We will discuss details presently.) Social Science,\nat that time, too, moved in the direction of Democracy and even\nSocialism. I know it appears monstrous, and indeed almost\nincredible, that men who really had some claim to be called\neducated seriously maintained that the most stable and the most\nreasonable method of government lay in the extension of the\nfranchise--that is, in reversing the whole eternal and logical\norder of things, and permitting the inexpert to rule the expert,\nand the uneducated and the ill-informed to control by their\nvotes--that is, by sheer weight of numbers--the educated and the\nwell-informed. Yet such was the case. And the result was--since\nall these matters act and react--that the idea of authority from\nabove in matters of religion was thought to be as 'undemocratic'\nas in matters of government and social life. Men had learnt, that\nis to say, something of the very real truth in the theory of the\nLeast Common Multiple, and, as in psychology and many other\nsciences, had presumed that the little fragment of truth that\nthey had perceived was the whole truth.\"\n\nMr. Manners paused to draw breath. Obviously he was enjoying\nhimself enormously. He was a born lecturer, and somehow the rather\npompous sentences were strangely alive and strangely interesting.\nAbove all, they fascinated and amazed the prelate at the head of\nthe table, for they revealed to him an advance of thought, and an\nassurance in the position they described, that seemed wholly\ninexplicable. Such phrases as \"all educated men,\" \"the\nwell-informed,\" and the rest--these were vaguely familiar to him,\nyet surely in a very different connection. He had at the back of\nhis mind a kind of idea that these were the phrases that the\nirreligious or the agnostics applied to themselves; yet here was a\nman, obviously a student, and a statesman as he knew, calmly\nassuming (scarcely even giving himself the trouble to state) that\nall educated and well-informed persons were Catholic Christians!\n\nHe settled himself down to listen with renewed interest as Mr.\nManners began once more.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"to come more directly to our point; let us next\nconsider what were those steps and processes by which Catholic\ntruth once more became the religion of the civilized world, as it\nhad been five centuries earlier.\n\n\"And first we must remark that, even at the very beginning of\nthis century, popular thought--in England as elsewhere--had\nretraced its steps so far as to acknowledge that if Christianity\nwere true--true, really and actually--the Catholic Church was the\nonly possible embodiment of it. Not only did the shrewdest\nagnostic minds of the time acknowledge this--such men as Huxley\nin the previous century, Sir Leslie Stephen, Mallock, and scores\nof others--but even popular Christianity itself began to turn in\nthat direction. Of course there were survivals and reactions, as\nwe should expect. There was a small body of Christians in England\ncalled Anglicans, who attempted to hold another view; there was\nthat short-lived movement called Modernism, that held yet a third\nposition. But, for the rest, it was as I say.\n\n\"It was the Catholic Church or nothing. And just for a few years\nit seemed humanly possible that it might be nothing.\n\n\"And now for the causes of the revival.\n\n\"Briefly, I should say they were all included under one head--the\ncorrelation of sciences and their coincidence into one point. Let\nus take them one by one. We have only time to glance very\nsuperficially at each.\n\n\"First there was Psychology.\n\n\"Even at the end of the nineteenth century it was beginning to be\nperceived that there was an inexplicable force working behind\nmere matter. This force was given a number of names--the\n'subliminal consciousness,' in man, and 'Nature' in the animal,\nvegetable, and even mineral creation; and it gave birth to a\nseries of absurd superstitions such as that now wholly extinct\nsect of the 'Christian Scientists,' or the Mental Healers; and\namong the less educated of the Materialists, to Pantheism. But\nthe force was acknowledged, and it was perceived to move along\ndefinite lines of law. Further, in the great outburst of\nSpiritualism it began gradually to be evident to the world that\nthis force occasionally manifested itself in a personal, though\nalways a malevolent manner. Now it must be remembered that even\nthis marked an immense advance in the circles called scientific;\nsince in the middle of the nineteenth century, even the phenomena\nso carefully recorded by the Church were denied. These were now\nno longer denied, since phenomena, at least closely resembling\nthem, were matters of common occurrence under the eyes of the\nmost sceptical. Of course, since the enquiries were made along\npurely 'scientific' lines--lines which in those days were nothing\nother than materialistic--an attempt was made to account for the\nphenomena by new anti-spiritual theories hastily put together to\nmeet the emergency. But, little by little, an uneasy sense began\nto manifest itself that the Church had already been familiar with\nthe phenomena for about two thousand years, and that a body,\nwhich had marked and recorded facts with greater accuracy than\nall the 'scientists' put together, at least had some claim to\nconsideration with regard to her hypothesis concerning them.\nFurther, it began to be seen (what is perfectly familiar to us\nall now) that Religion contributed an element which nothing else\ncould contribute--that, for example, 'Religious Suggestion,' as\nit was called in the jargon of the time, could accomplish things\nthat ordinary 'Suggestion' could not. Finally, the researches of\npsychologists into what was then called the phenomenon of\n'Alternating Personality' prepared the way for a frank acceptance\nof the Catholic teaching concerning Possession and\nExorcism--teaching which half a century before would have been\nlaughed out of court by all who claimed the name of Scientist.\nPsychology then, up to this point, had rediscovered that a Force\nwas working behind physical phenomena, itself not physical; that\nthis Force occasionally exhibited characteristics of Personality;\nand finally that the despised Catholic Church had been more\nscientific than scientists in her observation of facts; and that\nthis Force, dealt with along Christian lines, could accomplish\nwhat it was unable to accomplish along any other.\n\n\"The next advance lay along the lines of Comparative Religion.\n\n\"The study of Comparative Religion was practically a new science\nat the end of the nineteenth century, and like all new sciences,\nclaimed at once, before it had constructed its own, to destroy\nthe schemes of others. For instance, there were actually educated\npersons who advanced as an argument against Christianity the fact\nthat many Christian dogmas and ceremonies were to be found in\nother religions. It is extremely difficult for us now, even in\nimagination, to sympathize with such a mentality as this; but it\nmust be remembered that the science was very youthful, and had\nall the inexperience and the arrogance of youth. As time went on,\nhowever, this argument began to disappear, except in very\nelementary rationalistic manuals, as the fact became evident that\nwhile this or that particular religion had one or more identities\nwith Christian doctrines, Christianity possessed them all; that\nChristianity, in short, had all the principal doctrines of all\nreligions--or at least all doctrines that were of any strength to\nother religions, as well as several others necessary to weld\nthese detached dogmas into a coherent whole; that, to use a\nsimple metaphor, Christianity stood in the world like a light\nupon a hill, and that partial and imperfect reflections of this\nlight were thrown back, with more or less clearness, from the\nvarious human systems of belief that surrounded it. And at last\nit became evident, even to the most unintelligent, that the only\nscientific explanation of this phenomenon lay in the theory that\nChristianity was indeed unique, and, at the very least, was the\nmost perfect human system of faith--perfectly human, I mean, in\nthat it embodied and answered adequately all the religious\naspirations of the human race--the most perfect system of faith\nthe world had ever seen.\n\n\"A third cause was to be found in the new philosophy of evidence\nthat began to prevail soon after the dawn of the century.\n\n\"Up to that period, so-called Physical Science had so far\ntyrannized over men's minds as to persuade them to accept her\nclaim that evidence that could not be reduced to her terms was\nnot, properly speaking, evidence at all. Men demanded that purely\nspiritual matters should be, as they said, 'proved,' by which\nthey meant should be reduced to physical terms. Little by little,\nhowever, the preposterous nature of this claim was understood.\nPeople began to perceive that each order of life had evidence\nproper to itself--that there were such things, for instance, as\nmoral proofs, artistic proofs, and philosophical proofs; and that\nthese proofs were not interchangeable. To demand physical proof\nfor every article of belief was as fantastic as to demand, let us\nsay, a chemical proof of the beauty of a picture, or evidence in\nterms of light or sound for the moral character of a friend, or\nmathematical proof for the love of a mother for her child. This\nvery elementary idea seems to have come like a thunderclap upon\nmany who claimed the name of 'thinkers'; for it entirely\ndestroyed a whole artillery of arguments previously employed\nagainst Revealed Religion.\n\n\"For a time, Pragmatism came to the rescue from the philosophical\ncamp; but the assault was but a very short one; since, tested by\nPragmatic methods (that is, the testing of the truth of a\nreligion by its appeal to human consciousness), if one fact stood\nout luminous and undisputed, it was that the Catholic Religion,\nwith its eternal appeal in every century and to every type of\ntemperament, was utterly supreme.\n\n\"Let us turn to another point----\"\n\n(Mr. Manners lifted the glass he had been twirling between his\nfingers, and drank it off with an appearance of great enjoyment.\nThen he smacked his lips once or twice and continued.)\n\n\"Let us turn to the realm of politics--even to the realm of trade.\n\n\"Socialism, in its purely economic aspect, was a well-meant\nattempt to abolish the law of competition--that is, the natural\nlaw of the Survival of the Fittest. It was an attempt, I say; and\nit ended, as we know, in disaster; for it established instead, so\nfar as it was successful, the law of the Survival of the\nMajority, and tyrannized first over the minority and then over\nthe individual.\n\n\"But it was a well-meant attempt; since its instinct was\nperfectly right, that competition is not the highest law of the\nUniverse. And there were several other ideals in Socialism that\nwere most commendable in theory: for example, the idea that the\nSociety sanctifies and safeguards the individual, not the\nindividual the Society; that obedience is a much-neglected\nvirtue, and so forth.\n\n\"Then, suddenly almost, it seems to have dawned upon the world\nthat all the _ideals_ of Socialism (apart from its methods and\nits dogmas) had been the ideals of Christianity; and that the\nChurch had, in her promulgation of the Law of Love, anticipated\nthe Socialist's discovery by about two thousand years. Further,\nthat in the Religious Orders these ideals had been actually\nincarnate; and that by the doctrine of Vocation--that is by the\nfreedom of the individual to submit himself to a superior--the\nrights of the individual were respected and the rights of the\nSociety simultaneously vindicated.\n\n\"A very good example of all this is to be found in the\nPoor-law system.\n\n\"You remember that before the Reformation, and in Catholic\ncountries long after, there was no Poor-law system, because the\nReligious Houses looked after the sick and needy. Well, when the\nReligious Houses were destroyed in England the State had to do\ntheir work. You could not simply flog beggars out of existence,\nas Elizabeth tried to do. Then the inevitable happened, and it\nbegan to be a mark of disgrace to be helped by the State in a\nworkhouse: people often preferred to starve. Then at the\nbeginning of the twentieth century a well-meant attempt was made,\nin the Old-Age Pensions and George's State Insurance Act, to\nremedy this and to help the poor in a manner that would not\ninjure their self-respect. Of course that failed, too. It is\nincredible that statesmen did not see it must be so. Old-Age\nPensions, too, and State-Insurance (so soon as it was socially\ndigested), began to be considered a mark of disgrace--for the\nsimple cause that it is not the receiving of money that is\nresented, but the motive for which the money is given and the\nposition of the giver. The State can only give for economic\nreasons, however conscientious and individually charitable\nstatesmen may be; while the Church gives for the Love of God, and\nthe Love of God never yet destroyed any man's self-respect. Well,\nyou know the end. The Church came forward once more and, under\ncertain conditions, offered to relieve the State of the entire\nburden. Two results followed--first, all grievances vanished; and\nsecondly, the whole pauper population of England within ten years\nwas Catholic in sympathies. And yet all this is only a reversion\nto medieval times--a reversion made absolutely necessary by the\nfailure of every attempt to supplant Divine methods by human.\n\n\"Now look at it all in another way--the general situation, I mean.\n\n\"The Socialist saw plainly the rights of the Society; the\nAnarchist saw the rights of the Individual. How therefore were\nthese to be reconciled? The Church stepped in at that crucial\npoint and answered, By the Family--whether domestic or\nReligious. For in the Family you have both claims recognized:\nthere is authority and yet there is liberty. For the union of\nthe Family lies in Love; and _Love is the only reconciliation of\nauthority and liberty_.\n\n\"Now, as I have put it--and as we all now see it--the argument is\nsimplicity itself. But it took a long time to be recognized; and\nit was not until after the appalling events of the first twenty\nyears of the century, and the discrediting of the absurd\nSocialistic attempt to preach the Law of Love by methods of Force,\nthat civilization as a whole saw the point. Yet for all that it\nwas beginning to mould popular opinion even as early as 1910.\n\n\"Turn now to a completely different plane. Turn to Art. This,\ntoo, drove men back to the Church.\"\n\n(Mr. Manners' air was becoming now less professional and more vivid.\nHe glanced quickly from face to face with a kind of sharp triumph;\nhis long, thin hands waved a slight gesture now and again.)\n\n\"Art, you remember, in the end of the Victorian era had attempted\nto become realistic--had attempted, that is, the absurdly\nimpossible; and photography exposed the absurdity, For no man can\nbe truly a realist, since it is literally impossible to paint or\nto describe all that the eye sees. When photography became\ngeneral, this began to be understood; since it was soon seen that\nthe only photographer who could lay any claim to artistic work\nwas the man who selected and altered and posed--arranged his\nsubject, that is to say, in more or less symbolic form. Then\npeople began to see again that Symbolism was the underlying\nspirit of Art--as they had known perfectly well, of course, in\nmedieval days: that Art consisted in going beneath the material\nsurfaces that reflected light, or the material events that\nhappened, in painting and literature respectively, and, by a\nprocess of selection, of symbolizing (not photographically\nrepresenting) the Ideas beneath the Things--the Substance beneath\nthe Accidents--the Thought beneath the Expression--(you can call\nit what you like). Zola in literature, Strauss in music, the\nFrench school of painting--these reduced Realism _ad absurdum_.\nThus once more the Catholic Church, in this as in everything\nelse, was discovered to have possessed the secret all along. The\nSymbolic Reaction therefore began, and all our music, all our\npainting, and all our literature to-day are frankly and\nconfessedly Symbolic--that is, Catholic. And this too, you see,\npointed to the same lesson as Psychology, that beneath phenomena\nthere was a Force which transcended phenomena; and that the\nChurch had dealt with this Force, knowing It to be Personal,\nthrough all her history.\n\n\"Finally--and this was the crowning argument of all, that\ncorrelated all the rest--there was the growing scientific and\npopular perception of the Recuperative Power of the Church--that\nwhich our Divine Lord Himself called the Sign of the Prophet\nJonas, or Resurrection.\n\n\"There were of course countless other lines of advance, in\npractically every science, and they all pointed in the same\ndirection, and met, so to speak, from every quarter of the\ncompass the end of the tunnel which the Church had been boring\nthrough all the heaped-up stupidities and ignorances of man.\nPsychology tunnelled, and presently heard the voices of the\nexorcists and the echoes of Lourdes through the darkness. Human\nreligions tunnelled--Hinduism with its idea of a Divine\nIncarnation, Buddhism with its coarse apprehension of the Eternal\nPeace of a Beatific Vision, North American Religion with its\nguesses at Sacramentalism, Savage Religion with its caricature of\na Bloody Sacrifice; all from various points; and presently heard\nthrough the tumult the historical dogma of the Incarnation of\nChrist, the dogma of Eternal Life, the Sacramental System and the\nSacrifice of the Cross--all proclaimed in one coherent and\nperfectly philosophical Creed. Ideals of Social Reform met with\nthe same experiences. The Socialist with his dream of a Divine\nSociety, the Anarchist with his passionate nightmare of complete\nindividual liberty, both ran up together, in the heart of the\nblack darkness, against the vast outline of a Divine Family that\nwas a fact and not a far-off ambition--a Family that fell in Eden\nand became a competitive State; a Holy Family that redeemed\nNazareth and all the world; a Catholic Family in whom was neither\nJew nor Greek, nor masters against men--in whom the doctrine of\nVocation secured the rights and the dignities of the Society on\none side and the Individual on the other. Finally Art, wandering\nhither and thither in the mazes of Realism, saw light ahead, and\nfound in Catholic Art and Symbolism the secret of her life.\n\n\"This, then, was the result--that the Church was found to be\neternally right in every plane. In plane after plane she had\nbeen condemned. Pilate--the Law of Separate Nations--had found\nher guilty of sedition; Herod--the miracle-monger at one instant\nand the sceptic at the next--the Scientist, in fact--had\ndeclared her guilty of fraud; Caiaphas had condemned her in the\nname of National Religion. Or, again, she had been thought the\nenemy of Art by the Greek-spirited; the enemy of Law by the\nLatins; the enemy of Religion by the Hebraic Pharisee. She had\nborne her title written in Greek and Latin and Hebrew. She had\nbeen crucified, and taunted as she hung there; she had seemed to\ndie; and, to and behold! when the Third Day dawned she was alive\nagain for evermore. From every single point she had been\njustified and vindicated. Men had thought to invent a new\nreligion, a new art, a new social order, a new philosophy; they\nhad burrowed and explored and digged in every direction; and, at\nthe end, when they had worked out their theories and found, as\nthey thought, the reward of their labours, they found themselves\nlooking once more into the serene, smiling face of Catholicism.\nShe was risen from the dead once more, and was seen to be the\nDaughter of God, with Power.\"\n\nThere was a moment's silence.\n\n\"There, gentlemen,\" said Mr. Manners, dropping back again into the\nquiet professor, \"that, I think, in a few words, is the outline for\nwhich Monsignor asked. I hope I have not detained you too long.\"\n\n\n\n(II)\n\n\"It is the most extraordinary story I have ever heard,\" said\nMonsignor Masterman ten minutes later, as he threw himself down\nin his chair upstairs, with Father Jervis sitting opposite.\n\n\"Certainly he puts it very well,\" said the old priest, smiling.\n\"I think every one was interested. It's not often that we can\nhear such a clear analysis of events. Of course Manners has it\nall at his fingers' ends. It's his special subject, and----\"\n\n\"But the amazing thing to me,\" interrupted the other, \"is that this\nisn't just a dream or a prophecy, but a relation of facts. . . . Do\nyou mean to tell me that the whole world is Christian?\"\n\nThe priest looked at him doubtfully.\n\n\"Monsignor, surely your memory isn't----\"\n\nMonsignor made an impatient gesture.\n\n\"Father,\" he said, \"it's exactly as I told you before lunch. I'll\npromise to tell you if my memory comes back. At present I\nremember practically nothing at all, except instinctively. All I\nknow is that this story we have heard simply astounds me. I had a\nsort of idea that Christianity was ebbing from the world; that\nmost thinking men had given up all belief in it; and now I find\nit's exactly the other way. Please treat me as if I had stepped\nstraight out of the beginning of the century. Just tell me the\nfacts as if for the first time. Is it really true that\npractically the whole world is Christian?\"\n\nThe priest hesitated.\n\n\"You mean that, Monsignor?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"Very well, then.\" He paused again. \"But it's extraordinarily\nhard to know where to begin.\"\n\n\"Begin anywhere. It's all new to me.\"\n\n\"Very good. Well, yes: roughly we may say that the world is\nChristian, in the same sort of way, at least, in which Europe was\nChristian, say in the twelfth century. There are survivals, of\ncourse, particularly in the East, where large districts still\ncling to their old superstitions; and there are even eminent men\nhere and there who are not explicitly Catholics; but, as a whole,\nthe world is Christian.\"\n\n\"Do you mean Catholic?\"\n\nThe priest stared a moment.\n\n\"Why, yes. What else---?\"\n\n\"All right; go on.\"\n\n\"Well then, to begin with England. Catholicism is not yet\nestablished as the State Religion; but it'll only be a question\nof time, and it may be said that all the laws are Christian.\"\n\n\"Divorce?\"\n\n\"Divorce was abolished thirty years ago, and fornication was made\na felony ten years later,\" said the priest quietly. \"Benefit of\nclergy also was restored three years ago; and we have our own\ncourts for heresy, with power to hand over convicted criminals to\nthe secular arm.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Certainly. It has been in force now for three years.\"\n\n\"Then what do you mean by saying that the Church isn't established?\"\n\n\"I mean that no religious test is demanded of officers of state,\nand that bishops and abbots have no seat in Parliament. It was the\nenfranchisement of women that turned the tide once and for all.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that all women have the vote?\"\n\n\"They are under the same conditions as men. There's a severe\neducational test now, of course. Not more than about one in\nseventy adults ever get the vote at all. But the result is that\nwe're governed by educated persons.\"\n\n\"Stop. Is it a Monarchy?\"\n\n\"Certainly. Edward IX--a young man--is on the throne.\"\n\n\"Go on.\"\n\n\"Christianity, then, holds the field. Of course there are\ninfidels left, who write letters to the newspapers sometimes, and\nhold meetings, and so on. But they are practically negligible. As\nregards Church property, practically everything has finally been\ngiven back to us;--I mean in the way of buildings, and, very\nlargely, revenues too. All the cathedrals are ours, and all\nparish churches built before the Reformation, as well as all\nother churches in parishes where there was not organized\nProtestant resistance.\"\n\n\"I thought you said there were no Protestants.\"\n\nFather Jervis suddenly laughed aloud.\n\n\"Monsignor, are you really serious? Do you really mean you\nwish me to go on?\"\n\n\"Good God, man! I'm not playing a game. . . . Go on, please. Tell\nme about the Protestants.\"\n\n\"Well, of course there are some Protestants left. I think they've\ngot four or five churches in London, and . . . and . . . yes, I'm\nsure of it, they've got some kind of bishop. But really I\nscarcely know. I shall have to look it up.\"\n\n\"Well, go on.\"\n\n\"Well, that's the state of England. Practically everybody is a\nCatholic--from the King downwards. The last remains of Church\nproperty was only actually given back to us last year. That's why\nthe monks haven't come back to Westminster yet.\"\n\n\"What about the rest of the world?\"\n\n\"Well, first Rome. Austria drove out the House of Savoy nearly\ntwenty-five years ago; and the Holy Father----\"\n\n\"What's his name?\"\n\n\"Gregory the Nineteenth. He's a Frenchman. Well, the Holy\nFather is Temporal Ruler of the whole of Italy; but the Emperor\nof Austria administers it. Then France is, of course, a very\nsmall country.\"\n\n\"Why small?\"\n\n\"Well, you know the European War of 1914 . . .?\" Monsignor\ninterrupted by a large sigh.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" he said. \"How I shall have to read. I'm sorry.\nGo on, please.\"\n\n\"Well, France is a very small country, but intensely Catholic.\nThe Church is re-established there,----\"\n\n\"Is it a monarchy too?\"\n\n\"Certainly. The Orleans line came back after the war. Louis\nXXII is king. I was saying that the Church is re-established\nthere, and is practically supreme. That is traceable entirely\nto Pius X's policy.\"\n\n\"Pius X! Why----\"\n\n\"Yes, Monsignor?\"\n\n\"I know all about that. But I thought Pius X simply ruined everything.\"\n\n\"So they said at the time. His policy was to draw the lines tight\nand to make no concessions. He drove out every half-hearted\nCatholic by his regulations, and the result was a small but\nextraordinarily pure body. The result has been that the country\nwas re-evangelized, and has become almost a land of saints. They\nsay that our Lady----\"\n\n\"Well, go on with the other countries.\"\n\n\"Spain and Portugal are, of course, entirely Catholic, like\nFrance. The Monarchy was re-established in both of them in about\n1935. But Germany--Germany's the weak spot.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"You see the Emperor isn't a Christian yet; and Socialism lingers\non there with extraordinary pertinacity. Practically Berlin is\nthe Holy City of Freemasonry. It's all organized from there--such\nas it is. And no one is quite comfortable about Germany. The\nEmperor Frederick is a perfectly sincere man, but really rather\nuneducated; he still holds on to some sort of materialism; and\nthe result is----\"\n\n\"I see.\"\n\n\"But there are hopes of his conversion. He's to be at Versailles\nnext week; and that's a good sign.\"\n\n\"Well, what about America?\"\n\n\"Oh! America's chiefly English; and very like England.\"\n\n\"You mean she isn't republican?\"\n\n\"Of course not. My dear Monsignor----\"\n\n\"Please go on, as I asked you. Tell me when she ceased to\nbe republican.\"\n\n\"Why, I scarcely know,\" murmured the priest. \"It must have been\nabout 1930, I suppose. I know there was a lot of trouble before\nthat--civil wars and so forth. But at any rate that was the end.\nJapan got a good deal of the Far West; but the Eastern States\ncame in with Canada and formed the American Colonies; and the\nSouth of course became Latinized, largely through ecclesiastical\ninfluence. Well, then America asked England----\"\n\n\"Stop, please. I shall get bewildered. What about the religion?\"\n\n\"Well, the Empire of Mexico----\"\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"The Empire of Mexico.\"\n\n\"Who's Emperor?\"\n\n\"The King of Spain, Monsignor,\" said the priest patiently. \"Well,\nthat used to be called South America. It's all the Empire of\nMexico now, and belongs to Spain. That's solidly Catholic, of\ncourse. And the American Colonies--old North America--that's like\nEngland. It's practically Catholic, of course; but there are a\nfew infidels and Socialists.\"\n\n\"Australia?\"\n\n\"Australia's entirely Irish, and Catholic.\"\n\n\"And Ireland itself?\"\n\n\"Oh! Ireland developed enormously as soon as she had gained\nindependence, but emigration continued, and the Irish strength\nreally lies abroad. Then an odd thing happened. Ireland continued\nto empty, obeying some social law we don't even yet understand\nproperly; and the Religious began to get possession of the\ncountry in an extraordinary way, until they owned all the large\nestates, and even most of the towns. You may say that Ireland is\npractically one Religious Enclosure now. Of course, she's a part\nof the British Empire; but her real social life lies in her\ncolonies. Australia succeeded in getting Home Rule from Ireland\nabout twenty-five years ago.\"\n\nMonsignor pressed his hands to his head.\n\n\"It sounds like the wildest dream,\" he said.\n\n\"Hadn't I better---?\"\n\n\"No; go on. I only want an outline. What about the East?\"\n\n\"Well, old superstitions still linger on in the East,\nespecially in China. But the end is quite certain. It is simply\na matter of time----\"\n\n\"But . . . but I don't understand. If the whole world is\npractically Christian, what is there left to do?\"\n\nThe priest smiled.\n\n\"Ah! but you must remember Germany. There are great forces in\nGermany. It's there that the danger lies. And you must remember too\nthat there is no Universal Arbitrator yet. Nationalism is still\npretty strong. There might easily be another big European war.\"\n\n\"Then you hope----\"\n\n\"Yes. We're all working for the recognition of the Pope as\nUniversal Arbitrator, as he was practically in Europe in the\nMiddle Ages. Of course, as soon as the sovereigns acknowledge\nofficially that they hold all their rights at the will of Rome,\nthe thing will be done. But it's not done yet, except----\"\n\n\"Good God!\"\n\n\"Look here, Monsignor, you've had enough,\" said the priest, rising.\n\"Though I must say you have followed it closely enough. Are you\ncertain that it is quite new to you? Don't you remember---\"\n\n\"It's not only new; it's inconceivable! I understand it\nperfectly; but----\"\n\n\"Well, you've had enough. Now what about coming to see the\nCardinal? I feel sure he'll insist upon your taking a rest\ninstantly. I feel rather guilty----\"\n\n\"Stop. Tell me about languages. Why did you talk to me in\nLatin this morning?\"\n\n\"Ecclesiastics generally do. And so do the laity a good deal.\nEurope is practically bi-lingual. Each country keeps up its\nown tongue, and learns Latin as well. You must rub up your\nLatin, Monsignor.\"\n\n\"Wait a moment. What are you going to say to the Cardinal?\"\n\n\"Well, hadn't I better tell him the whole thing, just as it\nhappened? Then you needn't explain.\"\n\nThe other pondered a moment.\n\n\"Thanks very much, father. . . . Stop. Do I talk English all right?\"\n\n\"Perfectly.\"\n\n\"But----Oh well. . . . And I . . . did I do all right at lunch?\nDid any one suspect anything?\"\n\n\"You did perfectly. You seemed a little absent-minded once or\ntwice; but that was quite in keeping.\"\n\nThe two smiled at one another pleasantly.\n\n\"Then I'll be going,\" said the priest. \"Will you wait here till\nI come for you?\"\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n(I)\n\n\"Just be natural,\" whispered Father Jervis a quarter of an hour\nlater, as they passed through the big ante-room. \"You needn't\nexplain a word. I've told him everything.\"\n\nHe tapped; and a voice answered.\n\nSitting in a big arm-chair drawn up to the writing-table, the man\nwho had lost his memory saw a tall, thin figure, in black with\nscarlet buttons, and a small scarlet skull-cap crowning his\niron-grey hair. It was a little hard to make out the face at\nfirst, as the window was immediately beyond it; but he saw almost\nimmediately that, although the face smiled at him reassuringly\nand welcomingly, it was entirely unfamiliar.\n\nThe Cardinal stood up as the two approached, pushing back his\nchair, and held out both his hands.\n\n\"My dear Monsignor,\" he said, and grasped the other's hands\nfirmly and kindly.\n\n\"I . . . your Eminence . . .\" stammered the man.\n\n\"Now, now; not one word till I've done. I've heard everything.\nCome and sit down.\"\n\nHe led him to a chair on the hearth-rug, placed him in it,\nand himself sat down in his own, facing him. The priest\nremained standing.\n\n\"Now, I'm going to begin with an order, on holy obedience,\"\nsmiled the Cardinal. \"You and Father Jervis--if the doctor\napproves--are to start for a little European tour by the\nmidnight volor.\"\n\n\"The . . . ?\"\n\n\"The volor,\" said the Cardinal. \"It'll do you good. Father Jervis\nwill undertake all responsibility, and you needn't worry yourself\nat all. I shall telegraph to Versailles in my own name, and make\none or two arrangements, and a couple of my servants will attend\nyou. You will have nothing to do but get better. You can't be\nspared. It'll all come perfectly right, I have no manner of\ndoubt. Father Jervis, just ask the doctor to step here.\"\n\nThe Cardinal talked a minute or two longer, still with that\nsoothing, peaceful air; and Monsignor, as he listened, watched\nthe priest go up to a row of black boxes, resembling those in\nhis own room, and take down a shutter from one of them. He then\nsaid a rapid sentence or two in a whisper, reclosed the\nshutter, and came back.\n\n\"If things don't clear themselves, you will just have to learn\nyour business over again, Monsignor,\" went on the Cardinal, still\nsmiling. \"Father Jervis has told me how well you did at lunch;\nand Mr. Manners said nothing, except that you were a very good\nhost and a very graceful listener. So you need not fear that any\none will notice. So please put out of your mind any thought that\nany one else will take your place here. I shall expect you back\nin a month or two, and not a soul will be any the wiser. I shall\njust let it be known that you're gone for a holiday. You have\nalways worked hard enough, anyhow, to deserve one.\"\n\nAt that moment, somewhere out of the air, from the direction of\nthe boxes on the wall, a very deferential, quiet voice uttered a\nfew words in Latin.\n\nThe Cardinal nodded. Father Jervis went to the door and opened\nit, and there came through a man in a black cloak, resembling a\ngown, followed by a servant carrying a bag. The bag was set down,\nthe servant went out, and the doctor came forward to kiss the\nCardinal's ring.\n\n\"I want you just to examine Monsignor Masterman,\" said the\nCardinal. \"And, doctor, please observe absolute silence\nafterwards. Just say that you have found him a little run down.\"\n\nMonsignor made a movement to stand up, but the Cardinal\nrestrained him.\n\n\"Do you remember this gentleman?\" he asked.\n\nMonsignor stared blankly at the doctor.\n\n\"I have never seen him in my life,\" he said.\n\nThe doctor smiled, simply and frankly.\n\n\"Well, well, Monsignor,\" he said.\n\n\"It seems just a loss of memory,\" went on the Cardinal. \"Just\ntell the doctor how it happened.\"\n\nThe invalid made an effort; he shut his eyes for an instant to\nrecover himself; and then he related at length his first apparent\nconsciousness in Hyde Park, and all that had followed. Father\nJervis put a question from time to time, which he answered quite\nrationally; and at the close the doctor, who was sitting opposite,\nwatching every movement of his face, leaned back, smiling.\n\n\"Well, Monsignor,\" he said, \"it seems to me that your memory is\nsufficiently good. Just put another question, father--a really\ndifficult one--about something that has happened since noon.\"\n\n\"Can you remember the points of Mr. Manners' speech?\" asked the\npriest doubtfully.\n\nThe other paused for a moment.\n\n\"Psychology, Comparative Religion, the Philosophy of\nEvidence, Pragmatism, Art, Politics, and finally\nRecuperation. These were the----\"\n\n\"Now that's astonishing!\" said the priest. \"I could only\nremember four myself.\"\n\n\"When did you see the Cardinal last?\" asked the doctor suddenly.\n\n\"I have never seen him before, to my knowledge,\" faltered the sick man.\n\nThe Cardinal leaned forward and patted him gently on the knee.\n\n\"Never mind,\" he said. \"Then, doctor----\"\n\n\"Would your Eminence put a question to him on some very important\nmatter? Something that would have made a deep impression.\"\n\nThe Cardinal considered.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"yes. Do you remember the message brought by\nspecial messenger from Windsor yesterday evening?\"\n\nMonsignor shook his head.\n\n\"That'll do,\" said the doctor. \"Don't attempt to force yourself.\"\n\nHe rose from his chair, fetched his bag and opened it. Out of it\nhe took an instrument rather resembling a small camera, but with\na bundle of minute wires of some very pliable material, each\nending in a tiny disc.\n\n\"Do you know what this is, Monsignor?\" asked the doctor, busying\nhimself with the wires.\n\n\"I have no idea.\"\n\n\"Well, well. . . . Now, Monsignor, kindly loosen your waistcoat,\nso that I can get at your breast and back.\"\n\n\"Is it a stethoscope?\"\n\n\"Something like it,\" smiled the doctor. \"But how did you know\nthat name? Never mind. Now then, please.\"\n\nHe placed the camera affair on the corner of the table near the\narm-chair; and then, very rapidly, began to affix the discs--it\nseemed by some process of air-exhaustion--all over the head,\nbreast, and back of the amazed man. No sensation followed this at\nall, except the very faint feeling of skin-contraction at each\npoint of contact.\n\n\"May I have that blind down, your Eminence? . . . Ah! that's\nbetter. Now then.\"\n\nHe bent closely over the square box on the table, and seemed to\npeer at something inside. The others kept silence.\n\n\"Well?\" asked the Cardinal at last.\n\n\"Perfectly satisfactory, your Eminence. There is a very faint\ndiscoloration, but no more than is usual in a man of Monsignor's\ntemperament at any excitement. There is absolutely nothing wrong,\nand--Monsignor,\" he continued, looking straight at the\nwire-bedecked invalid, \"not the very faintest indication of\nanything even approaching insanity or imbecility.\"\n\nThe man who had lost his memory drew a swift breath.\n\n\"May I see, doctor?\" asked the Cardinal suavely.\n\n\"Certainly, your Eminence; and Monsignor can look\nhimself, if he likes.\"\n\nWhen the other two had looked, the sick man himself was given the box.\n\n\"(Carefully with that wire, please.) There!\" said the doctor.\n\"Look down there.\"\n\nIn the centre of the box, shielded by a little plate of glass,\nthere appeared a small semi-luminous globe. This globe seemed\ntinted with slightly wavering colours, in which a greyish blue\npredominated; but, almost like a pulse, there moved across it\nfrom time to time a very pale red tint, suffusing it, and then\ndying away again.\n\n\"What is it?\" asked the man in the chair hoarsely, lifting his head.\n\n\"That, my dear Monsignor,\" explained the doctor carefully, \"is a\nreflection of your physical condition. It is an exceedingly\nsimple, though of course very delicate instrument. The method\nwas discovered---\"\n\n\"Is it anything to do with magnetism?\"\n\n\"They used to call it that, I think. It's got several names now.\nAll mental disturbance has, of course, a physical side to it, and\nthat is how we are able to record it physically. It was\ndiscovered by a monk, of course.\"\n\n\"But . . . but it's marvellous.\"\n\n\"Everything is marvellous, Monsignor. Certainly this, however,\ncaused a revolution. It became the symbol of the whole modern\nmethod of medicine.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" The doctor laughed.\n\n\"That's a large question,\" he said.\n\n\"But . . .\"\n\n\"Well, in a word, it's the old system turned upside down. A\ncentury ago when a man was ill they began by doctoring his body.\nNow, when a man's ill, they begin by doctoring his mind. You see\nthe mind is much more the man than the body is, as Theology\nalways taught us. Therefore by dealing with the mind----\"\n\n\"But that's Christian Science!\"\n\nThe doctor looked bewildered.\n\n\"It was an old heresy, doctor,\" put in the Cardinal, smiling,\n\"that denied the reality of matter. No, Monsignor, we don't deny\nthe reality of matter. It's perfectly real. Only, as the doctor\nsays, we prefer to attack the real root of the disease, rather\nthan its physical results. We still use drugs; but only to remove\npainful symptoms.\"\n\n\"That . . . that sounds all right,\" stammered the man, bewildered\nby the simplicity of it. \"Then . . . then do you mean, your\nEminence, that physical diseases are treated---?\"\n\n\"There are no physical diseases left,\" put in the doctor. \"Of\ncourse there are accidents and external physical injuries; but\npractically all the rest have disappeared. Very nearly all of\nthem were carried by the blood, and, by dealing with this, the\ntissues are made immune. Our discoveries also in the region of\ninnervation----\"\n\n\"But . . . but . . . are there no diseases then?\"\n\n\"Why, yes, Monsignor,\" interrupted the Cardinal, with the patient\nair of one talking to a child, \"there are hundreds of those; and\nthey are very real indeed; but they are almost entirely\nmental--or psychical, as some call them. And there are\nspecialists on all of these. Bad habits of thought, for example,\nalways set up some kind of disease; and there are hospitals for\nthese; and even isolation homes.\"\n\n\"Forgive me, your Eminence,\" put in the doctor, with a certain\nimperiousness, \"but I think we ought not to talk to Monsignor too\nmuch on this subject. May I put a question or two?\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, doctor. Certainly. Put any question you wish.\"\n\nThe doctor sat down again.\n\n\"Have you been in the habit of saying Mass every day, Monsignor?\"\n\n\"I . . . I don't know,\" said the invalid.\n\n\"Yes, doctor,\" put in Father Jervis.\n\n\"And confession once a week?\"\n\n\"Twice a week,\" said Father Jervis. \"I am Monsignor's confessor.\"\n\n\"Very good,\" said the doctor. \"For the present, as far as I am\nconcerned, I should recommend confession only once a fortnight as\na general rule. Mass can be as before. Then Monsignor may say\nhalf of his office every day, or the rosary; but not both. And no\nother devotions of any kind, except the particular Examen. If\nMonsignor and Father Jervis both consent, I should like the\nExamen to be forwarded to a priest-doctor for a few weeks.\"\n\nAn exclamation broke from the invalid.\n\n\"Well, Monsignor?\"\n\n\"I don't understand. What are you talking about?\"\n\nThe Cardinal leaned forward.\n\n\"Monsignor, listen to me. In these cases the doctor always gives\nhis advice. You see even the sacraments have their mental side;\nand on this mental side the doctor speaks. But the whole decision\nrests entirely with the patient and his confessor; or they can\ncall in an expert priest-doctor. Only a priest can possibly\ndecide finally the relations between the grace of the sacraments\nand their reactionary effect upon the mind. A lay doctor only\nrecommends. Are you satisfied?\"\n\nThe man nodded. It seemed very simple, so stated.\n\n\"For the rest,\" continued the doctor, with a certain\nstateliness of manner, \"I order a complete change of scene.\nThis must be for a fortnight at least, if not longer. If the\npriest-doctor's report--to whom the Examen may be sent--is\nnot satisfactory, it will have to be for longer. The patient\nmust engage in no business that does not honestly interest him.\"\n\n\"May he travel to-night?\" asked the Cardinal.\n\n\"The sooner the better,\" said the doctor, rising.\n\n\"What is the matter with me?\" asked the invalid hoarsely.\n\n\"It is a small mental explosion, but it has not affected the\nmechanism of the brain. There is not, as I have said, a trace of\ninsanity or of loss of balance. I cannot promise that the injury\nwill be repaired; but defects that may follow from this can\neasily be remedied by study. It simply depends upon yourself,\nMonsignor, as to in how long you can be at your post again here.\nAs soon as you have learned the threads of business, you will be\nable to apply yourself as before. I shall look for a report in a\nfortnight's time at the latest. Good day, your Eminence.\"\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nThe clocks of London were all striking the single stroke of\nmidnight as the two priests stood on the wind-sheltered platform\nof the volor, waiting for the start.\n\nTo Monsignor Masterman the scene was simply overwhelming. There\nwas hardly a detail that was not new and unfamiliar. From where\nhe stood on the upper deck, grasping the rail before him, his\neyes looked out over a luminous city as lovely as fairyland.\nThere were no chimneys, of course (these, he had just learnt,\nhad altogether disappeared more than fifty years ago), but\nspires and towers and pinnacles rose before him like a dream,\nglowing against the dark sky, lit by the soft radiance of the\nstreets beneath. To the right, not a hundred yards away, rose\nSaint Edward's tower, mellowed now to clear orange by the lapse\nof three-quarters of a century; to the left a flight of\nbuildings, of an architectural design which he did not\nunderstand, but which gave him a sense of extreme satisfaction;\nin front towered the masses of Buckingham Palace as he seemed\nalways to have known it.\n\nThe platform of the flying ship on which he stood hung in dock at\nleast three hundred feet high above the roads beneath. He had\nexamined the whole vessel just now from stem to stern, and had\nfound it vaguely familiar; he determined to examine it again\npresently. There was no gas-bag to sustain it--so much he had\nnoticed--though he could not say whence he had the idea that\ngas-bags were usual. But it seemed to him as if the notion of\nairships did carry some faint association to his mind, although\nfar less distinct than that of motor-cars and even trains. He had\nenquired of his companion an hour or two earlier as they had\ndiscussed their journey as to whether they would not go by train\nand steamer, and had received the answer that these were never\nused except for very short journeys.\n\nHere, then, he stood and stared.\n\nIt was very quiet up here; but he listened with considerable\ncuriosity to the strange humming sound that filled the air,\nrising and falling, as of a beehive. At first he thought it was\nthe working of engines in the ship; but he presently perceived it\nto be the noise of the streets rising from below; and it was then\nthat he saw for the first time that foot-passengers were almost\nentirely absent, and that practically the whole roadway, so far\nas he could make out from the high elevation at which he stood,\nwas occupied by cars of all descriptions going this way and that.\nThey sounded soft horns as they went, but they bore no lights,\nfor the streets were as light as day with a radiance that seemed\nto fall from beneath the eaves of all the buildings that lined\nthem. This effect of lighting had a curious result of making the\ncity look as if it were seen through glass or water--a\nbeautifully finished, clean picture, moving within itself like\nsome precise and elaborate mechanism.\n\nHe turned round at a touch on his arm.\n\n\"You would like to see the start, perhaps,\" said the old priest.\n\"We are a little late to-night. The country mails have only just\narrived. But we shall be off directly now. Come this way.\"\n\nThe upper deck, as the two turned inwards, presented an extremely\npleasant and reassuring picture. From stem to stern it ran clear,\nset out, however, with groups of tables and chairs clamped to the\nfloor, at which sat a dozen parties or so, settling themselves\ndown comfortably. There were no funnels, no bridge, no break at\nall to the delightful vista. The whole was lighted by the same\ndevice as were the streets, for round the upper edges of the\ntransparent walls that held out the wind shone a steady, even\nglow from invisible lights.\n\nIn the very centre of the deck, however, was a low railing\nthat protected the head of a staircase, and down this well\nthe two looked.\n\n\"Shall I explain?\" asked the old priest, smiling. \"This is\nthe latest model, you know. It has not been in use for more\nthan a few months.\"\n\nThe other nodded.\n\n\"Tell me everything, please.\"\n\n\"Well, look right down there, below the second flight. The first\nflight leads to the second-class deck, and the flight below to the\nworking parts of the ship. Now do you see that man's head, straight\nin the middle, in the bright light?--yes, immediately under. Well,\nthat's the first engineer. He's in a glass compartment, you see,\nand can look down passages in every direction. The gas arrangements\nare all in front of him, and the----\"\n\n\"Stop, please. What power is it that drives the ship? Is it\nlighter than air, or what?\"\n\n\"Well, you see the entire framework of the ship is hollow. Every\nsingle thing you see--even the chairs and tables--they're all\nmade of the metal _aerolite_ (as it's generally called). It's\nalmost as thin as paper, and it's far stronger than any steel.\nNow it's the framework of the ship that takes the place of the\nold balloon. It's infinitely safer, too, for it's divided by\nautomatically closing stops into tens of thousands of\ncompartments, so a leak here and there makes practically no\ndifference. Well, when the ship's at rest, as it is now, there's\nsimply air in all these tubes; but when it's going to start,\nthere is forced into these tubes, from the magazine below, the\nmost volatile gas that has been discovered----\"\n\n\"What's it called?\"\n\n\"I forget the real name. It's generally called _aeroline_. Well,\nthis is forced in, until the specific gravity of the whole\naffair, passengers and all, is as nearly as possible the same as\nthe specific gravity of the air.\"\n\n\"I see. Good Lord, how simple!\"\n\n\"And the rest is done with planes and screws, driven by\nelectricity. The tail of the boat is a recent development.\n(You'll see it when we're once started.) It's exactly like the\ntail of a bird, and contracts and expands in every direction.\nThen besides that there are two wings, one on each side, and\nthese can be used, if necessary, in case the screws go wrong, as\npropellers. But usually they are simply for balancing and\ngliding. You see, barring collisions, there's hardly the\npossibility of an accident. If one set of things fails, there's\nalways something else to take its place. At the very worst, we\ncan but be blown about a bit.\"\n\n\"But it's exactly like a bird, then.\"\n\n\"Of course, Monsignor,\" said the priest, with twinkling eyes,\n\"it isn't likely that we could improve upon Almighty God's\ndesign. We're very simple, you know. . . . Look, he's\nsignalling. We're going to start. Come to the prow. We shall see\nbetter from there.\"\n\nThe upper deck ended in a railing, below which protruded, from\nthe level of the lower deck, the prow proper of the boat. Upon\nthis prow, in a small compartment of which the roof, as well as\nthe walls, was of hardened glass, stood the steersman amid his\nwheels. But the wheels were unlike anything that the bewildered\nman who looked down had ever dreamed of. First, they were not\nmore than six inches in diameter; and next, they were arranged,\nlike notes on a keyboard, with their edges towards him, with the\nwhole set curved round him in a semicircle.\n\n\"Those to right and left,\" explained the priest, \"control the\nplanes on either side; those in front, on the left, control the\nengines and the gas supply; and on the right, the tail of the\nboat. Watch him, and you'll see. We're just starting.\"\n\nAs he spoke three bells sounded from below, followed, after a\npause, by a fourth. The steersman straightened himself as the\nfirst rang out and glanced round him; and upon the fourth, bent\nhimself suddenly over the key board, like a musician addressing\nhimself to a piano.\n\nFor the first instant Monsignor was conscious of a slight swaying\nmotion, which resolved itself presently into a faint sensation of\nconstriction on his temples, but no more. Then this passed, and\nas he glanced away again from the steersman, who was erect once\nmore, his look happened to fall over the edge of the boat. He\ngrasped his friend convulsively.\n\n\"Look,\" he said, \"what's happened?\"\n\n\"Yes, we're off,\" said the priest sedately.\n\nBeneath them, on either side, there now stretched itself an\nalmost illimitable and amazingly beautiful bird's-eye view of a\nlighted city, separated from them by what seemed an immeasurable\ngulf. From the enormous height up to which they had soared the\ncity looked like a complicated flat map, of which the patches\nwere dark and the dividing lines rivers of soft fire. This\nstretched practically to the horizon on all sides; the light\ntoned down at the edges into a misty luminosity, but as the\nbewildered watcher stared in front of him, he saw how directly in\ntheir course there slid toward them two great patches of dark,\ndivided by a luminous stream in the middle.\n\n\"What is it? What is it?\" he stammered.\n\nThe priest seemed not to notice his agitation; he just passed his\nhand quietly into the trembling man's elbow.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"there are houses all the way to Brighton now, of\ncourse, and we go straight down the track. We shall take in\npassengers at Brighton, I think.\"\n\nThere was a step behind them.\n\n\"Good evening, Monsignor,\" said a voice. \"It's a lovely night.\"\n\nThe prelate turned round, covered with confusion, and saw a man\nin uniform saluting him deferentially.\n\n\"Ah! captain,\" slipped in the priest. \"So we're crossing with\nyou, are we?\"\n\n\"That's it, father. The _Michael_ line's running this week.\"\n\n\"It's a wonderful thing to me----\" began Monsignor, but a sharp\npressure on his arm checked him--\"how you keep the whole\norganization going,\" he ended lamely.\n\nThe captain smiled.\n\n\"It's pretty straightforward,\" he said. \"The _Michael_ line runs the\nfirst week of every month; the _Gabriel_ the second, and so on.\"\n\n\"Then----\"\n\n\"Yes,\" put in Father Jervis. \"Whose idea was it to dedicate the\nlines to the archangels? I forget.\"\n\n\"Ah! that's ancient history to me, father. . . . Excuse me,\nMonsignor; I think I hear my bell.\" he wheeled, saluting\nagain, and was off.\n\n\"Do you mean---?\" began Monsignor.\n\n\"Of course,\" said Father Jervis, \"everything runs on those lines\nnow. You see we're matter-of-fact, and it's really rather\nobvious, when you think of it, to dedicate the volor lines to\nthe angels. We've been becoming more and more obvious for the\nlast fifty years. . . . By the way, Monsignor, you must take\ncare not to give yourself away. You'd better not ask many\nquestions except of me.\"\n\nMonsignor changed the subject.\n\n\"When shall we get to Paris?\" he asked.\n\n\"We shall be a little late, I think, unless they make up time.\nWe're due at three. I hope there won't be any delay at Brighton.\nSometimes on windy nights----\"\n\n\"I suppose the descending and the starting again takes some time.\"\n\nThe priest laughed.\n\n\"We don't descend at places _en route_,\" he said. \"The tender\ncomes up to us. It'll probably be in its place by now. We aren't\nten minutes away.\"\n\nThe other compressed his lips and was silent.\n\nPresently, far away to the southward beneath the soft starlit sky,\nthe luminous road down which they travelled seemed to expand once\nmore almost abruptly into another vast spread of lights. But as\nthey approached this did not extend any farther, but lay cut off\nsharp by a long, curving line of almost complete darkness.\n\n\"Brighton . . . the sea . . . And there's the tender waiting.\"\n\nAt first the prelate could not make it out against the radiance\nbelow, but an instant later, as they rushed on, it loomed up,\nsudden and enormous, itself blazing with lights against the dark\nsea. It looked to him something like a floating stage, outlined\nwith fire; and there were glimmering, perpendicular lines beneath\nit which he could not understand, running down to lose themselves\nin the misty glow three hundred feet beneath.\n\n\"How's it done?\" he asked.\n\n\"It's a platform, charged of course with _aeroline_. It runs on\nlines straight up from the stage beneath, and keeps itself steady\nwith screws. You'll see it go down after we've left again. Come\nto the stern, we shall see better from there.\"\n\nBy the time that they had reached the other end of the ship, the\npace had rapidly diminished almost to motionlessness; and as soon\nas Monsignor could attend again, he perceived that there was\nsliding at a footpace past their starboard side the edge of the\nhuge platform that he had seen just now half a mile away. For a\nmoment or two it swayed up and down; there was a slight vibration;\nand then he heard voices and the trampling of footsteps.\n\n\"The bridges are fixed,\" remarked the priest. \"They're on the\nlower deck, of course. Pretty prompt, aren't they?\"\n\nThe prelate stood, staring with all his eyes; now at the\nmotionless platform that hung alongside, now at the gulf below\nwith the fairy lights strewed like stars and _nebulae_ at its\nbottom. It seemed impossible to realize that this station in the\nair was not the normal level, and the earth not a strange foreign\nbody that attended on it. There came up on deck presently a dozen\nfigures or so, carrying wraps, and talking. It was amazing to him\nthat they could behave with such composure. Two were even\nquarrelling in subdued voices. . . .\n\nIt was hardly five minutes before the three bells rang again; and\nbefore the fourth sounded, suddenly he saw drop beneath, like a\nstone into a pit, the huge immovable platform that just now he\nhad conceived of as solid as the earth from which it had risen.\nDown and down it went, swaying ever so slightly from side to\nside, diminishing as it went; but before the motion had ceased\nthe fourth bell rang, and he clutched the rail to steady himself\nas the ship he was on soared again with a strange intoxicating\nmotion. The next instant, as he glanced over the edge, he saw\nthat they were far out over the blackness of the sea.\n\n\"I think we might go below for a bit,\" said the priest in his ear.\n\nThere was no kind of difficulty in descending the stairs; there\nwas practically no oscillation of any kind in this still and\nwindless summer night, and the two came down easily and looked\nround the lower deck.\n\nThis was far more crowded with figures: there were padded seats\nfully occupied running round all the sides, beneath the enormous\ncontinuous windows. In the centre, sternwards, ran a narrow\nrefreshment bar, where a score of men were standing to refresh\nthemselves. Forward of the farther stairs (down the well of which\nthey had seen the engineer's head), by which they were standing,\nthe deck was closed in, as with cabins.\n\n\"Like to see the oratory?\" asked Father Jervis.\n\n\"The what?\"\n\n\"Oratory. The long-journey boats, that have chaplains, carry the\nBlessed Sacrament, of course; but there is only a little oratory\non these continental lines.\"\n\nMonsignor followed him, unable to speak, up the central passage\nrunning forwards; through a pair of heavy curtains; and there, to\nhis amazed eyes, appeared a small altar, a hanging lamp, and an\nimage of St. Michael.\n\n\"But it's astounding!\" whispered the prelate, watching a man and\na woman at their prayers.\n\n\"It's common sense, isn't it?\" smiled the priest. \"Why, the\ncustom began a hundred years ago.\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"Indeed it did! I learnt it from one of the little guide-books\nthey give one on these boats. A company called the Great Western\nhad mosaic pictures of the patron saint of each boat in the\nsaloon. And their locomotives, too, were called after saints'\nnames. It's only plain common sense, if you come to think of it.\"\n\n\"Are lines like this--and railways, and so on--owned by the State\nnow? I suppose so.\"\n\nThe other shook his head.\n\n\"That was tried under Socialism,\" he said. \"It was one of their\nsmaller failures. You see, when competition ceases, effort\nceases. Human nature is human nature, after all. The Socialists\nforgot that. No; we encourage private enterprise as much as\npossible, under State restrictions.\"\n\nThey paused as they came out again.\n\n\"Care to lie down for a bit? We shan't be in till three. The\nCardinal engaged a room for us.\"\n\nHe indicated a small cabin that bore his own name on a card.\n\nMonsignor paused.\n\n\"Yes, I will, I think. I've a lot to think about.\"\n\nBut he could not sleep. The priest promised to awaken him\nin plenty of time, and he slipped off his buckled shoes and\ntried  to compose his mind. But it was useless. His mind\nwhirled with wonder.\n\nOnce he slipped to a sitting position, drew back the little\ncurtain over the porthole, and stared out. There was little to be\nseen; but by the sight of a lake of soft light that slid past at\nsome incalculable depth a dozen miles away, he perceived that\nthey had left the sea far behind and were spinning over the land\nof France. He looked out long, revolving thoughts and\nconjectures, striving to find some glimmer of memory by which he\nmight adjust these new experiences; but there was none. He was\nlike a child, with the brain of a man, plunged into a new mode of\nexistence, where everything seemed reversed, and yet\nastonishingly obvious; it was the very simplicity that baffled\nhim. The Christian religion was true down (or up) even to the\nArchangels that stand before God and control the powers of the\nair. The priesthood was the priesthood; the Blessed Sacrament was\nthe God-Man tabernacling with men. Then where was the cause for\namazement that the world recognized these facts and acted upon\nthem; that men should salute the priest of God as His\nrepresentative and agent on earth; that air-ships (themselves\nconstructed on the model of the sea-gull--hollow feathers and\nall) should carry the Blessed Sacrament on long journeys, that\ncommunicants might not be deprived of their Daily Bread, and even\nraise altars on board to the honour of those Powers under whose\nprotection they placed themselves. It was curious, too, he\nreflected, that those who insist most upon the claims of Divinity\ninsist also upon the claims of humanity. It seemed suggestive\nthat it was the Catholics who were most aware of the competitive\npassions of men and reckoned with them, while the Socialists\nignored them and failed.\n\nSo he sat--this poor man bewildered by simplicity and almost\nshocked by the obvious--listening with unheeding ears to the\nsteady rush of air past the ship, voices talking naturally and\neasily, heard through the roof above his head, an occasional\nfootstep, and once or twice a bell as the steersman communicated\nsome message to one of his subordinates. Here he sat--John\nMasterman, Domestic Prelate to His Holiness Gregory XIX,\nSecretary to His Eminence Gabriel Cardinal Bellairs, and priest\nof the Holy Roman Church, trying to assimilate the fact that he\nwas on an air-ship, bound to the court of the Catholic French\nKing, and that practically the whole civilized world believed and\nacted on the belief which he, as a priest, naturally also held\nand was accustomed to teach.\n\nA tap on his door roused him at last.\n\n\"It's time to be moving, Monsignor,\" said Father Jervis through\nthe half-open door. \"We're in communication with St. Germains.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n\n(I)\n\n\"Tell me a little about the costumes,\" said Monsignor, as the two\nset out on foot from their lodgings in Versailles after breakfast\nnext morning, to present their letters of introduction. \"They\nseem to me rather fantastic, somehow.\"\n\nTheir lodgings were situated in one of the great palaces on the\nvast road that runs straight from the gates of the royal palace\nitself into Paris. They had come straight on by car from St.\nGermains, had been received with immense respect by the\nproprietor, who, it appeared, had received very particular\ninstructions from the English Cardinal; and had been conducted\nstraight upstairs to a little suite of rooms, decorated in\neighteenth-century fashion, and consisting of a couple of\nbedrooms for themselves, opening to a central sitting-room and\noratory; the two men-servants they had brought with them were\nlodged immediately across the landing outside.\n\n\"Fantastic?\" asked Father Jervis, smiling. \"Don't you think\nthey're attractive?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; but----\"\n\n\"Remember human nature, Monsignor. After all, it was only intense\nself-importance that used to make men say that they were\nindependent of exterior beauty. It's far more natural and simple\nto like beauty. Every child does, after all.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; I see that, I suppose. But I didn't mean only that. I\nwas on the point of asking you yesterday, again and again, but\nsomething marvellous distracted me each time,\" said the prelate,\nsmiling. \"They're extraordinarily picturesque, of course; but I\ncan't help thinking that they must all mean something.\"\n\n\"Of course they do. And I never can imagine how people ever got\non without the system. Why, even less than a hundred years ago, I\nunderstand that every one dressed, or tried to dress alike. How\nin the world could they tell who they were talking to?\"\n\n\"I . . . I expect that was deliberate,\" faltered the other. \"You\nsee, I think people used to be ashamed of their trades sometimes,\nand wanted to be thought gentlemen.\"\n\nFather Jervis shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"Well, I don't understand it,\" he said. \"If a man was ashamed of\nhis trade, why did he follow it?\"\n\n\"I've been thinking,\" said Monsignor animatedly, \"that perhaps\nit's the new teaching on Vocation that has made the difference.\nOnce a man understands that his Vocation is the most honourable\nthing he can do, I suppose----There! who's that man,\" he\ninterrupted suddenly, \"in blue with the badge?\"\n\nA tremendous figure was crossing the road just in front of them.\nHe wore a short, full blue cloak, with a silver badge on the left\nbreast, a tight-fitting cap of the same colour repeating the same\nbadge, and from beneath his cloak in front hung a tunic, with\nenormous legs in tight blue hose and shoes moving underneath.\n\n\"Ah! that's a great man,\" said the priest. \"He's a\nButcher, of course----\"\n\n\"A butcher!\"\n\n\"Yes; that's obvious--it's the blue, for one thing, and the cut,\nfor another. Wait an instant. I shall see his badge directly.\"\n\nAs the great man came past them he saluted deferentially. The\npriests bowed with equal deference, lifting their hands to their\nbroad-leaved hats.\n\n\"Yes: he's very high up,\" said the priest quietly. \"A member of\nthe Council of the National Guild, at least.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that man kills oxen?\"\n\n\"Not now, of course; he's worked his way up. He probably\nrepresents the Guild in the Assembly.\"\n\n\"Do all the trades have guilds, and are they all represented\nin the Assembly?\"\n\n\"Why, of course! How else could you be certain that the trade\nwas treated fairly? If all the citizens voted as citizens,\nthere'd simply be no fair representation at all. Look; there's\na goldsmith--he has probably been to the King; that's a\njourneyman with him.\"\n\nAn open car sped past them. Two men were seated in it; both in\nclothes of some really beautiful metallic colour; but the cap of\none was plain, while the cap of the other blazed with some device.\n\n\"And the women? I can't see any system among them.\"\n\n\"Ah! but there is, though it's harder to detect. They have much more\nliberty than the men; but, as a rule, each woman has a predominating\ncolour, the colour of the head of her family, and all, of course,\nwear badges. There are sumptuary laws, I needn't say.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't have guessed it!\"\n\n\"Well, not as regards price or material, certainly--only size.\nThere are certain absolute limits on both sides; and fashions\nhave to manage between the two. You see it's the same thing as in\ntrades and professions, as I told you yesterday. We encourage the\nindividual to be as individualistic as possible, and draw the\nlimits very widely, beyond which he mustn't go. But those limits\nare imperative. We try to develop both extremes at once--liberty\nand law. We had enough of the _via media_--the mediocrity of the\naverage--under Socialism.\"\n\n\"But do you mean to say that people submit to all this?\"\n\n\"Submit! Why it's perfectly obvious to every one that it's simply\nhuman--besides being very convenient practically. Of course in\nGermany they still go in for what they call Liberty; and the\nresult is simple chaos.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say there's no envy or jealousy between the trades?\"\n\n\"Not in the social sense, in the very least, though there's\ntremendous competition. Why, every one under Royalty has to be a\nmember of some trade. Of course only those who practise the trade\nwear the full costume; but even the dukes have to wear the\nbadges. It's perfectly simple, you know.\"\n\n\"Tell me an English duke who's a butcher,\"\n\n\"Butcher? . . . I can't think of one this minute. Southminster's\na baker, though.\"\n\nMonsignor was silent. But it certainly seemed simple.\n\nThey were passing up now between the sentry-guarded gates of the\nenormous and exquisite palace of Versailles; and, beyond the great\nexpanse of gravel on which they had just set foot, rose up the\nmyriad windows, pinnacles, and walls where the Kings of France\nlived again as they had lived two hundred years before. Far up,\nagainst the tender summer sky, flapped the Royal Standard; and the\nlilies of France, once more on their blue ground, indicated that\nthe King was in residence. Even as they looked, however, the\nbanner seemed to waver a little; and simultaneously a sudden\nringing sound from a shadowed portico a couple of hundred yards\naway brought Father Jervis to a sudden stop.\n\n\"We'd better step aside,\" he said. \"We're right in the way.\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\"\n\n\"Some one's coming out. . . . Look.\"\n\nFrom out of the shadow into the full sunlight with a flash of\nsilver lightning whirled a body of cuirassiers, wheeled into\nline, and came on, reforming as they came, at a canter.\n\nA couple of heralds rode in front; and a long trumpet-cry\npealed out, was caught, echoed, and thrown back by the crowding\nwalls of the palace.\n\nBehind, as Father Jervis drew him to one side, Monsignor caught\na glimpse of white horses and a gleam of gold. He glanced\nhastily back at the gates through which they had just come,\nand, as if sprung out of the ground, there was the crowd\nstanding respectfully on either side of the avenue to see its\nSovereign. (It was up this avenue to Paris, Monsignor\nreflected, that the women had come on their appalling march to\nthe Queen who ruled them then.)\n\nAs he glanced back again the heralds were upon them, and the thunder\nof hoofs followed close behind. But beyond the line of galloping\nguards, in the midst, drawn by white horses, ran the great gilded\ncoach with glass windows, and the crown of France atop.\n\nTwo men were seated in the coach, bowing mechanically as they\ncame--one a small, young, vivacious-looking man with a pointed\ndark beard; the other a heavy, fair-haired, sanguine-featured,\nclean-shaven man. Both alike were in robes in which red and\ngold predominated; and both wore broad feathered hats, shaped\nlike a priest's.\n\nThen the coach was gone through the tall gilded gates, and a\ncloud of dust, beaten up by the galloping hoofs on all sides, hid\neven the cuirassiers who closed the company. And as the two\nturned the banner sank on the tall pole.\n\n\"The King and the German Emperor,\" observed Father Jervis, replacing\nhis hat. \"Now there's the other side of the picture for you.\"\n\n\"I don't understand.\"\n\n\"Why, we treat our kings like kings,\" smiled the other. \"And, at\nthe same time, we encourage our butchers to be really butchers\nand to glory in it. Law _and_ liberty, you see. Absolute discipline\nand the cultivation of individualism. No republican stew-pot, you\nsee, in which everything tastes alike.\"\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nThey had to wait a few minutes in an ante-room before presenting\ntheir letters, as the official was engaged, and Father Jervis\noccupied the time in running over again the names and histories\nof three or four important personages to whom they would perhaps\nhave to speak. He had given an outline of these at breakfast.\n\nThere were three in particular about whom Monsignor must be informed.\n\nFirst, the King; and Monsignor learned again thoroughly of the\nsensational reaction which, after the humiliation of France in\nthe war of 1914--the logical result of a conflict between a\nrepublicanism worked out to mediocrity and a real and vivid\nmonarchy--had placed this man's father--the undoubted legitimate\nheir--upon the throne. He had died only two years ago, when the\nDauphin, who had ascended the throne, was just eighteen years\nold. The present King was not yet married, but there were rumours\nof a love-match with a Spanish princess. He was a boyish king, it\nseemed, but he played his royal part with intense enjoyment and\ndignity, and had restored, to the delight of this essentially\nromantic and imaginative people, most of the glories of the\neighteenth-century court, without its scandals. Certainly France\nwas returning to its old chivalry, and thence to its old power.\n\nNext there was the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris, Cardinal\nGuinet, a very old ecclesiastic, very high in the counsels of\nthe Church, who would almost certainly have been elected Pope at\nthe last vacancy if it had not been for his age. He was an\n\"intellectual,\" it seemed, and, among other things, was one of\nthe first physicists of Europe. He had been ordained\ncomparatively late in life.\n\nThirdly there was the Archbishop's secretary--Monsignor Allet--a\nrising man and an excellent diplomatist.\n\nThere were two or three more, but Father Jervis was content with\nscarcely more than recounting their names. The King's brother,\nand the heir-presumptive, was something of a recluse and seldom\nappeared at court. Of the German Emperor, Monsignor had already\nlearned, it seemed, sufficient.\n\nIn the middle of these instructions, the door suddenly opened,\nand an ecclesiastic hurried in with outstretched hands, and\napologies in a torrent of Latin.\n\n(\"Monsignor Allet,\" whispered Father Jervis, as he appeared.)\n\nMonsignor Masterman stood bewildered. The dilemma had not\noccurred to him; but Father Jervis, it seemed, was prepared. He\nsaid a rapid sentence to the secretary, who turned, bowing, and\nimmediately began in English without the trace of any accent.\n\n\"I perfectly understand--perfectly indeed. These doctors rule\nus with a rod of iron, don't they? It'll be arranged directly.\nWe all talk English here; and I'll say a word to His Eminence.\nThe very same thing happened to himself a year or two back. He\nwas forbidden to talk in French. It is astonishing, is it not?\nthe subtlety of these doctors! And yet how natural. No two\nlanguages have the same mental reaction, after all. They're\nperfectly right.\"\n\nMonsignor caught a glimmering of what he was at. But he thought\nhe had better be cautious.\n\n\"I'm afraid I shall give a lot of trouble,\" he murmured, looking\ndoubtfully at this sparkling-eyed, blue-chinned young man, who\nspoke with such rapidity.\n\n\"Not in the least, I assure you.\" He turned to the older priest.\n\"The Cardinal left here only half an hour ago. How unfortunate!\nHe came over to arrange the final details of the disputation.\nYou've heard of that?\"\n\n\"Not a word.\"\n\nThe young prelate beamed.\n\n\"Well, you'll hear the finest wit in France! It's for this\nafternoon.\" (His face fell.) \"But it's Latin. Perhaps\nMonsignor ought not----\"\n\n\"Ah! so long as he doesn't talk---!\" (Father Jervis turned to his\nfriend.) \"I was telling Monsignor here that the doctor ordered\nyou to engage in no business that did not interest you; and that\nLatin was rather a strain to you just now----\"\n\nThis seemed adroit enough. But Monsignor was determined to miss\nno new experience.\n\n\"It will simply delight me,\" he said. \"And what is the subject?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the Frenchman, \"it's for the benefit of the\nEmperor. Two of the Parisian theologians are disputing _De\nEcclesia_. The thesis of the adversary, who opens, is that the\nChurch is merely the representative of God on earth--a Society\nthat must, of course, be obeyed; but that Infallibility is not\nnecessary to her efficiency.\"\n\nFather Jervis' eyes twinkled.\n\n\"Isn't that a little too pointed? Why, that's the Emperor's one\ndifficulty! I understand that he allows, politically speaking,\nthe need for the Church, but denies her divinity.\"\n\n\"I assure you,\" said the French priest solemnly, \"that the thesis\nis his own selection. You see, he's sick of these Socialists. He\nunderstands perfectly that the one sanction of human authority\nmust come from God, or from the people; and he's entirely on\nGod's side! But he cannot see the infallibility, and therefore,\nas he's a sincere man---!\" he ended with an eloquent shrug.\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Jervis, \"if the Cardinal's not here----\"\n\n\"Alas! He is back in Paris by now. But give me your letters! I'll\nsee that they are presented properly; and you shall receive a\nroyal command for the disputation in plenty of time.\"\n\nThey handed over their letters; they exchanged compliments once\nmore; they were escorted as far as the door of the room by the\nprelate, across the next ante-chamber by an imposing man in black\nvelvet with a chain, across the third by a cuirassier, and across\nthe hall to the bottom of the steps by two tremendous footmen in\nthe ancient royal livery.\n\nMonsignor was silent for a few yards.\n\n\"Aren't you afraid of an anti-clerical reaction?\" he asked suddenly.\n\n\"How do you mean? I don't understand.\"\n\nThen Monsignor launched out. He had accepted by now the theory\nthat he had had a lapse of memory, and that so far as his\nintellect was concerned, he was practically a man of a century\nago, owing to the history he had happened to be reading shortly\nbefore his collapse; and he talked therefore from that standpoint.\n\nHe produced, that is to say, with astonishing fluency all those\narguments that were common in the mouths of the more serious\nanti-clericals of the beginning of the century--the increase of\nReligious Orders, the domineering tendency of all ecclesiastics\nin the enjoyment of temporal power, the impossibility of\ncombating supernatural arguments, the hostility of the Church to\neducation--down even to the celibacy of the clergy. He paused for\nbreath as they turned out of the great gateway.\n\nFather Jervis laughed aloud and patted him on the arm.\n\n\"My dear Monsignor, I can't compete with you. You're too\neloquent. Of course, I remember from reading history that those\nthings used to be said, and I suppose Socialists say them now.\nBut, you know, no educated man ever dreams of such arguments; nor\nindeed do the uneducated! It's the half-educated, as usual, who's\nthe enemy. He always is. The Wise Men and the shepherds both\nknelt in Bethlehem. It was the bourgeois who stood apart.\"\n\n\"That's no answer,\" persisted the other.\n\n\"Well, let's see,\" said the priest good-humouredly. \"We'll begin\nwith celibacy. Now it's perfectly true that it's thought almost a\ndisgrace for a man not to have a large family. The average is\ncertainly not less than ten in civilized nations. But for all\nthat a priest is looked upon without any contempt at all. Why?\nBecause he's a spiritual father; because he begets spiritual\nchildren to God, and feeds and nourishes them. Of course to an\natheist this is nonsense; and even to an agnostic it's a very\ndoubtful benefit. But, my dear Monsignor, you must remember that\nthese hardly exist amongst us. The entire civilized world of\nto-day is as absolutely convinced of Heaven and Grace and the\nChurch, and the havoc that Sin makes not only as regards the next\nworld but in this--so absolutely convinced that he understands\nperfectly that a priest is far more productive of general good\nthan a physical father possibly can be. It's the priest who keeps\nthe whole thing going. Don't you see? And then, in a Catholic\nworld, the instinct that the man who serves the altar should be\nwithout physical ties--well, that's simply natural.\"\n\n\"Go on. What about education?\"\n\n\"My dear friend,\" said Father Jervis. \"The Church controls the\nwhole of education, as she did, in fact, up to the very time when\nthe State first took it away from her and then abused her for\nneglecting it. Practically all the scientists; all the\nspecialists in medicine, chemistry, and mental health;\nnine-tenths of the musicians; three-quarters of the\nartists--practically all those are Religious. It's only the\nactive trades, which are incompatible with Religion, that are in\nthe hands of the laity. It's been found by experience that no\nreally fine work can be done except by those who are familiar\nwith divine things; because it's only those who see things all\nround, who have, that is to say, a really comprehensive\nintuition. Take history. Unless you have a really close grasp of\nwhat Providence means--of not only the End, but the Means by\nwhich God works; unless you can see right through things to their\nIntention, how in the world can you interpret the past? Don't you\nremember what Manners said about Realism? We don't want\nmisleading photographs of externals any more. We want Ideas. And\nhow can you correlate Ideas, unless you have a real grasp of the\nCentral Idea? It's nonsense.\"\n\n\"Go on with the other things.\"\n\n\"There's a lot more about education. There's the graduated\neducation we have now (entirely an ecclesiastical notion, by the\nway). We don't try to teach everybody everything. We teach a\ncertain foundation to every one--the Catechism, of course, two\nlanguages perfectly, the elements of physical science, and a\ngreat deal of history. (You can't understand the Catechism\nwithout history, and _vice-versa_); but after that we specialize.\nWell, the world understands now----\"\n\n\"That's enough, thank you. Go on with the other things.\"\n\nFather Jervis laughed again.\n\n\"We're nearly home. Let's turn in here, and get into the gardens\nfor a bit. . . . Well, I think you'll find that the root of all\nyour difficulties is that you seem not to be able to get into\nyour head that the world is really and intelligently Christian.\nThere are the Religious Orders you spoke of. Well, aren't the\nactive Religious Orders the very finest form of association ever\ninvented? Aren't they exactly what Socialists have always been\ncrying for, with the blunders left out and the gaps filled in? As\nsoon as the world understood finally that the active Religious\nOrders could beat all other forms of association at their own\ngame--that they could teach and work more cheaply and\neffectively, and so on--well, the most foolish Political\nEconomist had to confess that the Religious Orders made for the\ncountry's welfare. And as for the Contemplative Orders----\"\n\nFather Jervis' face grew grave and tender.\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Why, they're the princes of the world! They are models of the\nCrucified. So long as there is Sin in the world, so long must\nthere be Penance. The instant Christianity was accepted, the\nCross stood up dominant once more. . . . And then . . . then\npeople understood. Why, they're the Holy Ones of the\nuniverse--higher than angels; for they suffer. . . .\"\n\nThere was a moment's silence.\n\n\"Yes?\" said Monsignor softly.\n\n\"My dear Monsignor, just force upon your mind the fact that the\nworld is really and intelligently Christian. I think it'll all\nbe plain then. You seem to me, if I may say so, to be falling\ninto the old-fashioned way of looking at 'Clericalism,' as it\nused to be called, as a kind of department of life, like Art or\nLaw. No wonder men resented its intrusion when they conceived of\nit like that. Well, there is no 'Clericalism' now, and therefore\nthere is no anti-Clericalism. There's just religion--as a fact.\nDo you see? ... Shall we sit down for a few minutes? Aren't the\ngardens exquisite?\"\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nMonsignor Masterman sat that night at his window, looking out at\nthe stars and the night and the blotted glimmering gardens\nbeneath; and it seemed to him as if the Dream deepened every day.\nThings grew more, not less marvellous, with his appreciation of\nthe simplicity of it all.\n\nFrom three to seven he had sat in one of the seats on the right\nof the royal dais, reserved for prelates, almost immediately\nopposite the double-pulpited platform, itself set in the midst of\nthe long outer side of the great gallery of Versailles, through\nwhich access was to be had to the little old private rooms of\nMarie Antoinette, and had listened spell-bound to two of the\ngreatest wits of France, respectively attacking and defending,\nwith extraordinary subtlety and fire, the claim of the Church to\nInfallibility. The disputation had been conducted on scholastic\nlines, all verbal etiquette being carefully observed; again and\nagain he had heard, first on one side a string of arguments\nadduced against the doctrine, then on the other a torrent of\nanswers, with the old half-remembered words \"Distinguo,\" \"Nego,\"\n\"Concedo\"; and the reasoning on both sides had appeared to him\nastonishingly brilliant. And all this before two sovereigns:\nthe one keen, vivacious, and appreciative; the other heavy,\npatient, considerate--two sovereigns, treated, as the elaborate\netiquette of the whole affair showed plainly enough, as kings\nindeed--men who stood for authority, and the grades and the\ndifferentiation of functions, as emphatically as the old\ndemocratic hand-shaking statesmen, dressed like their own\nservants, stood for the other complementary principle of the\nequality of men. For alongside of all this tremendous pomp there\nwas a very practical recognition of the \"People\"; since the whole\ndisputation was conducted in the presence of a crowd drawn, it\nseemed, from almost every class, who pressed behind the barriers,\nmurmured, laughed gleefully, and now and again broke out into\nlow thunders of applause, as the Catholic champion drove logic\nhome, or turned aside the infidel shaft.\n\nThe very thesis amazed the man, for the absolute necessity of an\nauthoritative supra-national Church, with supernatural sanctions,\nseemed assumed as an axiom of thought, not merely by these\nCatholics, but by the entire world, Christian and un-Christian\nalike. More than once the phrase \"It is conceded by all men\"\nflashed out, and passed unrebuked, in support of this claim. The\nonly point of dispute between reasoning beings seemed to be not\nas to whether or no the Church must be treated practically as\ninfallible, but whether dogmatically and actually she were so!\n\nAs he sat here now at his window, Father Jervis' words began to\ncome back with new force. Was it indeed true that the only reason\nwhy he found these things strange was that he could not yet quite\nbring home to his imagination the fact that the world now was\nconvincedly Christian as a whole? It began to appear so.\n\nFor somewhere in the back of his mind (why, he knew not) there\nlurked a sort of only half-perceived assumption that the\nCatholic religion was but one aspect of truth--one point of view\nfrom which, with sufficient though not absolute truth, facts\ncould be discerned. He could not understand this; yet there it\nwas. And he understood, at any rate intellectually, that if he\ncould once realize that the dogmas of the Church were the dogmas\nof the universe; and not only that, but that the world\nconvincedly realized it too;--why then, the fact that the\ncivilization of to-day was actually moulded upon it would no\nlonger bewilder him.\n\n\n\n(IV)\n\nIt was on the following morning that he spoke with the King.\n\nThe two priests had said Mass in their oratory, and an hour later\nwere walking in the park beneath the palace windows.\n\nIt was one more of that string of golden days, of which they had\nalready enjoyed so many, and the splendour of that amazing\nlandscape was complete.\n\nThey had passed below the enclosure known as the \"King's Garden,\"\nand were going in the direction of the Trianon, which Monsignor\nhad expressed a desire to see, and had just emerged into the\nimmense central avenue which runs straight from the palace to the\nlake. Above them rose the forest trees, enormous now, yet tamed\nby Lenotre's marvellous art, resembling a regiment of giants\nperfectly drilled; the grass was like carpets on all sides; the\nsky blazed like a blue jewel overhead; the noise of singing birds\nand falling water was in the air. But above all there towered on\ntheir right, beyond the almost endless terraces, the splendid\npalace of the kings of France, royal at last once more. And\nthere, as symbol of the Restoration, there hung round the\nflagstaff as he had seen it yesterday the blue folds and the\nlilies of the monarchy.\n\nIt was no good trying to frame words as to what he felt. He had\nsaid all he could, and it was useless. Father Jervis seemed\nunable to understand the fierce enthusiasm of a man who now\nexperienced all this, as it appeared, for the first time. He\nwalked silently--exulting.\n\nThere seemed not many people abroad this morning. The two had\npresented an order, obtained through Monsignor Allet, at the gates\nbelow the Orange Gardens, and had learned from the sentry that\nuntil the afternoon this part of the park was closed to the public.\nHere and there, however, in the distance a single figure made its\nappearance, walking in the shade or hurrying on some errand.\n\nThe priests had just come out from the line of trees and had\nset foot in the avenue itself, when, twenty yards farther up,\nfrom the entrance to some other path parallel to their own, a\ngroup came out, and an instant later they heard themselves\nhailed and saw Monsignor Allet himself, in all his purple,\nhurrying towards them.\n\n\"You are the very men,\" he cried, again stretching out his\nhands in a welcoming French gesture. \"His Majesty was speaking\nof you not five minutes ago. He is here, in the garden. Shall I\npresent you now?\"\n\nFather Jervis glanced at his friend.\n\n\"His Majesty is very kind----\" he began.\n\n\"Not a word more! If you will follow me and wait an instant at\nthe entrance, I will speak with His Majesty and bring you in.\"\n\n\"I have not my ferraiuola---\" began Monsignor.\n\n\"The King will excuse travellers,\" smiled the Frenchman.\n\nThe entrance to the \"King's Garden\" on this side passes beneath an\narch of yew, and here the two waited.\n\nSomewhere beyond the green walls they could hear talking, and now\nand again a burst of laughter. Then the talking ceased, and they\nheard a single voice.\n\n\"In what language----\" began Monsignor Masterman nervously.\n\n\"Oh! English, no doubt. You can't talk French?\"\n\nMonsignor shook his head.\n\n\"Not a hundred words,\" he said.\n\nAgain came the quick footstep, and the French priest appeared,\nstill gay, but with a certain solemnity. \"Come this way,\ngentlemen,\" he said. \"The King will see you.\" (He glanced at the\nprelate.) \"You won't forget to kneel, Monsignor.\"\n\nTo the English prelate the scene that he saw, on emerging at last\ninto the open space in the middle, protected by the ancient\nyews--even though he should have been prepared for it by all that\nhe had already seen--simply once more dazed and stupefied him.\n\nThe centre of the space was occupied by a round pond, perhaps\nthirty yards across, of absolutely still water, and in this\nmirror, shaded by the masses of foliage overhead, was reflected a\npicture that might have been taken straight from some painting\ntwo hundred years old. For, on the semicircle of marble seats\nthat stood beyond the water, sat a company of figures dressed\nonce more in all the bravery of real colour and splendour, as\nfrom days when men were not ashamed to use publicly and commonly\nthese glittering gifts of God.\n\nMonsignor hardly noticed the rest (there were perhaps twelve or\nfifteen all told, with half a dozen women amongst them); he\nlooked only, as he came round the pond, at the central figure\nthat advanced to meet him. Twice he had seen him yesterday--yet\nthose occasions had been public. But to see the King now, at ease\namongst his friends, yet still royally dressed in his brilliant\nblue suit and feathered hat, with his tall cane--to see the whole\ncompany, gay and brilliant, talking and laughing, taking their\npleasure in the air before breakfast--the whole thing somehow\nbrought home to him the reality of what appeared to him as a\nchange, more than had all the pomps and glories of the day\nbefore. Splendour no longer seemed ceremonial, but natural.\n\nMonsignor Allet was explaining something in rapid French in the\nKing's ear, and as the two came up, the face that listened smiled\nsuddenly with intelligence.\n\n\"I give you welcome,\" he said in excellent English. \"Come,\ngentlemen\" (he turned to the others, who had risen to their feet\nas he rose), \"we must be getting homewards. Monsignor!\" (and he\nbeckoned to the two English priests to walk with him.)\n\nThat walk seemed like a dream.\n\nThey went leisurely upwards towards the palace, through yew alley\nafter yew alley, French chattering sounding behind them as they\nwent; and the King, still in fluent English, though with an\naccent that increased as he talked, questioned them courteously\nas to England, spoke of the disputation of yesterday, discussed\nfrankly enough the situation in Germany, and listened with\nattention to the remarks of Father Jervis; for Monsignor\nMasterman was discreetly silent for the most part.\n\nIt was not until the great doors of the palace flew open at last,\nand the rows of liveried men showed within, that the King dismissed\nthem. He turned on the steps and gave them his hand to kiss. Then\nhe raised them from their knees with a courteous gesture.\n\n\"And you go to Rome, you say?\"\n\n\"Almost immediately, sire. We shall be there for SS. Peter and Paul.\"\n\n\"Present my homage at the feet of the Holy Father,\" smiled the\nKing. \"You are fortunate indeed. I have not seen His Holiness for\nthree months. Good day--gentlemen.\"\n\nThe two passed again in silence down the terraces on their way\nto the Trianon.\n\n\"It is amazing,\" burst out Monsignor suddenly. \"And the people.\nWhat of them? Is there no resentment?\"\n\n\"Why should there be?\" asked the other.\n\n\"But they are excluded from the palace and the park. It was not\nso a hundred years ago.\"\n\n\"Do you think they are any the less happy?\" asked Father Jervis.\n\"My dear Monsignor, surely you know human nature better than\nthat! They have lost the vulgarity of Versailles, and they have\nregained its royalty. Don't you see that?\"\n\n\"Well!\"--Monsignor paused. \"It's simply medievalism back again,\nit seems to me.\"\n\n\"Exactly!\" said the other. \"You have hit it at last. It is\nmedievalism--that is to say, human nature with faith and\nreverence, and without cant.\"\n\nHe paused again, and his eyes twinkled.\n\n\"You know honours and privileges are worth nothing if every one\nhas them. If we all wore crowns, the kings would go bareheaded.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n\n(I)\n\nHe awoke suddenly, at some movement, and for an instant did not\nremember where he was.\n\nFor nearly a week they had stayed on at Versailles; and each day\nthat had passed had done its share in making this fairyland seem\nmore like a reality. But that strange subconscious self of his,\nfor which even now there seemed no accounting, was still\nobstinate; it still assured him that the world ought not to be\nlike this, that religion ought not to be so concrete and\neffective--that he would awake soon and find himself in some\ndesolate state of affairs where Faith, hemmed in by enemies,\nstill fought for very life against irresistible odds. It was at\nnight and at morning that the mood came on him most forcibly;\nwhen instinct, free from facts, and ranging clear of the will's\ndominion, asserted itself most strongly, and as he awoke this\nnight it was on him again.\n\nHe looked round the dark little room with bewildered eyes; then\nhe fumbled with a button, and all was flooded with light.\n\nHe was lying in a little spring-bed, set within two padded sides,\nlike a berth in a steamship. And beside him was the closed bureau\nwhich he perceived to be washing arrangements in disguise;\noverhead protruded a broad shelf; on the wall, above a little\ncouch, hung silk curtains over a window; and, as they swayed\nslightly with some movement he caught sight of glass beyond. On\nthe door, at the foot of his bed, hung his cassock, and the\npurple cincture that lay across it recalled him to at least a\npart of the facts. The cabin was upholstered and painted in clean\nwhite, and an electric globe emerged from the ceiling.\n\nHe was next conscious of cold, and instinctively leaned forward to\ndraw the quilt farther over his knees. Then, with a flash, he\nremembered, and, in spite of the cold, was out of bed in a moment,\nkneeling on the couch and peering out through the curtains.\n\nAt first he could see nothing at all. There was but an\nunfathomable gulf beyond the glass. He stood up on the couch, and\ndrawing the curtains behind his head to shut out the light, he\nonce more stared out. Then he began to see.\n\nAt first he could see nothing at all. There was but an unfathomable\ngulf beyond the glass. He stood up on the couch, and drawing the\ncurtains behind his head to shut out the light, he once more stared\nout. Then he began to see.\n\nImmediately opposite him glimmered a huge white outline--in the\nincalculable night it might be a hundred yards or a mile away. It\nwas of irregular outline, for the star-strewn sky showed in patches\nand rifts above it. And this white mass curved away beneath, under\nthe ship in which he travelled, till it met, at a point which he\ncould but just discern, a blackness that rose to meet it.\n\nThen, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he began to see\nthat the huge whiteness was flitting past, steadily and\nleisurely, from right to left; that it was streaked with shadows\nor clefts; and that following it, as in a sliding procession,\ncame another, like it, yet (it seemed) more distant.\n\nAll this time, too, the silence was profound. There was but a\nsoft humming note somewhere in the air, and the faintest sense of\nvibration in the metal-work on which his hands were pressed. Once\ntoo he heard a footstep pass softly and rhythmically overhead, as\nif some watcher moved up and down the length of the upper deck.\n\nThe man dropped the curtains and sat back on his heels, trying\nto force into his imagination the facts that he now perceived\nand remembered.\n\nThey had left St. Germains last night, after dining at\nVersailles. They were now crossing the Alps. They would be in\nRome for Mass and breakfast. . . . They were traversing at this\nmoment, no doubt, only a thousand feet high, one of those passes\nup which (he thought he remembered from history) the old\nrailway-trains had been accustomed to climb, yard by yard and\nspiral by spiral, a hundred years before . . .\n\nIn a minute or two he leaned forward and stared again, once more\nclosing the curtains behind his head.\n\nThe sky seemed a little brighter, he thought, than when he had\nlooked just now. Perhaps the moon was hiding somewhere. And\ncertainly the sky was more in evidence. Far away to the left\nbehind, passing even as he looked, moved those gigantic horns\nof white, as if the ship stood still and the earth turned\nbeneath; and below now, sloping to the right, lay long lines of\ndarkness, jutting here and there with a sudden crag against the\nblaze of stars. It was marvellous, he thought, how still all\nlay; there was a steady hiss, now heard for the first time, as\nthe air tore past the glassy sides of the bird-shaped ship, as\nthin as the cry of a bat.\n\nHe shifted on his knees a little, and staring forwards, saw far\nahead and at what seemed an incalculable distance something that\nbaffled him entirely, for it changed its aspect every instant\nthat he watched.\n\nAt first it was no more than a patch of luminosity; and he thought\nit to be, perhaps, a lighted town. But the character of it was\nchanged as he formulated his thought and three brilliant spots\nlike blue stars broke out on a sudden, and these three stars\nshifted their positions. He kept his eyes on these, marvelling;\nand, with something very like fear, saw that they were approaching\nupwards and onwards with the swiftness of thought.\n\nUp and on they came. He shrank back a little, instinctively; and\nthen, as he leaned forward once more, determined to understand,\nshrank back with a sharp indrawing of breath, as there whirled\npast, it appeared only a few yards away, a flare of brilliant\nblue lines, in the midst of which passed a phantom-like body in a\nmist and accompanied by a musical sound (it seemed) of\nextraordinary clarity and beauty, that rose from a deep\norgan-note to the shrill of a flute, and down again Into a bass\nand a silence. . . .\n\nHe smiled to himself as he climbed back into bed a minute or two\nlater, when he had reconstructed the phenomena and interpreted\nthem. It was but another volor, bound northwards, and it had\nprobably passed at least half a mile away.\n\nWell, he must sleep again if he could. They would be in\nRome by morning.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nThey had delayed their departure from Versailles to the last\npossible moment, since France was, after all, under the\ncircumstances, one of the best places in the world for Monsignor\nto pick up again the threads of life. For one thing, it was near\nto England--English was spoken there amongst the educated almost\nas frequently as French; yet it was not England, and Monsignor's\nplight would not cause him any great inconvenience. Further,\nFrance was at present the theatre of the world's interest, since\nthe Emperor was there, and on the Emperor's future depended\nlargely the destinies of Europe: his conversion, it was thought,\nmight be the final death-blow to Socialism in his dominions.\n\nMonsignor had employed his time well. Not only had he learned\naccurately the general state of the world, but morning by morning\nhe had familiarized himself with his own work, and felt, by now,\nvery nearly competent to finish his lessons in England. Cardinal\nBellairs communicated with him almost every day, and professed\nhimself delighted with the progress made. Finally he had talked\nLatin continually with Father Jervis in preparation for Rome, and\nwould have passed muster, at least, in general conversation.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nThe two motored into the city from the volor-station outside, and\neverywhere as they went through the streets and crossed the Tiber\non their way to the Leonine City, where they were to lodge, were\nevidences of the feast.\n\nFor the whole route from Vatican to Lateran, which they crossed\nmore than once, was one continual triumphal way. Masts had been\nerected, swathed in the Papal colours and crowned with garlands;\nbarriers ran from mast to mast, behind which already the crowds\nwere beginning to gather, though it was hardly past six o'clock\nin the morning; and from every window hung carpets, banners, and\ntapestries. The motor was stopped at least half a dozen times;\nbut the prelate's insignia passed them through quickly; and it\nwas just half-past six as they drew up before an old palace\nsituated on the right in the road leading from the Tiber to the\nVatican, and scarcely a quarter of a mile away from St. Peter's.\n\nMonsignor glanced up at the carved and painted arms above the\ndoorway and smiled.\n\n\"I did not know you were bringing me here,\" he said.\n\n\"You know it?\"\n\n\"Why, it's the old palace where the kings of England\nlodged, isn't it?\"\n\nFather Jervis smiled.\n\n\"Your memory's improving,\" he said.\n\nThen a magnificent servant came out, bowed profoundly, and opened\nthe door of the car.\n\n\"By the way,\" said Father Jervis as they went in, \"I'd better go and\nenquire the details at the Vatican. You might give me your card.\nI'll go at once, and then come back and join you at breakfast.\"\n\nIt was a pleasant little suite of rooms, not unlike in\narrangements to those of Versailles. The windows looked out on\nthe central court, where a fountain played, and the rooms\nthemselves were furnished in the usual Roman fashion--painted\nceilings, stone floors, and a few damask hangings.\n\nMonsignor turned to the servant who was superintending the two\nEnglishmen they had brought.\n\n\"I've not been in Rome for some time,\" he said in Latin. \"Tell me\nwhat this house is now?\"\n\n\"Monsignor, it is the English palace. Monsignor is in the\napartment of His Eminence Cardinal Bellairs.\"\n\n\"The King himself stays here?\"\n\n\"It is His Majesty's palace,\" said the man. \"The Prince George\narrived two days ago. His Highness is in the apartment below.\"\n\nMonsignor smiled. He understood now Father Jervis' evasions as to\nwhere they were to stay in Rome. Plainly it was determined that\nhe should have a front seat at all ceremonies.\n\nTen minutes later, as he came out of his bedroom, Father Jervis\nhimself came in.\n\n\"You have your choice, Monsignor,\" he said. \"As a Domestic\nPrelate you have the right to walk in the procession (here is the\npermit), or as occupying rooms here we can, if you prefer, see\nthe procession from the front windows.\"\n\n\"Tell me what the programme is.\"\n\n\"At nine the procession leaves St. Peter's to go to the\nLateran--at least they call it nine. There the Holy Father sings\nMass, as bishop in his own cathedral. On the return of the\nprocession, I suppose about midday, the Holy Father visits the\ntomb of St. Peter. Then this afternoon he is present at Vespers\nin St. Peter's; and afterwards gives the blessing _Urbi et Orbi_\nfrom the window as usual.\"\n\n\"What would you advise?\"\n\n\"Well, I should advise your remaining here till mid-day.\nThere's no use in overdoing it. We can see everything\nadmirably. Then we can go into St. Peter's for the visit to the\ntomb, and come back here to dejeuner. After that we can arrange\nabout the rest of the day.\"\n\n\"Very good. Then let us have something to eat at once.\"\n\n\"Who's Prince George of England?\" demanded Monsignor presently as\nthey sat over coffee.\n\nFather Jervis laughed.\n\n\"You've found that out, have you? Yes, he's here, of course.\nWell, he's the second son: he's only a boy. He's over here to\nrepresent the King. Every sovereign sends a prince of the\nblood-royal for to-day. Even the German Emperor.\"\n\n\"Do you mean from Europe?\"\n\n\"I mean from the whole world. You see the East is scarcely three\ndays away by the fast volors; so even the Chinese----\"\n\n\"Do you mean that China and Japan send representatives?\"\n\n\"Certainly. Japan is Christian of course, anyhow; and China has\nat least one or two Christian princes of the blood.\"\n\n\"By the way, what about Russia?\"\n\n\"Well, what about it?\"\n\n\"Is it Catholic?\"\n\n\"My dear Monsignor, it's been Catholic for thirty years.\"\n\n\"Oh dear me! You must lend me some more histories. . . . What\nmade it Catholic?\"\n\n\"Common sense, I suppose. How they could have stood out for so\nlong is the only thing that puzzles me.\"\n\n\"But the Petrine claims----\"\n\n\"Why, the Petrine claims were the very point. Facts were too\nstrong. If you look back over history you can't help seeing that\nthe only Christian body that was ever able to resist Erastianism\non the one side and endless division on the other has been the\nChurch built on Peter. They began to see it nearly a hundred\nyears ago in Russia and Greece. Then the Emperor of Russia was\nsecretly reconciled in 1930; and ten or twelve years later his\npeople followed him.\"\n\n\"Then there's no more dispute? What about the _Filioque_ clause?\"\n\n\"Why, when Peter is accepted, the rest follows.\"\n\n\"Then you may say that the entire civilized world is represented\nin Rome to-day?\"\n\n\"Certainly. You'll see the princes in the procession.\"\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nAn hour later they took their places at the central window of the\nlong sala on the third floor, looking out immediately upon the\nnarrow street, which, opposite, fell back into a tiny square, and\nfurther up to the right, upon the enormous piazza of St. Peter's\nand the basilica itself behind.\n\nIt was a real Roman day--not yet at its full heat, but intensely\nclear and bright; and Monsignor congratulated himself on having\nelected to remain as a spectator. The return journey from the\nLateran about noon would be something of an ordeal.\n\nThe street and the piazza presented an astonishingly brilliant\nappearance. Beneath, the roadway was now one sheet of\ngreenery--box, myrtle, and bay. The houses opposite, as well as\nwithin the little square, of which every window was packed with\nheads, were almost completely hidden under the tapestries, the\ncarpets, the banners. Behind the barriers on either side of the\ngarlanded masts was one mass of heads resembling a cobbled\npavement. So much for sight. For sound, the air was filled with\none steady low roar of voices; for down to where the street opened\nfar away to the left into the space above the river, the same\nvista presented itself. The Campagna since twenty-four hours\nbefore had been emptying every living inhabitant into Rome; and\nthere was not a town in Italy, and scarcely in Europe, whence\nspecial volors and trains had not carried the fervent to the Feast\nof the Apostles in Holy Rome. And, for scent, the air was sweet\nand fragrant with the aromatic herbs of the roadway, already\nbruised a little by the feet of the galloping horses of those that\nwent up and down to guard the route or to carry messages.\n\nIt was a little hard to make out the arrangements of the vast\ncircular piazza in front of St. Peter's. The front of the\nbasilica was hung, in usual Roman fashion, with gigantic garlands\nand red cloth; and the carpet of greenery lined with troops ran\nstraight up the centre of the space, rippled over the steps, and\nceased only beneath the towering portico of the church. But on\neither side of this, with spaces between, stood enormous groups\nof men and horses, marshalled, no doubt, in order to take their\nplaces at the proper moment in the procession.\n\nAt the right, immovable and tremendous, rose up the great palace\nof the Vatican itself, unadorned except where a glint of some\ncolour showed itself at the Bronze Doors; and above all, like a\nbenediction in stone, against the vivid blue of the sky, hung the\ndome of the basilica.\n\nMonsignor Masterman made a long, keen survey of all this. Then he\nleaned back and sighed.\n\n\"What was the first year that the Pope came out of the\nVatican like this?\"\n\n\"The year after the conquest of United Italy. It was Austria that----\"\n\n\"I know all that. And you mean he never came out so long as the\nold state of affairs continued?\"\n\n\"How could he? Don't you see that the one thing, humanly\nspeaking, absolutely necessary if the world was to have\nconfidence in the Church, was that the Pope should be really\nsupra-national? Of course, for many years he had to be an\nItalian--that's obvious, since he was at the mercy of Italy, and\nthe Romans would never have stood a foreigner; and that made it\nall the more essential that he should be cut clean off, in\neverything else, from Italian sympathies. He had to be two\nthings simultaneously, so to speak--emphatically an Italian for\nthe sake of Italy and indeed his own existence in Rome; and\nemphatically not an Italian for the sake of the rest of\nChristendom. And can you suggest any other way of accomplishing\nthis paradox? I can't.\"\n\nMonsignor sighed again and began to meditate.\n\nFor somewhere at the back of his mind there ran an undercurrent\nof thought, or as of some one talking, to the effect that the\nPope's old method of remaining as a prisoner in the Vatican was a\nfoolish and unhumble pose. (He supposed he must have read it all\nsomewhere in history.) Surely even Catholics used to talk like\nthat! They used to say how much more spiritual and Christian it\nwould have been, had the Vicar of Christ acquiesced and been\ncontent to live as a simple Italian subject, neither claiming nor\ndesiring a position such as Peter had never enjoyed. Why all this\nfuss, it used to be asked, about a Temporal Power on behalf of a\n\"Kingdom that was not of this world\"?\n\nYet, somehow, now as he looked back on it all, with his friend's\ncomment in his mind, he began to see, not how clever or\ndiplomatic had been the old attitude, but how absolutely and\nobviously essential. It was possible indeed for Peter to be a\nsubject of Nero in things pertaining to Caesar; but how could\nthat be possible to Peter's successor when the Kingdom of Christ\nwhich he ruled on earth had become a Supra-national Society to\nwhich the nations of the earth looked for guidance?\n\nThe phrase he had just heard ran in his mind.\n\n\"An Italian for the sake of Italy and his own existence in Rome.\nNot an Italian for the sake of the rest of Christendom.\"\n\nIt seemed simple, somehow, just like that.\n\nHe was roused by a touch on his knee, and simultaneously was\naware of a new sound from the piazza.\n\n\"Look,\" said the old priest sharply. \"They're beginning to move.\"\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nA curious seething movement had broken out in the piazza,\nresembling the stir of a troubled ant-hill, on either side of the\nbroad green way down which the Pope would come; and already into\nthe head of the street up which the priests looked figures were\nemerging. Simultaneously a crash of brazen music had filled the\nair. A movement of attention, exactly like the lift of a swell\nalong the foot of a cliff, passed down the crowded street to the\nleft and lost itself round the corner towards S. Angelo.\n\nThen they began to come, swinging over from the piazza to the\nstreet as if from a pool into a narrow channel. Troops came\nfirst--company after company--each with a band leading. First\nthe Austrian guard in white and gold on white chargers--passing\nfrom the flash and dazzle their uniforms threw back in the\nsunlight into the glow of the shadowed street. And then, by the\ntime that the Austrians were passing below the window, came\ntroop after troop down from the piazza in all the uniforms of\nthe civilized world.\n\nAt first Father Jervis murmured a name or two; he even laid his\nhand upon his friend's arm as the Life-guards of England came\nclashing by with their imperturbable faces above their silver\nsplendour; but presently the amazing spectacle forming in the\npiazza, and, above all, on the steps of St. Peter's, silenced\nthem both. Monsignor Masterman gave scarcely a glance even to the\nmonstrous figures of the Chinese imperial guard, who went by\npresently in black armour and vizarded helmets, like old Oriental\ngods. For in the piazza itself the procession of princes was\nforming; and the steps of the basilica already began to burn with\npurple and scarlet where the Cardinals and the Papal Court were\nmaking ready for the coming of the Lord of them all.\n\nAnd then, at last, he came. . . .\n\nMonsignor Masterman had begun to stare, almost with unintelligent\neyes, at the thronged street, beneath, watching the great\ncarriages come past, each surmounted by a crown with its proper\nsupporters, each surrounded by a small guard drawn from the\ntroops that had ridden by just now. He identified a few here and\nthere; and his heart gave a strange leap as the Imperial Crown of\nEngland came in sight, held up by the Lion and the Unicorn, and\nbeneath it, within the gilded coach, the face of a boy capped and\nrobed in scarlet. And then he looked up again, startled by a\nsilence broken only by the footsteps of the horses and the wheels\nover the matted roadway, and the murmur of talking.\n\nThe piazza was now one sea of white and purple, with emblems, gold\nand silver and jewelled, shining here and there; the green strip\nwas gone; for the Papal procession was begun; and then, on the\ninstant, as he looked, there was a new group standing beneath the\ngiant columns of the portico, and the cry of the silver trumpets\ntold to the thousands that waited that the Vicar of Christ had\ncome out into this city that was again the City of God.\n\nVery slowly he came down the steps, a tiny white and gemmed\nfigure, yet perfectly visible on the high throne on which he was\nborne, his hand swaying as he came, and the huge fans moving\nbehind him like protecting deities. Down and down he came, while\nthe trumpets cried, and the waves of colour followed him, and\nthen vanished for a time among the crowd beneath, as he reached\nthe level ground.\n\nMonsignor Masterman leaned back and closed his eyes. . . .\n\nHe was disturbed by another touch on his arm; and, looking up,\nperceived that his friend was attracting his attention almost\nmechanically, and without looking at him.\n\n\"Look,\" murmured Father Jervis--\"it's the white jennet.\"\n\nBeneath, the street was now as wholly ecclesiastical as it had\nbeen military just before, except that the Papal zouaves marched\nin single file on either side of the procession. But within there\nwas just one packed army, going eight abreast, of seminarians and\nclerics. These were just passing as the priest looked again, and\nclose on their heels came the Court and the Cardinals; the latter\nan indescribable glory of scarlet, riding four abreast in broad\nhats and ample cloaks. But he gave scarcely more than a glance at\nthese; for, full in sight for at least half a minute, advancing\nstraight towards him down the roaring street, moved a canopy held\nby figures he could not clearly make out, and beneath it,\ndetached and perfectly visible, on a white horse, a white figure,\nits shoulders just draped in scarlet and its head shadowed by a\ngreat scarlet hat, came slowly towards him.\n\n\n\n(IV)\n\nAnd so the day went by like a dream; and the man who still seemed\nto himself as one risen from the dead into a new and wholly\nbewildering world, watched and gathered impressions and\nassimilated them. Once or twice during the day he found himself\nat meals with Father Jervis; he asked questions now and then and\nscarcely heard the answers; he talked with ecclesiastics a little\nwho came and went; but, for the most part almost unknown to\nhimself, he worked interiorly, busy as a bee, building up, not so\nmuch facts as realizations, into the new and strange\nworld-edifice that was gradually forming about him. He was\npresent at the visit of the Pope to the tomb of the Apostle, and\nwatched from a tribune, even then so concentrated on observation\nthat he was hardly conscious of connected thought, as the vast\ndoors rolled back and a vision as of such a celestial troop as\nwas dreamed of by the old Italian painters came up out of the\nvivid sunlight into the cool darkness of the basilica, as the\nroofs gave back the roaring of the fervent thousands and the\nclear cry of the silver trumpets; watched as the army of\necclesiastics deployed this way and that, and the Father of\nPrinces and Kings came on between his royal children to the gates\nof the Confession ringed by the golden lamps, and went down to\nkneel by the body of the first Fisherman-King.\n\nAnd again at Vespers, from the same tribune, he heard the peal of\nthe new great organs in the dome, and the psalm-melodies rocking\nfrom side to side between the massed choirs; he glanced now and\nagain at the royal tribune opposite, where, each beneath a\ncanopy, the rulers of the earth sat together to do honour to the\nLord and His Anointed. And, above all, he watched, still with\nthat steady set face that made Father Jervis look at him once or\ntwice, the central figure of all, now on his throne, with his\nassistants beside him, now passing up to the altar to incense it,\nand finally passing out again on the _sedia gestatoria_ to the\npalace where at last he ruled indeed.\n\nLast of all, as the sun began to sink behind the monstrous dome,\nand Rome stood out like an Oriental city of dreams, and the\npurple lights came out on the low-lying hills, and the\nilluminations glowed from every window, and blazed beneath the\nfeet and round the heads of the gigantic apostolic figures\ngathered round their Lord--there, watching again from his window,\nhe saw, in a sudden hush over the heads of the countless crowds\nthe tiny white figure standing above the tapestries with the\nPapal triple cross glinting beside him like a thread, and heard\nthe thin voice, gnat-like and clear, declare the \"help of the\nLord who,\" as the thunder of the square answered him, \"hath made\nheaven and earth,\" and then invoke upon the city and the world,\nbefore the tremendous _Amen_, the blessing of God Almighty,\nFather, Son, and Holy Ghost.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\n\n(I)\n\nIt was a few minutes after they had finished their almost silent\nmeal that evening, that Monsignor suddenly leaned forward from his\nchair in the great cool loggia and passed his hands over his eyes\nlike a sleepy man. From the streets outside still came the murmur\nof innumerable footsteps and voices and snatches of music.\n\n\"Tired?\" asked the other gently. (He had not spoken for some\nminutes, and remembering the long silence, had wondered if, after\nall, it had been wise to bring a man with such an experience\nbehind him to such a rush and excitement as that through which\nthey had passed to-day.)\n\nMonsignor said nothing for an instant. He looked round the room,\nopened and closed his lips, and then, leaning back again,\nsuddenly smiled. Then he took up the pipe he had laid aside just\nnow and blew through it.\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"Exactly the opposite. I feel awake at last.\"\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"It seems to have got into me at last. All this . . . all this\nvery odd world. I have begun to see.\"\n\n\"Please explain.\"\n\nMonsignor began to fill his pipe slowly.\n\n\"Well, Versailles, even, didn't quite do it,\" he said. \"It\nseemed to me a kind of game--certainly a very pleasant one;\nbut----\" (He broke off.) \"But what we've seen to-day seems\nsomehow the real thing.\"\n\n\"I don't quite understand.\"\n\n\"Well, I can see for myself now that all that you've told me is\nreal--that the world's really Christian, and so on. It was those\nChinese guards, I think, which as much as anything----\"\n\n\"Chinese? . . . I don't remember them.\"\n\nThe prelate smiled again.\n\n\"Well, I scarcely noticed them at the time, either. But I've been\nthinking about them. And then all the rest of it . . . and the\nPope. . . . By the way, I couldn't make out his face very well.\nIs that a picture of him?\"\n\nHe stood up suddenly and stepped across to where the portrait\nhung. There was nothing very startling about the picture. It\nshowed just a very ordinary face with straight closed lips, of a\nman seated in an embossed chair, with the familiar white cap,\ncassock, and embroidered stole with spade-ends.\n\n\"He looks quite ordinary,\" mused Monsignor aloud. \"It's . . .\nit's like the face of a business man.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, he's ordinary. He's an extremely good man and quite\nintelligent. He's never had any very great crisis to face, you know.\nThey say he's a good financier. . . . You look disappointed.\"\n\n\"I hadn't expected him to look like that,\" said the prelate, musing.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Well, he seems to have an extraordinary position in the world. I\nshould have expected more of a----\"\n\n\"More of a great man? Monsignor, don't you think that the Average\nMan makes the best ruler?\"\n\n\"But that's rank Democracy!\"\n\n\"Not at all. Democracy doesn't give the Average Man any real\npower at all. It swamps him among his fellows--that is to say, it\nkills his individuality; and his individuality is the one thing\nhe has which is worth anything.\"\n\nMonsignor sat down again, sighing.\n\n\"Well, I think it's got into me at last,\" he repeated. \"I mean, I\nthink I really realize what the world's like now. But I want to\nsee a great deal more, you know.\"\n\n\"What sort of things?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't quite know. . . . You might call it the waterline\nbetween Faith and Science. I see the Faith side. I understand\nthat the life of the world moves on Catholicism now; but I don't\nquite realize yet how all that joins on to Science. In my day----\"\n(he broke off) \"I mean I had a kind of idea that there was a gap\nbetween Faith and Science--if not actual contradictions. How do\nthey join on to one another? What's the average scientific\nattitude towards religion? Do people on both sides just say that\neach must pursue its own line, even if they never meet?\"\n\nFather Jervis looked puzzled.\n\n\"I don't quite understand. There's no conflict between Faith and\nScience. A large proportion of the scientists are\necclesiastics.\"\n\n\"But what's the meeting-point? That's what I don't see.\"\n\nThe priest shook his head, smiling.\n\n\"I simply don't know what you mean, Monsignor. Give me an example.\"\n\n\"Well . . . er . . . what about Faith-healing? The dispute used\nto be, I think, as to the explanation of certain cures. (Mr.\nManners spoke of it, you know.) Psychologists used to say that\nthe cures happened by suggestion; and Catholics used to say that\nthey were supernatural. How have they become reconciled?\"\n\nFather Jervis considered a moment.\n\n\"I don't think I've ever thought of it like that,\" he said. \"I\nthink I should say--\" (he hesitated) \"I think I should say that\neverybody believes now that the power of God does everything;\nand that in some cases He works through suggestion, and in some\nthrough supernatural forces about which we don't know very\nmuch. But I don't think it matters much (does it?), if you\nbelieve in God.\"\n\n\"That doesn't explain what I mean.\"\n\nThe door opened abruptly and a servant came in. He bowed.\n\n\"The Bishop of Sebaste enquires whether you are at home, Monsignor?\"\n\nMonsignor glanced at Father Jervis.\n\n\"He's come out as chaplain to Prince George,\" explained the\npriest in rapid Latin. \"We'd better see him.\"\n\n\"Very good. . . . Yes,\" said Monsignor.\n\nHe turned to the priest again.\n\n\"Hadn't you better tell him about me?\"\n\n\"You don't mind?\"\n\n\"Of course not.\"\n\nFather Jervis got up and slipped quickly out of the room.\n\n\"I'm delighted to see you again, Monsignor,\" began the Bishop,\ncoming in, followed by Father Jervis three minutes later.\n\nMonsignor straightened himself after the kissing of the ring.\n\n\"You're very kind, my lord,\" he said.\n\nAs the Bishop sat down, he examined him carefully, noticing that\nthere was nothing noticeable about him. He seemed a\ncharacteristic prelate--large, genial, ruddy and smiling, with\nbright eyes and well-cut mouth. He was in his purple and\nferraiuola, and carried himself briskly and cheerfully.\n\n\"I came to see if you were going to the reception to-night. If\nso, we might go together. But it's rather late!\"\n\n\"We haven't heard about that.\"\n\n\"Oh! it's purely informal. The Holy Father probably won't appear\nhimself, except perhaps for a moment.\"\n\n\"Oh! At the Vatican?\"\n\n\"Yes. There will be an enormous crowd, of course. . . . The Prince\nhas gone to bed, poor little chap! He's done up altogether; and I\nthought of slipping over for a half-hour or so.\"\n\nMonsignor glanced at his friend.\n\n\"I think it would be an excellent thing,\" observed the old priest.\n\n\"Well, there's a carriage waiting,\" said the Bishop, rising.\n\"I think we'd better go, if we're going. We shall be back\nwithin the hour.\"\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nIt was within ten minutes of the time that the three had arranged\nto meet again at the foot of the Scala Regia that Monsignor\nsuddenly realized that he had lost himself.\n\nHe had wandered for half an hour, after making his salutations to\nthe Master of the Apostolic Palace, who, in the Pope's absence,\nwas receiving the visitors; and, at first with Father Jervis and\nthe Bishop, who had pointed out to him the notabilities, and\npresently drifting from them in the crowds, by himself, had gone\nup and down and in and out through endless corridors, courts,\nloggie, and great reception-rooms of the enormous place, watching\nthe amazing crowds, and exchanging bows and nods with persons who\nbowed and nodded to him.\n\nThe whole system of the thing seemed new to him. He had imagined\n(he scarcely knew why) the Vatican to be a place of silence and\nsolemn dignity and darkness, with a few sentries here and there,\na few prelates, a cardinal or two--with occasionally a group of\nvery particular visitors, or, on still rarer occasions, a troop\nof pilgrims being escorted to some sight or some audience.\n\nCertainly it was not at all like this to-night.\n\nFirst, the whole place was illuminated in nearly every window.\nHuge electric lights blazed behind screens in all the courts;\nbands of music were stationed at discreet intervals one from\nanother; and through every section that he went, through\ncorridors, reception-rooms, up and down stairways, seething in\nevery court, streaming through every passage and thoroughfare,\nmoved a multitude of persons--largely ecclesiastics, but also\nvery largely otherwise (though there were no ladies\npresent)--talking, questioning, laughing, wholly, it seemed, at\ntheir ease, and appearing to find nothing unusual in the entire\naffair. Here and there in some of the great rooms small courts\nseemed to be in process--a company of perhaps thirty or forty\nwould be standing round two or three notabilities who sat. There\nwas usually a cardinal here, sometimes two or three; and on three\nor four occasions he saw what he imagined must be royalty of some\nkind, seated with a cardinal, while the rest stood.\n\nIt was to him a very extraordinary spectacle, in spite of his\nfurther initiation that day into this new world, so utterly\nunfamiliar to him; and it seemed once more to drive home to his\nconsciousness this strange state of affairs of which his friend\nhad tried to persuade him, but which he yet found difficult\nwholly to take in. Certainly the world and the Church seemed on\nvery cordial terms. . . .\n\nBut now he had lost himself altogether. He had wandered up a long\ncorridor, thinking that it would lead him back to the Court of St.\nDamasus, whence he knew his way well enough; and he now paused,\nhesitating. For it seemed to him that every step he was taking led\nhim farther from the lights and the din of voices and music.\n\nHe could see behind him, framed in a huge open doorway, as on an\nilluminated disc, a kaleidoscope of figures moving; and in front,\nas he stood, the corridor, although here the lights burned as\nbrilliantly as elsewhere, seemed to lead away into comparative\ndarkness. Yet he felt certain of his direction.\n\nThen, as he stood, a door opened somewhere in front, and he thought\nhe heard voices talking again. It reassured him, and he went on.\n\nIt was not until he found himself in a small lobby (comparatively\nsmall that is, for it was not less than forty feet square, and\nthe painted coffered ceiling was twenty feet above his head),\nthat he stopped again, completely bewildered. There was no longer\nany sound to guide him, for he had closed a couple of\npassage-doors behind him as he came; and he noticed that\npractically complete silence was on all sides; a single\nilluminated half-globe shone gently from the ceiling overhead.\n\nHe stood some time considering and listening to the silence, till\nhe became aware that it was not silence. There was a very faint\nmurmur of a voice behind one of the four doors that opened on\nthis lobby; and beside the door there rested (he now noticed for\nthe first time) the halberd of a Swiss, as if the soldier had\njust been called within. This decided him; he went to the door,\nlaid his hand upon the handle, and immediately the murmur ceased.\nHe pushed down the handle and opened the door.\n\nFor a moment as he stared within he could not understand: he had\nexpected a passage--a guard-room--at least something secular. Yet\nit was some kind of a chapel or sacristy into which he was\nlooking: he observed the outline of an altar with its crucifix;\nand two figures.\n\nThen one of the figures--in the habit of a Franciscan,\nbarefooted, with a purple stole across its shoulders--had sprung\ntowards him, and half pushed, half waved him backwards again.\n\n\"What are you doing here? How dare you----I beg pardon,\nMonsignor, but----\"\n\n\"I beg pardon, father; I had lost my way. . . . I am a stranger.\"\n\n\"Back--back that way, Monsignor,\" stammered the friar. \"The guard\nshould have told you.\"\n\nThe truth was dawning on the prelate little by little, helped by\nthe flash of the other kneeling white figure he had seen within.\n\n\"Yes,\" stammered the friar again. \"The Holy Father. Back that\nway, Monsignor. Yes, yes--that door straight opposite.\"\n\nIt was over; the two doors had closed almost simultaneously, behind\nthe friar as he had gone back to his duty, and behind the priest\nwho now stood again at the end of the long corridor down which he\nhad come. He stood here now, strangely moved and affected.\n\nHe had seen nothing remarkable in itself--the Pope at confession.\nAnd yet in some manner, beyond the startling fact that he had\ngroped his way, all unknowing, to the Pope's private apartments,\nand at such a moment, the dramatic contrast between the glare and\nnoise of the reception outside--itself the climax of a series of\nbrilliant external splendours--and the silent half-lighted chapel\nwhere the Lord of All kneeled to confess his sins, caused a\nsurprising disturbance in his soul.\n\nUp to now he had been introduced step by step into a new set of\nexperiences, Christian indeed, yet amazingly worldly in their\naspect; he had begun to learn that religion could transform the\nouter world, and affect and use for its own purposes all the\npomps and glories of outward existence; he had begun to realize\nthat there was nothing alien to God--no line of division between\nthe Creator and the creature; and now, in one instant, he had\nbeen brought face to face again with inner realities, and had\nseen, as it were, a glimpse of the secret core of all the\nsplendour. The Pope attended by princes--the Pope on his knees\nbefore a barefooted friar. These were the two magnetic points\nbetween which blazed Religion.\n\nHe stood there, trembling a little, trying to steady his bewildered\nbrain--even now, in spite of his years, not unlike the brain of a\nchild. He passed his tongue over his suddenly dry lips. Then he\nbegan to move down the passage again, to find his friends.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\n\n(I)\n\n\"What I can't yet quite understand,\" said Monsignor, \"is that\npoint I mentioned the other day about Faith and Science. I don't\nsee where one ends and the other begins. It seems to me that the\ncontroversy must be unending. The materialist says that since\nNature does all things, even the most amazing things must be done\nby her--that we shall be able to explain them all some day, when\nScience has got a little farther. And the theologian says that\nsome things are so evidently out of the reach of Nature that they\nmust be done by a supernatural power. Well, where's the point of\nreconciliation?\"\n\nFather Jervis was silent for a while.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nThe two were sitting on the upper deck of an air-ship towards\nevening, travelling straight towards the setting sun.\n\nHe had grown almost accustomed to such views by now; and yet the\nsight that had been unrolling itself gradually during the last\nhalf-hour had held him fascinated for minute after minute. They\nhad taken ship in Rome after a day or two more of sight-seeing,\nand had moved up the peninsula by stages, changing boats soon\nafter crossing the frontier, for one of the high-flying, more\nleisurely and more luxurious vessels on which the more wealthy\nclasses travelled. They were due in Lourdes that evening; and,\never since the higher peaks of the Pyrenees had come into sight,\nhad moved over a vision of bewildering beauty. To their left rose\nthe mountains, forming, it seemed to them at the height at which\nthey travelled, an enormous jagged and gigantic pile, hard-lined\nas steel, yet irradiated with long rays, patches, and pools of\ngolden sunset-light alternated by amazing depths of the shadow\nwhose tones ran from peacock to indigo. Then from the feet of the\ntumbled pile there ran out what appeared a loosely flung carpet\nvivid and yet a soft green, patched here and there with white\ntowns, embroideries of woodland, lines of silver water. Yet this\ntoo was changing as they watched the shadows grow longer with\nalmost visible movement. New and strange colours, varying about a\nfixed note of blue according to the nature of that with which the\nearth was covered, slowly came into being. Here, in front, now\nand again a patch of water glowed suddenly, three thousand feet\nbeneath, as it met the shifting angle between the eye and the\nsun; and beyond, far out across the darkening plain, shone the\nremote line of the sea, itself ablaze with gold, and above and\nabout in every quarter burned the enormous luminous dome of sky.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\n\"I can't put it all accurately,\" said Father Jervis at last. \"I\nmean I can't tell you off-hand all the tests that are exactly\napplied to every case. But it's something like this. . . .\"\n\nHe paused.\n\n\"Yes, tell me,\" said the other, still staring out at the softly\nrolling landscape.\n\n\"Well, first,\" began the old priest slowly, \"in the last fifty\nyears we've classified almost exhaustively everything that nature\ncan do. We know, for instance, for certain, that in certain kinds\nof temperaments body and mind are in far greater sympathy than in\nothers; and that if, in such a temperament as this, the mind can\nbe fully persuaded that such and such a thing is going to\nhappen--a thing within the range of natural possibility, of\ncourse--it will happen, merely through the action of the mind\nupon the body.\"\n\n\"Give me an instance.\"\n\n\"Well\" (he hesitated again) . . . \"well, I'm not a physician, and\ncannot define accurately; but there are certain nervous\ndiseases--hysterical simulation, nervous affections such as St.\nVitus' dance--as well, of course, as purely mental diseases, such\nas certain kinds of insanity---\"\n\n\"Oh, those,\" said the other contemptuously.\n\n\"Wait a minute. These, I say, given the right temperament and\nreceptiveness to suggestion, can be cured _instantaneously_.\"\n\n\"Instantaneously?\"\n\n\"Certainly--given those conditions. Then there are certain other\ndiseases, very closely related to the nervous system, in which\nthere have been changes of tissue, not only in the brain, but in\nthe organs or the limbs. And these, too, can be cured by mere\nnatural suggestion; but--and this is the point--not\ninstantaneously. In cases of this kind, cured in this way, there\nis always needed a period, I won't say as long as, but\nproportionate to, the period during which the disease had been\ndeveloping and advancing. I forget the exact proportions now, but\nI think, so far as I remember, that at least two-thirds of the\ntime is required for recovery by suggestion as was occupied by\nthe growth of the disease. Take _lupus_. That certainly belongs to\nthe class I'm speaking of. Well, lupus has been cured in mental\nlaboratories, but never instantaneously or anything like\ninstantaneously.\"\n\n\"Go on, father.\"\n\n\"Finally, there are those physical states that have practically\nnothing to do directly with the nervous system at all. Take a\nbroken leg. Of course the cure of a broken leg is affected by\nthe state of the nervous system, since it depends upon the\namount of vital energy, the state of the blood, and so on. But\nthere are distinct processes of change of tissue that are bound\nto take a certain fixed period. You may--as has been proved over\nand over again in the mental laboratories--hasten and direct the\naction of the nervous energy, so that a man under hypnotic\nsuggestion will improve more rapidly than a man who is not. But\nno amount of suggestion can possibly effect a cure\ninstantaneously. Tuberculosis is another such thing; certain\ndiseases of the heart---\"\n\n\"I see. Go on.\"\n\n\"Well, then, science has fixed certain periods in all these\nvarious matters which simply cannot be lessened beyond a certain\npoint. And miracle does not begin--authorized miracle, I\nmean--unless these periods are markedly shortened. Mere mental\ncures, therefore, do not come under the range of authorized\nmiracle at all--though, of course, in many cases where there has\nbeen little or no suggestion, or where the temperament is not\nreceptive, practically speaking, the miraculous element is most\nprobably present. In the second class--organic nervous\ndiseases--no miracle is proclaimed unless the cure is\ninstantaneous, or very nearly so. In the third class, again, no\nmiracle is proclaimed unless the cure is either instantaneous, or\nthe period of it very considerably shortened beyond all known\nexamples of natural cure by suggestion.\"\n\n\"And you mean to say that such cures are frequent?\"\n\nThe old priest smiled.\n\n\"Why, of course. There is an accumulation of evidence from the\npast hundred years which----\"\n\n\"Broken limbs?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; there's the case of Pierre de Rudder, at Oostacker, in\nthe nineteenth century. That's the first of the series--the\nfirst, I mean, that has been scientifically examined. It's in all\nthe old books.\"\n\n\"What was the matter with him?\"\n\n\"Leg broken below the knee for eight years.\"\n\n\"And how long did the cure take?\"\n\n\"Instantaneous.\"\n\nThere was silence again.\n\nMonsignor was staring out and downwards at the flitting\nmeadow-land far below. A flock of white birds moved across the\ndarkening grey, like flying specks seen in the eye, yet it seemed\nwith extraordinary slowness and deliberation, so great was the\ndistance at which they flew. He sighed.\n\n\"You can examine the records,\" said the priest presently; \"and,\nbetter than that, you can examine some of the cases for yourself,\nand the certificates. They follow still the old system which Dr.\nBoissarie began nearly a century ago.\"\n\n\"What about Zola?\" demanded Monsignor abruptly.\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"Zola, the great French writer. I thought he had . . . had\nadvanced some very sharp criticisms of Lourdes.\"\n\n\"Er--when did he live?\"\n\n\"Why, not long ago; nineteenth century, at the end.\"\n\nFather Jervis shook his head, smiling.\n\n\"I've never heard of him,\" he said, \"and I thought I knew Lourdes\nliterature pretty well. I'll enquire.\"\n\n\"Look,\" said the prelate suddenly; \"what's that place\nwe're coming to?\"\n\nHe nodded forward with his head to where vast white lines and\npatches began to be visible on the lower slopes and at the foot of\nlong spurs that had suddenly come into sight against the sunset.\n\n\"Why, that's Lourdes.\"\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nAs the two priests came out next morning from the west doors of the\ntall church where they had said their masses, Monsignor stopped.\n\n\"Let me try to take it in a moment,\" he said.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nThey were standing on the highest platform of the pile of three\nchurches that had been raised over a hundred years ago, now in the\nvery centre of the enormous city that had grown little by little\naround the sacred place. Beneath them, straight in front,\napproached from where they stood by two vast sweeps of balustraded\nsteps, lay the _Place_, perhaps sixty feet beneath, of the shape of\nan elongated oval, bounded on this side and that by the old\nbuildings where the doctors used to have their examination rooms,\nnow used for a hundred minor purposes connected with the churches\nand the grotto. At the farther end of the Place, behind the old\nbronze statue of Mary, rose up the comparatively new _Bureau de\nConstatations_--a great hall (as the two had seen last night),\ncommunicating with countless consulting- and examination-rooms,\nwhere the army of State-paid doctors carried on their work. The\nwhole of the open Place between these buildings crawled with\nhumanity--not yet packed as it would be by evening--yet already\nsufficiently filled by the two ever-flowing streams--the one\npassing downwards to where the grotto lay out of sight on the\nleft, the other passing up towards the lower entrance of the great\nhall. It resembled an amphitheatre, and the more so, since the\nroofs of the buildings on every side, as well as the slope up\nwhich the steps rose to the churches, adapted now as they were to\naccommodate at least three hundred thousand spectators, were\nalready beginning to show groups and strings of onlookers who came\nup here to survey the city.\n\nOn the right, beyond the Place, lay the old town, sloping up now,\nup even to the medieval castle, which fifty years ago had stood\nin lonely detachment, but now was faced on hill-top after\nhill-top, at its own level, by the enormous nursing homes and\nhostels, which under the direction of the Religious Orders had\ngradually grown up about this shrine of healing, until now, up to\na height of at least five hundred feet, the city of Mary stood on\nbastion after bastion of the lower slopes of the hills, like some\nhuge auditorium of white stone, facing down towards the river and\nthe Holy Place.\n\nFinally, on the left, immediately to the left of the two\npriests who stood silently looking, fifty feet below, ran the\nsweep of the Gave, crossed by innumerable bridges which gave\naccess to the crowding town beyond the water, where once had\nbeen nothing but meadowland and the beginning of the great\nsouthern plain of France.\n\nThere was an air of extraordinary peace and purity about this\nplace, thought Monsignor. Whiteness was the predominating\ncolour--whiteness beneath, and whiteness running up high on the\nright on to the hills--and above the amazing blue of the southern\nsky. It was high and glorious summer about them, with a breeze as\nintoxicating as wine and as fresh as water. From across the Place\nthey could hear the quick flapping of the huge Mary banner that\nflew above the hall, for there were no wheels or motors here to\ncrush out the acuteness of the ear. The transference of the sick\nfrom the hostels above the town was carried out by\naeroplanes--great winged decks, with awnings above and at the\nsides, that slid down as if on invisible lines, to the entrance\nof the other side of the hall, whence after a daily examination\nby the doctors they were taken on by hand-litters to the grotto\nor the bathing-pools.\n\n   *    *   *   *   *\n\nMonsignor heard a step behind him as he stood and looked, still\npathetically bewildered by all that he saw, and still struggling,\nin spite of himself, with a new upbreak of scepticism; and\nturning, saw Father Jervis in the act of greeting a young monk in\nthe Benedictine habit.\n\n\"I knew we should meet. I heard you were here,\" the old man was\nexclaiming. \"You remember Monsignor Masterman?\"\n\nThey shook hands, and Monsignor was not disappointed in\nhis friend's tact.\n\n\"Father Adrian absolutely haunts Lourdes nowadays,\" went on\nFather Jervis. \"I wonder his superiors allow him. And how's the\nbook getting on?\"\n\nThe monk smiled. He was an exceedingly pleasant person to look\nupon, with a thin, refined face and large, startlingly blue eyes.\nHe shook his head as he smiled.\n\n\"I'm getting frightened,\" he said. \"I cannot see with the theologians\nin all points. Well, the least said, the soonest mended.\"\n\nFather Jervis' face had fallen a little. There was distinct\nanxiety in his eyes.\n\n\"When will the book be out?\" he asked quickly.\n\n\"I'm revising for the last time,\" said the other shortly. \"And\nyou, Monsignor? . . . I had heard of your illness.\"\n\n\"Oh, Monsignor's nearly himself again. And will you take us into\nthe Bureau?\" asked the old priest.\n\nThe young monk nodded.\n\n\"I shall be there all day,\" he said. \"Ask for me at any time.\"\n\n\"Monsignor wants to see for himself. He wants to see a case\nstraight through. Is there anything----\"\n\n\"Why, there's the very thing,\" interrupted the monk. (He fumbled\nin his pocket a moment.) \"Yes, here's the leaflet that was issued\nlast night.\" (He held out a printed piece of paper to Monsignor.)\n\"Read that through.\"\n\nThe prelate took it.\n\n\"What's the case?\" he asked.\n\n\"The leaflet will give you the details. It's decay of the optic\nnerve--a Russian from St. Petersburg. Both eyes completely blind,\nthe nerves destroyed, and he saw light yesterday for the first\ntime. He'll be down from the Russian hospice about eleven. We\nexpect a cure to-day or to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Jervis, \"we mustn't detain you. Then, if we\nlook in about eleven?\"\n\nThe monk nodded and smiled as he moved off.\n\n\"Certainly,\" he said. \"At eleven then.\"\n\nMonsignor turned to his friend.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\nFather Jervis shook his head.\n\n\"It's a sad business,\" he said. \"That's Dom Adrian Bennett. He's\nvery daring. He's had one warning from Rome; but he's so\nextraordinarily clever that it's very hard to silence him. He's\nnot exactly heretical; but he will work along lines that have\nalready been decided.\"\n\n\"Dear me! He seems very charming.\"\n\n\"Certainly. He is most charming, and utterly sincere. He's got the\nentree everywhere here. He is a first-rate scientist, by the way.\nBut, Monsignor, I'd sooner not talk about him. Do you mind?\"\n\n\"But what's his subject? Tell me that.\"\n\n\"It's the miraculous element in religion,\" said the priest\nshortly. \"Come, we must go to our coffee.\"\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nThe hall was already crowded in every part as the two priests\nlooked in at the lower end a few minutes before eleven o'clock.\nIt was arranged more or less like a theatre, with a broad gangway\nrunning straight up from the doors at one end to the foot of the\nstage at the other. The stage itself, with a statue of Mary\ntowering at the back, communicated with the examination-rooms\nbehind the two doors, one on either side of the image.\n\n\"What's going on?\" whispered Monsignor, as he glanced up first on\nthis side and that, at the array of heads that listened, and then\nat the two figures that occupied the stage.\n\n\"It's a doctor lecturing on a cure. This goes on nearly all day.\nWe must get round to the back somehow.\"\n\nAs they passed in at last from the outside through the private\ndoor through which the doctors and privileged persons had access\nbehind the stage, they heard a storm of clapping and voices from\nthe direction of the public hall on their right.\n\n\"That's finished then. Follow me, Monsignor.\"\n\nThey went through a passage or two, after their guide--a young\nman in uniform--seeing as they went, through half-open doors here\nand there, quite white rooms, glimpses of men in white, and once\nat least a litter being set down; and came at last into what\nlooked like some kind of committee-room, lighted by tall windows\non the left, with a wide horseshoe table behind which sat perhaps\na dozen men, each wearing on his left breast the red and white\ncross which marked them as experts. Opposite the examiners, but\nhalf hidden from the two priests by the back of his tall chair,\nsat the figure of a man.\n\nTheir guide went up to the end of the table, and almost\nimmediately they saw Father Adrian stand up and beckon to them.\n\n\"I've kept you two chairs,\" he whispered when they came up. \"And\nyou'd better wear these crosses. They'll admit you anywhere.\" (He\npointed to the two red and white badges that hung over the backs\nof their chairs.)\n\n\"Are we in time?\"\n\n\"You're a little late,\" whispered the monk. Then he turned again\ntowards the patient, a typical fair-haired, bearded Russian with\nclosed eyes, who at that moment was answering some question put\nto him by the presiding doctor in the centre.\n\nThe monk turned again.\n\n\"Can you understand Russian?\"\n\nMonsignor shook his head.\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you afterwards,\" said the other.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nIt seemed very strange to be sitting here, in this quiet room,\nafter the rush and push of the enormous crowds through which they\nhad made their way this morning. The air of the room was\nexceedingly business-like, and not in the least even suggestive\nof religion, except in the matter of a single statue of Our Lady\nof Lourdes on a bracket on the wall above the President's head.\nAnd these dozen men who sat here seemed quietly business-like\ntoo. They sat here, men of various ages and nationalities, all in\nthe thin white doctor's dress, with papers spread before them,\nand a few strange instruments scattered here and there, leaning\nforward or leaning back, but all intently listening to and\nwatching the Russian, who, still with closed eyes, answered the\nshort questions put to him continuously by the President. There\nseemed no religious excitement even in the air; the atmosphere\nwas one, rather, of simple science.\n\nThere seemed something faintly familiar in all this to the man\nwho had lost his memory. . . . Certainly he had known of Lourdes\nas soon as it was mentioned to him, and he seemed now to\nremember that some such claim to be perfectly scientific had\nalways been made by the authorities of the place. But he had\nsupposed, somehow, that the claim was a false one. . . .\n\nThe Russian suddenly rose.\n\n\"Well!\" whispered Monsignor sharply as the doctors began to talk.\n\nThe monk smiled.\n\n\"He's just said an interesting thing. The President asked him\njust now whether he had seen anything of the crowds as he came\ndown this morning.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"He said that people looked like trees moving about. . . . Oh no!\nhe didn't know he was making a quotation. Look! he's going down\nto the grotto. He'll be back in half an hour to report.\"\n\nMonsignor leaned back in his chair.\n\n\"And you tell me that the optic nerves were destroyed?\"\n\nThe monk looked at him in wide-eyed wonder.\n\n\"Certainly. He was examined on Tuesday, when he came.\nTo-day's Friday.\"\n\n\"And you believe he'll be cured?\"\n\n\"I shall be very much surprised if he's not.\"\n\nThere was a stir by the door as the Russian disappeared. A young,\nbright-eyed doctor looked in and nodded, and the next instant a\nbrancardier appeared, followed by a litter.\n\n\"But how have you time to examine all these thousands of cases?\"\nasked the prelate, watching the litter advance.\n\n\"Oh, not one in a hundred comes through to us here. Besides,\nthis is only one of a dozen committee-rooms. It's only the most\nsensational cases--where there's real organic injury of a\nreally serious kind--that ever come at all before the highest\ncourts. Cases, I mean, where, if there's a cure, the\npublication of the miracle follows as a matter of course. . . .\nWhat's this case, I wonder?\" he ended sharply, glancing down at\nthe printed paper before him, and then up again at the litter\nthat was being arranged.\n\nMonsignor looked too at the paper that lay before him. Some\nthirty paragraphs, carefully numbered, dated, and signed, gave,\nas it seemed, a list of the cases to be examined.\n\n\"Number fourteen,\" murmured the monk.\n\nNumber fourteen, it appeared, was a case of fractured spine--a\nyoung girl, aged sixteen; a German. The accident had happened\nfour months before. The notes, signed by half a dozen names,\ndescribed the complete paralysis below the waist, with a few\nother medical details.\n\nMonsignor looked again at the girl on the other side of the\ntable, guarded by the brancardiers and a couple of doctors, while\nthe monk talked to him rapidly in Latin. He saw her closed eyes\nand colourless lips.\n\n\"This case has attracted a good deal of attention,\" whispered\nthe monk. \"The Emperor's said to be interested in it, through\none of the ladies of the Court, whose servant the girl was. It's\ninteresting for two or three reasons. First, the fracture is\ncomplete, and it's marvellous she hasn't died. Then it's been\ntaken up as a kind of test case by a group of materialists in\nBerlin. They've taken it up, because the girl has declared again\nand again that she is perfectly certain she will be cured at\nLourdes. She claims to have had a vision of Our Lady, who told\nher so. Her father's a freethinker, by the way, and has only\nfinally allowed her to come so that he can use her as an\nargument afterwards.\"\n\n\"Who has examined her?\" asked Monsignor sharply.\n\n\"She was examined last night on her arrival, and again this\nmorning. Dr. Meurot, the President here\" (he indicated with his\nhead the doctor who sat three places off, who was putting his\nquestions rapidly to the two attending physicians)--\"Dr. Meurot\nexamined her himself early this morning. This is just the formal\nprocess before she goes to the grotto. The fracture is complete.\nIt's between the eleventh and twelfth dorsal vertebrae.\"\n\n\"And you think she'll be cured?\" The monk smiled.\n\n\"Who can tell?\" he said. \"We've only had one case before, and the\npapers on that are not quite in order, though it's commonly\nbelieved to be genuine.\"\n\n\"But it's possible?\"\n\n\"Oh, certainly. And her own conviction is absolute. It'll\nbe interesting.\"\n\n\"You seem to take it pretty easily,\" murmured the prelate.\n\n\"Oh, the facts are established a hundred times over--the facts, I\nmean, that cures take place here which are not even approached in\nmental laboratories. But---\"\n\nHe was interrupted by a sudden movement of the brancardiers.\n\n\"See, they're removing her,\" he said. \"Now, what'll you do,\nMonsignor? Will you go down to the grotto, or would you sooner\nwatch a few more cases?\"\n\n\"I think I'd sooner stay here,\" said the other, \"at least for\nan hour or two.\"\n\n\n\n(IV)\n\nIt was the hour of the evening procession and of the\nBenediction of the Sick.\n\nAll day long the man who had lost his memory had gone to and fro\nwith his companions, each wearing the little badge that gave them\nentrance everywhere; they had lunched with Dr. Meurot himself.\n\nIf Monsignor Masterman had been impressed by the social power of\nCatholicism at Versailles, and by its religious reality in Rome,\nhe was ten thousand times more impressed by its scientific\ncourage here in Lourdes. For here religion seemed to have\nstepped down into an arena hitherto (as he fancied) restricted\nto the play of physical forces. She had laid aside her oracular\nclaims, her comparatively unsupported assertions of her own\ndivinity; had flung off her robes of state and authority and was\ncompeting here on equal terms with the masters of natural\nlaw--more, she was accepted by them as their mistress. For there\nseemed nothing from which she shrank. She accepted all who came\nto her desiring her help; she made no arbitrary distinctions to\ncover her own incapacities. Her one practical desire was to heal\nthe sick; her one theoretical interest to fix more and more\nprecisely, little by little, the exact line at which nature\nended and supernature began. And, if human evidence went for\nanything--if the volumes of radiophotography and sworn testimony\nwent for anything, she had established a thousand times over\nduring the preceding, half-century that under her aegis, and\nhers alone, healing and reconstituting forces were at work to\nwhich no merely natural mental science could furnish any\nparallels. All the old quarrels of a century ago seemed at an\nend. There was no longer any dispute as to the larger facts. All\nthat now remained to be done by this huge organization of\ninternational experts was to define more and more closely and\nprecisely where the line lay between the two worlds. All cures\nthat could be even remotely paralleled in the mental\nlaboratories were dismissed as not evidently supernatural; all\nthose which could not be so paralleled were recorded, with the\nmost minute detail, under the sworn testimonies of doctors who\nhad examined the patients immediately before and immediately\nafter the cure itself. In a series of libraries that abutted on\nto the Place, Monsignor Masterman, under the guidance of Dom\nAdrian Bennett, had spent a couple of hours this afternoon in\nexamining the most striking of the records and photographs\npreserved there. He was amazed to find that even by the end of\nthe nineteenth century cures had taken place for which the most\nmodern scientists could find no natural explanation.\n\nTen minutes ago he had taken his place in the procession of the\nBlessed Sacrament, with the monk's last word still in his head.\n\n\"It is during the procession itself,\" he had said, \"that the work\nis done. We lay aside all deliberate knowledge as the Angelus\nrings, and give ourselves up to faith.\"\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nAnd now the procession had started, and already, it seemed to\nhim, he had begun to understand. It was as he himself emerged, a\nfew paces in front of the Blessed Sacrament Itself, walking with\nthe prelates, that that understanding reached its climax. He\npaused at the head of the steps, to wait for the canopy to come\nthrough, and his heart rose within him so mightily that it was\nall he could do not to cry out.\n\nBeneath him, seen now from the opposite end from which he had\nlooked this morning, lay the Place, under a wholly different\nappearance. The centre of the great oval was cleared, with the\nexception of a huge pulpit, surmounted by a circular\nsounding-board, that stood in the middle. But round this empty\nspace rose, in tier after tier, masses of humanity beyond all\nreckoning, up and up, as on the sides of an enormous\namphitheatre, as far as the highest roofs of the highest\nbuildings that looked on to the space. Before him rose the pile\nof churches, and here too, on every platform roof and stair,\nswarmed the spectators. The doors of the three churches were\nflung wide, and far within, in the lighted interiors, lay the\nheads of countless crowds, as cobble-stones, seen in perspective.\nThe whole Place was in shadow now, as the sun had just gone down,\nbut the sky was still alight overhead, a vast tender-coloured\nvault, as sweet as a benediction. Here and there, in the\nillimitable blue, like crumbs of diamond dust, gleamed the first\nstars of evening.\n\nAnd from this vast multitude, swayed by a white figure within the\npulpit, articulate now as the listener emerged, rose up a song to\nMary, as from one soft and gigantic voice, appealing to Her\nPresence who for over a century and a half, it seemed, had chosen\nto dwell here by virtue and influence, the Great Mother of the\nredeemed and the Consoler of the afflicted, whose Divine Son was\neven now on His way, as at Cana itself, to turn the water of\nsorrow into the wine of joy. . . . Then, as the canopy came out,\nat an imperious gesture from the tiny swaying figure in the\npulpit, the music ceased; great trumpets sounded a phrase; there\nwas a rustle and a movement as of a breaking wave as the crowds\nknelt; and the _Pange Lingua_ rose up in solemn adoration. . . .\n\nAs he came down the steps, his eyes quick with tears, he saw for\nthe first time the lines of the sick in the place to which he had\nbeen told to look. There they lay, some four thousand in number,\nplaced side by side in two great circling rows round the whole\narena, a fringe of pain to the exultant crowds, in litters laid\nso close together that they seemed but two great continuous beds,\nand between them the high flower-strewn platform along which\nJesus of Nazareth should pass by. There they lay, all of them\nbathed to-day in the strange water that had sprung up a hundred\nand fifty years ago under the fingers of a peasant child, waiting\nfor the sacramental advent of Him who had made both that water\nand those for whose healing it was designed.\n\nAnd yet not all were cured--not perhaps one in ten of all who\ncame in confidence. That surely was wonderful. . . . Was it then\nthat that same Sovereign Power who had permitted the pain elected\nto retain His own sovereignty, and to show that the Lawgiver was\nfettered by no law? One thing at least was certain, if those\nrecords which the priest had examined this morning were to be\nbelieved, that no receptiveness of temperament, no subjective\nexpectancy of cure, guaranteed that the cure would take place.\nNatures that had responded marvellously in the mental\nlaboratories seemed ineffective here; natures that were inert and\nimmovable under the influence of sympathetic science leapt up\nhere to meet the call of some Voice whose very existence a\nhundred years ago had been in doubt.\n\nThe front of the long procession, Monsignor saw, had reached now\nthe doors of the basilica, and would presently, after making the\ncomplete round, pour down into the arena to allow the Blessed\nSacrament to move more quickly. It was an exquisite sight, even\nfrom here, as the prelate set foot on the platform and began to\nmove to the left. The long lines of tapers, four deep, went like\nsome great serpent, rippling with light, above the heads of the\nsick; and here and there in the slopes of the crowded spectators\nshone out other lights, steady as stars in the motionless half-lit\nevening air. Then, as he went, slowly, pace by pace, he remembered\nthe sick and glanced down, as the music on a sudden ceased.\n\nAh! there they lay, those living crucifixes . . . . shrouded in\nwhite, their faces on either side turned inwards that they might\nsee their Lord. . . . There lay a woman, her face shrivelled with\nsome internal horror--some appalling disease which even the\nscience of these days dared not handle, or at least had not; her\nlarge eyes staring with an almost terrible intensity, fixed, it\nseemed, in her head, yet waiting for the Vision that even now\nmight make her whole. There a child tossed and moaned and turned\naway his head. There an old man crouched forward upon his litter,\nheld up on either side by two men in the uniform of the\nbrancardiers. . . . And so, in endless lines, they lay; from\nevery nation under heaven: Chinese were there, he saw, and\nnegroes; and the very air in which he walked seemed alight with\npain and longing.\n\nA great voice broke in suddenly on his musings; and, before he\ncould fix his attention as to what it said, the words were taken\nup by the hundreds of thousands of throats--a short, fervent\nsentence that rent the air like a thunder-peal. Ah! he remembered\nnow. These were the old French prayers, consecrated by a century\nof use; and as he passed on, slowly, step by step, watching now\nwith a backward glance the blessing of the sick that had just\nbegun--the sign of the cross made with the light golden\nmonstrance by the bishop who carried it--now the agonized eyes of\nexpectation that waited for their turn, he too began to hear, and\nto take up with his own voice those piteous cries for help.\n\n\"_Jesu! heal our sick. . . . Jesu! grant that we may see--may\nhear--may walk. . . . Thou art the Resurrection and the\nLife. . . . Lord! I believe; help Thou mine unbelief_.\" Then with\nan overwhelming triumph: \"_Hosanna to the Son of David! Hosanna,\nHosanna!_\" Then again, soft and rumbling: \"_O Mary, conceived\nwithout sin, hear us who have recourse to thee._\"\n\nThe sense of a great circumambient Power grew upon him at each\ninstant, sacramentalized, it seemed, by the solemn evening light,\nand evoked by this tense ardour of half a million souls, and\nfocused behind him in one burning point. . . .\n\nAh! there was the first miracle! . . . A cry behind him, an eddy\nin the circle of the sick and the waiting attendants, a figure\nwith shrouding linen fallen from breast and outstretched arms,\nand then a roar, mighty beyond reckoning, as the whole\namphitheatre swayed and cried out in exultation. He saw as in a\nvision the rush of doctors to the place, and the gesticulating\nfigures that held back the crowd behind the barrier. Then a great\nmoan of relief; and a profound silence as the _miracule_ kneeled\nagain beside the litter which had borne him. Then again the\ncanopy moved on; and the passionate voice cried, followed in an\ninstant by the roar of response:\n\n\"_Hosanna to the son of David._\"\n\n * * * * * * *\n\nIt was half-way round, at the foot of the church steps, that the\nGerman girl was laid; and as the prelates drew near Monsignor\nlooked rapidly to this side and that to identify her.\n\nAh! there she lay, still with closed patient eyes and colourless\nface, in the outer circle facing inwards towards the pulpit. A\ndoctor knelt on either side of her--one of them the young man who\nhad announced her coming into the hall this morning, with a\nrosary between his fingers. It was known to the crowd generally,\nMonsignor had learnt, that her case was exceptional; but it had\nbeen kept from them as to where she would lie, for fear that the\nexcitement might be too much concentrated.\n\nHe looked at her again, intently and carefully--at that waxen,\nfallen face, her helpless hands clasped across her breast with a\nstring of beads interwoven within them; and even as he looked\ndistrust once more surged within him, It was impossible, he told\nhimself--in spite of what he had seen that day in spite of that\nscore of leaping figures and the infectious roar that more than\ntwenty times in that short journey had set his pulses\na-beat. . . . He passed her, quickening his steps a little; then\nfaced about and watched.\n\nSlowly came the canopy. Its four bearers sweated visibly with\nthe effort; and the face of the bishop who bore the monstrance\nwas pale and streaked with moisture from the countless movements\nhe had made. Behind him came row after row of downcast faces,\nmen and women of every Religious Order on earth, and the tapers\nseen in perspective appeared as four almost continuous waving\nlines of soft light.\n\nThere had been a longer pause than usual since the last exulting\ncry of a sick man healed; and the silence between the cries from\nthe pulpit grew continually more acute. And yet nothing happened.\n\nThe bishop was signing now outwards over a man who lay next the\nGerman, with his face altogether hidden in a white and\nloathsomely suggestive mask; but there was no stir in answer. The\nbishop turned inwards and signed over a woman, and again there\nwas no movement.\n\n\"Thou art the Resurrection and the Life,\" cried the voice\nfrom the pulpit.\n\n\"_Thou art the Resurrection and the Life,_\" answered the\namphitheatre, as the bishop turned again outwards.\n\nMonsignor heard him sigh with the effort, and with the\nconsciousness too, perhaps, of who it was that lay here; he\nlifted the monstrance; the eyes of the girl opened. As he\nsigned to left and right she smiled. As he brought the\nmonstrance back she unclasped her hands and sat up.\n\n\n\n(V)\n\nThe three priests stood together that evening on the high roof of\na Carmelite priory, on the other side of the river, half a mile\naway, yet opposite the grotto, as the German girl came down to\nmake her thanksgiving.\n\nFrom where they stood it was impossible to make out a single\ndetail of that at which they looked. The priory stood on high\nground, itself towering above the crowded roofs that lay between\nthem and the river; and opposite rose up the masses of the hill\nat the foot of which was the sacred place itself.\n\nIt resembled to-night a picture all of fire. The churches on the\nleft were outlined in light, up to the last high line of roof\nagainst the dark starlit sky; and upon the spaces in between lay\nthe soft glow from the tens of thousands of torches that the\ncrowds carried beneath. Above the grotto the precipitous face of\nthe cliff showed black and sombre, except where the zigzag paths\nshone out in liquid wandering lines, where the folks stood packed\ntogether, unseeing, yet content to be present. In front, at the\nfoot, over the lake of fire where the main body of worshippers\nstood, glowed softly the cavern where Mary's feet had once\nrested, and where her power had lived now far beyond the memory\nof the oldest man present.\n\nFrom this distance few sounds could be heard except the steady\nmurmur of voices of those countless thousands. It was as the\nsteady roll of far-off wheels or of the tide coming in over a\nrocky beach; and even the sudden roar of welcome and triumph that\nannounced that the little procession had left the Place was soft\nand harmonious. There followed a long pause.\n\nThen, on a sudden, trumpets rang out, clear as silver,\nsharpened and reverberated by the rocks from which they\nsounded, and like the voice of a dreaming giant, came the great\nwords, articulate and distinct:--\n\n\"Magnificat anima mea Dominum.\"\n\n* * * * * * * *\n\n\"And you, Monsignor,\" asked Dom Adrian, as they stood half an\nhour later, still watching the lines of light writhe this way and\nthat as the crowds went home, \"you have asked Our Lady to give\nyou back your memory?\"\n\n\"I was at the grotto this afternoon,\" he said. \"It is not for me.\"\n\n\"Then there will be something better instead,\" smiled the young monk.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\n\n(I)\n\n\"So you go back to England to-morrow?\" said Father Adrian, as\nthey sat a night or two later in the guest-room of the French\nBenedictines, where the monk was staying.\n\n\"We start to-morrow night,\" said the old priest. \"Monsignor is\ninfinitely better, and we must both get back to work. And you?\"\n\n\"I stay here to finish the revising of my book,\" said the monk quietly.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nThe man who had lost his memory had piled impression on\nimpression during the last forty-eight hours. There was first the\ncase of the German girl. She had been examined by the same\ndoctors as those who had certified to her state half an hour\nbefore the cure, and the result had been telegraphed over the\nentire civilized world. The fracture was completely repaired; and\nalthough she was still weak from her long illness, she gained\nstrength every hour. Then there was the case of the Russian. He\ntoo had received back his sight, although not instantaneously; it\nhad come to him step by step. An hour ago he had been pronounced\nhealed, and had passed the usual tests in the examination-rooms.\nBut these cases, and others like them which the priests had\ninvestigated, were only a part of the total weight of impressions\nwhich Monsignor Masterman had received. He had seen here for\nhimself a relation between Science and Faith--a co-operation\nbetween them, with the exigencies of each duly weighed and\nobserved by them both--which set Nature and Supernature before\nhim in a completely new light. As Mr. Manners had said at\nWestminster a week or two before, the two seemed to have met at\nlast, each working from different quarters, on a platform on\nwhich they could work side by side. The facts were no longer\ndenied by either party. Science allowed for the mysteries of\nFaith; Faith recognized the achievements of Science. Each granted\nthat the other possessed a perfectly legitimate sphere of action\nin which the methods proper to that sphere were imperative and\nfinal. The scientist accepted the fact that Religion had a right\nto speak in matters that lay beyond scientific data; the\ntheologian no longer denounced as fraudulent or disingenuous the\nclaims of the scientist to exercise powers that were at last\nfound to be natural. Neither needed to establish his own position\nby attacking that of his partner, and the two accordingly,\nwithout prejudice or passion, worked together to define yet\nfurther that ever-narrowing range of ground between the two\nworlds which up to the present remained unmapped. Suggestion, for\nexample, acting upon the mutual relations of body and mind, was\nrecognized by the theologian as a force sufficient to produce\nphenomena which in earlier days he had claimed as evidently\nsupernatural. And, on the other side, the scientist no longer\nmade wild acts of faith in nature, in attributing to her\nachievements which he could not for an instant parallel by any\ndeliberate experiment. In a word, the scientist repeated, \"I\nbelieve in God \"; and the theologian, \"I recognize Nature.\"\n\nMonsignor sat apart in silence, while the others talked.\n\nHe had thought in Rome that he had reached interior conviction;\nhe understood now in Lourdes that his conviction had not gone so\ndeep as he had fancied. He had learned in Versailles that the\nChurch could reorganize society, in Rome that she could reconcile\nnations; he had seen finally in Lourdes that she could\nresolve philosophies.\n\nAnd this very discovery made him the more timid. For he began to\nwonder whether there were not yet further discoveries which he\nwould have to make--workings out and illustrations of the\nprinciples he had begun to perceive. How, for example, he began\nto ask himself, would the Church deal with those who did not\nrecognize her claims--those solitary individuals or groups here\nand there who, he knew, still clung pathetically to the old\ndreams of the beginning of the century--to the phantom of\nindependent thought and the intoxicating nightmare of democratic\ngovernment? It was certain now that these things were\ndreams--that it was ludicrously absurd to imagine that a man\ncould profitably detach himself from Revelation and the stream of\ntradition and development that flowed from it; that it was\nridiculous to turn creation upside-down and to attempt to govern\nthe educated few by the uneducated many. Yet people did\noccasionally hold impossible and absurd theories. . . . How,\nthen, would these be treated by the Church when once her power\nhad been finally consolidated? How was she to reconcile the\ngentleness of the Christian spirit with the dogmatism of the\nChristian claim? . . . He recalled one or two hints that Father\nJervis had let drop, and he was conscious of a touch of fear.\n\nHe woke up to externals again at the sound of a sentence or\ntwo from the monk.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" he said. \"What was that?\"\n\n\"I was saying that the news from Germany is disquieting.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Oh! nothing definite. They expect trouble. They say that the\nEmperor is extraordinarily interested in this girl's case, and\nthat the Socialists of Berlin are watching him. Berlin is their\nlast stronghold, you know.\"\n\n\"By the way,\" interrupted Father Jervis suddenly, \"I've enquired\nabout that man with the curious name--Zola. I find he had quite a\nvogue at one time. And now I come to think of it, I believe\nManners mentioned him.\"\n\n\"Zola?\" mused the monk. \"Yes, I'm nearly sure I've heard of him.\nWasn't he an Elizabethan?\"\n\n\"No, no. He died at the end of the last century. I find he did\nwrite a little romance about Lourdes. There was even a copy in\nthe library here. I hadn't time to look at it; but M. Meurot told\nme it was one of those odd little attacks on religion that were\npopular once. That's all I could find out.\"\n\nMonsignor compressed his lips. Somewhere out of his abysmal\nmemory there lurked a consciousness that Zola had once been of\nsome importance; but he could add nothing to the discussion.\n\nDom Adrian stood up and stretched himself.\n\n\"It's time for bed,\" he said. \"Look\" (he nodded towards the\nwindow), \"the devotions are just ending.\"\n\nFrom out of the luminous gulf beneath, beyond the tiers of roofs\nthat lay, step-like, between this hostel and the river, rose up\nthat undying song of Lourdes--that strange, haunting old melody of\nthe story of Bernadette, that for a hundred and fifty years had\nbeen sung in this place--a ballad-like song, without grace of\nmusic or art, which yet has so wonderful an affinity with the old\ncarols of Christendom, which yet is so unforgettable and so\naffecting. As the three stood side by side looking out of the\nwindow they saw the serpent of fire, that rope-coil of tapers\nthat, stretching round the entire Place, humped over the flights\nof steps and the platforms set amongst the churches, writhes\nincessantly on itself. But, even as they watched, the serpent grew\ndim and patchy, and the lights began to go out, as group after\ngroup broke away homewards. They had wished their Mother good\nnight, there in that great French town which has so wonderful an\naroma of little Nazareth; they had sung their thanksgivings; they\nhad offered their prayers. Now it was time to sleep under Her\nprotection, who was the Mother both of God and man. . . .\n\n\"Well, good night,\" said Monsignor. \"We shall meet in London.\"\n\n\"I hope so,\" said the young monk gravely.\n\n\"I am afraid that young man will be in trouble,\" said Father\nJervis softly, as they came down the steps. \"His book, you know.\"\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"Well, it's best not to talk of it. We shall soon know. He's as\nbrave as a lion.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nPART II\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n\n(I)\n\nMonsignor Masterman sat in his room at Westminster, busy at his\ncorrespondence.\n\nA week had passed since his return, and he had made extraordinary\nprogress. Even his face showed it. The piteous, bewildered look\nthat he had worn, as he first realized little by little how\ncompletely out of touch he was with the world in which he had\nfound himself after his lapse of memory, had wholly disappeared;\nand in its place was the keen, bright-eyed intelligence of a\ntypical ecclesiastic. It was not that his memory had returned.\nStill, behind his sudden awakening in Hyde Park, all was a misty\nblank, from which faces and places and even phrases started out,\nfor the most part unverifiable. Yet it seemed both to him and to\nthose about him that he had an amazing facility in gathering up\nthe broken threads. He had spent three or four days, after his\nreturn from Lourdes, closeted in private with Father Jervis or\nthe Cardinal, and had found himself at last capable of\nreadmitting his secretaries and of taking up his work again. The\nworld in general had been informed of his nervous breakdown, so\nthat on the few occasions when he seemed to suffer small lapses\nof memory no great surprise was felt.\n\nHe found, of course, a state of affairs that astonished him\nenormously. For example, he discovered that as the Cardinal's\nsecretary he was an extremely important person in the country. He\nhad not yet ventured much on private interviews--these were for\nthe present chiefly conducted by the Cardinal, with himself\npresent; but his correspondence showed him that his good word was\nworth having, even by men who were foremost in the government of\nthe day. There was, for instance, an immense amount of work to be\ndone on the subject of the relations of Church and State; for the\nChurch, it must be remembered, while not actually established,\nstood for the whole religious sentiment of the country, and must\nbe consulted on every measure of importance. There was, further,\nthe matter of the restoration of Church property not yet finally\nconcluded in all its details, with endless adjustments and\ncompensations still under discussion. This morning it was on the\nUniversity question that he was chiefly engaged, and particularly\nthe question as to the relative numbers of the lay and clerical\nFellows on the old Catholic foundations.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nA bell struck a single note; and one of his secretaries, sitting\nat the broad table near the window, lifted the receiver to his\near. Then he turned.\n\n\"His Eminence wishes to have a word with you, Monsignor,\non two matters.\"\n\nMonsignor stood up.\n\n\"I'll come now, if it's convenient,\" he said. \"I have to be at\nWestminster at twelve.\"\n\nThe secretary spoke again through the telephone.\n\n\"His Eminence is ready,\" he said.\n\nThe Cardinal looked up as the priest came in a minute later.\n\n\"Ah! good morning, Monsignor. Yes, sit down there. There are just\ntwo matters I want to have a word with you on. The first is as\nregards a heresy-trial of a priest.\"\n\nMonsignor bowed. It was his first experience of the kind, so\nfar as he could remember; and he did not yet fully understand\nall that it meant.\n\n\"I wish you to select the judges. You'll look up the procedure,\nif you forget? A Dominican must be on it, of course; so you\nmust communicate with the Provincial. The other two must be\nseculars, as the accused is a Religious. He has elected to be\ntried in England.\"\n\n\"Yes, your Eminence.\"\n\n\"He has behaved very reasonably, and refuses to take advantage of\nthe _Ne invitus_ clause.\"\n\n\"I forget at this moment,\" began Monsignor, vaguely conscious\nthat he had heard of this before.\n\n\"Oh! that gives him the right to suppress the book before\npublication. It's part of the new legislation. He has sent the\nthesis of his book, privately printed, to Rome, and it has been\ncondemned. He refuses to withdraw, as he is perfectly confident\nof his orthodoxy. I understand that the book is not yet\ncompletely finished, but he has his thesis clear enough. It is on\nthe subject of the miraculous element in religion.\"\n\n\"I beg your Eminence's pardon, but is the author a Benedictine\nby any chance?\"\n\nThe Cardinal smiled.\n\n\"Yes: I was coming to that. His name is Dom Adrian Bennett. He\nis--or rather ought to be--a Westminster monk, but his return has\nbeen deferred for the present.\"\n\n\"I met him at Lourdes, your Eminence.\"\n\n\"Ah! He is a very clever young man, and at the name time perfectly\ncourageous. . . . Well, you'll look up the procedure, if you're\nnot perfectly clear? And I should wish to have the names of the\njudges by tomorrow night. The Canon Theologian of the diocese may\nnot be well enough to act. But you will make arrangements.\"\n\n\"Yes, your Eminence.\"\n\n\"The second matter is exceedingly important.\" (The Cardinal began\nto play with the pen that lay on his desk.) \"And no rumour of it\nmust get out from this house. It may be made public at any\nmoment, and I wish you to know beforehand in order that you may\nnot be taken by surprise. Well, it is this. I have had\ninformation that the Emperor of Germany will be received into the\nCatholic Church to-night. I needn't tell you what that means. He\nis quite fearless and quite conscientious; and there is not the\nslightest doubt that he will, sooner or later, make it impossible\nfor the Socialists to congregate any longer in Berlin. That will\nmean either civil war in Germany--(I hear the Socialists have\nbeen in readiness for this for some time past)--or it will mean\ntheir dispersal everywhere. Europe, at any rate, will have to\ndeal with them. However, that's in the future. The important\nthing at the present is that we should be able to show our full\nstrength when the time comes. There will be thanksgivings\nthroughout England, of course, as soon as the news is published,\nand I wish you to be in readiness to make what arrangements are\nnecessary. It was the Lourdes miracle, which you witnessed, that\nhas finished the affair. As you know, the Emperor has been on the\nedge of this for months past.\"\n\nThe Cardinal spoke quietly and diplomatically enough; but the\nother could see how deeply moved he was by this tremendous\ndevelopment. The Emperor's position had been the one flaw in the\nCatholic organization of Europe--and indeed of the world. Now the\nlast stone was laid, and the arch was complete. The single\ndrawback was that no statesman or prophet could conjecture with\ncertainty what the effect on the Socialists would be.\n\n\"And how are you, Monsignor?\" asked the Cardinal suddenly,\nsmiling at him.\n\n\"I am getting on very well, your Eminence!\"\n\n\"I should like to say that, for myself, I am more than\nsatisfied,\" went on the other. \"You seem to me to have regained\nall your old grip on things--and in some points to have more than\nregained it. I have written to Rome----\" (he broke off).\n\n\"It's the details that still trouble me, your Eminence. For\ninstance, in this heresy-trial, I cannot remember the procedure,\nor the penalties, or anything else.\"\n\n\"That'll all come back,\" smiled the Cardinal. \"After all, the\nprinciples are the point. Well, I mustn't detain you. You're to\nbe at Westminster at twelve.\"\n\n\"Yes, your Eminence. We've nearly finished now. The monks are\nvery well satisfied. But the main body of them do not come to\nWestminster until they formally re-enter. Cardinal Campello has\nwritten to say that he will be with us on the 20th for certain.\"\n\n\"That is very good. . . . Then good morning, Monsignor.\"\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nIt was nearly midnight before Monsignor Masterman pushed away the\nbook that lay before him and leaned back in his chair. He felt\nsick and dazed at what he had read.\n\nFirst, he had studied with extreme care the constitution of the\nHeresy-Court, and had sent off a couple of hours ago the formal\nletters to the Dominican Provincial and two other priests whom he\nhad selected. Then he had studied the procedure of the court, and\nthe penalties assigned.\n\nAt first he could not believe what he read. He had turned more\nthan once to the title-page of the great quarto, thinking that he\nmust find it to be a reprint of some medieval work. But the title\nwas unmistakable. The book was printed in Rome in the spring of\nthe present year, and contained an English supplement, dealing\nwith the actual relations of the Church laws with those of the\ncountry. There were minor penalties for minor offences; there was\nat every turn an escape for the accused. He might, even in the\nlast event, escape all penalties by a formal renouncement of\nChristianity; but if not, if he persisted simultaneously in\nclaiming a place in the Church of Christ and in holding to a\ntheological opinion declared erroneous by the Court of Appeal\nratified by the Pope, he was to be handed over to the secular\narm; and by the laws of England--as well as of every other\nEuropean country except Germany--the penalty inflicted by the\nsecular arm was, in the instance of a tonsured clerk, death.\n\nIt was this that staggered the priest.\n\nSomewhere within him there rose up a protest so overwhelmingly\nstrong as to evade even an attempt at deliberate analysis--a\nprotest that rested on the axiom that spiritual crimes deserved\nonly spiritual punishment. This he could understand. He perceived\nclearly enough that no society can preserve its identity without\nlimitations; that no association can cohere without definite\nrules that must be obeyed. He was sufficiently educated then to\nunderstand that a man who chooses to disregard the demands of a\nspiritual society, however arbitrary these demands may seem to\nbe, can no longer claim the privileges of the body to which he\nhas hitherto adhered. But that death--brutal physical\ndeath--could by any civilized society--still less any modern\nChristian society--be even an alternative penalty for heresy,\nshocked him beyond description.\n\nA ray of hope had shone on him when he first read the facts. It\nmight be, perhaps, that this was merely a formal sentence, as\nwere the old penalties for high treason abandoned long before\nthey were repealed. He turned to the index; and after a search\nleaned back again in despair. He had seen half a dozen cases\nquoted, within the last ten years, in England alone, in which the\npenalty had been inflicted.\n\nIt was half an hour before he stood up, with one determination at\nleast formed in his mind--that he would consult no one. He had\nlearnt in the last few weeks sufficient distrust of himself to\nrefrain from formulating conclusions too soon, and he learnt\nenough of the world in which he found himself to understand that\npositions accepted as self-evident by society in general, which\nyet seemed impossible to himself, after all occasionally turned\nout to be at least not ridiculous.\n\nBut to think that it was the young monk with whom he had talked\nat Lourdes who was to be the centre of the process he himself had\nto prepare! . . . He understood now some of the hints that Dom\nAdrian Bennett had let fall.\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nA card was brought up to him a couple of evenings later as he\nsat at his desk; and as he turned it over Father Jervis\nhimself hurried in.\n\n\"May I speak to you alone an instant?\" he said; and glanced at\nthe secretaries, who rose and went out without a word.\n\n\"You look unwell,\" said the old priest keenly, as he sat down.\n\nMonsignor waved a deprecatory hand.\n\n\"Well--I'm glad I caught you in time,\" went on the other. \"I saw\nthe man come in; and wondered whether you knew about him.\"\n\n\"Mr. Hardy?\"\n\n\"Yes--James Hardy.\"\n\n\"Well--I just know he's not a Catholic; and something of a politician.\"\n\n\"Well, he's quite the shrewdest man the secularists have got.\nHe's a complete materialist. And I've not the slightest doubt\nhe's heard of your illness and has come to see whether he can\nfish anything out of you. He's exceedingly plausible; and very\ndangerous. I don't know what he's come about, but you may be\ncertain it's something important. It may be to do with the\nReligious Houses; or the Bill for the re-establishment of the\nChurch. But you may depend upon it, it's something vital. I\nthought I'd better remind you who he is.\"\n\nThe priest stood up.\n\n\"Thank you very much, father. Is there anything else? Have you\nany news for me?\"\n\nFather Jervis smiled.\n\n\"No, Monsignor. You know more than I do, now. . . . Well, I'll\ntell Mr. Hardy you'll see him. Number one parlour?\"\n\n\"That'll do very well. Thanks.\"\n\nIt was growing towards dusk as Monsignor Masterman passed down\nthe corridor a few minutes later; and he paused a moment to\nglance out upon the London street through the tall window at the\nend. Not that there was anything particular to be seen there;\nindeed the street, at the moment he looked, was entirely empty.\nBut he looked up for an instant at the great electric news-sheet\nwhere the headlines were displayed, above the corner shop on the\nway to Victoria Street where the papers were sold. But there was\nno news. There was the usual announcement of the weather\nconditions, a reference to one or two land-cases, and a\npolitical statement.\n\nThen he went on.\n\nThe parlour with the glass doors was lighted, and a man in a\nblack lawyer's dress stood up to greet him as he came in. He was\nrosy-faced and genial, clean shaven, above the middle-height, and\nhis manner was very deferential and attractive.\n\nThe first minute or two was taken up by Mr. Hardy's\ncongratulations on the other's appearance, and on his complete\nrecovery. There was not a trace of anxiety or nervousness in his\nmanner; and the priest almost insensibly found himself beginning\nto discount his friend's warning. Then, quite suddenly, the other\nturned to business.\n\n\"Well, I suppose I must come to the point. What I want to ask is\nthis, Monsignor. Can you tell me in confidence (I assure you I\nwill be discreet) whether the ecclesiastical authorities here\nrealize the rush of Socialists that is bound to come, so soon as\nthe Emperor's conversion is publicly announced.\"\n\n\"I----\" began the priest.\n\n\"One moment, please, Monsignor. I do not in the least want to\nforce any confidences. But you know we infidels\"--(he smiled\ncharmingly and modestly)--\"we infidels regard you as our best\nfriends. The State seems to know nothing of mercy. But the Church\nis always reasonable. And we poor Socialists must live somewhere.\nSo I wished----\"\n\n\"But my dear sir,\" began Monsignor. \"I think you're assuming too\nmuch. Has the Emperor shown any signs---?\"\n\nAcross the other's face he suddenly saw pass a look of complete\nvacancy, as if he were no longer attending; and, simultaneously,\nhe heard a sudden sound which he could not at first identify,\nthrough the open windows looking on to Ambrosden Avenue.\n\n\"What is that?\" exclaimed the lawyer sharply; and stood up.\n\nAgain from the street there rose the roar of voices, cheering,\nfollowed by a sharp punctuating cry.\n\n\"Come this way,\" said the priest. \"We can see from the corridor.\"\n\nWhen they reached the window the whole aspect of the street had\nchanged. Half-way from where they stood, to the end where the\nsheet placard was erected, was a gathering, surging mob,\nincreasing as they looked. From the left, from behind the west\nend of the cathedral clock a continual stream poured in, met by\ntwo others, the one, down the avenue, of figures that ran and\ngesticulated, the other from the direction of Victoria Street.\nAnd from the whole arose gusts of cheering, marking the pauses in\nthe speech of some tiny figure which, mounted beside the\nnews-sheet, appeared to be delivering a speech.\n\nMonsignor glanced at the news-sheet, and there, in gigantic\nletters, over the space where the weather had been discussed just\nnow, was the announcement made public at the very instant when\nthe leader of the English Socialists was attempting to discover\nthe truth of the rumour that had reached him:--\n\nTHE EMPEROR OF GERMANY WAS RECEIVED INTO THE CATHOLIC CHURCH ON\nTHURSDAY EVENING.\n\nAnd beneath it:\n\nPROCLAMATION TO THE SOCIALISTS EXPECTED TO-NIGHT.\n\nMonsignor read it, unconscious of all else except the astounding\nfact. Then he turned to speak, but found himself alone.\n\n\n\n(IV)\n\nLondon went soberly mad with enthusiasm that night, and\nMonsignor Masterman, standing on the cathedral roofs with half\na dozen priests, watched what could be seen of the excitement\nfor half an hour, before going downstairs for the _Te Deum_ in\nthe great church.\n\nThe cathedral was, indeed, largely, the centre round which\nthe-enthusiasm concentrated itself. Two other whirlpools eddied\nin Parliament Square, and round St. Paul's, where the Archbishop\nof London preached a sermon from the steps. Even these facts,\nalthough in a sense he knew they must be so, drove home into the\npriest's mind the realization of how the Church was, once again,\nas five hundred years ago, the centre and not merely a department\nof the national life.\n\nIn every direction, as he leaned over Ambrosden Avenue, as he\nlooked down Francis Street to right and left, everywhere nothing\nof the streets was visible under the steadily moving pavement of\nheads. Every space between the tall houses resembled the flow of\nan intricate stream, with its currents, its eddies, its\nback-waters, beneath the clear radiance of the artificial light.\nHere and there actors were seen gesticulating in dumb show, for\nall sounds were drowned in the steady subdued roar of voices.\nThere was no delirium, no horse-play; the citizens were too well\ndisciplined. Occasionally from this point or that a storm of\ncheering broke out as some great man was recognized.\n\nAbout half-past nine mounted policemen began to make their\nappearance from Victoria Street, and an open way was gradually\nformed leading to a cleared space in front of the Cathedral. Ten\nminutes later cars began to follow, as the great folks began to\narrive for the _Te Deum_, and almost simultaneously the bells\nbroke out, led by the solemn crash of the great \"St. Edward\"\nfrom the campanile.\n\n\n\n(V)\n\nThey read in the morning the full text of the proclamation to\nthe Socialists.\n\nAs Monsignor Masterman carne up from breakfast, he felt his arm\ntaken, and there was Father Jervis, his clever old face lit up by\nexcitement. He too carried a morning paper under his arm.\n\n\"I want to have a talk with you about this,\" he said, \"Have you\nseen the Cardinal yet?\"\n\n\"I'm to see him at ten. I feel perfectly helpless. I don't\nunderstand in the least.\"\n\n\"Have you read it through yet?\"\n\n\"No, I glanced at it only. I wish you'd help me through, father.\"\n\nThe old priest nodded.\n\n\"Well, we'll read every word of it first,\"\n\nAs they passed into the sitting-room, the prelate slipped forward\nthe little door-plate that announced that he was within, but\nengaged. Then, without a word, they sat down, and there was dead\nsilence for twenty minutes, broken only by the rustle of turning\npages, and an occasional murmur of raised voices from the groups\nthat still wandered round the Cathedral--pools of that vast river\nthat had filled every channel last night. Father Jervis uttered a\nsmall exclamation once or twice.\n\nMonsignor laid down the sheets at last and sighed.\n\n\"Finished, father?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! I've been re-reading. Now let us talk.\"\n\nFather Jervis turned back to the front page, settled the paper on\nhis knee, and leaned back.\n\n\"The main point is this,\" he said. \"Repressive measures will be\npassed in Germany, as soon as the act can be got through. That\nwill mean that Germany will be brought up into line with the rest\nof Europe, America, Australia, and half Asia, throughout her\nwhole empire. That will mean again that our own repressive\nmeasures will really and truly be put into force. At present they\nare largely inoperative.\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\"\n\n\"Well, we've got laws against things like blasphemy and heresy,\nand particularly the dissemination of heresy, and all the rest;\nbut they're practically never put into force except in very\nflagrant cases. For instance, Socialist and infidel speeches can\nbe delivered freely in what are called private houses, which are\nreally clubs. Well, that sort of thing cannot possibly go on. The\ninfidels have complained of tyranny, of course--that's part of\nthe game. As a matter of fact they've been perfectly free, unless\nthey gave actually public offence. They've distributed their\npamphlets and done what they liked. Well, of course it was\nimpossible to be really strict so long as Germany was lax. They\ncould always meet in Berlin, and have their pamphlets printed\nthere; and we could do nothing. But, you see, the whole\nsituation's changed with the Emperor's conversion. He's one of\nthose heavy, consistent men--quite stupid, of course--who act\ntheir principles right out to the farthest detail. So long as he\nwas agnostic he allowed almost anything to go on. And now he's a\nChristian he'll understand that that must stop. He's responsible\nbefore God, you see, as the ruler----\"\n\n\"But the people. What of the people?\"\n\nFather Jervis stared.\n\n\"The people? Why, they're the ruled, aren't they?\"\n\n\"But--er--democracy----\"\n\n\"Democracy? Why, no one believes in that, of course. How could they?\"\n\n\"Go on, father.\"\n\n\"But, Monsignor, you must get that clear. You must remember we're\nreally educated people, not half-educated.\"\n\nMonsignor twitched with irritation. He could not understand even yet.\n\n\"Father, do you mean that the people won't resent this sudden\nchange of front on the part of the Emperor? Certainly, if\nthey're really liberally-minded they'll tolerate his following\nhis own conscience. But how can they justify his suddenly\ndictating to them?\"\n\nThe priest leaned forward a little. His old manner came back, and\nonce more he spoke to Monsignor as to a child.\n\n\"Monsignor, listen carefully, please. I assure you you're\ncompletely out of date. What the German people will say now is\nthis: 'Up to now the Emperor has been agnostic, and therefore he\nhas not allowed any laws against heresy. Now he is a Catholic,\nand therefore he will cause laws to be passed against heresy.'\"\n\n\"And they won't resent that?\" snapped the prelate, now\nthoroughly irritated.\n\nFather Jervis lifted a pacific hand.\n\n\"My dear friend, the Germans--like all other educated\nnations--believe that their ruler is meant by God to rule them.\nAnd they also believe that Catholicism is the true religion. Very\nwell, then. When a ruler is Catholic they obey him implicitly,\nbecause they know that he will be kept straight in all matters of\nright and wrong by the Pope, who is the Representative of God. In\nnon-vital matters they will obey him because he is their ruler,\nand therefore they are bound in conscience to do so.\"\n\n\"And when the ruler is not Catholic?\"\n\n\"Again, in non-vital matters they will obey him. And in vital\nmatters--supposing, that is, he passed a law against Christianity\n(which, of course, nowadays no man could certainly do)--then they\nwould appeal to the Pope, and, if the law was enforced, disobey\nit and take the penalties.\"\n\n\"Then the Pope is the real ruler--the final court of appeal?\"\n\n\"Certainly. Who else should be? Isn't he the Vicar of Christ?\"\n\nThere was a pause.\n\n\"There,\" said the priest more easily. \"And now we really must get\nback to the point. I said just now that the conversion of the\nEmperor will mean a tightening up of repressive measures against\nthe infidels everywhere. They won't be allowed to congregate, or\ndisseminate their views any longer.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Well, the point is, what will happen? There must be an\nexplosion or a safety-valve. And even if there is an explosion\nthere must be a safety-valve afterwards, or there will be\nanother explosion.\"\n\n\"What you told me about America----\"\n\n\"That was on the tip of my tongue,\" said Father Jervis. \"And I\nexpect that'll be the solution.\"\n\n\"Let's see,\" said Monsignor reflectively, \"you told me there were\ncertain cities in America where infidels were tacitly allowed to\nhave things their own way--I think you mentioned Boston?\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"And you think that that will be officially authorized now--I\nmean that there will be definite colonies where the infidels will\nbe allowed complete liberty?\"\n\n\"Under restrictions--yes.\"\n\n\"What sort of restrictions?\"\n\n\"Well, they won't be allowed to have an army or an aery----\"\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"An aery,\" repeated Father Jervis--\"an air-fleet, I mean. That\nwouldn't do: they might make war.\"\n\n\"I see.\"\n\n\"I don't see what better safety-valve could be suggested. They\ncould work out their own ideas there as much as they liked. Of\ncourse, details would come later.\"\n\n\"And the rest of the Proclamation?\" asked the other,\nlifting the sheet.\n\n\"I think we've got at the essentials,\" said the priest, glancing\nagain at his own copy, \"and at the immediate results. Of course,\nall his other measures don't come into force till the Houses pass\nthem. In fact, nothing of the Proclamation has force until that\nhappens. I expect the Bill for the Establishment of Catholicism\nwill take some time. We shall get ours through before that.\nThey'll pass a few small measures immediately, no doubt--as to\nthe Court chaplains and so on.\"\n\nThere was a pause.\n\n\"I really think we've got at the principles,\" said the priest\nagain, meditatively. \"Are they clear to you?\"\n\nMonsignor rose.\n\n\"I think so,\" he said. \"I'm very much obliged, Father. I'm sorry\nI was stupid just now; but you know it's extraordinarily\nbewildering to me. I still don't seem to be able to grasp all you\nsaid about Democracy.\"\n\nThe old priest smiled reassuringly.\n\n\"Well, you see, the universal franchise reduced Democracy _ad\nabsurdum_ fifty years ago. Even the uneducated saw that. And then\nthere came the reaction to the old king-idea again.\"\n\nMonsignor shook his head.\n\n\"I don't see how the people ever consented to give up the power\nwhen once they'd got it.\"\n\n\"Why, in the same way that kings used to lose it in the old\ndays--by revolution.\"\n\n\"Revolution? Who revolted?\"\n\n\"The many who were tyrannised over by the few. For that's what\ndemocracy really means.\"\n\nMonsignor smiled at what he conceived to be a paradox.\n\n\"Well, I must go to the Cardinal,\" he said. \"It's just on ten o'clock.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n\n(I)\n\nIt was three weeks later that the Benedictines took formal\npossession of Westminster Abbey, and simultaneously that\nPontifical High Mass was sung in the University churches of\nOxford, Cambridge, and Durham, to mark the inauguration of\ntheir new life.\n\nMonsignor Masterman was appointed to attend upon the Cardinals in\nthe Abbey; and as he awoke that morning, it seemed to him once\nmore as if he were living in a dream of strange and intoxicating\nunreality. Everywhere in the house, as he passed along the\ncorridors, as he gave and received last instructions before\nstarting, there seemed the same tension of expectancy. Finally,\nas he went up to the Cardinals' rooms to announce the start, he\nfound the two prelates, both in their scarlet, sitting in\nsilence, looking out over the crowded silent streets.\n\nHe bowed at the door without speaking, and then, turning, led the way.\n\nAs they came down to the door where the horsed State carriages\nwere waiting, for a moment the wall and the avenue of faces, in\nfront and to right and left, struck him almost with a sense of\nhostility. A murmur that was almost a roar greeted the gleam of\nscarlet as the Cardinals came out; then silence again, and a surge\nof down-bent heads as the two raised their hands in blessing.\n\nMonsignor himself sat facing the Cardinals in the glass coach, as\nat a foot-pace the six white horses, with grooms and postillions,\ndrew them slowly past the long length of the Cathedral, round to\nthe right, and into Victoria Street. There he drew a long breath,\nfor he had never seen or dreamed of such a sight as that which\nmet him. From end to end of the side street, and in the direction\nof Old Victoria Station, across the roadway as well, from every\nwindow and from every roof, looked a silent sea of faces, that\nbroke into sound and rippling motion as the last carriage came in\nsight. He had not realized till this moment the tremendous appeal\nto the imagination which this formal restoration of the old Abbey\nto the sons of its original founders and occupants made to the\npopular mind. Here again there had been working in his mind an\nundefined sense that the Church had her interests, and the nation\nhers. He had not understood that the two were identified once\nmore; and identified, too, to a degree which had perhaps never\nbefore been reached. Even in medieval days there had been crises\nand even periods during which the secular power stood on one side\nand the sacred on another; as when Henry had faced St. Thomas,\nwith the nation torn in factions behind the two champions. But\nthe lesson, it seemed, had been learned at last; Caesar had\nlearned that God was his ultimate sanction: and Church and\nnation, now perhaps for the first time, stood together as soul\nand body united in one personality.\n\nIf Victoria Street suggested such a thought as this, Parliament\nSquare drove it home. As the coach drew up at the west door of\nthe Abbey, and Monsignor stepped out with his robes about him, he\nheard, like a ground-bass to the ecstatic pealing of the bells\noverhead, the great roar of welcome roll out over the wide space,\nreverberate back from Westminster Hall and the Government\nBuildings opposite, and die down into heart-shaking silence\nagain, as the vermilion flash was seen at the Abbey doors. The\ngreat space was filled in every foot with a crowd that was of one\nheart and soul in its welcome of this formal act of restitution.\n\nWithin, the monks waited, headed by their abbot, in a wide circle\nof some hundred persons, in the extreme end of the nave about the\ndoor. The proper formalities were carried out; and the seculars,\nled by the Cardinals, passed up the enormous church, between the\ntapestries that hung from every pillar, to the music of the _Ecce\nSacerdos magnus_.\n\nThe old monuments were gone, of course--removed to St.\nPaul's--and for the first time for nearly three hundred years it\nwas possible to see the monastic character of the church as its\nbuilders had designed it. Over the screen hung now again the\nGreat Rood with Mary and John; and the altars of the Holy Cross\nand St. Benedict stood on either side of the choir-gates.\n\nAnd so they waited, the Cardinals in their thrones beside the\nhigh-altar, and the man who had lost his memory beside them;\nwhile the organ pealed out continuously overhead and endless\nfootsteps went to and fro over the carpeted ways and the open\nstone spaces of the transepts. Once more upon this man, so\nbewildered by this new world in which he found himself,\ndescended a flood of memories and half-perceived images. He\nlooked up to the far-off vaulted roof and the lantern beneath\nthe central tower; he looked down the long row of untenanted\nstalls; across the transepts, clean and white again now as at\nthe beginning, filled from end to end across the floor with the\nwhite of surplices and the dusky colours of half the religious\nhabits of the world; he caught here and there the gleam of\ncandle-flames and gold and carving from the new altars, set back\nagain, so far as might be, in their old stations; and again it\nseemed to him that he had lived in some world of the\nimagination, as if he saw things which kings and prophets had\ndesired to see and had not seen unless in visions of faith and\nhope that never found fulfilment.\n\nHe whispered softly to himself sometimes; old forgotten names and\nscenes and fragments came back. It seemed to him as if in some\nother life he had once stood here--surely there in that\ntransept--a stranger and an outcast--watching a liturgy which was\nstrange to him, listening to music, lovely indeed to the ear, yet\nwholly foreign in this home of monks and prayer. Surely great\nstatues had stood before them--statesmen in perukes who silently\ndeclaimed secular rhetoric in the house of God, swooning women,\nimpossible pagan personifications of grief, medallions, heathen\nwreaths, and broken columns. Yet here as he looked there was\nnothing but the decent furniture of a monastic church--tall\nstalls, altars, images of the great ones of heaven, wide eloquent\nspaces that gave room to the soul to breathe. . . . He had\ndreamed the other perhaps; he had read histories; he had seen\npictures. . . .\n\nThe organ broke off in full blast; and under the high roofs came\npealing the cry of a trumpet. He awoke with a start; the\nCardinals were already on their feet at a gesture from a master\nof ceremonies. Then he stepped into his place and went down with\nthem to the choir-gates to meet the King. . . .\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nIt was in the Jerusalem chamber when the King was gone, a couple\nof hours later, that the new abbot of Westminster came up to him.\nHe was a small, rosy man with very clear, beautiful eyes.\n\n\"Can you speak to me for five minutes, Monsignor?\" he said.\n\nThe other glanced across at the Cardinals.\n\n\"Certainly, father abbot.\"\n\nThe two went out, down a little passage, and into a\nparlour. They sat down.\n\n\"It's about Dom Adrian,\" said the abbot abruptly.\n\nMonsignor checked the sudden shock that ran through him. He knew\nhe must show no emotion.\n\n\"It's terribly on my conscience,\" went on the other, with\ndistress visibly growing as he spoke. \"I feel I ought to have\nseen which way he was going. He was one of my novices, you know,\nbefore we were transferred. . . . He would have been here to-day\nif all had been well. He was to have been one of my monks. I\nsuggested his name.\"\n\nMonsignor Masterman began to deprecate the\nself-accusation of the other.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said the abbot sharply. \"But the point is whether\nanything can be done. The trial begins on Monday, you see.\"\n\n\"Will he submit?\"\n\nThe abbot shook his head.\n\n\"I don't think so. He's extraordinarily determined. But I wanted\nto know if you could give me any hope on the other side. Could\nyou do anything for him with the Cardinal, or at Rome?\"\n\n\"I . . . I will speak to the Cardinal, certainly, if you wish.\nBut----\"\n\n\"Yes, I know. But you know a great deal depends on the temper\nof the court. Facts depend for their interpretation upon the\npoint of view.\"\n\n\"But I understand that it's definite heresy--that he denies that\nthere is any distinction between the miracles of the Church and----\"\n\nThe abbot interrupted.\n\n\"Yes, yes, Monsignor. But for all that there's a great deal in\nthe way these things are approached. You see there's so much\nneutral ground on which the Church has defined nothing.\"\n\n\"I am afraid, from what I've seen of the papers, that Dom Adrian\nwill insist on a clear issue.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so: I'm afraid so. We'll do our best here to persuade\nhim to be reasonable. And I thought that if you would perhaps do\nyour best on the other side--would tell the Cardinal, as from\nyourself, what you think of Dom Adrian.\"\n\nMonsignor nodded.\n\n\"If we could but postpone the trial for a while,\" went on the\nabbot almost distractedly. \"That poor boy! His face has been with\nme all to-day.\"\n\nFor an instant Monsignor almost gave way. He felt himself on the\npoint of breaking out into a burst of protest against the whole\naffair--of denouncing the horror and loathing that during these\nlast days had steadily grown within him--a horror that so far he\nhad succeeded in keeping to himself. Then once more he crushed it\ndown, and stood up for fear his resolution should give way.\n\n\"I will do what I can, my lord,\" he said coldly.\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nA great restlessness seized upon the man who had lost his\nmemory that night.\n\nHe had thought after his return from abroad that things were well\nwith him again--that he had learned the principles of this world\nthat was so strange to him; and his busy days--all that had to be\ndone and recovered, and his success in doing it--these things at\nonce distracted and soothed him. And now once more he was back in\nhis bewilderment.\n\nOne great principle it was which confused his whole outlook--the\nemployment of force upon the side of Christianity. Here, on the\nlarge scale, was the forcible repression of the Socialists; on a\nsmall scale, the punishment of a heretic. What kind of religion\nwas this that preached gentleness and practised violence? . . .\n\nBetween eleven and twelve o'clock he could bear it no longer. The\nhouse was quiet, and the lights for the most part gone out. He\ntook his hat and thin cloak, throwing this round him so as to\nhide the purple at his throat, went softly down the corridors and\nstairs, and let himself out noiselessly into Ambrosden Avenue. He\nfelt he must have air and space: he was beginning almost to hate\nthis silent, well-ordered ecclesiastical house, where wheels ran\nso smoothly, so inexorably, and so effectively.\n\nHe came out presently into Victoria Street and turned westwards.\n\nHe did not notice much as he went. Only his most superficial\nfaculties paid attention to the great quiet lighted thoroughfare,\nto the few figures that moved along, to the scattered sentinels\nof the City of Westminster police in their blue and silver, who\nhere and there stood at the corners of the cross-streets, who\nsaluted him as he went by; to the little lighted shrines that\nhere and there hung at the angles. Certainly it was a Catholic\ncity, he perceived in his bitterness, drilled and disciplined by\nits religion; there was no noise, no glare, no apparent evil. And\nthe marvel was that the people seemed to love to have it so! He\nremembered questioning a friend or two soon after his return to\nEngland as to the revival of these Curfew laws, and the\nxtraordinary vigilance over morals; and the answer he had\nreceived to the effect that those things were taken now as a\nmatter of course. One priest had told him that civilization in\nthe modern sense would be inconceivable without them. How else\ncould the few rule the many? . . .\n\nHe came down, across Parliament Square, to the river at last,\nwalking swiftly and purposelessly. A high gateway, with a\nguard-room on either side, spanned the entrance to the wide\nbridge that sprang across to Southwark, and an officer stepped\nout as he approached, saluted, and waited.\n\nHe drove down his impatience with an effort, remembering the\n_espionage_ (as he called it) practised after nightfall.\n\n\"I want to breathe and look at the river,\" he said sharply.\n\nThe officer paused an instant.\n\n\"Very good, father,\" he said.\n\nAh, this was better! . . . The bridge, empty from end to end, so\nfar as he could see, ran straight over to the south side, where,\nonce again, there rose up the guard-house. He turned sharply when\nhe saw it, and leaned on the parapet looking eastwards.\n\nThe eternal river flowed beneath him, clean and steady and\nstrong, between the high embankments. (He knew by now all about\nthe lock-system that counteracted the ebb and flow of the tides.)\nScarcely a hundred yards away curved out another bridge, and\nbehind that another and another, down into the distance, all\noutlined in half-lights that shone like stars and flashed back\nlike heaven itself from the smooth-running water beneath. An\nextraordinary silence lay over all--the silence of a sleeping\ncity--though it was scarcely yet midnight, and though the city\nitself on either side of the river lay white and glowing in the\nlights that burned everywhere till dawn.\n\nAt first it quieted him--this vision of earthly peace, this\nperfection to which order and civilization had come; and then, as\nhe regarded it, it enraged him. . . .\n\nFor was not this very vision an embodiment of the force that he\nhated? It was this very thing that oppressed and confined his\nspirit--this inexorable application of eternal principles to\ntemporal affairs. Here was a city of living men, each an\nindividual personality, of individual tastes, thoughts, and\npassions, each a world to himself and monarch of that world. Yet\nby some abominable trick, it seemed, these individuals were not\nmerely in external matters forced to conform to the Society which\nthey helped to compose, but interiorly too; they actually had\nbeen tyrannized over in their consciences and judgments, and\nloved their chains. If he had known that the fires of revolt lay\nthere sleeping beneath this smooth exterior he would have hated\nit far less; but he had seen with his own eyes that it was not\nso. The crowds that had swarmed a while ago round the Cathedral,\npouring in and filling it for the _Te Deum_ of thanksgiving that\none more country had been brought under the yoke; the sea of\nfaces that had softly applauded and bowed beneath the blessing of\nthose two Cardinals in scarlet; the enthusiasm, the more amazing\nin its silent orderliness, which had greeted the restoration of\nthe old national Abbey to its Benedictine founders--even the very\ninterviews he had had with quiet, deferential men, who, he\nunderstood, stood at the very head of the secular powers; the\nmemory of the young King kissing the ring of the abbot at the\nsteps into the choir--all these things proved plainly enough that\nby some supernatural alchemy the very minds of men had been\ntransformed, that they were no longer free to rebel and resent\nand assert inalienable rights--in short, that a revolution had\npassed over the world such as history had never before known,\nthat men no longer lived free and independent lives of their own,\nbut had been persuaded to contribute all that made them men to\nthe Society which they composed.\n\nHe perceived now clearly that it was this forced contribution\nthat he hated---this merging of the individual in the body, and\nthe body one of principles that were at once precise and\nimmutable. It was the extinction of Self.\n\nThen, almost without perceiving the connection, he turned in his\nmind to Christianity as he conceived it to be--to his ideal\nfigure of Christ; and in an instant he saw the contrast, and why\nit was that the moral instinct within him loathed and resented\nthis modern Christian State.\n\nFor it was a gentle Figure that stood to him for Christ--God?\nyes, in some profound and mysterious way, but, for all earthly\npurposes of love and imitation, a meek and persuasive Man whose\nkingdom was not of this world, who repudiated violence and\ninculcated love; One who went through the world with simple tasks\nand soft words, who suffered without striking, who obeyed with no\ndesire to rule.\n\nAnd what had this tranquil, tolerant Figure in common with the\nstrong discipline of this Church that bore His name--a Church\nthat had waited so long, preaching His precepts, until she grew\nmighty and could afford to let them drop: this Church which,\nafter centuries of blood and tears, at last had laid her hands\nupon the sceptre, and ruled the world with whom she had pleaded\nin vain so long; this Church who, after two thousand years of\npain, had at last put her enemies under her feet--\"repressed\" the\ninfidel and killed the heretic?\n\nAnd so the interior conflict went on within this man, who found\nwithin him a Christianity with which the Christian world in which\nhe lived had no share or part. He still stared out in the soft\nautumn night at the huge quiet city, his chin on his hands and\nhis elbows on the parapet, half perceiving the parable at which\nhe looked. Once it was this river beneath him that had made the\ncity; now the city set the river within bars and ordered its\ngoings. Once it was Christianity--the meek and gentle spirit of\nChrist--that had made civilization; now civilization had fettered\nChristianity in unbreakable chains. . . . Yet even as he resented\nand rebelled, he felt he dared not speak. There were great forces\nabout him, forces he had experienced for himself--Science tamed\nat last, self-control, organization, and a Peace which he could\nnot understand. Every man with whom he had to do seemed kind and\ntender; there was the patient old priest who taught him and bore\nwith him as with a child, the fatherly cardinal, the quiet,\nserene ecclesiastics of the house in which he lived, the\ncontrolled crowds, the deferential great men with whom he talked.\nBut it was their very strength, he saw, that made them tender;\nthe appalling power of the machine, which even now he felt that\nhe but half understood, was the very thing that made it run so\nsmoothly. It had the horror of a perfectly controlled steel\npiston that moves as delicately as a feather fan.\n\nFor he saw how inexorable was that strength which controlled the\nworld; how ruthless, in spite of smooth and compassionate words,\ntowards those who resisted it. The Socialists were to be\n\"repressed\"; the heretic was to be tried for his life; and in all\nthat wide world in which he lived it seemed that there was not\none Christian who recoiled, not one breath of public opinion that\ncould express itself.\n\nAnd he--he who hated it--must take his part. A Fate utterly\nbeyond his understanding had set him there as a wheel in that\nmighty machine; and he must revolve in his place motionlessly and\nunresistingly in whatever task was set before him. . . .\n\nOnce only, as he stared out at the great prosperous view, did his\nheart sicken and fail him. He dropped his face upon his hands,\nand cried to the only Christ whom he knew in silence. . . .\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n\n(I)\n\nIt was not until the afternoon of the third day, as the trial of\nDom Adrian Bennett drew to its close, that the man who had lost\nhis memory could no longer resist the horrible fascination of the\naffair, and presented himself at the door of the court-room. He\nhad learned that morning that the end of the trial was in sight.\n\nIt was outside a block of buildings somewhere to the north of St.\nPaul's Cathedral that the car set him down. He learned at the\nporter's lodge the number of the court, and then passed in,\nfollowing his directions, through a quadrangle that was all\nalight with scarlet creepers, where three or four ecclesiastics\nsaluted him, up a staircase or two, and found himself at last at\na tall door bearing the number he wanted. As he hesitated to\nknock, the door opened, and a janitor came out.\n\n\"Can I go in?\" asked the priest. \"I am from Archbishop's House.\"\n\n\"I can take you into the gallery at the back, Monsignor,\" said\nthe man. \"The body of the court is full.\"\n\n\"That will do.\"\n\nThey went round a corner together and came to a door up three or\nfour stairs. The janitor unlocked this and threw it back. Farther\nsteps rose within the doorway, and Monsignor as he set foot on\nthe first had a vivid impression that the court he was\napproaching was crowded with people. There was no sound at first,\nbut an atmosphere of intense and expectant force.\n\nIt was a little curtained gallery in which the priest found\nhimself, not unlike a box at a theatre, looking out upon the\ncourt from the corner immediately adjacent to the wall against\nwhich the raised seats of the judges were placed. He looked round\nthe court, himself sitting a little back in a kind of shame,\nfirst identifying the actors in this dreadful drama. He was glad\nthat the gallery had no other occupant than himself.\n\nFirst there were the judges--three men sitting beneath a\ncanopied roof, beneath which, over their heads, hung a large\nblack and white crucifix. He knew them, all three. There was the\nDominican in the centre--one of that Order which has had charge\nof heresy-courts since the beginning--a large-faced, kindly\nfeatured, rosy man, with a crown of white hair, leaning back now\nwith closed eyes, listening, and obviously alert; on his right,\nfarther from the spectator, sat the Canon-Theologian of\nWestminster, a small, brown-faced man with black eyes, looking\nconsiderably younger than his years; and on this side the third\njudge, pale and bald and colourless--a priest who held the\ndegree of Doctor in Physical Science as well as in Theology--he\nat this instant was drumming gently with a large white hand on\nthe edge of his desk.\n\nBeneath the judges' dais was the well of the court, very much,\nsomehow, as Monsignor had expected (for this was his first\nexperience in a Church court), with the clerks' table\nimmediately beneath the desks, and half a dozen ecclesiastics\nranged at it. Some strange-looking instruments stood within\nreach of the presiding clerk, but he recognized these as the\nmechanical recorders, of which he had had some experience\nhimself. They were of the nature of phonographs, and by an\nexceedingly ingenious and yet very simple system could be made\nto repeat aloud any part of the speeches or answers that had\nbeen uttered in the course of the trial. At either end of the\nclerks' table rose up a structure like a witness-box, slightly\nbelow the level of the judges' desks. Opposite the desks was the\nlightly railed dock for the prisoner. The rest of the court was\nseated for the public, and as the spectator saw, was completely\nfilled, chiefly with ecclesiastics. Even the gangways were\nthronged with standing figures. And over all hung that air of\nintense expectancy and attention.\n\nHe glanced once more round the court, once more at the judges.\nThen he allowed himself to look full at the prisoner, whom he had\nnot seen since his departure from Lourdes.\n\nDom Adrian was just as he remembered him, perhaps a shade paler\nfrom the fierce attention of the last three days, but he had the\nsame serene, confident air; his eyes were bright and luminous,\nand his voice (for he was speaking at this moment) perfectly\nnatural and controlled.\n\nIt was hard at first to pick up the thread of what he was saying.\nHe had a sheet or two of paper before him, to which he referred\nas he spoke, and he seemed to be summing up, in a very allusive\nmanner, some earlier speeches of his. Technical terms made their\nappearance from time to time, and decrees were quoted by their\ninitial Latin words--decrees which conveyed nothing to the\nlistener in the gallery. It was difficult too, at this distance,\nto understand the very swift Latin which he spoke in a\nconversational voice that was almost casual. His whole air was of\none who is interested, but not overwhelmingly concerned, in the\nsubject under debate.\n\nHe ended at last, and bowed.\n\nObviously they were not at a very critical part of the trial,\nthought Monsignor. He felt extraordinarily reassured. He had\nexpected more of a scene.\n\nThe Dominican opened his eyes and took up a pen. He glanced at\nhis companions, but they made no sign or movement.\n\n\"You have made it perfectly clear,\" he said. \"Nothing could be\nclearer. I see\" (he turned slightly to right and left, and his\nfellow-judges nodded gently in acquiescence)--\"I see no reason to\nmodify what I said just now, and the judgment of the court must\nstand. Nothing can be clearer to my mind--and I must say that my\nassessors wholly concur, as you heard just now--nothing can be\nclearer than that you have contradicted in the most express terms\nthe decrees in question, and that you have refused to modify or\nto withdraw any of the theses under dispute. Further, you have\nrefused to avail yourself of any of the releases which are\nperfectly open to you by law. You declined all those openings\nwhich I indicated to you, and you appear determined to push the\nmatter to extremes. I must tell you then plainly that I see\nnothing for it but the forwarding of our opinions to Rome, and I\ncannot hold out to you the smallest prospect that you will meet\nwith a different judgment from the highest court.\"\n\nHe paused a moment.\n\nThere was a profound silence in the court. As Monsignor Masterman\nglanced round, unable to understand what it was that caused this\nsense of tremendous tension, he noticed a head or two in that\narray of faces drop suddenly as if in overwhelming emotion. He\nlooked at the prisoner; but there was no movement there. The\nyoung monk had put his papers neatly together, and was standing,\nupright and motionless, with his hands clasped upon them. The\nDominican's voice went on abruptly:\n\n\"Have you anything further to say before the court dissolves?\"\n\n\"I should like to express my sense of the extreme fairness and\nconsiderateness of my judges,\" said the monk, \"and to say again,\nas at the beginning, that I commit my cause unreservedly into\nthe hands of God.\"\n\nThe three judges rose together; a door opened behind and they\ndisappeared. Instantly a buzz of tongues began and the sound of\nshifting feet. As Monsignor glanced back again at the dock,\namazed at the sudden change of scene, he saw the monk's head\ndisappearing down the staircase that led below from the dock. He\nstill did not understand what had happened. He still thought that\nit was some minor stage of the process that was finished,\nprobably on some technical point.\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nHe still sat there wondering, thinking that he would let the\ncorridors clear a little before he went out again, and asking\nhimself what it was that had caused that obvious sensation during\nthe judge's last words. To all outward appearance, nothing could\nbe less critical than what he had seen and heard. Plainly the\ntrial was going against the prisoner, but there had been no\ndecision, no sentence. The inquisitors and the prisoner had\ntalked together almost like friends discussing a not very vital\nmatter. And yet the sensation had been overwhelming. . . .\n\nAs he rose at last, still watching the emptying court, he heard a\ntap on the door, and before he could speak, the Abbot of\nWestminster rustled up the steps, in his habit and cross and gold\nchain. His face looked ominously strained and pale.\n\n\"I . . . I saw you from the court, Monsignor. For God's\nsake . . . sit down again an instant. Let me speak with you.\"\n\nMonsignor said nothing. He could not even now understand.\n\n\"I must thank you for your kind offices, Monsignor. I know you did\nwhat you could. His Eminence sent for me after he had seen you.\nAnd . . . and I must ask you to help us again . . . at Rome.\"\n\n\"Certainly--anything . . . . But----\"\n\n\"I fear it's hopeless,\" went on the abbot, staring out into the\nempty court, where an usher was moving quickly about from table\nto table setting papers straight. \"But any chance that there is\nmust be taken. . . . Will you write for us, Monsignor? or better\nstill, urge the Cardinal? There is no time to lose.\"\n\n\"I don't understand, my lord,\" said the prelate abruptly,\nsuddenly convinced that more had happened than he knew. \"I was\nonly here just at the end, and . . . . what is it I can do?\"\n\nThe abbot looked at him.\n\n\"That was the end,\" he said quietly. \"Did you not hear the sentence?\"\n\nMonsignor shook his head. A kind of sickness seemed to rise from\nhis heart and envelop him.\n\n\"I heard nothing,\" he said. \"I came in during Dom Adrian's\nlast speech.\"\n\nThe abbot licked his dry lips; there was a wondering sort of\napprehensiveness in his eyes.\n\n\"That was the last formality,\" he said. \"Sentence was given\ntwenty minutes ago.\"\n\n\"And----\"\n\nThe abbot bowed his head, plucking nervously at his cross.\n\n\"It has to go to Rome to be ratified,\" he said hurriedly. \"There\nwill be a week or two of delay. Dom Adrian refused any release.\nBut . . . but he knows there is no hope.\"\n\nMonsignor Masterman leaned back and drew a long breath. He\nunderstood now. But he perceived he must give no sign. The abbot\ntalked on rapidly; the other caught sentences and names here and\nthere: he grasped that there was no real possibility of a\nreversal of the judgment, but that yet every effort must be made.\nBut it was only with one part of his mind, and that the most\nsuperficial, that he attended to all this. Interiorly he was\noccupied wholly with facing the appalling horror that, with the\nlast veil dropped at last, now looked him in the eyes.\n\nHe stood up at last, promising he would see the Cardinal that\nnight; and then his resolve leapt to the birth.\n\n\"I should like to see Dom Adrian alone,\" he said quietly; \"and I\nhad better see him at once. Can you arrange that?\" The abbot\nstopped at the door of the gallery.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"I think so. Will you wait here, Monsignor?\"\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nMonsignor Masterman lifted his eyes as the door closed, and saw\nthe young monk standing before him, beside the little table.\n\nHe had sat down again in the gallery while the abbot was gone,\nwatching mechanically the ushers come into the court and remove\nthe recording-boxes one by one; and meantime in his soul he\nwatched also, rather than tried to arrange, the thoughts that\nfled past in ceaseless repetition. He could plan nothing,\nformulate nothing. He just perceived, as a man himself sentenced\nto death might perceive, that the Supreme Horror was a reality at\nlast. The very ordinariness of the scene he had witnessed, the\nfamiliarity of some of the faces (he had sat next at dinner, not\na week ago, the brown-faced Canon-Theologian), the conversational\nmanner of the speakers, the complete absence of any dramatic\nsolemnity--these things increased the terror and repugnance he\nfelt. Were the preliminaries of Death for Heresy so simple as all\nthat? Was the point of view that made it possible so utterly\naccepted by everyone as to allow the actual consummation to come\nabout so quietly? . . .\n\nThe thing seemed impossible and dreamlike. He strove to hold\nhimself quiet till he could understand. . . . But at the sight\nof the young monk, paled and tired-looking, yet perfectly\nserene, his self-control broke down. A spasm shook his face; he\nstretched out his hands blindly and helplessly, and some sound\nbroke from his mouth.\n\nHe felt himself taken by the arm and led forward. Then he slipped\ninto a chair, and dropped his face in his hands upon the table.\n\nIt was a few moments before he recovered and looked up.\n\n\"There, there, Monsignor,\" said the monk. \". . . I didn't expect\nthis. There's nothing to----\"\n\n\"But . . . but----\"\n\n\"It's a shock to you, I see. . . . It's very kind. . . . But I\nknew it all along. Surely you must have known----\"\n\n\"I never dreamt of it. I never thought it conceivable. It's\nabominable; it's----\"\n\n\"Monsignor, this isn't kind to me,\" rang out the young voice\nsternly; and the elder man recovered himself sharply. \"Please talk\nto me quietly. Father Abbot tells me you will see the Cardinal.\"\n\n\"I'll do anything--anything in my power. Tell me what I can do.\"\n\nHe had recovered himself, as under a douche of water, at the\nsharpness of the monk's tone just now. He felt but one thing at\nthis instant, that he would strain every force he had to hinder\nthis crime. He remained motionless, conscious of that sensation\nof intense tightness of nerve and sinew in which an overpressed\nmind expresses itself.\n\nThe monk sat down, on the farther side of the table.\n\n\"That's better, Monsignor,\" he said, smiling. . . . \"Well, there's\nreally not much to do. Insanity seems the only possible plea.\"\n\nHe smiled again, brilliantly.\n\n\"Tell me the whole thing,\" said the prelate suddenly and\nhoarsely. \"Just the outline. I don't understand; and I can do\nnothing unless I do.\"\n\n\"You haven't followed the case?\"\n\nMonsignor shook his head. The monk considered again.\n\n\"Well,\" he said. \"This is the outline; I'll leave out technical\ndetails. I have written a book (which will never see the light\nnow) and I sent an abstract of it to Rome, giving my main thesis.\nIt's on the miraculous element in Religion. I'm a Doctor in\nPhysical Science, you know, as well as in Theology. Now there's a\ncertain class of cure (I won't bother you with details, but a\ncertain class of cure) that has always been claimed by\ntheologians as evidently supernatural. And I'll acknowledge at\nonce that one or two of the decrees of the Council of 1960\ncertainly seem to support them. But my thesis is, first, that\nthese cures are perfectly explicable by natural means, and\nsecondly, that therefore these decrees must be interpreted in a\nsense not usually received by theologians, and that they do not\ncover the cases in dispute. I'm not a wilful heretic, and I\naccept absolutely therefore that these decrees, as emanating from\nan ecumenical council, are infallibly true. But I repudiate\nentirely--since I am forced to do so by scientific fact (or, we\nwill say, by what I am persuaded is scientific fact)--the usual\ntheological interpretation of the wording of the decrees. Well,\nmy judges take the other view. They tell me that I am wrong in\nmy second point, and therefore wrong also in my first. They tell\nme that the decrees do categorically cover the class of cure I\nhave dealt with; that such cures have been pronounced by the\nChurch therefore to be evidently supernatural; and that therefore\nI am heretical in both my points. On my side, I refuse to submit,\nmaintaining that I am differing, not from the Catholic Church as\nshe really is, (which would be heretical), but from the Catholic\nChurch as interpreted by these theologians. I know it's rash of\nme to set myself against a practically universal and received\ninterpretation; but I feel myself bound in conscience to do so.\nVery well; that is the point we have now reached. I could not\ndream of separating myself from Catholic Unity, and therefore\nthat way of escape is barred. There was nothing for it, then, but\nfor my judges to pronounce sentence; and that they did, ten\nminutes before you came in. (I saw you come in, Monsignor.) I am\nsentenced, that is to say, as an obstinate heretic--as refusing\nto submit to the plain meaning of an ecumenical decree. There\nremains Rome. The whole trial must go there _verbatim_. Three\nthings may happen. Either I am summoned to explain any statements\nthat may seem obscure. (That certainly will not happen. I have\nbeen absolutely open and clear.) Or the sentence may be quashed\nor modified. And that I do not think will happen, since I have,\nas I know, all the theologians against me.\"\n\nThere was a pause.\n\nThe prelate heard the words, and indeed followed their sense with\nhis intellect; but it appeared to him as if this concise analysis\nhad no more vital connection with the real facts than a doctor's\ndiagnosis with the misery of a mourner. He did not want analysis;\nhe wanted reassurance. Then he braced himself up to meet the\nunfinished sentence. \"Or----\" he murmured.\n\n\"Or the sentence will be ratified,\" said the monk quietly. And\nagain there was silence. It was the monk again who broke it.\n\"Where Father Abbot seems to think you can help me perhaps,\nMonsignor, is in persuading the Cardinal to write to Rome. I do\nnot quite know what he can do for me; but I suppose the idea is\nthat he may succeed in urging that the point is a disputed one,\nand that the case had better wait for further scientific as well\nas theological investigation.\"\n\nMonsignor flung out his hands suddenly. The strain had reached\nbreaking-point.\n\n\"What's the good!\" he cried. \"It's the system--the whole system\nthat's so hateful . . . hateful and impossible.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"It's the system,\" he cried again. \"From beginning to end it's\nthe system that's wrong. I hate it more every day. It's brutal,\nutterly brutal and unchristian.\" He stared miserably at the\nyoung monk, astonished at the cold look in his eyes.\n\nThe monk looked at him questioningly--without a touch of\nanswering sympathy, it seemed--merely with an academic interest.\n\n\"I don't understand, Monsignor. What is it that you----\"\n\n\"You don't understand! You tell me you don't understand! You who\nare suffering under it! Why----\"\n\n\"You think I'm being unjustly treated? Is that it? Of course I\ntoo don't think that----\"\n\n\"No, no, no,\" cried the elder man. \"It's not you in particular. I\ndon't know about that--I don't understand. But it's that any\nliving being can live under such tyranny--such oppression of free\nthought and judgment! What becomes of science and discovery under\na system like this? What becomes of freedom--of the right to\nthink for oneself? Why----\"\n\nThe young monk leaned a little over the table.\n\n\"Monsignor, you don't know what you are saying. Tell me quietly\nwhat it is that's troubling you. Quietly, if you please. I can't\nbear much more strain.\"\n\nThe man who had lost his memory mastered himself with an effort.\nHis horror had surged up just now and overwhelmed him altogether,\nbut the extraordinary quiet of the other man and his apparently\nfrank inability to understand what was the matter brought him\ndown again to reality. Subconsciously, too, he perceived that it\nwould be a relief to himself to put his developing feeling into\nwords to another.\n\n\"You wish me to say? Very well---\"\n\nHe hesitated again for words.\n\n\"You are sure you'd better? I know you've been ill. I\ndon't want to---\"\n\nMonsignor waved it away with a little gesture.\n\n\"That's all right,\" he said. \"I'm not ill now. I wish to God I were!\"\n\n\"Quietly, please,\" said the young man.\n\nHe swallowed in his throat and rearranged himself in his chair.\nHe felt himself alone and abandoned, even where he had been\ncertain of an emotional sympathy.\n\n\"I know I'm clean against public opinion in what I think. I've\nlearnt that at last. I thought at first that it was the other\nway, as . . . as I think it must have been a hundred years ago.\nBut I see now that all the world is against me--all except\nperhaps the people who are called infidels.\"\n\n\"You mean the Socialists?\"\n\n\"Yes, I suppose so. Well, it seems to me that the Church is . . .\"\n(he hesitated, to pick his words) \"is assuming an impossible\nattitude. Take your own case; though that's only one: it's the\nsame everywhere. There are the sumptuary and domestic laws;\nthere's the 'repression,' as they call it, of the Socialists. But\ntake your own case. You are perfectly satisfied that your\nconclusions are scientific, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You're a Christian and a Catholic. And yet, because these\nconclusions of yours are condemned--not answered, mind you, or\nrefuted by other scientists--but just condemned--condemned by\necclesiastics as contrary to what they assume to be\ntrue--you . . . you care----\"\n\nHe broke off, struggling again with fierce emotion. He felt a\nhand on his arm.\n\n\"Monsignor, you're too excited. May I ask you some\nquestions instead?\"\n\nMonsignor nodded.\n\n\"Well, don't take my case only. Take the system, as you said just\nnow. I really want to know.... You think that the Socialists\nought not to be repressed--that every man ought to be free to\nutter his opinions, whatever they may be. Is that it?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"However revolutionary they may be?\"\n\nMonsignor hesitated. He had considered this point before. He felt\nhis answer was not wholly satisfactory. But the monk went on.\n\n\"Suppose these opinions were subversive of all law and order.\nSuppose there were men who preached murder and\nadultery--doctrines that meant the destruction of society. Would\nyou allow these, too, to publish their opinions broadcast?\"\n\n\"Of course, you must draw the line somewhere,\" began\nMonsignor. \"Of course----\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"You said that we must draw the line somewhere. I ask you where?\"\n\n\"Well, that, of course, must be a matter of degree.\"\n\n\"Surely it must be one of principle. . . . Can't you give me any\nprinciple you would allow?\"\n\nThe passion of just now seemed wholly gone. Monsignor had an\nuncomfortable sense that he had behaved like a child and\nthat this young monk was on firmer ground than himself. But\nagain he hesitated.\n\n\"Well, would you accept this principle?\" asked Dom Adrian. \"Would\nyou say that every society has a right to suppress opinions which\nare directly subversive of the actual foundations on which itself\nstands? Let me give an instance. Suppose you had a country that\nwas a republic, but that allowed that other forms of government\nmight be equally good. (Suppose, for instance, that while all\nacquiesced more or less in the republic, yet that many of the\ncitizens personally preferred a monarchy.) Well, I suppose you\nwould say it was tyranny for the republic to punish the\nmonarchists with death?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"So should I. But if a few of the citizens repudiated all forms of\ngovernment and preached Anarchy, well, I suppose you would allow\nthat the government would have a perfect right to silence them?\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Dom Adrian quietly. \"It was what you allowed\njust now. Society may, and must, protect itself.\"\n\n\"What's that got to do with it? These Socialists are not\nAnarchists. You're not an atheist. And even if you were, what\nright would the Church have to put you to death?\"\n\n\"Oh! that's what you're thinking, is it, Monsignor? But really,\nyou know, Society must protect itself. The Church can't interfere\nthere. For it isn't for a moment the Church that punishes with\ndeath. On the contrary, the Catholic authorities are practically\nunanimous against it.\"\n\nMonsignor made an impatient movement.\n\n\"I don't understand in the least,\" he said. \"It seems to me----\"\n\n\"Well, shall I give you my answer?\"\n\nMonsignor nodded.\n\nThe monk drew a breath and leaned back once more.\n\nTo the elder man the situation seemed even more unreal and\nimpossible than at the beginning. He had come, full of fierce and\nemotional sympathy, to tell a condemned man how wholly his heart\nwas on his side, to repudiate with all his power the abominable\nsystem that had made such things possible. And now, in five\nminutes, the scene had become one of almost scholastic\ndisputation; and the heretic, it seemed--the condemned\nheretic--was defending the system that condemned him to a man who\nrepresented it as an official! He waited, almost resentfully.\n\n\"Monsignor,\" said the young man, \"forgive me for saying so; but\nit seems to me you haven't thought this thing out--that you're\nsimply carried away by feeling. No doubt it's your illness. . . .\nWell, let me put it as well as I can. . . .\"\n\nHe paused again, compressing his lips. He was pale, and evidently\nholding himself hard in hand; but his eyes were bright and\nintelligent. Then he abruptly began again.\n\n\"What's wrong with you, Monsignor,\" he said, \"is that you don't\nrealize--again, no doubt, owing to your loss of memory--that you\ndon't realize that the only foundation of society at the present\nday is Catholicism. You see we _know_ now that Catholicism is\ntrue. It has reasserted itself finally. Every other scheme has\nbeen tried and has failed; and Catholicism, though it has never\ndied, has once more been universally accepted. Even heathen\ncountries accept it _de facto_ as the scheme on which the life of\nthe human race is built. Very well, then, the man who strikes at\nCatholicism strikes at society. If he had his way society would\ncrumble down again. Then what can Catholic society do except\ndefend itself, even by the death penalty? Remember, the Church\ndoes not kill. It never has; it never will. It is society that\nputs to death. And it is certainly true to say that theologians,\nas a whole, would undoubtedly abolish the death penalty to-morrow\nif they could. It's an open secret that the Holy Father would do\naway with it to-morrow if he could.\"\n\n\"Then why doesn't he? Isn't he supreme?\" snapped the other bitterly.\n\n\"Indeed not. Countries rule themselves. He only has a veto if an\nactually unchristian law is passed. And this is not actually\nunchristian. It's based on universal principles.\"\n\n\"But----\"\n\n\"Wait an instant. . . . Yes, the Church sanctions it in one\nsense. So did the Church approve of the death penalty in the case\nof murder--another sin against society. Well, Christian society a\nhundred years ago inflicted death for the murder of the body;\nChristian society to-day inflicts death for a far greater crime\nagainst herself--that is, murderous attacks against her own\nlife-principle.\"\n\n\"Then the old Protestants were right after all,\" burst in\nMonsignor indignantly; \"they said that Rome would persecute\nagain if she could.\"\n\n\"If she could?\" said the monk questioningly.\n\n\"If she was strong enough.\"\n\n\"No, no, no!\" cried the other, beating his hand on the table in\ngentle impatience; \"it would be hopelessly immoral for the Church\nto persecute simply because she was strong enough--simply because\nshe had a majority. She never persecutes for mere opinions. She\nhas never claimed her right to use force. But, as soon as a\ncountry is convincedly Catholic--as soon, that is to say, as her\ncivilization rests upon Catholicism _and nothing else_, that\ncountry has a perfect right to protect herself by the death\npenalty against those who menace her very existence as a civilized\ncommunity. And that is what heretics do; and that is what\nSocialists do. Whether the authorities are right or wrong in any\ngiven instance is quite another question. Innocent men have been\nhanged. Orthodox Catholics have suffered unjustly. Personally I\nbelieve that I myself am innocent; but I am quite clear that _if I\nam a heretic_\" (he leaned forward again and spoke slowly), \"_if I\nam a heretic_, I must be put to death by society.\"\n\nMonsignor was dumb with sheer amazement, and a consciousness that\nhe had been baffled. He felt he had been intellectually tricked;\nand he felt it an additional outrage that he had been tricked by\nthis young monk with whom he had come to sympathize.\n\n\"But the death penalty!\" he cried. \"Death! that is the horror. I\nunderstand a spiritual penalty for a spiritual crime--but a\nphysical one. . . .\"\n\nDom Adrian smiled a little wearily.\n\n\"My dear Monsignor,\" he said, \"I thought I had explained that it\nwas for a crime against society. I am not put to death for my\nopinions; but because, holding those opinions, which are\ndeclared heretical, and refusing to submit to an authoritative\ndecision, I am an enemy of the _civil state_ which is upheld\nsolely by the sanctions of Catholicism. Remember it is _not_ the\nChurch that puts me to death. That is not her affair. She is a\nspiritual society.\"\n\n\"But death! death, anyhow!\"\n\nThe man's face grew grave and tender.\n\n\"Is that so dreadful,\" he said, \"to a convinced Catholic?\"\n\nMonsignor rose to his feet. It seemed to him that his whole moral\nsense was in danger. He made his last appeal.\n\n\"But Christ!\" he cried; \"Jesus Christ! Can you conceive that\ngentle Lord of ours tolerating all this for one instant! I cannot\nanswer you now; though I am convinced there is an answer. But is\nit conceivable that He who said, 'Resist not evil,' that He who\nHimself was dumb before his murderers----\"\n\nDom Adrian rose too. An extraordinary intensity came into his\neyes, and his face grew paler still. He began in a low voice, but\nas he ended his voice rang aloud in the little room.\n\n\"It is you who are dishonouring our Lord,\" he said. \"Certainly He\nsuffered, as we Catholics too can suffer, as you shall see one\nday--as you have seen a thousand times already, if you know\nanything of the past. But is that all that He is? . . . Is He\njust the Prince of Martyrs, the supreme Pain-bearer, the silent\nLamb of God? Have you never heard of the wrath of the Lamb? of\nthe eyes that are as a flame of fire? of the rod of iron with\nwhich He breaks in pieces the kings of the earth? . . . The\nChrist you appeal to is nothing. It is but the failure of a Man\nwith the Divinity left out . . . the Prince of sentimentalists,\nand of that evil old religion that once dared to call itself\nChristianity. But the Christ we worship is more than that--the\nEternal Word of God, the Rider on the White Horse, conquering and\nto conquer.... Monsignor, you forget of what Church you are a\npriest! It is the Church of Him who refused the kingdoms of this\nworld from Satan, that He might win them for Him self. He has\ndone so! _Christ reigns!_ . . . Monsignor, that is what you have\nforgotten! Christ is no longer an opinion or a theory. He is a\nFact. _Christ reigns!_ He actually rules this world. And the\nworld knows it.\"\n\nHe paused for one second, shaking with his own passion. Then he\nflung out his hands.\n\n\"Wake up, Monsignor! Wake up! You are dreaming. Christ is the\nKing of men again, now--not of just religiously minded devots. He\nrules, because He has a right to rule. . . . And the civil power\nstands for Him in secular matters, and the Church in spiritual. I\nam to be put to death! Well, I protest that I am innocent, but\nnot that the crime charged against me does not deserve death. I\nprotest, but I do not resent it. Do you think I fear death? . .\nIs that not in His hands too? . . . Christ reigns, and we all\nknow it. And you must know it too!\"\n\nAll sensation seemed to have ebbed from the man who\nlistened. . . . He was conscious of a white ecstatic face with\nburning eyes looking at him. He could no longer actively resist\nor rebel. It was only by the utmost effort that he could still\nkeep from yielding altogether. Some great pressure seemed to\nenfold and encircle him, threatening his very existence as an\nindividual. So tremendous was the force with which the words were\nspoken, that for an instant it seemed as if he saw in mental\nvision that which they described--a Supreme Dominant Figure,\nwounded indeed, yet overmastering and compelling in His\nstrength--no longer the Christ of gentleness and meekness, but a\nChrist who had taken His power at last and reigned, a Lamb that\nwas a Lion, a Servant that was Lord of all; One that pleaded no\nlonger, but commanded. . . .\n\nAnd yet he clung still desperately and blindly to his old ideal.\nHe pushed off from him this dominating Presence; his whole self\nand individuality would not yield to Him who demanded the\nsacrifice of both. He saw this Christ at last, and by a flash of\nintuition perceived that this was the key to this changed world\nhe found so incomprehensible; and yet he would not have it--he\nwould not have this Man to rule over him. . . .\n\nHe made one last effort; the vision passed and he stood up,\nfeeling once more sensation come back, understanding that he had\nsaved himself from an extinction more utter than that of death.\n\n\"Well,\" he said quietly--so quietly that he almost deceived\nhimself too,--\"well, I will remember what you say, Dom Adrian,\nand I will do what I can with the Cardinal.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n\n(I)\n\n\"I'm afraid it's been a great shock,\" said Father Jervis\nsoothingly. \"And I'm not surprised, after your illness. . . . Yes\nI quite see your point. Of course it must seem very\nstrange. . . . Now what about coming over to Ireland for a week?\nThe Cardinal will be delighted, I'm sure.\"\n\nThe blow had fallen this morning--a fortnight after the\ntrial had ended.\n\nFirst, the answer had come back from Rome that the sentence was\nratified--a sentence simply to the effect that the Church could\nno longer protect this tonsured and consecrated son of hers from\nthe secular laws. But, as Monsignor knew privately, an urgent\nappeal had been made by Rome to remit the penalty in this\ninstance, as in others. Then the formalities of handing over the\nmonk to the secular authorities had taken place, in accordance\nwith the Clergy Discipline Amendment Act of 1964--an Act by\nwhich the secular houses of Representatives had passed a code of\npenalties for clerks condemned by the ecclesiastical\ncourts--clerks, that is to say, who had availed themselves of\nBenefit of Clergy and had submitted themselves to ecclesiastical\njurisdiction. Under that Act Dom Adrian had been removed to a\nsecular prison, his case had been re-examined and, in spite of\nthe Pope's appeal, the secular sentence passed. And this morning\nMonsignor had read that the sentence had been carried out. . . .\nHe neither knew nor dared to ask in what form. It was enough\nthat it was death.\n\nThere had been a scene with the startled secretaries. Fortunately\nMonsignor had been incoherent. One of them had remained with him\nwhile the other ran for Father Jervis. Then the two laymen had\nleft the room, and the priests alone together.\n\nThings were quieter now. Monsignor had recovered himself, and was\nsitting white and breathless with his friend beside him.\n\n\"Come to Ireland for a week,\" said the old man again, watching\nhim with those large, steady, bright eyes of his. \"It is\nperfectly natural, under the circumstances, that the thing\nshould be a shock. To us, of course----\"\n\nHe broke off as Monsignor looked up with a strange white\nglare in his eyes.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said the old man. \"You must give yourself a chance.\nYou've been working magnificently; I think perhaps a little too\nhard. And we don't want another breakdown. . . . Then I take\nyou'll come to Ireland? We'll spend a perfectly quiet week, and\nbe back in time for the meeting of Parliament.\"\n\nMonsignor made a small movement of assent with his head. (He had\nhad Ireland explained to him before.)\n\n\"Then I'll leave you quietly here for a little. Call me up if you\nwant me. I'll tell the secretaries to work in the next room. I'll\nsee the Cardinal at once, and we'll go by the five o'clock boat.\nI'll arrange everything. You needn't give it a thought.\"\n\nA curious process seemed to have been at work upon the mind of\nthe man who had lost his memory, since his interview with the\nmonk immediately after the trial. At first a kind of numbness had\ndescended upon him. He had gone back to his business, his\ncorrespondence, his interviews, his daily consultation with the\nCardinal, and had conducted all these things efficiently enough.\nYet, underneath, the situation arranged itself steadily and\nirresistibly. It had become impressed upon him that, whether for\ngood or evil, the world was as it was; that Christian\ncivilization had taken the form which he perceived round him, and\nthat to struggle against it was as futile, from a mental point of\nview, as to resent the physical laws of the universe. Nothing\nfollowed upon such resistance except intense discomfort to\noneself. It might be insupportably unjust that one could not fly\nwithout wings, yet the fact remained. It might be intolerably\nunchristian that a tonsured clerk should be put to death for\nheresy, yet he was put to death, and not a soul, it seemed (not\neven the victim himself) resented it. Dom Adrian's protest had\nbeen not against the execution of heretics, but against the\nstatement that he was a heretic. But he had refused to submit to\na decision which he acknowledged as authoritative, and found no\nfault therefore with the consequence of such refusal. The\ncondemnation, he granted, was perfectly legal and therefore\nextrinsically lust; and it was the penalty he had to pay for an\nindividualism which the responsible authorities of the State\nregarded as dangerous to the conditions on which society rested.\nAnd the rest was the business of the State, not of the Church.\n\nThe scheme then was beginning to grow clear to this man's\nindignant eyes. Even the \"repression\" of the Socialists fitted\nin, logically and inexorably. And he began to understand a little\nmore what Dom Adrian had meant. There stood indeed, imminent over\nthe world (whether ideally or actually was another question) a\ntremendous Figure that was already even more Judge than\nSaviour--a Personality that already had the Power and reigned;\none to whose feet all the world crept in silence, who spoke\nordinarily and normally through His Vicar on earth, who was\nrepresented on this or that plane by that court or the other; one\nwho was literally a King of kings; to whose model all must be\nconformed; to whose final judgment every creature might appeal if\nhe would but face that death through which alone that appeal\nmight be conveyed. Such was the scheme which this priest began to\ndiscern; and he saw how the explanation of all that bewildered\nhim lay within it. Yet none the less he resented it; none the less\nhe failed to recognize in it that Christianity he seemed once to\nhave known, long ago. Outwardly he conformed and submitted.\nInwardly he was a rebel.\n\nHe sat on silent for a few minutes when his friend had left him,\ngradually recovering balance. He knew his own peril well enough,\nbut he was not yet certain enough of his own standpoint--and\nperhaps not courageous enough--to risk all by declaring it. He\nfelt helpless and powerless--like a child in a new school--before\nthe tremendous forces in whose presence he found himself. For the\npresent, at least, he knew that he must obey. . . .\n\n\n\n(II)\n\n\"You will be astonished at Ireland,\" said Father Jervis a few hours\nlater, as they sat together in the little lighted cabin on their\nway across England. \"You know, of course, the general outlines?\"\n\nMonsignor roused himself.\n\n\"I know it's the Contemplative Monastery of Europe,\" he said.\n\n\"Just so. It's also the mental hospital of Europe. You see it's\nvery favourably placed. None of the great lines of volors pass\nover it now. It's entirely secluded from the world. Of course\nthere are the secular business centres of the country, as they\nalways were, in north and south--Dublin and Belfast; they're like\nany other town, only rather quieter. But outside these you might\nsay that the whole island is one monastic enclosure. I've brought\na little book on it I thought you might like to look at.\"\n\nHe handed a little volume out of his bag. (It was printed on the\nusual nickel-sheets, invented by Edison fifty years before.)\n\n\"And to-night?\" asked Monsignor heavily.\n\n\"To-night we're staying at Thurles. I made all arrangements\nthis afternoon.\"\n\n\"And our programme?\"\n\nFather Jervis smiled.\n\n\"That'll depend on the guest-master,\" he said, \"We put ourselves\nentirely under his orders, as I told you. He'll see us to-night\nor to-morrow morning; and the rest is in his hands.\"\n\n\"What's the system?\" asked Monsignor suddenly and abruptly\nlooking at him.\n\n\"The system?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nFather Jervis considered.\n\n\"It's hard to put it into words,\" he said. \"I suppose you might\nsay that they used atmosphere and personality. They're the\nstrongest forces we know of--far stronger, of course, than\nargument. It's very odd how they used to be neglected---\"\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"Yes; until quite recently there was hardly any deliberate use of\nthem at all. Well, now we know that they effect more than any\npersuasion . . . or . . . or . . . diet. And of course enclosed\nReligious naturally become experts in interior self-command, and\ntherefore can apply these things better than anyone else.\"\n\nHe waved his hands vaguely and explanatorily.\n\n\"It's impossible to put it into words,\" he said. \"The very\nessence of it is that it can't be.\"\n\nMonsignor sighed and looked drearily out of the window.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nAs the hours of the day had gone by it had been this dreariness\nthat had deepened on him, after the violent emotions of the\nmorning. It was as if he already saw himself beaten down and\ncrushed by those forces he had begun to recognize. And even this\nreminder that he was passing for a few days under a tyranny that\nwas yet more severe failed to requicken any resentment. Inwardly\nthe fire smouldered still red and angry; outwardly he was passive\nand obedient, and scarcely wished to be otherwise.\n\nThere was nothing of interest to be seen out of the window. The\nautumn evening was drawing in, and the far-off horizon of hills,\nwith the rim of the sea already visible beyond it, was dark and\nlead-coloured under the darkening sky. He thought vaguely of Dom\nAdrian, in that melancholy and ineffective mood which evening\nsuggests . . . he had been alive at this hour last night and\nnow . . . Well, he had passed to the Secret which this world\ninterpreted now so confidently. . . .\n\nThey halted above Dublin, and he watched, as weeks ago at Brighton,\nthe lighted stage swing outside the windows. He noted a couple of\nwhite-frocked monks or friars, hooded in black, standing among the\nrest. Then he watched the stage drop out of sight, and the lights\nof Dublin spin eastwards and vanish. Then he turned listlessly to\nthe book his friend had given him, and began to read.\n\nAs he stood himself on the platform at Thurles, bag in hand (they\nbrought no servants to Ireland), it seemed to him that already\nthere was a certain sense of quietness about him. He told himself\nit was probably the result of self-suggestion. But, for all that,\nit seemed curiously still. Beneath he saw great buildings,\nflattened under the height at which he stood--court after court,\nit appeared, each lighted invisibly and as clear as day. Yet no\nfigures moved across them; and in the roadways that ran here and\nthere was no crawling stream of ant-like beings such as he had\nseen elsewhere. Even the officials seemed to speak in undertones;\nand Father Jervis said no word at all. Then, as he felt the swift\ndropping movement beneath his feet, he saw the great lighted ship\nhe had just left whirl off westwards, resembling a gigantic\nluminous moth, yet without bell or horn to announce its journey.\n\nHe followed his friend out through the doorway of the\nground-platform to which the stage descended, and into the\ninterior of a great white car that waited--still with a strange\nsense of irresponsibility and heaviness. He supposed that all was\nwell--as well as could be in a world such as this. Then he leaned\nback and closed his eyes. There were three or four others in the\ngreat car, he noticed; but all were silent.\n\nHe opened them again as the car stopped. But the priest beside\nhim made no movement. He looked out and saw that the car was\nhalted between two high walls and in front of a great arched\ngateway. Even as he looked the gates rolled back noiselessly and\nthe car moved through. (The others had got out, he noticed.)\n\nIt seemed, as they sped on, as if they were going through the\nstreets of some strange dead city. All through which they passed\nwas perfectly visible in the white artificial light. Now they ran\nbetween high walls; now along the side of a vast courtyard; now a\nstructure resembling the side of a cloister slid by them swiftly\nand steadily--gone again in an instant. It was not until\nafterwards that he realized that there had hardly been one window\nto be seen; and not one living being.\n\nAnd then at last the car stopped, and a monk in brown opened the\ndoor of the car.\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nMonsignor woke next morning, already conscious of a certain sense\nof well-being, and looked round the little white room in which he\nlay, agreeably expectant.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nLast night had helped to soothe him a little. He had supped with\nhis friend in a small parlour downstairs, after having been\nwarned not to speak, except in case of absolute necessity, to\nthe lay-brother who waited on them; and after supper had had\nexplained to him more at length what the object of the\nexpedition really was. It was the custom, he heard, for persons\nsuffering from overstrain or depression, whether physical,\nmental, or spiritual, to come across to Ireland to one of those\nReligious Houses with which the whole country was covered. The\nonly thing demanded of these retreatants was that they should\nobey, absolutely and implicitly, the directions given to them\nduring their stay, and that their stay should not be less than\nfor three full days.\n\n\"We shall not meet after to-night,\" said Father Jervis, smiling,\n\"I shall be under as strict orders as you.\"\n\nAfter they had parted for the night, the man who had lost his\nmemory had studied the little book given to him, and had learned\nmore or less the system under which Ireland lay. The whole\nisland, he learned, was the absolute and inalienable possession,\nheld under European guarantees, of the enclosed Religious Orders,\nwith whose dominion no interference was allowed. All the business\noffices of the country and the ports of the enormous agricultural\nindustries were concentrated in Dublin and Belfast; the rest of\nthe island was cultivated, ruled, and cared for by the monks\nthemselves. (He read drearily through the pages of statistics\nshowing how once again, as in medieval days, under the labour of\nmonks the land had blossomed out into material prosperity; and\nhow this prosperity still increased, year by year, beyond all\nreckoning.) Of men, there were the Carthusians, the Carmelites,\nthe Trappists, and certain sections of Benedictines; of women,\nthere were the Carmelites, the Poor Clares, the Augustinian\ncanonesses, and certain other Benedictines. Special arrangements\nbetween these regulated the division of the land and of the\nresponsibilities; and the Central Council consisted of the\nProcurators and other representatives of the various bodies.\n\nIn return for the possession of the land, and for the protection\nguaranteed by the European governments, one, and one only demand\nwas made--namely, that a certain accommodation should be\noffered--the amount determined by agreement year by year--both\nfor these Retreat-houses in general, and for what were called\n\"Hospitals-of-God\" in particular. These hospitals were nothing\nelse in reality than enormous establishments for the treatment of\nthe mentally unbalanced; for it had been found by recent\nexperience that the atmosphere supremely successful in such\ncases--especially those of certain well-marked types--was the\natmosphere of the strongest and most intense religion. Statistics\nhad shown without a doubt that, even apart from cases of actual\npossession (a phenomenon perfectly recognized now by all\nscientists), minds that were merely weak or subject to mental\ndelusions recovered incalculably more quickly and surely in the\natmosphere of a Religious House than in any other. These cases\ntoo were isolated with the greatest care, owing to the\nextraordinary discoveries recently made, and verified over and\nover again in the realm of \"mental infection.\"\n\nSo Monsignor had learned last night; and as he lay in his little\nwhite room this morning, waiting for the instructions that, he\nhad been informed, would arrive before he need get up, it seemed\nthat even to his own tortured brain some breath of relief had\nalready come. The world seemed perfectly still. Once from far\naway he heard the note of a single deep-toned bell; but, for the\nrest, there was silence. There was no footstep in the house, no\nfootstep outside. From where he lay he could see out through his\nlow window into a tiny high-walled court, white like his own\nroom, except where the level lawn ran to the foot of the wall and\na row of tawny autumn flowers rose against it. Above the white\ncarved parapet opposite ran skeins of delicate cloud against the\nsoft blue sky. It was strange, he thought, to be conscious in\nthis utter solitude and silence of an incomparable peace. . . .\n\nWhen he opened his eyes again, he saw that the hooded lay brother\nhad come in while he dozed, and had begun to set the room to\nrights. A door, white like the wall, which he had not noticed\nlast night, stood open opposite his bed, and he caught sight of a\ntiny bathroom beyond. A little fire of wood was leaping in the\nwhite-tiled chimney; and before it stood a table. The window too\nwas set open, and the pleasant autumn air streamed in.\n\nThen the brother came up to the bedside, his face invisible under\nthe peaked hood that hung over it. He uttered a sentence or two in\nLatin, bidding him get up and dress. He was not to say Mass this\nmorning. \"Father\" would come in as soon as he had breakfasted and\ngive him his instructions for the day. That was all.\n\nMonsignor got out of bed and went into the bathroom, where his\nclothes were already arranged. When he came back a quarter of an\nhour later, he found a tray set out with simple food and milk on\nthe table beside the fire. As he finished and said grace the door\nopened noiselessly, and a priest in the Carthusian habit came in,\nclosing the door behind him.\n\n\n\n(IV)\n\nAs the two faced one another for an instant, the Englishman\nperceived in a glance that this monk was one of the most\nimpressive-looking men he had ever set eyes on. He was well over\nsix feet in height, and, in his rough, clumsy white dress, he\nseemed enormously muscular and powerful. He carried himself\nloosely, with an air of strength, almost swinging in his gait.\nBut it was his face that above all was remarkable. His hood lay\nback on his shoulders, and from its folds rose his strong throat\nand head, all as hairless as a statue's; and as the priest\nglanced at him he saw that strange suggestion as of a bird's\nhead which some types convey. His nose was long, thin, and\ncurved; his lips colourless and compressed; his cheeks modelled\nin folds and hollows over the bones beneath; and his eyes, of an\nextraordinary light grey, looked out under straight upper lids,\nas of an eagle.\n\nSo much for the physical side.\n\nBut, stranger than all this, was the unmistakable atmosphere that\nseemed to enter with him--an atmosphere that from one side\nproduced a sense of great fear and helplessness, and on the other\nof a kind of security. In an instant Monsignor felt as a wounded\nchild might feel in the presence of a surgeon. And, throughout the\ninterview that followed, this sensation deepened incalculably.\n\nThe man said nothing--not even a word of greeting--as he came\nacross the room. He just inclined his head a little, with a grave\nand business-like courtesy, and waved the other back into his\nchair. Then, still standing himself, he began to speak in a deep\nbut quite quiet voice, and very slowly and distinctly.\n\n\"You understand, Monsignor, the terms on which you are here? Yes.\nVery well. I do not wish you to say Mass until your last morning.\nI have spoken to Father Jervis about you. . . .\n\n\"Meanwhile, for to-day you are at liberty to walk in the court\noutside as much as you wish, to read as you wish--in fact, to\noccupy yourself as you like in this room, the ambulatory\ndownstairs, the roof overhead, and the garden. You are to write\nno letters, and to speak to no one. You will have your meals in\nthe next room alone, where you will also find a few books. I wish\nyou to get as quiet and controlled as you can. Tomorrow morning I\nwill come in again at the same time and give you further\ndirections. You will find a tribune opening out at the end of\nthis corridor, looking into a chapel where the Blessed Sacrament\nis reserved. But I do not wish you to spend there more than one\nhour in the course of the day.\"\n\nThe monk was silent again, and did not even raise his eyes.\nMonsignor said nothing. There was really nothing to say. He felt\nentirely powerless, and not even desirous to speak. He\nunderstood that to obey was simply inevitable, and that silence\nwas what was wished.\n\n\"I do not wish you to rehearse at all what you intend to say to\nme to-morrow,\" went on the monk suddenly. \"You are here to show\nme yourself and your wounds, and there must be no false shame.\nYou will say what you feel to-morrow; and I shall say what I\nthink. I wish you a happy retreat.\"\n\nThen, again without a word, but with that same inclination of his\nhead, he went swiftly across the room and was gone.\n\nIt was all completely unexpected, and Monsignor sat a few\nminutes, astonished, without moving. He had not uttered a\nsyllable; and yet, in a sense, that seemed quite natural. He had\nseen the monk look at him keenly as he came in, and was aware\nthat this had been an inspection by some new kind of expert.\nProbably the monk had heard the outlines of the case from Father\nJervis, and had just looked in this morning, not only to give his\ninstructions, but to ratify by some peculiar kind of intuition\nthe account he had heard. Yet the ignominy of it all did not\ntouch him in the least. He felt more than ever like a child in\nthe hands of an expert, and, like a child, content to be so.\nConventions and the mutual little flatteries of the world outside\nappeared meaningless here. . . .\n\nHe said some Office presently, and then set out to explore his ground.\n\nThe room he was in communicated with a lobby outside, from which\na staircase descended to a little cloistered and glazed\nambulatory opening on to the garden. Another staircase rose to a\ndoor obviously leading to the roof. Besides the bedroom door\nthere were two others: the one which he entered first took him\ninto a little sitting-room also looking on to the garden, and\nfurnished simply with a table, an easy chair, and a few books;\nthe other opened directly on to a tiny gallery looking out\nsideways upon a perfectly plain sanctuary, with a stone altar, a\nlamp, and a curtained tabernacle, which seemed to be a chapel of\nsome church whose roof only was visible beyond a high closed\nscreen. He knelt here a minute or two, then he passed back again\nto the lobby and ascended the staircase leading to the roof. He\nthought that from here he might form some idea as to the place\nin which he was.\n\nThe flat roof, tiled across, and guttered so as to allow the\nrainwater to escape, at first seemed closed in on all sides with\nwalls over six feet high. Then he perceived that each wall was\npierced with a tiny double window, so contrived that it was\npossible to see out easily and comfortably without being seen. He\nwent straight to one of these and looked through.\n\nAs far as he could see stretched what looked like the roofs of a\ngreat town, for the most part flattish, but broken here and\nthere, and especially towards the horizon, by tall buildings\npierced with windows, and in three or four cases by church\ntowers. Immediately beneath him lay a vast courtyard like that of\na college, with a cluster of elms, ruddy with autumn colours, in\nthe midst of the central lawn. There was no human being in sight\non this side; the roofs, many of them parapeted like his own,\nstretched out into the distance, their ranks here and there\nbroken by lines which appeared to indicate roadways running\nbeneath. He saw a couple of cats on the grass below.\n\nOn all sides, as he went from window to window of the little\nroofless space, there was the same kind of prospect. In one\ndirection he thought he recognized the way he must have come\nlast night; and, looking more carefully, noticed that the town\nseemed to be less extended in that direction. Half a mile away\nthe roofs ceased, standing up against a mass of foliage that\nblotted out all beyond. It was here that he caught sight of a\nman--a white figure that crossed a patch of road that curved\ninto sight and out again.\n\nIt was extraordinarily still in this Religious town. Certainly\nthere were a few sounds; a noise of far-off hammering came from\nsomewhere and presently ceased. Once he heard a door close and\nfootsteps on stone that faded into silence; once he heard the\ncry of a cat, three or four times repeated; and once, all\ntogether, from every direction at once, sounded bells, each\nstriking one stroke.\n\nHe began to walk up and down after a while, marvelling, trying to\nreconstruct his ideas once more, and to take in the astonishing\nsystem and organization whose signs were so evident about him.\nCertainly it was thorough and efficient. There must be countless\ninstitutions--hospitals, retreat-houses, cloisters, besides all\nthe offices and business centres necessary for carrying on this\ntremendous work; and yet practically no indication of any\nmovement or bustle made itself apparent. So far as solitude was\nconcerned, he might be imprisoned in a dead city. And all this\ndeepened his impressions of peace and recuperation. The silence,\nthrough his knowledge, was alive to him. There must be, almost\nwithin sound of a shout, hundreds of living persons like himself,\nyet all intent, in some form or another, upon that same\noverwhelming silence in which facts could be received and\nrelations readjusted.\n\nYet even this, as he reflected upon it, had certain elements of\nterror. Here again, under another disguise, was the force that\nhe had feared in London--the force that had sent Dom Adrian\nnoiselessly out of life, that proposed to deal with refractory\ninstincts in human nature--such as manifested themselves in\nSocialism--as a householder might deal with a plague of mice,\ndrastically and irresistibly; the force that moved the wheels\nand drove the soundless engines of that tremendous\nsocial-religious machine of which he too was a part. It was here\ntoo then; it was this that had closed him in here for three days\nin his tiny domicile in this great dumb city; it was this that\nheld the whole under an invisible discipline; it was this that\nhad looked at him out of the hawk's-eyes, and spoken to him\nthrough the colourless lips of the monk who had given him his\ninstructions this morning. . . .\n\nOnce more then his individuality began to reassert itself, and to\nattempt to cast off the spell even of this peace that promised\nrelief. He became aware of an extraordinary loneliness of soul,\nan isolation in the deepest regions of his soul from all others.\nThe rest of the world, it seemed, had an understanding about\nthese matters. Father Jervis and the Carthusian no doubt had\ntalked him over; they accepted as an established and self-evident\nphilosophy this universal unity and authority; they regarded\nhimself, who could not yet so accept it, as a spiritual, if not\nan actual mental invalid. . . . He had been brought here to be\ntreated. . . . Well, he would hold his own.\n\nAnd then another mood came on him--a temptation, as it seemed to\nhim then, to fling personal responsibility overboard; to accept\nthis tremendous claim of authority to control even the thoughts\nof the heart. Surely peace lay this way. To submit to this\ncrowned and sceptred Christ; to reject for ever the other--this\nmeant relief and sanity. . . .\n\nHe walked more and more quickly and abruptly up and down the\nlittle tiled space. He was conscious of a conflict all confused\nwith dust and smoke. He began to hesitate as to which was the\nhigher, even which was the tolerable course--to sink his\nindividuality, to throw up his hands and drown, or to assert that\nindividuality openly and defiantly, and to take the consequences.\n\n\n\n(V)\n\nHe awoke the next morning after a troubled night, conscious\ninstantly of a sense of crisis. In one way or another, it seemed,\nhe would have to come to a decision. The monk would be with him\nin less than an hour.\n\nHe dressed as before and breakfasted. Then, as the monk did not\ncome, he went out to the tribune to pray and to prepare himself.\n\nTen minutes later the door opened quietly, and the lay-brother\nwho had attended on him bowed to him as he turned, in sign that\nhe was to come.\n\nThe monk was standing by the fireplace as he came in; he bowed\nvery slightly. Then the two sat down.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\n\"Tell me why you have come here, Monsignor.\"\n\nThe prelate moistened his lips. He was aware again of an emotion\nthat was partly terror and partly confidence. And there was mixed\nwith it, too, an extraordinary sense of simplicity.\nConventionalities were useless here, he saw; he was expected to\nsay what was in his heart, but at first he dared not.\n\n\"I . . . I was recommended to come,\" he said. \"My friends thought\nI needed a little rest.\"\n\nThe other nodded gently. He was no longer looking straight at\nhim, the secular priest was relieved to see.\n\n\"Yes? And what form does it take?\"\n\nStill the patient hesitated. He began a sentence or two,\nand stopped again.\n\nThen the monk lifted his great head and looked straight at him.\n\n\"Be quite simple, Monsignor,\" he said, \"you need fear nothing.\nYou are here to be helped, are you not? Then tell me plainly.\"\n\nMonsignor got up suddenly. It seemed to him that he must move\nabout. He felt restless, as a man who has lived in twilight might\nfeel upon coming out into sudden brilliant and healthful\nsunlight. He began to walk to and fro. The other said nothing,\nbut the restless man felt that the eyes were watching and\nfollowing every movement. He reflected that it was unfair to be\nstared at by eyes that were grey, outlined in black, and crossed\nby straight lids. Then he summoned his resolution.\n\n\"Father,\" he said, \"I am unhappy altogether.\"\n\n\"Yes? (Sit down, please, Monsignor.)\"\n\nHe sat down, and leaned his forehead on his hands.\n\n\"You are unhappy altogether,\" repeated the monk. \"And what form\ndoes that unhappiness take?\"\n\nMonsignor lifted his face.\n\n\"Father,\" he said, \"you know about me? You know about my\nhistory? . . . My memory?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know all that. But it is not that which makes you unhappy?\"\n\n\"No,\" cried the priest suddenly and impulsively, \"it is not\nthat. I wish to God it were! I wish to God my memory would\nleave me again!\"\n\n\"Quietly, please.\"\n\nBut the other paid no attention.\n\n\"It is . . . it is the world I am living in--this brutal\nworld.... Father, help me.\"\n\nThe monk drew a breath and leaned back, and his movement had the\neffect of a call for silence. Neither spoke for a moment.\n\nThen----\n\n\"Just tell me quite simply, from the beginning,\" said the monk.\n\n\n\n(VI)\n\nIt was nearly half an hour later that Monsignor ended, and leaned\nback, at once exhausted and excited. He had said it all--he had\nsaid even more than he had previously formulated to himself. Now\nand then, as he paused, the monk with a word or two, or a\nstrangely compelling look, had soothed or encouraged him. And he\nhad told the whole thing--the sense that there was no longer any\nescape from Christianity, that it had dominated the world, and\nthat it was hateful and tyrannical in its very essence. He\nconfessed that logic was against him, that a wholly Christian\nsociety must protect itself, that he saw no way of evading the\nconsequences that he had witnessed; and yet that his entire moral\nsense revolted against the arguments of his head. It seemed to\nhim, he said in effect, as if he were held in a grip which\noutraged his whole sentiment; as if the universe itself were in a\nconspiracy against him. For there was wanting, he said, exactly\nthat which was most characteristic of Christianity, exactly that\nwhich made it divine--a heavenly patience and readiness to\nsuffer. The cross had been dropped by the Church, he said, and\nshouldered by the world.\n\nThe monk sat silent a moment or two, as motionless as he had been\nat the beginning. Monsignor perceived by now, even through his\nfierce agitation, that this man never moved except for a purpose;\nhe made no gestures when he spoke; he turned his head or lifted\nhis eyes only when it was necessary. Then the monk's voice began\nagain, level and unemotional:\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\n\"A great deal of what you say, Monsignor, is merely the effect of\na nervous strain. A nervous strain means that the emotional or\nthe receptive faculties gain an undue influence over the\nreasonable intelligence. You admit that the logic is flawless,\nyet that fact does not reassure you, as it would if you were in a\nnormal condition.\"\n\n\"But----\"\n\n\"Wait, please, till I have done. I know what you wish to say. It\nis that your sense of protest is not merely sentimental, but\nrather moral; is it not so?\"\n\nMonsignor nodded. It was precisely what he had wished to say.\n\n\"That is not true, however. It is true that your moral sense seems\noutraged, but the reason is that you have not yet all the data\n(the moral sense is a department of the reason, remember). Well,\nyou admit the logic of society's defending itself; but it seems to\nyou that that which is, as you very properly said, the divine\ncharacteristic of Christianity--I mean, readiness to suffer rather\nthan to inflict suffering--is absent from the world; that the\ncross, as you said again, has been dropped by the Church.\n\n\"Now, if you will reflect a moment, you will see that it is very\nnatural that that should appear so, in a world that is\noverwhelmingly Christian. It is very natural that there should not\nbe persecution of Christians, for example, since there is no one\nto persecute them; and therefore that you should see only the\nrights of the Church to rule, and not its divine prerogative of\npain. But I suppose that if you saw the opposite, if you were to\nwatch the other process, and see that the Church is still able to\nsuffer, and to accept suffering, in a manner in which the world is\nnever capable of suffering, I imagine you would be reassured.\"\n\nMonsignor drew a long breath.\n\n\"I thought so. . . . Well, does not the Contemplative Life\nreassure you? And are you aware that in Ireland alone there are\nfour millions of persons wholly devoted to the Contemplative\nLife? And that, so great is the rush of vocations, the\ncontinent of Europe----\"\n\n\"No,\" cried the priest harshly. \"Voluntary suffering is not the\nsame thing. . . . I . . . I long to see Christians suffering at\nthe hands of the world.\"\n\n\"You mean that you are doubtful as to how they would bear it?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThe monk smiled, slowly and brilliantly, and there was a look of\nsuch serene confidence in his face that the other was amazed.\n\n\"Well . . .\" he paused again. \"Well, I take it that we have laid\nour finger upon what it is that troubles you. You admit that the\nChristian States have a right to punish all who attack the very\nfoundations of their stability----\"\n\n\"No-I----\"\n\n\"By your _reason_, I mean, Monsignor.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Monsignor slowly. \"By my _reason_.\"\n\n\"But that you are not satisfied that the Church can still suffer;\nthat it seems to you she has lost that which is of her very\nessence. If you saw that, you would be content.\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" said the other hesitatingly.\n\nThe monk rose abruptly.\n\n\"We have talked enough for to-day,\" he said. \"You will kindly\nspend the rest of the day as yesterday. Do not say Mass in the\nmorning. I will be with you at the same time.\"\n\n\n\n(VII)\n\nIt was on the last morning of their stay at Thurles that\nMonsignor had an opportunity of seeing something of the real\ncharacter of the place.\n\nThe lay monk came to him again, as he was finishing breakfast,\nand abruptly suggested it.\n\n\"I shall be very happy,\" said Monsignor.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nCertainly his stay had done him good in some indefinable manner\nwhich he could not altogether understand. Each morning he had\ntalked; but there was no particular argument which he could\nrecall that had convinced him. Indeed, the monk had told him more\nthan once that bare intellectual argument could do nothing except\nclear the ground of actual fallacies. Certainly the points had\nbeen put to him clearly and logically. He perceived now that, so\nfar as reason was concerned, Christian society could not do\notherwise than silence those who attacked the very foundations of\nits existence; and he also understood that this was completely\nanother matter from the charge that men had been accustomed to\nbring against the Church, that she \"would persecute if she had\nthe power.\" For it was not the Church in any sense that used\nrepression; it was the State that did so; and as Dom Adrian had\npointed out, this was of the very essence of all civil\ngovernment. But this was not new to him. Rather his stay in\nThurles had, by quieting his nervous system, made it possible for\nhim to elect to follow his reason rather than his feelings. His\nfeelings were as before. Still in the bottom of his consciousness\nhe felt that the Christ which he had known was other than the\nChrist who now reigned on earth. But now he had been enabled to\nmake the decision over which he had previously hesitated; he had\nsufficiently recovered at least so far as to go back to his work\nand to do what seemed to be the duty to which his reason pointed,\nand in action at least to ignore his feelings. This much had been\ndone. He did not yet understand by what means.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nA car waited in the little court to which the two came down. The\nmonk beckoned him to enter, and they moved off.\n\n\"This quarter of the monastery,\" began the monk abruptly, \"is\nentirely of the nature you have seen. It is composed of flats and\napartments throughout, for the simple retreats, such as your own.\nEach Father who is employed in this kind of work has his round of\nvisits to make each day.\"\n\n\"How many monks are there altogether, Father, in Thurles?\"\n\n\"About nine thousand.\"\n\n\". . I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"About nine thousand. Of these about six thousand live a purely\nContemplative Life. No monk undertakes any work of this kind\nuntil he has been professed at least fifteen years. But the\nregulations are too intricate to explain just now.\"\n\n\"Where are we going first----\"\n\n\"Stay, Monsignor\" (the monk interrupted him by a hand on his\narm). \"We are just entering the northern quarter. It is the\nserious cases that are dealt with here.\"\n\n\"Serious?\"\n\n\"Yes; where there is a complete breakdown of mental powers. That\nbuilding there is the first of the block of the gravest cases of\nall--real mania.\"\n\nMonsignor leaned forward to look.\n\nThey were passing noiselessly along the side of a great square;\nbut there was nothing to distinguish the building indicated from\nthe rest. It just stood there, a tall pile of white stone; and\nthe top of a campanile rose above it.\n\n\"You have worked there, Father?\"\n\n\"I worked there for two years,\" said the monk tranquilly. \"It is\ndistressing work at first. Would you care to look in?\"\n\nMonsignor shook his head.\n\n\"Yes, it is distressing work, but there are great consolations.\nTwo out of every three cases at least are cured, and we have a\ncertain number of vocations from the patients.\"\n\n\"Vocations!\"\n\n\"Certainly. Mania in the majority of cases is nothing else than\npossession. In fact some authorities are inclined to say that it\nis exceptional to find it otherwise. And in the other cases it is\ngenerally the force of an exceptionally strong will that has lost\nits balance, and is powerful enough to disregard all ordinary\nchecks of reason and common sense and human emotion. Well, a\ncharacter like that is capable of a good deal. Each case is, of\ncourse, completely isolated in this department as in all others.\nIt is incredible to think that less than a hundred years ago such\npatients were herded together. The system now, of course, is to\nsurround them with completely healthy conditions and completely\nself-restrained attendants. That gradually rebuilds the physical\nand nervous conditions, and exorcism is not administered until\nthere is sufficient reserve force for the patient partly, at any\nrate, to cooperate.\"\n\nMonsignor was silent. Again he felt bewilderment at the amazing\nsimplicity and common sense of it all.\n\n\"I am taking you,\" said the monk presently, \"to the central\nquarter--to the monastery proper. It is there that the main body\nof the monks live. The church is remarkable. It is the third\nlargest monastic church in the world. . . . We are just entering\nthe quarter now,\" he added.\n\nMonsignor leaned forward as the air darkened, and was in time to\nsee the great gates swinging slowly together again as if to meet\nafter the car had passed. It was still twilight as they sped on,\nand he perceived that they were passing, with that extreme and\nnoiseless swiftness with which they had come, up some kind of\ntunnel lit by artificial light. Then again there was a rush of\ndaylight and the car stopped.\n\n\"We must go on foot here,\" said the monk, and opened the door.\n\nThe priest, still marvelling, stepped out after him, and followed\nthrough a postern door; and then, as he emerged, understood more\nor less the arrangement of the buildings.\n\nHe stood on the edge of an enormous courtyard, perhaps five\nhundred yards across. This was laid down with a lawn, crossed in\nevery direction with paved paths. But that at which he chiefly\nstared was a church whose like he had never set eyes on before.\nIt was the sanctuary end, obviously, that faced him; the farther\nend ran back into the high walls, pierced here and there by low\ndoors, with which the court was surrounded. The church itself\nrose perhaps two hundred feet from floor to roof. It was straight\nfrom end to end, the line broken only by a tall, severe tower at\nthe point where it joined the wall of the court; and running\nround it, jutting out in a continuous block, like a platform, was\na low building, plainly containing chapels. The whole was of\nwhite stone, unrelieved by carving of any kind. Enormous narrow\nlancet windows showed above the line of chapels, springing\nperhaps forty feet from the ground, and rising to a line\nimmediately below the roof. The whole gave an impression of\nastounding severity and equally astounding beauty. It had the\nkind of beauty of a perfectly bare mountain or of an iceberg. It\nwas graceful and yet as strong as iron; it was cold, and yet\nobviously alive.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the monk, as they went across the court, \"It is\nimpressive, is it not? It is the monastic church proper. It\ncan hold, if necessary, ten thousand monks. But you will see\nwhen we look in.\n\n\"The court we are now in is surrounded by cloisters. There are\njust nine thousand cells; there are, perhaps, fifty unoccupied\nnow. Each cell, as you know, is a little house in itself, with\nthree or four rooms and a garden; so we need space. The\ncemeteries are beyond the cloisters. We bury, as you know, in the\nbare earth without a coffin.\"\n\nIt was like the creation of a dream, thought the priest as he\nwalked with his guide, listening to the quiet talk. He had seen\nsome of these facts in the book that Father Jervis had lent him;\nbut they had meant little to him. Now he began to understand, and\nonce more a kind of inexplicable terror began to affect him.\n\nBut as, five minutes later, he stood in the high western gallery\nof the church, and saw that enormous place stretching beyond\ncalculation to where thin clear glass sanctuary windows rose in\na group, like sword-blades, above the white pavement before the\naltar; as he saw the ranks of stalls running up, tier above\ntier, and understood that, all told, they numbered ten thousand,\none third of them on this side of the screen, in the lay\nbrothers' choir, and two thirds beyond; as he imagined what it\nmust be to watch this congregation of elect souls stream in,\neach with his lantern in his hand, through the countless doors\nthat ended each little narrow gangway that disappeared among the\nstalls; as he pictured the thunder of the unemotional Carthusian\nplain-song--as he saw all this with his bodily eyes standing\nsilent beside the silent monk, and began little by little to\ntake in what it all meant, and what this world must be in which\nsuch a condition of things was accepted--a world where\nContemplatives at last were honoured as the kings of the earth,\nand themselves controlled and soothed the lives of whom the\nworld had despaired; as his imagination ran out still farther,\nand he remembered that this was but one of innumerable houses of\nthe kind--as he began to be aware of all this, and of what it\nsignified as regards the civilization in which he found\nhimself--his terror began to pass, and to give place to an awe,\nand to a kind of exaltation, such as neither Rome nor Lourdes\nnor London had been able even to suggest. . . .\n\n\n\n(VIII)\n\n\"Well?\" said Father Jervis, smiling, as the two met on the\nplatform that evening, to wait for the English-bound air-ship.\n\nMonsignor looked at him.\n\n\"I am glad I came,\" he said. \"No; it is not all well with me,\neven yet. But I will try again.\"\n\nThe other nodded, still smiling.\n\n\"Who was the Father who looked after me?\" added the prelate. \"He\nsaid he had talked with you.\"\n\n\"He is considered one of the best they have,\" said the other \"I\nasked for him specially. He hardly ever fails. You are\nimpressed by him?\"\n\n\"Oh yes . . . but he did nothing particular.\"\n\n\"That is just it,\" smiled the old priest. He added after a pause,\nas the bell rang--\n\n\"You feel ready for work again? You know what lies before you?\"\n\nMonsignor nodded slowly.\n\n\"You mean the Establishment of the Church? . . . Yes; I am ready.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n\n(I)\n\nThe scheme had been in the air for nearly two years, as\nMonsignor learned from his papers; and for the last month or two\nhad come more to the front than ever. But he had not realized\nhow close it was.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nIt was at the end of October that the Cardinal sent for him and\nrevealed two more facts. The first was that it was the intention\nof His Majesty's Government to appoint a Commission to consider\nonce more the Establishment of Catholicism as the State religion\nof England; and the second was that secret negotiations had been\nproceeding now for the last eight months between China, Japan,\nthe Persian Empire, and Russia, as to the formal recognition of\nthe Pope as Arbitrator of the East.\n\n\"Both points,\" said the Cardinal, \"are absolutely _sub sigillo_\nuntil you hear of them from other sources. And I need not tell you,\nMonsignor, that they have the very strongest mutual effects.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"Think it over,\" said the Cardinal, and waved him pleasantly away.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nFrom that time forward, as week followed week, the work became\nenormous. He was present at interviews of which he understood not\nmore than one half of the allusions; yet with that extraordinary\nskill of which he was made aware by the compliments of the\nCardinal and of his own friends, he showed never a sign of his\nignorance. Papers constantly passed under his hands, disclosing\nto him the elaborate preparations that had already been made on\nthe part of the State authorities; and questions on various\npoints of discipline were continually submitted to him, at the\nbearing of which he could only guess.\n\nIt seemed to him remarkable that so much fuss should be made upon\nwhat was by now almost entirely a matter of form, since by the\nrestoration of Catholic property, recognition of Church courts,\nand a hundred other details, as well as by the affection of the\npeople, the Church already enjoyed supreme power.\n\nHe put this once, lightly, to Father Jervis.\n\n\"The public is affected by forms much more than by principles,\"\nsaid that priest, smiling. \"They have already accepted the\nprinciples; but even at the eleventh hour they might take\nfright at the forms.\"\n\n\"Do you mean it is possible that a Bill, if it was brought\nforward, might not pass?\"\n\n\"Certainly it's possible. Otherwise, why haven't we had a\nCommission appointed? The Socialists aren't beaten yet. But it's\nnot likely; or the Bill wouldn't be brought forward at all.\"\n\nThe prelate said nothing.\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nIt was not until a few days before Christmas that the\nCardinal was sent for.\n\nAt the beginning of the month the Commission had been appointed\nby an overwhelming majority in the House. The proposal had been\nbrought forward suddenly by the Government, and with a speed and\nan employment of business-like methods that seemed very strange\nto the man who had lost his memory, and who still had hanging\nabout him a curious atmosphere of earlier days, the Commission\nhad despatched an immense amount of work within three weeks.\n\nIt was impossible to know how far negotiations had got; but even\nthe Cardinal himself was taken by surprise when he received an\ninvitation to attend the sitting of the Commission. He sent for\nMonsignor Masterman at once.\n\n\"You will attend me, Monsignor, please. I shall have to appear\nalone, but I should like you to be at hand.\"\n\nIt was with very much confused emotions that Monsignor found\nhimself, a day or two later, walking up and down a corridor in\nthe House of Representatives. He had arrived with the Cardinal,\nhad gone up the broad staircase behind him, and had followed him\neven into the committee-room. A long table faced him as he\nentered, and he noticed with an odd little thrill how every man\nsitting there, from the white-faced, white-haired man at the\nhead, down to the clean-shaven, clever-looking young man nearest\nthe door, had risen as the two ecclesiastics came in. The table,\nhe noticed, was strewed with papers. An empty chair stood at the\nlower end of the table--a red chair, he saw, with gilded wood.\n\nThe Cardinal sat down. The rest sat down, all in silence.\nMonsignor placed the despatch-box in front of his chief, opened\nit, laid a few books in order, and went out. . . .\n\nEven now, in spite of all the knowledge that he had, and the\nconstant contemplation of the cold facts of the case, it seemed\nto him, as on a dozen occasions before since his lapse of memory,\nas if life were not so real as it seemed. Somewhere, down in the\nvery fibre of him, was an assumption that England and Catholicism\nwere irreconcilable things--that the domination of the one meant\nthe suppression of the other. Certainly history was against him.\nFor more than a thousand years Church and State in England had\nbeen partners. It was but for four hundred years--and those years\nof confusion and of the gradual elimination of the\nsupernatural--that the two had been at cross-purposes. Was it not\nhistorically certain therefore that, should the Supernatural ever\nbe reaccepted in all its force, a partnership should again spring\nup between a State that needed a Divine authority behind its own,\nand the sole Institution which was not afraid to stand out for\nthe Supernatural with all its consequences? Theology was against\nhim; for if there was anything that theology taught explicitly,\nit was that the soul was naturally Christian, and therefore\nimperfect without the full Christian Revelation.\n\nAnd yet, as he walked, he was disturbed. The proposed\nEstablishment of the Church by the State appeared to him\nuncharacteristic of both--of the Church, since he still tended to\nthink that she must in her essence be at war with the world; of\nthe State, since he still tended to think that that too, in its\nessence, must be at war with religion. In spite of what he had\nseen, he had not yet grasped with his imagination that which both\nexperience and intellect justified as true--namely, that it is\nthe function of the Church to guide the world, and the highest\nwisdom of the world to organize itself on a supernatural basis.\n\nHe walked up and down, saying nothing. At one end of the long\ncorridor a couple of secretaries whispered together on a settee;\nat the other he saw passing and repassing hurrying figures that\nwent about their business. Doors opened occasionally, and a man\ncame out; once or twice he saluted an acquaintance. But all the\nwhile his attention remained fixed upon the door numbered XI,\nbehind which this quietly significant affair proceeded. The whole\nplace seemed a very temple of stillness. The thick carpet\nunderfoot, the noiseless doors, the admirable system of the\nplace--all contributed to create a great solemnity.\n\nHe tried to remind himself that he was present at the making of\nhistory, but it was useless. Again and again, as, with an effort,\nhe forced the principles before his mind, his attention whirled\noff to a detail--to a contemplation of his chief taking his seat\nin the House of Lords, and to the fabric of the carpet on which\nhe walked; to the silent whisper of one of the two conversational\nsecretaries; to a wonder as to the form of prayer with which the\nfirst professedly Catholic Parliament in England for more than\nfour hundred years would open.\n\nThen he checked himself, reminded himself of certain old\nproverbs about cups and hares, reflected that Socialism was not\nbeaten yet (in Father Jervis's phrase), as recent events in\nGermany had shown. . . .\n\nOnce as he turned at the end of the corridor farthest from the\nsecretaries, an interesting little incident happened. A door\nopened abruptly, and a man coming out quickly almost ran against\nhim. Then the man took off his hat and smiled.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, Monsignor . . . I . . . I can guess your\nbusiness here.\"\n\nMonsignor smiled too, a little guiltily. He recognized the\nSocialist leader who had called on him a few months before.\n\n\"Yes: and I'm afraid you don't approve,\" he said.\n\nMr. Hardy made a little deprecatory gesture, still holding his\nhat in his hand.\n\n\"Oh! I'm a believer in majorities,\" he said. \"And there's no\ndoubt you have the majority. But----\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"I hope you will be merciful. That is your Gospel, you know.\"\n\n\"You think we have the majority?\"\n\n\"Oh, certainly. The enfranchisement of women settled all that.\nThey are always clerical, you know.\"\n\nMonsignor felt the point prick him. He riposted gently.\n\n\"Well, you will have to take refuge in Germany,\" he said.\n\nThe face of the other changed a little; his eyelids came down\njust a fraction.\n\n\"That's exactly what I'm going to do, Monsignor--I--but I think\nthere's somebody wanting you.\"\n\nMonsignor turned. There was a hand beckoning him from behind a\nface, as if in agitation, from the entrance to door No. XI.\n\n\"If you'll excuse me,\" he said, and hurried off.\n\n\"I thought you'd like to be present at the end, Monsignor,\"\nwhispered the member who had beckoned him. \"The Cardinal is\njust speaking.\"\n\nCommittee room number XI seemed strangely quiet, as the prelate\nslipped in behind his friend and stood motionless. One voice was\nspeaking; and, as he tried to catch the sense, he looked round\nthe faces, that were all turned in his direction. He saw Mr.\nManners on the extreme left.\n\nEvery man sat without moving, simply listening, it seemed, with an\nextraordinary attention; some leaning forward, some back, with the\npapers disregarded on the table. A couple of recording machines\nstood now in the centre. Then he began to catch the words. . . .\n\n\"I think, gentlemen,\" said the voice from behind the high-backed\nchair, \"that I need say no more. We have discussed at length, and\nI hope to your satisfaction, the particular points on which you\ndesired information: and my answers have brought out, I think, the\nessence of all the conditions on which alone the Church can\naccept the terms proposed.\n\n\"I wish it to be brought before the House, perfectly clearly,\nthat in her own province the Church must be supreme. She must\nhave an entire and undisputed right over her own doctrine and\ndiscipline; for that is at the root of her only claim to be\nheard. In respect to any legislation which, in her opinion,\ntouches the eternal principles of morality--in all such things,\nfor example, as the marriage law--her supreme authority must be\nrespected; as well as in all those other matters of the same\nnature upon which you have questioned me.\n\n\"But on the other side the Church recognizes, and always will\nrecognize, the right of a free people to govern themselves; and,\nnot only recognizes that right, but will support it with all the\npower at her command. I have acknowledged that in a few instances\nin history ecclesiastics have interfered unduly with what did not\nconcern them--interfered, that is, not as citizens (for that is\ntheir right, in common with all other citizens)--but in the Name\nof Religion. Now that, gentlemen, is simply a thing of the past.\nIf secular rulers have learned by experience, so have\necclesiastical rulers. . . . I have invited investigation into\nthe history of the last hundred years; and I have answered those\nfew charges that have been brought--I hope to your satisfaction.\"\n(There was a murmur of applause.)\n\n\"In secular matters, therefore, the Church will be wholly on the\nside of liberty. Ecclesiastical authorities, for example, would\nbe the first to welcome a repeal of legislation as regards\nheresy; but, on the other hand, we fully recognize the right of a\nsecular State to protect itself, even by the death penalty,\nagainst those who threaten the existence of the sanctions on\nwhich a secular State takes its stand. We recognize her right, I\nsay; but I do not mean by that that you will not find a majority\nof ecclesiastics who hold that it is, to put it mildly, a\ndeplorable policy and very imperfectly Christian.\n\n\"However, I have said all this before, both in public and now\nagain in answer to your questions; and I think that, at any rate\nso far as I am concerned, I shall not be to blame if the nation\naccepts the proposed change under a misapprehension.\n\n\"You see, gentlemen, the attempt that ended fifty years ago--the\nattempt that was called in its day Protestantism--to establish a\nreligion which was to be secondary in any sense to the State,\nfailed and failed lamentably, in spite of the noble lives that\nwere spent in labouring for such a compromise. For it is the\nwhole essence of a Supernatural Religion to be supreme in it own\nprovince--the very adjective asserts it; and any endeavour to\ncompromise on this entirely vital point is in itself a denial of\nthe principle, For a while this was not perceived. Men regarded\nthe Christian Church--or rather, that which they took to be the\nChristian Church--merely, on its earthly side, as an organization\ncomparable to a State. They did not seem to see that Religion\nmust always have a wider basis than any secular body, since it\ndeals with eternity as well as with time, while the State,\nprofessedly, treats only of temporal things. The consequence was\neither conflict, whenever supernatural elements clashed with\nnatural; or else the subservience of Religion, and its consequent\nloss of prestige, as well as of its supernatural character. A\nNational Church, therefore, is a contradiction in terms, since it\nasserts that that which is in its very nature larger than this\nworld must yet be confined within the limits not only of this\nworld, but even of a part of it. . . . Well, I need not labour\nthat point. You grasped it, gentlemen, even before you were good\nenough to ask me to give evidence before this Commission. I felt\nit, however, only right that such conditions should be reiterated\nand recorded before matters went any farther.\n\n\"The Church, therefore, is perfectly content to remain as she has\nalways remained in this country for the last four centuries--a\nfree society governing the consciences of her children. Or she is\ncontent to take outwardly and officially that position which she\nhas always, at least tacitly, claimed, and to reassume her civil\ndignity and her civil responsibilities. But she is not content to\nwaive any of those Divine Rights with which her Founder endowed\nher, even in return for the greatest privileges; still less is\nshe content to receive those privileges under false\npretences. . . .\"\n\nAgain the low murmur of applause broke out, and three or four men\nshifted their positions slightly.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nMonsignor was conscious again, suddenly and vividly, of that\ndouble sense of unreality and of intense drama which he had felt\nso often before at critical moments. It seemed to him amazing,\nand yet more amazingly simple, that such claims should be put in\nsuch words under such circumstances. It was astounding that such\nthings should be said, and yet more astounding that they needed\nto be said, for were they not, after all, the very elements of\ncivil and religious relations? . . .\n\nThere was something too in the voice of the invisible speaker\nthat thrilled his very heart. The tones were completely tranquil,\nthere were no gestures, and the very face that spoke was unseen.\nYet in the quiet fluency, the note of absolute assurance, there\nwas a dominating appeal that was almost hypnotic in its effect.\nHe had perceived this characteristic of the Cardinal often\nbefore; he had noticed it first on that occasion on which, for\nthe first time in his knowledge, he had come into his presence,\nstill staggered by the shock of his mental failure and recovery.\nBut he had never appreciated the strength of the personality so\nclearly. The Cardinal was no orator in the ordinary sense; there\nwas no thunder or pathos or drama in his manner. But his complete\nassurance and the long, gentle, incisive sentences, moving like\nrollers in a calm sea, were more affecting than any passion could\nbe. . . . It seemed to him now the very incarnation of that\nspirit of the Church that at once attracted and repelled him--in\nits serenity, its gentleness, its reasonableness, and its\nirresistible force.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nThen, on a slightly higher note, and with a perceptible increase\nof deliberation, the voice went on.\n\n\"I must add one word, gentlemen.\n\n\"I said just now that the Church was content to be as she has\nrecently been in this country--content, that is, so long as she\ncontinues to enjoy the liberty with which England endows her.\n\n\"And perhaps, as her chief minister in this country, I ought to\nsay no more. But, gentlemen, I am an Englishman as well as a\nCatholic, and I love England only less than I love the Church. I\nsay frankly that I do love her less. No man who has any\nprinciples that can be called religious can say otherwise. I tell\nyou plainly that should it come to be a choice between Caesar and\nGod--between the King and the Pope--I should throw myself at once\non the side of Christ and his Vicar. . . .\"\n\n(Monsignor drew a breath. It seemed to him that this was\nappallingly plain speaking. He expected a murmur of remonstrance.\nHe glanced at the faces, but there was no movement or change,\nexcept that a young member suddenly smiled, as with pleasure.)\n\n\"But I love England,\" went on the voice, \"passionately and\ndevotedly. And in spite of what I said just now I must add that,\nas an Englishman, there is but one more thing that I desire for\nmy country, and that is that she may carry out that project on\nwhose account you, gentlemen, have met to-day.\"\n\n(Again a murmur of applause rose, and sank again instantly.)\n\n\"You have kindly asked me to make this little speech, and I do\nnot wish to turn it into a sermon, but I must conclude by saying\nthat, splendid as is the history of England in many points, there\nis one black blot upon the page, and that, the act of hers by\nwhich she renounced Christ's Vicar, by whom kings reign. You have\ndone justice at last in returning to us those possessions which\nour forefathers dedicated to God's service. But there remains one\nmore thing to do, formally and deliberately, as one kingdom, to\nreturn to Him who is King of kings. I know it will come some day.\nAs individuals, Englishmen have already returned to Him. But a\ncorporate crime must be expiated by corporate reparation, and it\nis that reparation which has already waited too long. I am an old\nman, gentlemen. That, no doubt, is why I have been so verbose,\nbut my one prayer for the last thirty years has been that that\ncorporate reparation may be made within my own lifetime. . . .\"\n\nThe voice suddenly trembled.\n\nThen the watcher saw the chair pushed back, and the little\nscarlet cap, covering the white hair, rise above it.\nSimultaneously every man rose to his feet.\n\n\"That is all, gentlemen.\"\n\nThere was a moment's silence.\n\nThen the applause broke out. It was not loud or noisy, as there\nwere scarcely two dozen men in the room, yet it was\nastonishingly affecting, just the tapping of hands on the table\nand a murmur of voices.\n\nThe Cardinal silenced it by a gesture.\n\n\"One word, gentlemen. . . . I have said nothing of any\nopposition. Perhaps it would have been better if I had. But I\nwill only say this, and it is something of a warning too. I do\nnot believe that this Bill that is spoken of will necessarily\nmean peace. I am aware of the dangers that are threatening;\nperhaps I am even more aware of them than any other person\npresent. And yet, for all that, I am not in favour of delay.\"\n\nHe turned suddenly, and with his long smooth step was at the door\nalmost before Monsignor had time to open it and step aside. There\nwas no time for any other man to speak.\n\nThe car had hardly moved off from the door before Monsignor\nturned to his chief.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\n\"Your Eminence,\" he said, \"what was that about danger? I did\nnot understand.\"\n\nThe thin face was a little pale with the exertions of the speech,\nas it turned to him in answer.\n\n\"I will tell you that,\" he said, \"as soon as the Bill becomes law.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\n\n(I)\n\nIt was an astounding scene in which Monsignor found himself, six\nweeks later--extraordinary from the extreme quietness of it, and\nthe enormous importance of the issue for which they waited.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nThe Cardinal and he had gone down to Lord Southminster's house\non the coast of Kent for three or four days to wait for the\nfinal news, as it was wished to avoid the possibility of any\ndangerous excitement on the night of the division; and it was\nthought that the Cardinal's absence might be of service in\npreventing any formidable demonstration at Westminster. He was\nto return to London, in the event of the Bill passing, on the\nfollowing morning.\n\nThe situation was as follows:\n\nA completely unexpected opposition had showed itself as soon as\nthe Bill was announced. It was perfectly well known that this\nopposition was almost entirely artificial; but it was so well\nengineered that there was grave doubt whether it might not affect\nthe voting in the Lower House. The Upper House, it was notorious,\nwas practically unanimous in favour of the Bill; and there had\nbeen one or two unpleasant demonstrations outside the entrance to\nthe Second Chamber.\n\nThe opposition was artificial--that is to say, its activities\nwere managed after the manner of a stage-army, and the protesters\nwere largely German; but the crowds were so great, and the\ngenuineness of their opposition, such as it was, so obvious, that\nvery clear signs of wavering had become apparent, even on the\npart of some of the more prominent Ministers of the Crown. Twice,\nalso, during public appearances of the King, who was well known\nas a strong advocate of the Bill, there had been considerable\ndisturbances amongst the crowds.\n\nAll this had come, of course, to the ears of the ecclesiastical\nauthorities far more forcibly than the world outside suspected.\nThere had been threatening letters; twice the Cardinal's carriage\nhad been mobbed; a dozen well-known priests had been molested in\nthe public streets. There had been meetings and consultations of\nall kinds; there had even been a moment when it seemed as if the\nCardinal and the Prime Minister stood almost alone in their\ncomplete resolution. . . . It was not that any really responsible\npersons contemplated the abandonment of the Bill; but a party had\nalmost been formed for its postponement, in the hope that when\nonce the opposition had been dissolved it would be difficult to\nreorganize it again. On the other hand, the resolutes stood for\nthe assertion that just because things were really critical in\nGermany--(in the state of affairs that followed the Emperor's\nconversion)--it was now the time for England to advance; that any\nhesitation shown now would be taken as a sign of weakness, and\nthat the Socialists' cause would be thereby enormously advanced.\n\nThree or four results therefore were possible, from the\ndetermination of the Government to push the Bill forward and to\npresent it for its second reading this evening. First, it might\npass triumphantly, if the leaders could succeed in inspiring\ntheir followers with confidence. Secondly, it might be rejected,\nif the panic spread; for, under the new parliamentary system\nthat had succeeded fifty years ago to the old Party Government,\nit was impossible to reckon accurately on how members would\nultimately vote. Thirdly, it might pass with a narrow majority;\nand in this event, it was certain that a very long delay would\nfollow before the Upper House would have an opportunity of\nhanding it on for the Royal assent. Fourthly--well, almost\nanything else might happen, if the crowd, assembled in\nParliament Square, and swelled every hour by new arrivals,\nshowed itself predominantly hostile. . . .\n\nLord Southminster's house needs no description. It is probably,\neven to-day, as well known as any place in England: there is no\nguide book which does not give at least three or four pages to\nthe castle, as well as a few lines to the tiny historical seaside\nvillage beneath from which the marquisate derives its name. And\nit was in the little dining-room that adjoined the hall that the\nman who had lost his memory found himself on this evening with\nhalf a dozen other men and a couple of ladies.\n\nIt was a small octagonal room, designed in one of the towers that\nlooked out over the sea; panelled in painted wood and furnished\nwith extreme plainness. On one side a door opened upon the three\nlittle parlours that were used when the party was small; at the\nback a lobby led into the old hall itself; on the third side was\nthe door used by the servants.\n\nLord Southminster himself was still a young man, who had not yet\nmarried. His grandfather had become a Catholic in the reign of\nEdward VII; and the whole house had reverted to the old religion\nunder which it had been originally built, with the greatest ease\nand grace. The present owner was one of the rising politicians\nwho were most determined to carry the Bill through; and he had\nalready made for himself something of a reputation by his\nspeeches in the Upper House. Monsignor had met him half a dozen\ntimes already, and thoroughly liked this fair-haired,\nclean-shaven young man who was such a devoted adherent of the\nCatholic cause.\n\nA little silence had fallen after old Lady Southminster and her\nsister had gone out, and it had been curious to notice how\nlittle had been said during dinner of the event that was\nproceeding in London.\n\nHalf a dozen times already since they had sat down a silent man\nin the black gown of a secretary had slipped in with a printed\nslip of paper and laid it before the Marquis and then disappeared\nagain, and it was astonishing how the conversation had ceased on\nthe instant, as the paper was read and passed round.\n\nThese messages had not been altogether reassuring.\n\nThe first was timed at 8.13, London, and had been read before the\nclock chimed the quarter-past. It ran:\n\n\"MEMBERS ARE ARRIVING AFTER DINNER. HAZELTON MOBBED IN THE SQUARE.\"\n\nThe second, ten minutes later, ran:\n\n\"FOUR TITANIC-LINE BOATS FROM GERMANY REPORTED IN SIGHT. CORDON\nOF POLICE-VOLORS COMPLETED.\"\n\nThe third:\n\n\"MOB REPORTED DIRECTION OF HAMPSTEAD. THE PRIME MINISTER HAS\nBEGUN HIS SPEECH. HOUSE FULL.\"\n\nThe fourth, fifth, and sixth contained abstracts from the speech,\nand added that it was becoming increasingly difficult to hear,\nowing to the noise from outside.\n\nTwenty minutes had now elapsed and no further message had\nbeen received.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nMonsignor looked up at the Victorian clock over the carved mantelpiece\nand glanced at his host. The young man's eyes met his own.\n\n\"It's twenty-five past nine,\" said Lord Southminster.\n\nThe Cardinal looked up. He had not spoken for three or four\nminutes, but otherwise had shown no signs of discomposure.\n\n\"And the last message was just after nine?\" he said.\n\nThe other nodded.\n\n\"What time is the division expected?\"\n\n\"Not before midnight. Three guns will be fired, as I said, your\nEminence, as soon as the division has taken place. We shall know\nbefore my secretary will have time to cross the hall.\"\n\nAgain there was silence.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nOutside the night was quiet. The village itself lay, spread out\nabove the beach, a hundred feet below the windows, and the only\nsound was the steady lap and splash of the rollers upon the\nshingle. The place was completely protected by the Southminster\nestate from any encroachment of houses, and even the station\nitself lay half a mile away inland.\n\nMonsignor looked again at the faces of those who sat with him.\nOpposite was Lord Southminster himself in the ordinary quiet\nevening dress of his class, his guild-badge worn, as the custom\nwas, like a star on his left breast. His face showed nothing\nexcept an air of attention; there was no excitement in it, nor\neven suspense. On his right sat the Cardinal in his scarlet. He\nwas smiling gravely to himself, and his lips moved slightly now\nand then. At this moment he was playing gently with a\nwalnut-shell that lay on his plate. The three others showed more\nsigns of excitement. Old General Hartington, who could remember\nbeing taken to London to see the festivities at the coronation of\nGeorge V, was leaning back in his chair frowning. (He had been\nreminiscent this evening in a rather voluble manner, but had not\nuttered a word now for five minutes.) The chaplain had shifted\nround in his chair, watching the door, and the sixth man, a\ncousin of the host, who, Monsignor understood, held some\nresponsible post in the Government volor service, was sitting\njust now with his head in his hands.\n\nStill no one spoke.\n\nThe cousin pushed back his chair suddenly and went to the window.\n\n\"Well, Jack?\" said the host.\n\n\"Nothing--just going to have a look at the weather.\"\n\nHe stood there, having pulled back the curtain a little and\nunlatched the shutter, looking out through the glass.\n\nThen Lord Southminster's reserve broke down.\n\n\"If it's not done to-night,\" he said abruptly, \"God only\nknows----Well, well.\"\n\n\"It will be done to-night,\" said the Cardinal, still without\nlifting his eyes.\n\n\"Certainly, your Eminence, if nothing interferes; but how can we\nbe sure of that? I know the Government means business.\"\n\n\"It's half an hour since the last message,\" observed the General.\n\nLord Southminster got up suddenly and went to the lobby-door. As he\nwent the door into the parlours opened and his mother looked in.\n\n\"Any more news, my son?\"\n\n\"No, mother. I was just going to ask.\"\n\nThe old lady came forward as her son went out--a splendid old\ncreature in her lace and jewels--active still and upright in\nspite of her years. She made a little gesture as the men offered\nto move, and went and leaned by the old-fashioned open\nfire-place, such as her husband had put in at the restoration\nthroughout the house.\n\n\"Your Eminence, can you reassure us?\" she said, smiling.\n\nThe Cardinal, too, smiled as he turned in his chair.\n\n\"I am confident the Bill will pass,\" he said. \"But I do not know\nyet what the price will be.\"\n\n\"Your Eminence means in England? Or elsewhere?\" asked the\nchaplain abruptly.\n\n\"In England and elsewhere, father.\"\n\nOld Lady Jane Morpeth appeared at this moment, and the two\nladies sat down on the high oak settle that screened the fire\nfrom the window. They showed no signs of anxiety; but Monsignor\nperceived that their return at all to this room just now was\nsignificant. Simultaneously the young man came in again, closing\nthe door behind him.\n\n\"Our enquiries are not answered,\" he said sharply. \"We are trying\nto get into touch with another office.\"\n\nNo one spoke for a minute. Even to Monsignor, who still found it\nhard always to understand the communication-system of the time,\nit was obvious that something must have happened. He knew that\nSouthminster Castle had been put into wireless touch with the\ngreat Marconi office in Parliament Square, and that a failure to\nbe answered meant that something unexpected had happened. But it\nwas entirely impossible to conjecture for certain what this\nsomething might be.\n\n\"That is serious?\" remarked Lady Southminster, without\nmoving a muscle.\n\n\"I suppose so,\" said her son, and sat down again.\n\nThen the man who was looking out of the window turned and came\nback into the room, latching the shutters and putting the curtains\ninto place.\n\n\"Well, Jack?\" asked the General.\n\n\"I have counted eight or nine volors,\" he said; \"usually there\nare only two at this time. I went to look for them.\"\n\n\"Which way?\"\n\n\"Three this way and five the other.\"\n\nMonsignor did not dare to ask for an interpretation. But he was aware\nthat the air of tenseness in the room tightened up still further.\n\nThe General got up.\n\n\"Southminster,\" he said, \"I think I'll take a stroll outside if I\nmay. One might see something, you know.\"\n\n\"Go up to the keep, if you like. There's a covered path most of\nthe way up. There's a look-out there, you know. I had one set in\ncase the wireless failed. At any rate, they may see the rockets\nfarther along the coast.\"\n\nMonsignor too stood up. His restlessness increased every moment,\nalthough he scarcely knew why.\n\n\"May I come with you too?\" he said. \"Will your Eminence excuse me?\"\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nThe two said nothing as they went out through the dimly lighted\nhall. Overhead hung the old banners in the high wooden roof; a\ngreat fire blazed on the hearth; and under the musician's gallery\nat the farther end they saw the bright little window behind which\nsat the secretary.\n\nThey stopped here and peered in.\n\nHe was seated with his back to them before an instrument not\naltogether unlike an old-fashioned organ. A long row of black\nkeys was in front of him; and half a dozen stops protruded on\neither side. Before him, in the front, a glass panel protected\nsome kind of white sheet; and as the priest looked in he could\nsee a movement as of small bluish sparks playing upon this. He\nhad long ago made up his mind not to attempt to understand modern\nmachinery; and he had no kind of idea what all this meant, beyond\na guess that the keys were for sending messages, and the white\nsheet for receiving them.\n\n\"Any news?\" said the General suddenly.\n\nThe secretary did not move or answer. His hands were before him,\nhidden, and he appeared entirely absorbed.\n\nIt must have been a minute before he turned round, drawing out as\nhe did so from before him a slip of paper like those he had\nalready brought in.\n\n\"This is from Rye, sir,\" he said shortly. \"They too have lost\ncommunication with Parliament Square. That is all, sir. I must\ntake this in at once.\"\n\nThe two passed on, still without speaking; and it was not until\nthey were going slowly up the long covered staircase that ran\ninside the skirting wall that connected the keep with the more\nmodern part of the castle that Monsignor began----\n\n\"I'm very ignorant,\" he said. \"Can you tell me the\npossibilities?\"\n\nThe General paused before answering.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"the worst possibility is a riot, engineered by\nthe Socialists. If that is successful, it means a certain delay\nof at least several years; and, at the worst, it means that the\nSocialists will increase enormously throughout Europe. And then\nanything may happen.\"\n\n\"But I thought that all real danger was past, and that the\nSocialists were discredited.\"\n\n\"Certainly, in one sense. In every country, that is to say, they\nare in a negligible minority. But if all these minorities are\nadded together, they are not negligible at all. The Cabinet has\nproduced this Bill suddenly, as of course you know, in order to\nprevent any large Continental demonstration, as this would\ncertainly have a tremendous effect upon England. But it seems\nthat they've been organizing for months. They must have known\nthis was coming . . .\"\n\n\"And if the Socialists fail?\"\n\n\"Well, then they'll make their last stand in Germany. But you\nknow this better than I do, Monsignor?\"\n\n\"I know a good deal here and there,\" confessed the other;\n\"but I find it hard sometimes to combine it all. I had an\nillness, you know----\"\n\n\"Ah, yes; yes.\"\n\nThey paused for breath in an embrasure in the wall, where a\nsection of a half-tower supported the wall, itself running down\non to the cliff side. A couple of windows gave a view of the sea,\nnow a dark gulf under the cloudy sky, sprinkled with a few moving\nlights, here and there, of vessels going up or down the Channel.\n\n\"And suppose the Bill passes?\" began the priest.\n\n\"If the Bill passes, we need fear nothing in England if it passes\nwith a good majority. You know Government is an extraordinarily\ndelicate machine nowadays; and if the Bill goes through really\nwell, it'll be an infallible sign that the country refuses to\ntake alarm. And if it fails, or only narrowly passes--well, it'll\nbe the other way. The whole work will have to be done again, or\nat least begun----\"\n\nHe faced round suddenly.\n\n\"Monsignor,\" he said, \"I wouldn't say this to everyone. But I\ntell you we're at a very critical moment. These Socialists are\nstronger than any one dreamed. Their organization is simply\nperfect. Do you know any of them?\"\n\n\"I have met Hardy.\"\n\n\"That's a brilliant man, you know.\"\n\nThey talked no more during the rest of the ascent, until they\nemerged at last on to the top of the round keep, where the old\nbonfires used to burn, and where the old iron cradle, used even\nnow at coronations and great national events, still thrust up its\nskeleton silhouette against the pale sky. To the priest's\nsurprise the silhouette was largely filled in.\n\nA figure came towards them, saluted, and stood waiting.\n\n\"Eh? Who's this?\" snapped the General.\n\n\"The look out, sir. We've orders to watch Rye.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"The wireless is out of communication, sir. His lordship arranged\na week ago that there should be supplementary rockets.\"\n\n\"Where are the guns?\" asked Monsignor, who was looking about him,\nat the empty leads, the battlemented parapet against the sky, and\nthen back at the servant's figure.\n\n\"Down below, father. They're to be fired from here if three white\nrockets go up.\"\n\nWhile the two others still talked, the priest went to the side and\nlooked over, again suddenly overwhelmed by the strangeness of the\nwhole position. Once again there came on him the sense of\nirresponsible unreality. . . . He stared out, hardly seeing that\non which he looked: the grey mass of the lower castle beneath with\nlighted windows, at the blankness beyond, again with the scattered\nlights--the nearer ones, within what seemed a stone's throw, along\nthe village street--the farther ones, infinitely remote, out upon\nthe invisible sea. There again too, far off across the land, shone\nanother cluster of lights, seen rather as a luminous patch, that\nmarked Rye. There too, eyes were watching; there too it was felt\nthat interests were at stake, so vast and so unknown, that heaven\nor hell might be within their limits. He looked inland, and there\ntoo was darkness, but darkness unrelieved. Near at hand,\nimmediately below the bounding walls, rose up the dark swelling\noutlines that he knew to be the woods of the park, crowding up\nagainst the very castle walls themselves; and beyond, dimness\nafter dimness, to meet the sky. . . .\n\nIt seemed to him incredible, as he looked, that things of such\nmoment should be under way, somewhere beyond that sleeping\ncountry; and yet, as his eyes grew accustomed to the night, he\ncould make out at last a faint glow in the sky to the north that\nmarked the outskirts of that enormous city of which he was a\ncitizen, where such matters even now were approaching a decision.\n\nFor it was only little by little that he had become aware that a\nreal crisis was at hand. The Cardinal had told him the facts,\nindeed, in the dispassionate, tolerant manner that was\ncharacteristic of him; but the point of view necessary to take\nthem in as a coherent whole, to see them, not as isolated events,\nbut with the effect of the past upon them and their hidden\nimplications and probabilities for the future--this needed that\nthe observer should be of the temper and atmosphere of the time.\nFor prophecy just now was little better than feeling at outlines\nin the dark. Facts could be discerned and apprehended by all--and\nthe priest was well aware of his own capacities in this--but\ntheir interpretation was another matter altogether. . . . He felt\nhelpless and puzzled. . . .\n\nThe General came towards him.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"anything to be seen?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"We may as well make our way down again. There's nothing to be\ngained by stopping here.\"\n\nAs they made their way down again through the covered passage,\nthe General once more began to talk about the crisis.\n\nMonsignor had heard it all before; but he listened for all that.\nIt seemed to him worth while to collect opinions; and this\nsoldier's very outspoken remarks cast a sort of sharp clarity\nupon the situation that the priest found useful. The\nestablishment of the Church in England was being regarded on the\nContinent as a kind of test case; and even more by the\nAnglo-Saxon countries throughout the world. In itself it was not\nso vast a step forward as might be thought. It would make no very\nradical changes in actual affairs, since the Church already\nenjoyed enormous influence and complete liberty. But the point\nwas that it was being taken as a kind of symbol by both sides;\nand this explained on the one hand the tactics of the Government\nin bringing it suddenly forward, and the extraordinary zeal with\nwhich the Socialists were demonstrating against it.\n\n\"The more I think of it,\" said the General, \"the more----\"\n\nMonsignor stepped suddenly aside into the embrasure at which they\nhad halted on the way up.\n\n\"What's the matter?\"\n\n\"I thought I saw----\"\n\nThe General uttered a sharp exclamation, pressing his head over\nthe priest's shoulder.\n\n\"That's the second,\" whispered the priest harshly.\n\nTogether they waited, staring out together through the tall,\nnarrow window that looked towards Rye.\n\nThen for the third time there rose against the far-off horizon,\nabove that faint peak of luminosity that marked where Rye\nwatched over her marshes, a thin line of white fire, slackening\nits pace as it rose.\n\nBefore it had burst in sparks, there roared out overhead a\ndeafening voice of fire and thunder, shaking the air about them,\nbewildering the brain. Then another. Then another.\n\nBeneath the two as they stood, shaking with the shock, silent and\nopen-mouthed, staring at one another, in the courtyard a door\nbanged; then another; and then a torrent of voices and footsteps\nas the servants and grooms poured out of the lower doors.\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nTwo hours later the two ecclesiastics sat together, on either\nside of the large table in the Cardinal's room. The Cardinal\npassed over the sheets one by one as he finished them. One set\nwas being brought straight up here from the little office at the\nend of the hall. Another set, they knew, was simultaneously being\nread aloud by Lord Southminster in the hall below.\n\nThe guns had aroused even the most drowsy; and the whole\npopulation, village as well as castle, had poured into the\ncourtyard to hear the news.\n\nMonsignor sat and read sheet after sheet after his chief,\nhopelessly trying to notice and remember the principal points of\nthe report. Everything was recorded there--the assembling of the\ncrowds, the difficulty that the later members found in getting\nthrough into the House at all; the breakdown of the police\narrangements; and the storming of the wireless station by an\norganized mob, many of whom had been later put under arrest.\n\nThen there was the Prime Minister's speech, recorded word by word\nin the machines, and translated later, by machinery instead of by\nhuman labour, into terms of dots and dashes, themselves\ntransmitted again over miles of country, and retranslated again\nby mechanical devices into these actual printed sheets that the\ntwo were reading.\n\nThe speech was given in full, down to that tremendous scene when\nhalf the House, distracted at last by the cries that grew nearer\nand nearer, and the messengers that appeared and reappeared from\noutside, had risen to its feet. And then----\n\nThe Cardinal leaned back suddenly, with a swift indrawing of his\nbreath that was almost the first sign of emotion that he had shown.\n\nMonsignor looked up. The last two sheets were still under the\nringed hand that lay upon the table.\n\n\"Well, it's done,\" said the Cardinal softly, almost as if talking\nto himself. \"But it needed his last card.\"\n\n\"Your Eminence?\"\n\n\"The announcement as to the East,\" went on the other, with the\nsame air. \"I thank God it came in time.\"\n\n\"Your Eminence, I don't understand.\"\n\nThe Cardinal looked at him full.\n\n\"Why,\" he said, \"the Holy Father was accepted as Arbitrator of the\nEast by the united Powers this morning. The news was in the Prime\nMinisters hands at six o'clock. But I'm sorry he had to use it; it\nwould have been stronger without. . . . Don't you understand,\nMonsignor? The House would have refused to vote otherwise.\"\n\n\"But it's finished--it's finished, isn't it, your Eminence?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, it's finished. Or had we better say it's begun. Now\nthe last conflict begins. . . . Now, Monsignor, I'm afraid I must\nbegin to dictate. Would you mind setting the phonographs?\"\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nFrom the hall beneath rose a sudden confusion of cheering and\nstamping of feet.\n\n\n\n\nPART III\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n\n(I)\n\n\"Monsignor,\" said the Cardinal, \"I am afraid I shall have to ask\nyou to go, after all. It is extremely important that the Catholic\nauthorities in England should be represented in this scheme. And\nI think, you will have to travel with the first batch. They leave\nQueenstown on the first of April.\"\n\n\"Certainly. And when shall I be back, your Eminence?\"\n\n\"You must judge for yourself. It will not be more than a month\nor six weeks at the outside, and I dare say a good deal less. It\nwill depend on the temper of the settlers. The American civil\nauthorities will have the final arrangements. But it is\nexceedingly important that the emigrants should have some one to\nspeak for them; and as, of course, the Church will be believed\nto be really responsible, it will be as well that an\necclesiastic should be their friend. Identify yourself with them\nas far as possible. The civil authorities are sure to be\ninclined to be hard.\"\n\n\"Very good, your Eminence.\"\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nThe scheme had come to birth very rapidly.\n\nAfter the second reading of the Establishment Bill, it had been\ntaken for granted, and rightly, that the rest was but a matter\nof time, and it was calculated that, considering the\nGovernment's attitude, the Bill would receive the royal assent\nbefore the end of the summer. Immediately, therefore, the more\npeaceable Socialists had taken fright, and in every European\ncountry had made representations that now that their last\nrefuges in Germany and England had been closed to them, some\narrangement ought to be made by which they could enjoy complete\ncivil and religious liberty elsewhere. The idea had been in the\nair, of course, for a considerable time. There had been\ncomplaints on all sides that public opinion was too strong, that\nSocialists, in spite of the protection given to them, suffered a\ngood deal in informal ways owing to their opinions, and that\nsome expedient would have to be found for their relief. Then\nAmerica had come to the rescue, openly and formally, and had\noffered Massachusetts, which already had a large proportion of\nSocialists in its population, as a colony which would be\ntolerated as definitely socialistic. Christians would be warned\nthat the new system would, if the Powers agreed, be on\ndefinitely non-Catholic lines, and that the immigration laws\nwould be in future suspended with regard to Massachusetts. There\nwere, of course, innumerable details still to be worked out, but\nby the end of February the understanding was established, and\nfrom every European country emigrant parties were arranged.\n\nThere was something almost attractive about the scheme to the\npopular mind. It had been talked of for years before--this\narrangement by which the Socialists should have an opportunity of\nworking out once more those old exploded democratic ideas to\nwhich they still clung so pathetically. Every child knew, of\ncourse, how fifty years before the experiment had been made in\nvarious places, and how appalling tyranny had been the\nresult--tyranny, that is, over those who, in the Socialist\ncommunities, still held to Individualism. But what would happen,\nthe world indulgently wondered, in a community where there were\nno Individualists? One of two things certainly would happen.\nEither the scheme would work and every democrat be satisfied, or\nthe theory would be reduced to a practical absurdity, and the\npoison would be expelled for ever from the world's system.\nBesides, if this asylum were once definitely secured and\nguaranteed by the assent of the Powers, the new heresy laws that\nwere already coming to birth in Germany, that were already\nenforced with considerable vigour in the Latin countries, and\nwere (it was known) being prepared and adapted for England--these\ncould now go forward and be applied universally, without any fear\nof undue severity. It would, once and for all, get rid of those\nendless complaints as to Christian injustice in silencing the\nfree expression of infidel and socialistic ideas, and offer them\na refuge where such things could not only be discussed, but put\nto the test of practice.\n\nMonsignor Masterman himself was still in a state of personal\nindecision, but he certainly welcomed this solution of some of\nhis interior troubles, and he had warmly supported the scheme at\nevery opportunity he had.\n\nBut it was strange how he could not yet, in spite of his efforts,\nget rid of that deep discomfort which had been, for a time, lulled\nby his visit to Ireland. There was still, deep down in his mind, a\nsense that the Christianity he saw round him, and which he himself\nhelped to administer, was not the religion of its Founder. There\nwas still an instinct which he could not eradicate, telling that\nthe essence of the Christian attitude lay in readiness to suffer.\nAnd he only saw round him, so far as the public action of the\nChurch was concerned, a triumphant Government. He could not\nconceal from himself a fear that the world and the Church had,\nsomehow or other, changed places. . . .\n\nHowever, this new scheme was, at any rate, an act both of justice\nand mercy, and he was very willing indeed--in fact he had\nactually proposed it more than once--to go himself with the first\nemigrants from England to Massachusetts.\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nIn spite of all that he had seen in his journeys, he still found\nan extraordinary fascination in watching the scene at Queenstown,\nas the great Olympic-line volors, each carrying three hundred\npassengers, one by one made ready and left. He himself was to\nleave in the last of the four.\n\nFrom the stage erected at the end of the long headland to the\nsouth of the town, he could see the harbour on his right, closed\nin by the city itself, rising up from the water's edge to the\nhuge cathedral, finished fifty years before; and on his left the\nopen sea. It was a brilliant spring morning; the air, just\ncharged with moisture and soaked by sunlight, was a radiant\nmedium through which the city sparkled on one side and the long,\nlow rollers shone on the other, discharging themselves against\nthe foot of the rocks four hundred feet below where he stood.\nSea-birds wheeled and screamed about him, tilting and sliding up\nthe slopes of the fresh west wind; but he noticed that as the\nfirst volor detached itself and slid out over the sea, pausing\nfor an instant to head round to the compass, as if by magic every\nbird was gone: he could see them far away, white dots skimming\ninland as if for protection.\n\nThese Transatlantic volors were incalculably in advance of any he\nhad seen before. He turned, as the first moved out, its long\nupper and lower decks lined with watching, silent faces--of whom\nthe great majority were those of men--and asked for a little\ninformation from the genial Irish canon who had come from the\ncathedral with him, to see him start.\n\n\"They are eight hundred feet long,\" he said, \"and limited to\nthree hundred passengers. Of course there's the crew and stewards\nbesides. The crossing varies from thirty-six to forty-eight\nhours. . . . Yes, transhipments are sometimes made during the\nvoyage; but it's not usual. It involves a good deal of delay.\"\n\nMonsignor listened as the talk went on, gathering a few facts here\nand there--the topographical reasons why Queenstown was still\nretained, as in the days of the old steamships, for a principal\nport, in spite of the transformation of Ireland; the total weight\nof the boats when the gas was out of them; above all, the\nincredible speed that could be attained and kept up, with a good\nfollowing wind. He learned also how, by the very rigid laws of\nair-way, enforced now by all nations under very heavy penalties,\nthe danger of collisions was practically abolished; and so forth.\nThe canon talked fluently and well; but the mass of new\ninformation was so great, and the interest of watching so intense,\nthat the enquirer's attention wandered a good deal.\n\nHe was watching the crowd of emigrants, two hundred feet below on\nthe ground, seen through the spidery framework of the stage,\nrailed off into a circle, surrounded by barriers that kept out\nthe onlookers, and diminishing visibly as he watched, as the full\nplatform flew up to the embarking stage just below where he stood\nand the empty platforms descended again. The murmur of talking\ncame up to him like the buzz of a hive.\n\nHe understood that he was assisting at an historical event. For\nto-day practically marked, in England at any rate, the practical\nrecognition of the two principles which up to now had been found,\nfrom their mutual irreconcilability, the cause of practically all\nthe wars, all the revolutions, all the incessant human quarrels\nand conflicts, of which history was chiefly composed--their\nrecognition and their adjustment. These two principles were the\nliberty of the individual and the demands of society. On one\nside, every man had a certain inherent right to demand freedom;\non the other, the freedom of one individual was usually found to\nmean the servitude of another. The solution, he began to think,\nhad arrived at last from the recognition that there were, after\nall, only two logical theories of government: the one, that power\ncame from below, the other, that power came from above. The\ninfidel, the Socialist, the materialist, the democrat, these\nmaintained the one; the Catholic, the Monarchist, the Imperialist\nmaintained the other. For the two, he perceived, rose ultimately\nfrom two final theories of the universe: the one was that of\nMonism--that all life was one, gradually realizing itself through\ngrowth and civilization; the other that of Creation--that a\nTranscendent God had made the world, and delegated His sovereign\nauthority downwards through grade after grade.\n\nSo he meditated, remembering also that the former theory was\nrapidly disappearing from the world. These Socialist colonies\nwere not to be eternal, after all: they were but temporary\nrefuges for minds that were behind the age. Probably another\ncentury or two would see their disappearance.\n\nThe second and third boats started almost simultaneously, each\nsuddenly sliding free from either side of the stage. There was a\nringing of bells; one boat, he saw, shot ahead in a straight\nline, the other curved out southwards. He watched the second.\n\nIt resembled to his eyes a gigantic dragon-fly--a long gleaming\nbody, ribbed and lined, blazing and winking in the spring\nsunlight, moving in a mist of whirling wings. From the angle at\nwhich he watched its curve, it seemed now to hang suspended,\ndiminishing to the eye, now shooting suddenly ahead. . . . There\nit hung again, already a mile away, as if poised and considering,\nthen with increasing speed it moved on and on, like a line of\nbrilliant light; little metallic taps sounded across the water;\nit met the horizon, rose above it, darkened, again flashed\nsuddenly. . . .\n\nHe turned to look for the other; but, so far as he could\nsee, the huge blue arc was empty. He turned again; and the\nthird too was gone.\n\nA great ringing of bells sounded suddenly beneath him.\n\n\"You've got your luggage on board, Monsignor? . . . Well, you'd\nbetter be going on board yourself. She'll start in five minutes.\"\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nThe arrival at Boston harbour was one more strange experience,\nand the more strange because the man who had lost his memory knew\nthat he was coming into a civilization which, although utterly\nunknown to him by experience, yet had in his anticipation a\ncurious sense of familiarity.\n\nThey had met with westerly gales, and although the movement of\nthe ship seemed wholly unaffected (so perfect was the balancing\nsystem), yet the speed was comparatively low, and it was not\nuntil shortly before dawn on the second day that they came in\nsight of the American coast.\n\nMonsignor woke early that morning, and after lying and listening\nfor half an hour or so to the strange little sounds with which\nthe air was full--the steady rush of wind like a long hush; the\nshivering of some tiny loose scale in one of the planes outside\nhis window; a minute inexplicable tapping beneath the floor of\nhis cabin--all those sounds so unidentifiable by the amateur, and\nyet so suggestive--he got up, dressed, and went across to the\noratory, where he had said Mass on the previous morning, to say\nhis prayers. When he had finished he came out again, went\nupstairs, and along to the end of the ship, whence from a\nprotected angle he could look straight ahead. The lights were all\non, as the sun was not yet up, and the upper deck, except for a\npatrolling officer, was entirely empty.\n\nFor a while he could make out little or nothing beyond the\njutting prow beneath him, itself also illuminated, and various\noutlines and silhouettes of devices and rigging which even now he\ndid not properly understand. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to\nthe dark, he began to see.\n\nBeneath him flitted a corrugated leaden surface, flecked\noccasionally with white, which he knew to be water, eight hundred\nfeet at least below, and once he caught a glimpse of a\nflattened-looking, fish-shaped object, which went again in an\ninstant, lighted interiorly, which he guessed to be a coasting\nsteamer. Before him nothing at first was visible except an\nenormous gulf of gloom, but presently, as the dawn came on\nbehind, this gulf became tinged with a very faint rosy colour in\nits upper half, enabling him to distinguish sea from sky, and\nalmost immediately afterwards the sea itself turned to a livid\npale tinge under the glowing light.\n\nThe next thing that he noticed was that the edge of the sea against\nthe sky began to look irregular and blotted, a little lumpy here\nand there, and as he looked this lumpiness grew and rose higher.\n\nHe turned as the step of the officer sounded close to him.\n\n\"That's land, I suppose?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, father; we shall be in by half-past five. . . . Beg your\npardon, father, are you staying long?\"\n\nMonsignor shook his head.\n\n\"That depends on a hundred things,\" he said.\n\n\"Curious idea this colony; but I dare say it's best.\"\n\nMonsignor smiled and said nothing.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nInteriorly his heart had been sinking steadily during the\njourney. He had mixed freely with the emigrants, and had done his\nbest to make friends; yet there was something not only in their\nattitude to him--for though they were respectful enough, they\nwere absolutely impervious to any advances, seeming to regard him\nas independent but rather timid children might look upon a\nstrange schoolmaster--but in their whole atmosphere and outlook\nthat was a very depressing change from the curious, impassive,\nbut alert and confident air to which he had grown accustomed\namong the priests and people with whom he mixed. The one thing\nthat seemed to interest them was to discuss methods of government\nand the internal politics of their future life in Massachusetts.\nThey asked a few questions about crops and soil; he even heard\none group in animated conversation on the subject of schools, but\nthe talk dropped as soon as he attempted to join in it. They all\ntalked English too, he noticed.\n\nYet though the atmosphere seemed to him very ungenial, it\nappeared to him not altogether new; there appeared, somewhere in\nthe back of his mind, to be even an element of sympathy. He felt\nalmost like one who, having climbed out of a pit to the fresh\nair, looks back at others who not only live in the pit, but are\ncontent to live there.\n\nFor the world in which he had now consciously lived for the last\ntwelve months was, in spite of the sharp rigidity and certitude\nand inexorable logic from which he shrank, undoubtedly a place of\nlarge horizons. In fact it seemed as if there were no horizons.\nOn all sides there stretched out illimitable space, for eternity\n(with its corollaries) was fully as effective in it as was time.\nThose with whom he mixed, however little he might share their\nemotions, at any rate talked as if death was no more than an\nincident in life. Secretly he distrusted the reality of this\nconfidence; but at least it appeared to be there. But with these\nfolks all was different. These frankly made their plans for this\nworld, and this world only. Good government, stability, good\nbodily health, the propagation and education of children,\nequality in possessions and opportunities--these were their ideas\nof good; and better government, greater stability, more perfect\nhealth, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and more uniform\nequality, their ideals.\n\nSo he pondered, over and over again, trying to understand why it\nwas that he was at home with neither party. With his old friends\nhe felt himself incapable of their certitudes and aspirations;\nwith these new people, viewed for the first time _en masse_, he\nfelt life resting on him like a stifling blanket. He told himself\nbitterly that he resembled the child's Amphibian, which could not\nlive on the land and died in the water.\n\nHe watched mechanically the vault of heaven broaden and brighten\nwith the sunrise behind, and the waste beneath presently to show\nlines and patches and enclosures as they approached Boston\nharbour. And his heart sank as each mile was passed, and as\npresently against the clear sky there stood up the roofs and\ndomes and chimneys of the socialistic Canaan.\n\n\n\n(IV)\n\nIt was three or four days before he could again form any coherent\npicture to himself of what this new life would mean when once it\nwas really under way.\n\nHe was lodged in the Government buildings, adapted a few years\nbefore from the old temple of the Christian Scientists; and each\nday in the rotunda he sat hour after hour with keen-faced\nAmericans, and the few Europeans who had accompanied the\nemigration boats that now streamed in continually.\n\nHe flung himself into the dreary work, such as it was, with all\nhis power; for though he had little responsibility, he was there\nas the accredited agent of the English ecclesiastical\nauthorities, and his business was to show as much alacrity and\nsympathy as possible.\n\nThe city was, indeed, a scene of incredible confusion; and a\nvery strong force of police was needed to prevent open friction\nbetween the belated and aggrieved Catholics for whom Boston\nwould in future be impossible as a home, and who had not yet\nfaced the need of migrating, and the new, very dogmatic\ninhabitants who already regarded the city as their own. All\nlegal arrangements had, of course, been made before the first\nemigrants set foot on the continent; but the redistribution of\nthe city, the sale of farms, the settling of interminable\ndisputes between various nationalities--all these things, sifted\nalthough they were through agents and officials, yet came up to\nthe central board in sufficient numbers to occupy the members\nfor a full nine hours a day.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nIt was at the end of the fourth day that Monsignor went round the\ncity in a car, partly to get some air, and partly to see for\nhimself how things were settling down.\n\nOf course, as he told himself afterwards, he scarcely had a fair\nopportunity of judging how a Socialist State would be when the\nmachinery was in running order. Yet it seemed to him that, making\nall allowances for confusion and noise and choked streets and the\nrest, underneath it all was a spirit strangely and drearily\nunlike that to which he was becoming accustomed in Europe. The\nvery faces of the people seemed different.\n\nHe stopped for a while in the quarter to which the English had\nbeen assigned--that which in old Boston had been, he learned,\nthe Italian quarter. Here, in the little square where he halted,\neverything was surprisingly in order. The open space, paved with\nconcrete, was unoccupied by any signs of moving in; the houses\nwere trim and neat, new painted for the most part; and people\nseemed to be going about their business with an air of quiet\norderliness. Certainly American arrangements, he thought, were\nmarvellously efficient, enabling as they did some fifteen\nhundred persons to settle down into new houses within the space\nof four days. (He had learned something, while he sat on the\ncentral board, of the elaborate system of tickets and officials\nand enquiry offices by which such miraculous swiftness had been\nmade possible.)\n\nHere at least they were an orderly population, going in and out of\nthe houses, visiting in one corner of the square the vast general\nstore that had been provided beforehand, presenting their pledges,\nwhich, at any rate for the present, were to take the place of the\nEuropean money that the emigrants had brought with them.\n\nHe halted the car here, and leaning forward, began to look\nround him carefully.\n\nThe first thing that struck him was a negative emotion--a\nsense that something external was lacking. He presently\nperceived what this was.\n\nIn European towns, one of the details to which he had become by\nnow altogether accustomed was the presence, in every street or\nsquare at which he looked, of some emblem or statue or picture of\na religious nature. Here there was nothing. The straight\npavements ran round the square; the straight houses rose from\nthem, straight-windowed and straight-doored. All was admirably\nsanitary and clean and wholesome. He could see through the\nwindows of the house opposite which his car was drawn up the\nclean walls within, the decent furniture, and the rest. But there\nwas absolutely nothing to give a hint of anything beyond bodily\nhealth and sanitation and decency. In London, or Lourdes, or Rome\nthere would at least have been a reminder--to put it very\nmildly--of other possibilities than these: of a Heavenly Mother,\na Suffering Man; a hint that solid animal health was not the only\nconceivable ideal. It was a tiny detail; he blamed himself for\nnoticing it. He reminded himself that here, at any rate, was real\nliberty as he had conceived it.\n\nHe began to scrutinize the faces of the passers-by, sheltering\nhimself behind his elbow that he might not be noticed--appearing\nas if he were waiting for some one. Women passed by, strong-faced\nand business-like; men came up and passed, talking in twos or\nthrees. He even watched for some while a couple of children who\nsat gravely together on a doorstep. (That reminded him of the\nmeeting of to-morrow, when certain educational matters had to be\nfinally decided; he remembered the proposed _curriculum_,\nsketched out in some papers that he had to study this evening--an\nexceedingly sound and useful _curriculum_, calculated to make the\npupils satisfactorily informed persons.)\n\nAgain and again he told himself that it was fancy that made him\nsee in the faces of these people--people, it must be remembered,\nwho were not commonplace, but rather enthusiasts for their cause,\nsince they preferred exile to a life under the Christian\nsystem--that made him see a kind of blankness and heaviness\ncorresponding to that which the aspect of their street presented.\nMany of the faces were intellectual, especially of the men--there\nwas no doubt of that; and all were wholesome-looking and healthy,\njust as this little square was sensibly built and planned, and\nthe houses soundly constructed.\n\nYet, as he looked at them _en masse_, and compared them with his\ngeneral memories of the type of face that he saw in London\nstreets, there was certainly a difference. He could conceive\nthese people making speeches, recording votes, discussing\nmatters of public interest with great gravity and consideration;\nhe could conceive them distributing alms to the needy after\ncareful and scientific enquiry, administering justice; he could\nimagine them even, with an effort, inflamed with political\npassion, denouncing, appealing. . . . But it appeared to him (to\nhis imagination rather, as he angrily told himself) that he\ncould not believe them capable of any absolutely reckless crime\nor reckless act of virtue. They could calculate, they could\nplan, they had almost mechanically perfect ideas of justice;\nthey could even love and hate after their kind. But it was\ninconceivable that their passion, either for good or evil, could\nwholly carry them away. In one word, _there was no light behind\nthese faces_, no indication of an incomprehensible Power greater\nthan themselves, no ideal higher than that generated by the\ncommon sense of the multitude. In short, they seemed to him to\nhave all the impassivity of the Christian atmosphere, with none\nof its hidden fire.\n\nHe gave the signal presently for the driver to move on, and\nhimself leaned back in his seat with closed eyes. He felt\nterribly alone in a terrible world. Was the whole human race,\nthen, utterly without heart? Had civilization reached such a\npitch of perfection--one part through supernatural forces, and\nthe other through human evolution--that there was no longer any\nroom for a man with feelings and emotions and an individuality of\nhis own? Yet he could no longer conceal from himself that the\nother was better than this--that it was better to be heartless\nthrough too vivid a grasp of eternal realities, than through an\nequally vivid grasp of earthly facts.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nAs he reached the door of the great buildings where he lodged,\nand climbed wearily out, the porter ran out, hat in hand, holding\na little green paper.\n\n\"Monsignor,\" he said, \"this arrived an hour ago. We did not know\nwhere you were.\"\n\nHe opened it there and then. It contained half a dozen words in\ncode. He took it upstairs with him, strangely agitated, and there\ndeciphered it. It bade him leave everything, come instantly to\nRome, and join the Cardinal.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n\n(I)\n\nThere was dead silence on the long staircase of the Vatican,\nleading up to the Cardinal Secretary's rooms, as Monsignor toiled\nup within half an hour of his arrival at the stage outside the\ncity. A car was in waiting for him there, had whirled him first\nto the old palace where he had stayed nine months ago with Father\nJervis; and then, on finding that Cardinal Bellairs had been\nunexpectedly sent for to the Vatican, he had gone on there\nimmediately, according to the instructions that had been left\nwith the _majordomo_.\n\nHe knew all now; wireless messages had streamed in hour after\nhour during the flight across the Atlantic. At Naples, where the\nvolor had first touched land, the papers already mentioned full\nand exhaustive accounts of the outbreak, with the latest reports;\nand by the time that he reached Rome he was as well informed of\nthe real facts of the case as were any who were not in the inner\ncircle of those who knew.\n\nThe Swiss guard presented his fantastic halberd, as he passed in\npanting after his climb; a man in scarlet livery took his hat and\ncloak; another preceded him through the first anteroom, where an\necclesiastic received him; and with this priest he passed on\nthrough the second and third rooms up to the door of the inner\nchamber. The priest pushed the door open for him and he went in\nalone; the door closed noiselessly behind him. The room was the\nsame as that which he remembered, all gold and red damask,\nlighted from the roof, with the great brass-inlaid writing table\nat the farther end, and the broad settee against the right-hand\nwall, but it seemed to him in his apprehensiveness that the\nsolemnity was greater and the hushed silence even deeper. Two\nfigures sat side by side on the settee, each in the scarlet\nferraiuola of ceremony. One, Cardinal Bellairs, looked up at him\nand nodded, even smiling a little; the other stood up and bowed\nslightly, before extending his hand to be kissed. This second\nfigure was a great personality--Italian by birth, an\nextraordinary linguist, a very largely made man, both stout and\ntall, with a head of thick and perfectly white hair. He had been\na \"Papabile\" at the last election; and, it was thought, was\ncertain of the papacy some day, even though it was unusual that a\nSecretary of State should succeed. He had a large, well-cut face,\nrather yellowish in colour, with very bright, half-veiled black\neyes.\n\nMonsignor kissed the ring without genuflecting, as the\ncustom was in the Vatican, and sat down on the chair indicated.\n\nNo one spoke for a moment.\n\n\"How much have you heard, Monsignor?\" asked Cardinal\nBellairs abruptly.\n\n\"I have heard that the Socialists have seized Berlin and the\nEmperor; that the city is fortified; that there have been two\nmassacres; and that the Emperor's life is threatened unless\nthe Powers grant all the terms asked within . . . within four\ndays from now.\"\n\n\"Have you heard of the death of Prince Otteone?\"\n\n\"No, your Eminence.\"\n\n\"Prince Otteone was executed last night,\" said the Cardinal\nsimply. \"He begged to go as the representative of the Holy Father\nto treat for terms. They said they were not there to treat, but\nto grant terms. And they say that they will do the same for every\nenvoy who does not bring a message of complete submission. That\nwill be known everywhere by midday.\"\n\nAgain there was silence. The Cardinal Secretary glanced from one\nface to the other, as if hesitating. Monsignor made no attempt to\nspeak. He knew that was not his business.\n\n\"Can you guess why I have sent for you, Monsignor?\"\n\n\"No, your Eminence.\"\n\n\"I am leaving for Berlin myself to-night. The Holy Father kindly\nallows me to do so. I wish to leave some instructions about\nEnglish affairs before I go.\"\n\nFor a moment the priest's mind was unable to take in all the\nsignificance of this. The Cardinal's air was of one who announces\nthat he is going into the country for a few days. There was not\nthe faintest sign even of excitement in his manner or voice.\nBefore the priest could speak the Cardinal went on.\n\n\"Your Eminence, I have told you what confidence I rest in\nMonsignor Masterman. He has all the affairs of the English Church\nin his hands. And I desire that, if possible, he should be\nappointed Vicar-Capitular in the event of my death.\"\n\nThe Secretary of State bowed.\n\n\"I am sure----\" he began.\n\n\"Your Eminence,\" cried the priest suddenly, \"it's\nimpossible . . . it's impossible.\"\n\nThe Englishman looked at him sharply.\n\n\"It is what I wish,\" he said.\n\nMonsignor collected himself with a violent effort. He could not,\neven afterwards, trace the exact process by which he had arrived\nso swiftly at his determination. He supposed it was partly the\ndrama of the situation--the sense that big demands were in the\nair; partly nervous excitement; partly a certain distaste with\nlife that was growing on him; but chiefly and foremost a\npassionate and devoted affection for his chief, which he had\nnever till this instant suspected in himself. He only perceived,\nas clearly as in a vision, that this gallant old man must not be\nallowed to go alone, and that he--he who had criticized and\nrebelled against the brutality of the world--must go with him.\n\n\"Your Eminence,\" he said, \"it is impossible, because I must come\nwith you to Berlin.\"\n\nThe Cardinal smiled and lifted his hand, as if to an\nimpetuous child.\n\n\"My dear fellow----\"\n\nMonsignor turned to the other. He felt cool and positive, as if a\nbreeze had fanned away his excitement.\n\n\"You understand, your Eminence, do you not? It is impossible\nthat the Cardinal should go alone. I am his secretary. I can\narrange everything with . . . with the Rector of the English\nCollege here, if there is no one else. That is right, is it not,\nyour Eminence?\"\n\nThe Italian hesitated.\n\n\"Prince Otteone went alone----\" he began.\n\n\"Exactly. And there were no witnesses. That must not happen again.\"\n\nThere was an obvious answer, but no one made it. Cardinal\nBellairs stood up, lifting himself with his stick.\n\n\"It is very good of you,\" he said quietly. \"I understand why you\nmake the offer. But it is impossible. Monsignor, will you talk\nwith His Eminence a little? There are one or two things he wishes\nto tell you. I have to see the Holy Father, but I will be with\nyou again soon.\"\n\nThe priest stood up too.\n\n\"I must come with you to His Holiness,\" he said. \"I will abide\nby his decision.\"\n\nThe other shook his head, again smiling almost indulgently.\nMonsignor turned swiftly to the Italian.\n\n\"Your Eminence,\" he said, \"will you get this favour for me? I\nmust see the Holy Father after Cardinal Bellairs has seen him,\nsince I may not go with him.\"\n\nThe English Cardinal turned with a little abrupt movement and\nstood looking at him. There was a silence.\n\n\"Well--come,\" he said.\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nThe contrast between these two great Princes of the Church and\ntheir Lord and Master struck Monsignor very strongly, in spite of\nhis excitement, as he followed his chief into the Pope's room,\nand saw an almost startlingly commonplace man, of middle size,\nrise up from the table at which he was writing.\n\nHe was a Frenchman, Monsignor knew, and not an exceptional\nFrenchman. There was nothing sensational or even impressive about\nhis appearance, except his white dress and insignia; and even\nthese, upon him, seemed somehow rather tame and ordinary. His\nvoice, when he spoke presently, was of an ordinary kind of pitch\nand his speaking rather rapid; his eyes were a commonplace grey,\nhis nose a little fleshy, and his mouth completely\nundistinguished. He was, in short, completely unlike the Pope of\nfiction and imagination; there was nothing of the Pontiff about\nhim in his manner. He might have been a clean-shaven business man\nof average ability, who had chosen to dress himself up in a white\ncassock and to sit in an enormous room furnished in crimson\ndamask and gold, with chandeliers, at a rather inconvenient\nwriting-desk. Even at this dramatic moment Monsignor found\nhimself wondering how in the world this man had risen to the\nhighest office on earth. (He had been the son of a postmaster in\nTours, the priest remembered.)\n\nThe Pope murmured an unintelligible greeting as the two, after\nkissing his ring, sat down beside the writing-table.\n\n\"So you have come to take your leave, your Eminence?\" he began.\n\"We should all be very grateful for your willingness to go. God\nwill reward you.\"\n\n\"Plainly it must be a Cardinal this time, Holy Father,\" said the\nEnglishman, smiling. \"We have still four days. And one of my\nnationality has affinity with the Germans, and yet is not one of\nthem, as I remarked to your Holiness last night. Besides, I am\ngetting an old man.\"\n\nThere was nothing whatever of the gallant _poseur_ in his manner,\nwhatever were the words. Monsignor perceived that somehow or\nanother these persons stood in an attitude towards death that\nwas beyond his comprehension altogether. They spoke of it\nlightly and genially.\n\n\"Eh well,\" said the Pope, \"it is decided so. You go to-night?\"\n\n\"Yes, Holy Father, it is absolutely necessary for me to arrange my\naffairs first. I have chartered a private volor. One of my own\nservants has volunteered to drive it. But there is one more matter\nbefore I receive your Holiness' instructions. This priest here, my\nsecretary, Monsignor Masterman, wishes to come with me. I ask your\nHoliness to forbid that. I wish him to be Vicar-Capitular of my\ndiocese, if possible, in the event of my death.\"\n\nThe Pope glanced across at the priest.\n\n\"Why do you wish to go, Monsignor? Do you understand to what\nyou are going?\"\n\n\"Holy Father, I understand everything. I wish to go because it is\nnot right that the Cardinal should go alone. Let there be a\nwitness this time. The Rector of the English College here can\nreceive all necessary instructions from His Eminence and myself.\"\n\n\"And you, Eminence?\"\n\n\"I do not wish him to go because there is no need why two should\ngo, Holiness. One can carry the message as well as two.\"\n\nThere was silence for a moment. The Pope began to play with a pen\nthat lay before him. Then Monsignor burst out again.\n\n\"Holy Father, I beg of you to let me go. I am afraid of\ndeath; . . . that is one reason why I should go. I am crippled\nmentally; my memory left me a few months ago; it may leave me\nagain, and this time helpless and useless. And it is possible\nthat I may be of some service. Two are better than one.\"\n\nFor a moment the Pope said nothing. He had glanced up curiously\nas the priest had said that he was \"afraid of death.\" Then he had\nlooked down again, his lips twitching slightly.\n\n\"Eh well,\" he said. \"You shall go if you wish it.\"\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nThere was only a very small group of people collected to see the\nsecond envoy leave for Berlin. The hour and place of starting had\nbeen kept secret, on purpose to avoid a crowd; and beyond three\nor four from the English College, with half a dozen private\nfriends of the Cardinal, a few servants, and perhaps a dozen\npassers-by who had collected below in curiosity at seeing a\nracing-volor attached to one of the disused flying stages on the\nhill behind the Vatican--no one else, in the crowds that swarmed\nnow in the streets and squares of Rome, was even certain that an\nenvoy was going, still less of his identity.\n\nMonsignor found himself, ten minutes before the start,\nstanding alone on the alighting-stage, while the Cardinal\nstill talked below.\n\nAs he stood there, now looking out over the city, where beneath\nthe still luminous sky the lights were already beginning to\nkindle, and where in one or two of the larger squares he could\nmake out the great crowds moving to and fro--now staring at the\nlong and polished sides of the racing boat that swayed light as a\nflower with the buoyancy of the inrushing gas--as he saw all\nthese things with his outward eyes, he was trying to understand\nsomething of the new impulses and thoughts that surged through\nhim. He could have given little or no account of the reasons why\nhe was here; of his hopes or fears or expectations. He was as one\nwho watches on a sheet shadow-figures whirl past confusedly,\ncatching a glimpse here of a face or body, now of a fragmentary\nmovement, that appeared to have some meaning--yet grasping nothing\nof the intention or plan of the whole. Or, even better, he was as\none caught in a mill-race, tossed along and battered, yet feeling\nnothing acutely, curious indeed as to what the end would be, and\nwhy it had had a beginning, yet fundamentally unconcerned. The\nthing was so: there was no more to be said. He knew that it was\nnecessary that he should be here, about to start for almost\ncertain death, as that his soul should be inhabiting his body.\n\nBut even all these recent happenings had not as yet illuminated\nhim in the slightest as to the real character of the world that\nhe found so bewildering. He felt, vaguely, that he ought to have\nby now all the pieces of the puzzle, but he was still as far as\never from being able to fit them into a coherent whole. He just\nperceived this--and no more--that the extraordinary tranquillity\nof these Catholics in the presence of death was a real\ncontribution to the problem--as much as the dull earthliness of\nthe Socialist colony in America. It was not merely Dom Adrian in\nparticular who had been willing to die without perturbation or\nprotest; his judges and accusers seemed just as ready when their\nturn came. And he--he who had cried out at Christian brutality,\nwho had judged the world's system by his own and found it\nwanting--he feared death; although, so far his fear had not\ndeterred him from facing it.\n\nHe took his place in the narrow cabin in the same mood, following\nthe Cardinal in after the last good-byes had been said. It was a\ntiny place, fitted with a single padded seat on either side\ncovered with linen and provided with pillows; a narrow table ran\nup the centre; and strong narrow windows looked directly from the\nsides of the boat. A stern platform, railed in and provided with\nsliding glass shutters, gave room to take a few steps of\nexercise; but the front of the boat was entirely occupied with\nthe driver's arrangements. It was a comparatively new type of\nboat, he learned from some one with whom he had talked just now,\nused solely for racing purposes; and its speed was such that they\nwould find themselves in Berlin before morning.\n\nThe stern door was swung to by one who leaned from the stage.\nStill through the glass the Cardinal smiled out at his friends\nand waved his hand. Then a bell struck, a vibration ran through\nthe boat, the stage outside lined with faces suddenly swayed and\nthen fell into space.\n\nThe Cardinal laid his hand on the priest's knee.\n\n\"Now let us have a talk,\" he said.\n\n\n\n(IV)\n\nThe air that breathed down from the Alps was beginning to cloud\nthe windows of the cabin before they had finished talking.\n\nThe man who had lost his memory, under the tremendous stress of\nan emotion of which he was hardly directly conscious at all--the\nemotion generated by the knowledge that every whistling mile that\nfled past brought him nearer an almost certain death--had\nexperienced a kind of sudden collapse of his defences such as he\nhad never contemplated.\n\nHe had told everything straight out to this quiet, fatherly\nman--his terrors, his shrinking from the unfamiliar atmosphere of\nthought to which he had awakened, it seemed, a few months before,\nhis sense that Christianity had lost its spirit, and, above all,\nthe strange absence of any definite religious emotion in himself.\nHe found this difficult to put into words; he had hardly realized\nit even to himself.\n\nThe Cardinal put one question.\n\n\"And yet you are facing death on the understanding that\nit is all true?\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\"\n\n\"Very well, then. That is faith. You need say no more. You have\nbeen to confession?\"\n\n\"This afternoon.\"\n\nThe old man was silent for a moment.\n\n\"As to the unreality, the feeling that the Church is heartless, I\nthink that is natural. You had a violent mental shock in your\nillness. That means that your emotions are very sensitive, almost\nto the point of morbidness. Well, the heart of the Church is very\ndeep, and you have not found it yet. That does not greatly\nmatter. You must keep your _will_ fixed. That is all that God\nasks. . . . I think it is true that the Church is hard, in a\ncertain sense; or shall we call it a Divine strength? It is\nlargely a matter of words. She has had that strength always. Once\nit nerved her to suffer; now it nerves her to rule. But I think\nyou would find that she could suffer again.\"\n\n\"Your Eminence!\" cried the priest lamentably, \"I am beginning to\nsee that. . . . Yourself. . . . Prince Otteone. . . .\"\n\nThe Cardinal lifted his hand.\n\n\"Of myself we need not speak. I am an old man, and I do not expect\nto suffer. Prince Otteone was another matter. He was a young man,\nfull of life; and he knew to what he was going. Well, does not his\ncase impress you? He went quite cheerfully, you know.\"\n\nThe priest was silent.\n\n\"What are you thinking of, my son?\"\n\nThe priest shivered a little.\n\n\"Tell me,\" said the Cardinal again.\n\n\"It is the Holy Father,\" burst out the other impulsively.\n\"He was terrible: so unconcerned, so careless as to who\nlived or died. . . .\"\n\nHe looked up in an agony, and saw a look almost of amusement in\nthe old man's eyes fixed on him.\n\n\"Yes, do not be afraid,\" murmured the old man. \"You think he was\nunconcerned? Well, ought he not to be? Is not that what we should\nexpect of the Vicar of Christ?\"\n\n\"Christ wept.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, and his Vicar too has wept. I have seen it. But Christ\nwent to death without tears.\"\n\n\"But . . . but this man is not going,\" cried the priest. \"He is\nsending others. If he went himself----\"\n\nHe stopped suddenly; not at a sound, but at a kind of mental\nvibration from the other. Up here in these heights, under the\npressure of these thoughts, every nerve and fibre seemed\nstretched to an amazing pitch of sensitiveness. It seemed to him\nas if he had never before lived at such a pitch.\n\nBut the other said nothing. Once his lips opened, but they closed\nagain. The priest said nothing. He waited.\n\n\"I think no one would expect the Holy Father to go himself under\nsuch circumstances,\" said the Cardinal gently and blandly. \"Do\nyou not think that it might be harder for him to remain?\"\n\nMonsignor felt a wave of disappointment. He had expected a revelation\nof some kind, or a vivid sentence that would make all plain.\n\nThe old man leaned forward again smiling.\n\n\"Do not be impatient and critical,\" he said. \"It is enough that\nyou and I are going. That should occupy us. Come, let us look\nthrough these papers again.\"\n\nIt was an hour later that they swept down into the French plains.\nThe glass cleared again as they reached the warmer levels, and\nMonsignor became conscious of an overpowering weariness. He\nyawned uncontrollably once or twice. His companion laughed.\n\n\"Lie down a little, Monsignor. You have had a hard day of it.\nI must have some sleep too. We must be as fresh as we can for\nour interview.\"\n\nMonsignor said nothing. He stepped across to the other couch, and\nslipped off his shoes, took off his cincture, and lay down\nwithout a word. Almost before he had finished wondering at the\nmarvellous steadiness of this flying arrow of a ship, he had sunk\ndown into complete unconsciousness.\n\n\n\n(V)\n\nHe awoke with a start, coming up, as is common after the deep sleep\nof exhaustion, into a state in which, although the senses are\nawake, the intellect is still in a kind of paralysis of slumber. He\nthrew his feet off the couch and sat up, staring about him.\n\nThe first thing which he noticed was that the cabin was full of a\npale morning light, cold and cheerless, although the shaded\nlights still burned in the roof. Then he saw that the Cardinal\nwas sitting at the farther end of the opposite couch, looking\nintently out; that one of the glass shutters was slid back, and\nthat a cold, foggy air was visibly pouring in past the old man's\nhead. Then he saw the head of the driver through the glass panes\nin the door; his hand rested on the grip of some apparatus\nconnected with the steering, he believed.\n\nBut beyond this there was nothing to be seen through the windows\nopposite, of which the curtains had been drawn back; he saw\nnothing but white driving mist. He tore back the curtains behind\nhim, and there also was the mist. It was plain then that they\nwere not at rest at any stage; and yet the slight humming\nvibration, of which he had been conscious before he fell asleep,\nand even during one or two moments of semi-wakefulness during the\nnight, this had ceased. The car hung here, like a floating\nballoon, motionless, purposeless--far up out of sight of land,\nand an absolute silence hung round it.\n\nHe moved a little as these things began to arrange themselves in\nhis mind, and at the movement the Cardinal turned round. He\nlooked old and worn in this chilly light, and his unshaven chin\nsparkled like frost. But he spoke in his ordinary voice, without\nany sign of discomposure.\n\n\"So you are awake, Monsignor? I thought I would let you have\nyour sleep out.\"\n\n\"What has happened? Where are we?\"\n\n\"We arrived half an hour ago. They signalled to us to remain\nwhere we were until they came up.\"\n\n\"We have arrived!\"\n\n\"Certainly. We passed the first Berlin signalling light\nnearly three-quarters of an hour ago. We slowed down after\nthat, of course.\"\n\nThe priest turned his head suddenly and made a movement with it\ndownwards. The Cardinal leaned forward again and peered through\nthe open shutter.\n\n\"I think they are coming up at last,\" he said, drawing his head\nback. \"Hush! Listen, Monsignor.\"\n\nThe priest listened with all his might. At first he heard nothing\nexcept the faint whistle of the wind somewhere in the roof. Then\nhe heard three or four metallic noises, as if from the depths of\na bottomless hit, faint and minute; and then, quite distinctly,\nthree strokes of a bell.\n\nThe Cardinal nodded.\n\n\"They are starting,\" he said. \"They have kept us long enough.\"\n\nHe slipped along the seat to where his scarlet cincture and cap\nlay, and began to put these on.\n\nMonsignor sprang across and lifted down the great Roman\ncloak from its peg.\n\n\"You had better get ready yourself,\" said the Cardinal. \"They\nwill be here in a moment.\"\n\nAs the priest slipped on his second shoe, a sound suddenly\nstopped him dead for an instant. It was the sound of voices\ntalking somewhere beneath in the fog. Then he finished, and stood\nup, just as there slid cautiously upwards, like a whale coming up\nto breathe, past the window by which the Cardinal was now\nstanding cloaked and hatted, first a shining roof, then a row of\nlittle ventilators, and finally a line of windows against which a\ndozen faces were pressed. He saw them begin to stir as the\nscarlet of the Cardinal met their eyes.\n\n\"We can sit down again,\" said the old man, smiling. \"The rest is\na matter for the engineers.\"\n\nIt seemed strange afterwards to the priest how little real or\nactive terror he felt. He was conscious of a certain sickly\nsensation, and of a sourish taste on his lips, as he licked them\nfrom time to time; but scarcely more than this, except perhaps of\na sudden shivering spasm that shook him once or twice as the\nfog-laden breeze poured in upon him.\n\nHe sat there watching through the windows in a kind of\nimpassivity, as much as he could see of the method by which the\nracing-boat was attached by long, rigid rods to the steady\nfloating raft that had risen from beneath. (He was even\ninterested to observe that these rigid rods were of telescopic\ndesign, and were elongated from their own interiors. One of them\npushed forward once to within a foot of the windows; then the\ntapering end seemed to fall apart into two hooked ends,\nsingularly like a lean finger and thumb with roughened surfaces.\nThis, in its turn, rose out of sight, and he heard it slide\nalong the roof overhead, till it caught some projection and\nthere clenched.)\n\nSo the process went on, slowly and deliberately. The driver\nstill remained at his post, answering once or twice questions\nput to him from some invisible person outside. The Cardinal\nstill sat, motionless and silent, on the opposite seat. Then,\nafter perhaps ten minutes' delay, a sensation of descending\nbecame perceptible.\n\nHis fear, such as it was, took a new form, as presently through\nthe thinning fog he became aware that the earth was approaching.\nThe first clear indication of this was the sound of a clock\nstriking. He counted the strokes carefully, and immediately\nforgot what it was that he had counted. Then, as he watched with\nstraining eyes for buildings or towers to make their appearance,\nthe movement stopped; there was a faint jarring sensation, then\nthe sound of trampling feet, then a heavy shock. He had forgotten\nthat stages were used.\n\nThe Cardinal stood up.\n\n\"Come, Monsignor,\" he said, and gave his hand to him.\n\nSo the two stood a moment longer. Then the footsteps sounded on\nthe boat; a shadow fell across the glass of the stern-door. The\ndoor opened, letting in a rush of foggy air, and two men in\nuniform came swiftly inside.\n\n\"Your name and your business, gentlemen?\" said the foremost\nshortly, in excellent English.\n\n\"I am come on behalf of the Holy Father,\" said the Cardinal\nsteadily. \"My name is Cardinal Bellairs. This is my secretary,\nMonsignor Masterman. He is not an envoy.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said the man. \"That is all in order. You were seen by\nour guard-boats. Will you step this way?\"\n\nA bridge had been thrown across from the raft to the racing-boat,\nand the latter was now attached to an immense stage whose sides\nran down into the fog. The stage-platform was crowded with men,\nsome in official uniform, some in blouses; but a way was kept\nclear for the visitors, and they passed across without any actual\nshow of hostility or resentment. Monsignor noticed but one\ndetail--that no salutation of any kind was given; and as they\ntook their seats in the lift, with the two officials close beside\nthem, he heard guttural conversation break out, and, he thought,\none loud laugh. The doors were latched, and the lift dropped.\n\nThe speed was so great that it would have been impossible to see\nanything of the town into which they descended, even had the fog\nbeen absent. As it was, Monsignor saw nothing except the sudden\ndarkening of the air round them. Then as the speed slackened he\nsaw the side of some great building not twenty yards away. Then\nthe lift stopped and the doors were opened.\n\nA group of men stood there, with something of an expectant air in\ntheir stolid faces. All these were in uniform of some\ndescription; one stood a little in advance of the rest and held a\npaper in his hand.\n\n\"Cardinal Bellairs?\" he said, also in English. \"And\nMonsignor Masterman?\"\n\nThe Cardinal bowed.\n\n\"We had information from Rome last night. I understand you have a\ncommunication from the Powers?\"\n\n\"From the Holy Father, whom the European Powers have appointed to\nrepresent them.\"\n\n\"It is the same thing,\" said the man brusquely. \"The Council are\nwaiting to receive you. Kindly follow me.\"\n\nThe official who had brought them down stepped forward.\n\n\"I understand, sir, that this gentleman\" (he indicated the\npriest) \"is not an envoy.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" asked the other.\n\n\"It is.\"\n\n\"Very good. I only have authority to introduce the envoy.\nMonsignor Masterman will be good enough to follow the other\ngentleman. Your Eminence, will you come with me?\"\n\n\n\n(VI)\n\nOn looking back afterwards on the whole experience, that which\nstood out as most shocking in it all, to the priest's mind, was\nthe abominable speed with which the tragedy was accomplished. It\nwas merciful, perhaps, that it was so, for even the half-hour or\nso which elapsed before the priest had any more news dragged\nitself to an intolerable length.\n\nHe walked up and down the little furnished room--some kind of\nparlour, he understood, attached to a government building seized\nby the revolutionaries, guarded, he knew, by a couple of men in\nthe passage, whose voices he occasionally heard--in a sort of\ndull agony, far more torturing than positive objective fear.\n\nHe tried to comfort himself by retelling to himself the story of\nthe last few days; reminding himself how, after the first\noutburst, when the police had been shot down by these new weapons\nof which he understood nothing, and the palace had been taken,\nand the city reduced to a state of defenceless terror--the\nrevolutionaries had sternly repressed the second attempted\nmassacre in a manner not unworthy of real civilization.\n\nA great deal of the whole story was unintelligible to him. He\njust knew the outlines. First, it was obvious that the\nrevolution had been planned in all its details months before.\nThere had been, soon after the Emperor's conversion, a great\naccess of other converts, accompanied by a dispersal to other\ncountries, notably America, of innumerable people of the lower\nclasses who were known as Socialists. All this was looked upon\nby the authorities as natural, and as actually reassuring. There\nhad been a few protests against the new proposals with regard to\nlegislation; but not enough to rouse any suspicion that violence\nwould be attempted. Finally, when the organized emigration was\nbeginning, and even the most pessimistic politicians were\nbeginning to regard the situation as saved, without the\nslightest warning the blow had been struck, obviously by the\ndirections of an international council whose very existence had\nnot been suspected.\n\nAs to the details of the revolution itself he was even more\nvague, for the understanding of it depended on an acquaintance\nwith the internal arrangements of Berlin, by which a kind of\ninterior citadel, not outwardly fortified in any way, yet held in\nits compass all those immense \"power-stations\" by which, in the\npresent day, every town was defended. (He did not know exactly\nwhat these \"power-stations\" were, beyond the fact that they were\nthe lineal successors of the old gun-forts, and controlled an\nimmense number of mines both within the city and without it, as\nwell as some kind of \"electric ray,\" which was the modern\nsubstitute for cannon.) Well, it was this \"citadel,\" including\nthe Emperor's palace, that had been suddenly seized by the\nrevolutionaries, obviously by the aid of treachery. And the thing\nwas done. It was impossible for the other Powers, or even for the\nGerman air-navy itself, to wipe the whole place out of existence,\nsince it was known that the Emperor himself was in the hands of\nthe rebels. (It was a bald story, as he had heard it; yet he\nreflected that great _coups_ usually were extremely and\nunexpectedly simple.)\n\nFinally, there were the terms demanded--terms which the Powers\nwere unanimous in rejecting, since they included the formal\ndisestablishment of the Church throughout Europe and the\ncomplete liberty of the Press, with guarantees that these should\ncontinue. The alternative to the acceptance of these terms was\nthe execution of the Emperor and formal war declared upon\nEurope--a war which, of course, could have but one ending, but\nwhich, until that end came, would mean, under the new conditions\nof warfare, an almost unimaginable destruction of life and\nproperty, especially since (as was known) the Socialists\nrepudiated all the international laws of warfare. The defiance\nwas, of course, a ridiculous and a desperate one, but it was the\ndefiance of a savage child who held all modern resources in his\nhands and knew how to use them. There was also possible, as some\nsaid, a rising all over the civilized world, should the movement\nmeet with success.\n\nSo much, in brief, was what Monsignor Masterman knew. So much,\nindeed, was now public property all the world over, and it was\nnot reassuring.\n\nCertainly he feared death for himself; yet, as he paced up and\ndown, he could honestly and sincerely tell himself that this was\nnot foremost in his mind. Rather it was a sense of bewildered\nshock and horror that such things could have broken in upon that\norderly, disciplined world with which he had become familiar. It\nwas this horror that hung over him--its impression deepened by\nthe bleak April morning, the nervous strain under which he\nsuffered, the brusque discourtesy of the men who had received\nhim, and the knowledge that scarcely thirty-six hours before an\nenvoy who had come alone and peaceably had been done to death in\nthis silent city. And the horror also centred for him now, as in\na symbol, in the old Cardinal whom he was learning to love.\n\nHe framed, as men do when the imagination is stimulated to the\nhighest pitch, a dozen possible events--each seen by him\nmentally, clear, in a picture. He constructed for himself the\nCardinal's return with news of a compromise, with an announcement\nat least of delay. (He knew a few of the proposals that were to\nbe made by sanction of the Pope.) Or he saw him coming back,\nanxious and perturbed, with nothing decided. Or he imagined\nhimself being sent for in haste. . . . And there were other\npictures, more terrible; and against these he strove with all his\nwill, telling himself that it was inconceivable that such things\nshould be. Yet not one of his imaginings was as terrible as the\nevent itself. . . .\n\nIt came swift and sudden, without the faintest sign or premonition.\n\nAs he turned in his endless pacings, down at the farther end of\nthe room, his ears for the instant filled with the clatter of\nsome cart outside the open, barred windows, a figure came swiftly\ninto the room, without the sound of a footstep to warn him.\nBehind he could make out two faces waiting. . . .\n\nIt was the Cardinal who stood there, upright and serene as ever,\nwith a look in his eyes that silenced the priest. He lifted his\nhand on which shone his great amethyst, and at the motion,\nscarcely knowing what he did, the priest was on his knees.\n\n\"_Benedictio Dei omnipotentis Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,\ndescendat super te, et maneat semper._\"\n\nThat was all; not a word more.\n\nAnd as the priest sprang up with a choking cry, the slender\nfigure was gone, and the door shut and locked.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n\n(I)\n\nAll day long there had hung a strange silence over the city,\nunlike in its quality that ordinary comparative quiet of modern\ntowns to which the man who had lost his memory had become by now\naccustomed. He knew well by now the gentle, almost soothing, hum\nof busy streets, as the traffic and the footsteps went over the\nnoiseless pavements, and the air murmured with the clear subdued\nnotes of the bells and the melodious horns of the swifter\nvehicles; all this had something of a reassuring quality,\nreminding the listener that he lived in a world of men, active\nand occupied indeed, but also civilized and self-controlled.\n\nBut the silence of this inner quarter of Berlin was completely\ndifferent. Its profoundness was sinister and suggestive. Now and\nagain came a rapid hooting note, growing louder and more\ninsistent, as some car, bound on revolutionary work, tore up some\nstreet out of sight at forty miles an hour and away again into\nsilence. Several times he heard voices in sharp talk pass beneath\nhis window. Occasionally somewhere overhead in the great\nbuildings sounded the whir of a lift, a footstep, the throwing up\nof a window. And to each sound he listened eagerly and intently,\nignorant as to whether it might not mark the news of some fresh\ncatastrophe, the tidings of some decision that would precipitate\nhis world about him.\n\nAs to the progress of events he knew nothing at all.\n\nSince that horrible instant when the door had closed in his face\nand the Cardinal had gone again as mysteriously as he had come--now\nthree days ago--he had heard no hint that could tell him how things\ndeveloped. He had not even dared to ask the taciturn servant in\nuniform who brought him food as to the fate of the old man.\nFor he knew with a certainty as clear as if he had seen the dreadful\nthing done, that his friend and master was dead--dead, as the\nRevolutionary Committee had said he would be, if he came with any\nmessage other than that of submission. As to the manner of his death\nhe dared not even conjecture. It would be swift, at least. . . .\n\nTen thousand thoughts, recurring and recurring, like pictures\nthrown on a wall, ran past his attention as the hours went by. He\nsaw the gathering of armaments--the horizon tinged by the\ngathering war-vessels of the air--the advance, the sudden storm\nof battle, the gigantic destruction from these vast engines of\npower of which he had learned nothing but their ghastly\npotentialities. Or he saw the advance of this desperate garrison,\ndispersing this way and that for their war upon the world--silent\nvessels, moving in the clouds, to Rome, to London, to Paris and\nVersailles, each capable of obliterating a city. Or he saw,\nagain, the submission of the world to the caprice of these\ndesperate children who feared nothing--not even death itself--who\ncrouched like an ape in a powder-magazine, lighted match in hand,\ncareless as to whether or no themselves died so long as the world\ndied with them.\n\nHe formulated nothing; concluded nothing; he rejected every\nconjecture which temporarily constructed itself in his almost\npassive mind. He did not even yet fully understand that the\nquestion he had asked of himself months before--the question that\nhad tortured him so keenly--as to whether these Christians who\nruled had not forgotten how to suffer--had been answered with\ndreadful distinctness. He just perceived that the young Roman\nprince had been gallant; that the old man had been more gallant\nstill, since those to whom he came had already proved that they\nwould keep their word. And now the third day was drawing to an\nend, and by midnight suspense would be over.\n\nThe fog still hung over the city; but towards sunset it lifted a\nlittle, and he raised his heavy head from his breast as he lay,\nhalf sitting, half lying, on the tumbled sofa and blankets on\nwhich he had slept, to see the red sunlight on the wall above\nhim. It was a curious room to a man who had grown accustomed to\nmodern ways; there was a faded carpet on the floor, paper on the\nwalls, and the old-fashioned electric globes hung, each on its\nwire, from the whitewashed ceiling. He saw that it must be a\nsurvival, or perhaps a deliberate archaicism. . . .\n\nThe sunlight crept slowly up the wall. . . .\n\nThen the door was unlocked from the outside, and he turned his\nhead, to see James Hardy come smiling towards him.\n\n\n\n(II)\n\n\"Good evening, Monsignor. I am ashamed that I have not paid you a\nvisit before. But we have been very busy these days.\"\n\nHe sat down without offering to shake hands.\n\nThe priest saw, with one of those sudden inexplicable intuitions\nmore certain than any acquired knowledge, two things: first,\nthat his having been left alone for three days had been by\ndeliberation and not carelessness; and second, that this visit\nto him only a few hours before the time of truce expired was\nequally deliberate. His brain was too confused for him to draw\nany definite conclusion from these facts; but he made at least\none provisional decision, as swift as lightning, that he must\nhold his tongue.\n\n\"You have had an anxious time, I am afraid,\" went on the other.\n\"But so have we all. You must bear no malice, Monsignor.\"\n\nThe priest said nothing. He looked between his half-closed\neyelids at the heavy, clean-shaven, clever face of the man who\nsat opposite him, the strong, capable and rather humorous mouth,\nhis close-cut hair turning a little grey by the ears, watching\nfor any sign of discomposure. But there was none at all.\n\nThe man glanced up, caught his eye, and smiled a little.\n\n\"Well, I am afraid you're not altogether pleased with us. But you\nmust bear in mind, Monsignor, that you've driven--\" (he corrected\nhis phrase)--\"you drove us into a corner. I regret the deaths of\nthe two envoys as much as you yourself. But we were forced to\nkeep our word. Obviously your party did not believe us, or they\nwould have communicated by other means. Well, we had to prove our\nsincerity.\" (He paused). \"And we shall have to prove it again\nto-night, it seems.\"\n\nAgain there was silence.\n\n\"I think you're foolish to take this line, Monsignor,\" went on\nthe other briskly--\"this not speaking to me, I mean. I'm quite\nwilling to tell you all I know, if you care to ask me. I've not\ncome to bully you or to triumph over you. And after all, you\nknow, we might easily have treated you as an envoy, too. To be\nquite frank, it was I who pleaded for you. . . . Oh! not out of\nany tenderness; we have got past that. You Christians have taught\nus that. But I thought that so long as we kept our word we need\nnot go beyond it. And it's proved that I'm right. . . . Aren't\nyou curious to know why?\"\n\nThe priest looked at him again.\n\n\"Well, we are going to send you back after midnight. You will\nhave to witness the last scene, I am afraid, so that you can give\na true account of it--the Emperor's death, I mean.\"\n\nHe paused again, waiting for an answer. Then he stood up, at\nlast, it seemed, pricked into impatience.\n\n\"Kindly come with me, Monsignor,\" he said abruptly. \"I have to\ntake you before the Council.\"\n\n\n\n(III)\n\nIt was a large hall, resembling a concert-room, into which the\npriest came at last, an hour later, under the escort of James\nHardy and a couple of police, and he had plenty of time to\nobserve it, as he stood waiting by the little door through which\nhe stepped on to the back of the platform.\n\nThis platform stood at the upper end of the hall, and was set with\na long semicircle of chairs and desks, as if for judges, and these\nwere occupied by perhaps thirty persons, dressed, he saw, in dull\ncolours, all alike. The dresses seemed curiously familiar; he\nsupposed he must have seen them in pictures. Then he remembered a\nlong while ago Father Jervis telling him that the Socialists\nresented the modern developments in matters of costume.\n\nThe President's desk and seat were raised a little above the\nothers, but from behind the priest could see nothing of him but\nhis black gown and his rather long iron-grey hair; he seemed to\nbe answering in rapid German some question that one of his\ncolleagues had just put to him.\n\nThe rest of the hall was almost empty. A table stood at the foot\nof the platform, and here were three or four of the usual\nrecording machines; a dozen men sat here too, some writing, some\nlistening, leaning back in their chairs. In the middle, on the\nopposite side of the table, stood a structure resembling a\nwitness-box, ascended by two steps, railed in on the three other\nsides. A man with a pointed grey beard was leaving the box as the\npriest came in. Standing about the hall also were perhaps twenty\nother persons apparently listening to the President or waiting\ntheir turn. There were tall doors at the end of the hall, closed\nand guarded by police, and in the middle of each of the long\nsides two other doors, also closed, communicating with other\nrooms and passages, in one of which the priest had waited just\nnow until the Council could see him.\n\nExcept for the rapid, heavy voice of the President the hall was\nvery quiet, and from the very silence and motionlessness of those\npresent there exhaled a certain air of tenseness. It would have\nbeen impossible for any intelligent person not to notice it, and\nfor the priest, with his nerves strung, as they now were, to an\nextreme pitch of sensitiveness and attention, the atmosphere was\noverwhelmingly significant. Of what it signified he had no idea,\nbeyond the knowledge he already possessed--that the hours were\nrunning out, and that midnight would see a decisive event which,\nthough it must mean ultimately the ruin of every person present,\nmight, for all that, change the line of the world's development.\nA protest so desperate as this could not but have a tremendous\neffect upon human sentiment. He had caught a glimpse an hour before,\nas he whirled through the streets, far up against the luminous slay\nwestwards, of a string of floating specks, which he knew to be the\nguard-boats, strung out now, night and day, in a vast circle round\nthe city. At midnight they would surely move. . . .\n\nDark had already fallen outside, but the hall was as light as day\nwith the hidden electric burners above the cornices, and he could\nsee not only the faces, but the very expressions that\ncharacterized them. One thing at least was common to them all--a\nsilent, fierce excitement. . . .\n\nIt would be about ten minutes before the priest's turn came to\nface the Council. It seemed that the member to whom the\nPresident was speaking was not satisfied, and question and\nanswer, all in rapid, unintelligible German, went on without\nintermission. Once or twice there was a murmur of applause, and\nmore than once the President beat his hand heavily and\nemphatically upon the desk before him to enforce his point. The\npriest guessed that the unanimity was not perhaps as perfect as\nthe world had been given to believe. However, guessing was\nuseless. The President leaned back at last, and Hardy stepped\nforward to his chair and whispered. The President nodded, and\nthe next moment, at a sign from Hardy, the two police urged the\npriest forward by the arms across the platform, down the steps,\nand so round to the right up into the witness-box. Then the\nPresident, who had still been whispering behind his hand, turned\nabruptly in his chair and faced him.\n\nMonsignor related afterwards what an extraordinary moment that\nhad been. His nerves were already tight-stretched and his\nexpectation was at the highest; but the face of this man who now\nlooked at him (tremendous though he knew such a personality must\nbe, which could conceive and drive through such a revolt as\nthis),--the face of him was beyond all imagining.\n\nIn the fashion of the day it was clean-shaven, and the absence of\nhair, except where that of his head framed the face, increased\nthe impressions of those lines and shadow. It was a priestly\nface, saw Monsignor, with all the power and searchingness of one\nwho can deal with living souls; but the face of a fallen priest.\nIn complexion it was sallow, but the sallowness of health, not of\nweakness; full-shaped, but without being fat; the lips were\nstraight and thin, the nose sharp and jutting and well curved,\nand the black eyes blazed at him with immense power from beneath\nheavy brows. His hair was brushed straight back from the\nforehead, and fell rather long behind. The face resembled a\ncarefully modelled mask, through the eyes of which alone the\ntremendous life was visible.\n\nThe priest met those eyes straight for an instant, then he\nlowered his own, knowing that he could not be wholly himself if\nhe looked that man in the face.\n\nHe was surprised to hear words of English uttered. He looked up\nagain, and there was Hardy speaking, from beside the\nPresident's chair.\n\n\"Monsignor, you would not answer me just now. Now that I am\nspeaking in the Council's name, will you consent to do so?\"\n\n\"I will answer what I think right to answer.\"\n\nThere was a touch of amusement in Hardy's voice as he went on.\n\n\"You need not be afraid, Monsignor. We do not extort answers by\nthe rack. I only wished to know if you would be reasonable.\"\n\nThe priest said nothing.\n\n\"Very good, then. . . . First we will tell you our intentions. At\nmidnight, as you know, we keep our word, and the Emperor will have\nto go the way of the others. It is regrettable, but the Christians\ndo not seem to understand even yet that we are in earnest. You\nwill have to be present at that scene, I am sorry to say; but you\ncan comfort yourself by ministering to your co-religionist. He has\nnot had a priest admitted to him since his arrest.\n\n\"Immediately afterwards you will be set at liberty, and put on\nboard the air-boat on which you travelled from Rome, with the same\ndriver who brought you here, on one single condition. That\ncondition is that you go straight to the Holy Father, tell him all\nthat you have seen, and take with you one or two little objects.\"\n\nHe paused and beckoned to some one behind. A man came forward\nwith a little box which he laid on the table. Hardy opened it.\n\n\"This is the box you are to take. Yes; I see that you recognize\nthem. They are the biretta, the skullcap, the cross, and the ring\nof the late Cardinal Bellairs. There are also in this box the\nring and a medal belonging to the late Prince Otteone. . . . You\nwill take these with you as pledges of what you say. . . . Will\nyou consent to do this?\"\n\nThe priest bowed. For the moment he was unable to speak.\n\n\"You will also tell the Holy Father,\" went on the other,\nreplacing, as he spoke, the things in the box, \"what you have\nseen of our dispositions. You will say that you saw us entirely\nresolute and unafraid. We do not fear anybody, Monsignor--not\nanything at all; I think you understand that by now.\n\n\"You will have a letter, of course, to take with you. It will\ncontain our final terms. Because--(and I assure you that you are\nthe first of the outside world to hear this news)--because we\nhave decided to extend our patience for one more week. We shall,\nduring that week, in order to prove the genuineness of our\nintentions, make a raid upon a certain city and, we hope, destroy\nit. (Naturally, I shall not inform you where that city stands.)\nAnd if, at the end of that week, our former terms are not\naccepted, we shall carry out our promises to the full. You may\nalso add,\" he went on more deliberately, \"that our party is\nrepresented in every capital of Europe, and that these may be\nexpected to act in the same way as that in which we have acted,\nas soon as the week expires. We have no objection to telling you\nthis: our plans are completely made, and no precautions on your\nside can hinder them. Is that clear, Monsignor?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the priest.\n\n\"You are satisfied that we mean what we say?\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\"\n\nHardy's manner changed a little. Up to now he had been speaking\ncoldly and sharply, except where once or twice a slightly\nironical tone had come into his voice. Now he bent forward a\nlittle with his hands upon the table, and his tone became a\ntrifle friendly.\n\n\"Now there are just one or two questions that the Council wish me\nto put to you.\"\n\nMonsignor glanced up at the circle of watching faces, and as he\nlooked at the President, he could have sworn that a look of\ndispleasure came over the man's face.\n\n\"Well, our first question is this (I dare say you will not answer\nit; but if you will oblige us, we shall be grateful): Can you\ntell us whether, when you left Rome, the Holy Father, or the\nEuropean Powers, showed any signs of yielding?\"\n\nThe priest drew a breath.\n\n\"I am absolutely sure,\" he said quietly, \"that they had no idea\nof yielding, and that they never will.\"\n\n\"Why did they send envoys then?\"\n\n\"They were willing to make other concessions.\"\n\n\"What were these concessions?\"\n\nMonsignor hesitated.\n\n\"I am not an envoy; I have no power to say.\"\n\n\"Do you know what they were?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Why will you not say? Is it not the wish of the Powers to\ncome to terms?\"\n\n\"It was their wish.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that it is so no longer?\"\n\n\"I cannot imagine it being their wish any longer.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because you murdered the two envoys they sent,\" said the\npriest, beginning suddenly to shake all over with uncontrollable\nnervous excitement.\n\n\"Have you any reason for saying that?\"\n\n\"I know what I would do myself under such circumstances.\"\n\n\"And that is----\"\n\nThe priest straightened himself, and seized the rail before him\nto steady himself.\n\n\"I would wipe out of existence every soul that was concerned in those\nmurders. I would have no more civilized dealings with savages.\"\n\nThere was a sudden movement and murmur in the circle on the\nplatform. From the intentness with which they had followed the\nquestions and answers, Monsignor saw that they understood English\nwell enough. One man sprang to his feet. But simultaneously the\nPresident was on his own, and with a gesture and a sharp word or\ntwo restored order.\n\n\"That is very deplorable violence,\" said Hardy. \"But it is\nmost Christian.\"\n\n\"I am beginning to think so myself,\" said the priest.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said the other, tapping the table irritably. \"We\nmust get on----\"\n\nA door behind him, communicating with the offices behind the\nhall, opened suddenly as he spoke these words, and he broke off.\nMonsignor followed the direction of his eyes, and saw a man enter\nwho was plainly in a state of extreme excitement. He was across\nthe platform in three or four quick steps, and laid a paper\nbefore the President, pushing by Hardy to do so. Then he stood\nback abruptly and waited. The President took up the paper\ndeliberately and read it. Then he laid it down again, and a\nquestion too was asked smartly in the same rapid German, and\nanswered as smartly.\n\nThen he turned, and creasing the paper between his fingers as he\nspoke, uttered a sentence that brought every man to his feet.\n\n\n\n(IV)\n\nIn the confusion that followed Monsignor stood for a while\ndisregarded. The man who had brought the message, had, after one\nmore sentence snapped at him over the President's shoulder,\nvanished once more. For the rest--they were up now, forming into\ngroups, talking excitedly, dissolving again, and re-forming. Only\ntwo remained quiet--Hardy and the President; the latter still in\nhis chair, staring out moodily, with the Englishman whispering\ninto his ear. Then Hardy too stood back and stared about him. One\nor two men came up, but he waved them aside. Then his eyes fell\nupon the priest, still waiting: he slipped away from the chair,\ncame down the steps, and beckoned to him.\n\nMonsignor was in a whirl; but he turned and came obediently out\nof his place into the corner by the steps. He noticed as he came\nthat even those who guarded the lower doors were talking.\n\n\"There's news,\" whispered Hardy sharply. \"Another envoy is\ncoming. Who is it?\"\n\nThe priest shook his head. \"I have no idea.\"\n\n\"He'll be here in ten minutes,\" said Hardy. \"He passed the line\nof guard-boats five minutes ago. Monsignor----\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Just come behind here a moment. I want to have a word with you.\"\n\nAs they crossed the platform he slipped off again to the\nPresident's chair, whispered a word to him, and returned.\n\n\"Come through here,\" he whispered.\n\nTogether they passed through the door at the back, and so into\none of the little rooms through which they had come together\nhalf an hour before. There he closed both doors carefully and\ncame up to the priest.\n\n\"Monsignor,\" he said, and hesitated.\n\nThe priest looked at him curiously. He began to see that a\ndisclosure was coming.\n\n\"Monsignor, I have not been hard on you. . . . I came as soon as\nI could. . . .\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"I . . . I don't know what's going to happen. The envoy's coming\nat the last hour. The Council is in a very divided state of\nmind. You saw that?\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"They're wavering. It's no use denying it. They'd accept almost\nanything. It's perfectly desperate. They see that now.\"\n\nHe was fingering the priest's sleeve by now, and his eyes were\nfull of a pitiable anxiety.\n\n\"What do you wish me to do?\"\n\n\"Well, they'll say I was responsible--if the negotiations come to\nanything, I mean. They'll say I urged them on. They'll sacrifice\nme--me and the President. They'll say they never would have gone\nto such lengths----What's that noise?\"\n\nMonsignor jerked his head impatiently. He began to see light.\n\n\"Well,\" went on the other nervously, \"I want you to speak for me,\nif necessary--_if necessary_, you understand? You're a Christian,\nMonsignor. . . You'll stand by me.\"\n\nThe priest waited before answering; as the situation took\nshape before his eyes, he began to understand more and more\nclearly; and yet----\n\nA voice called out sharply beyond the door, and Hardy leapt to\nthe handle, beckoning with his head; and as the priest obediently\nfollowed, he gave him one more look of entreaty and opened the\ndoor. The President stood there. The great man, more impressive\nthan ever now, as his great height showed itself, ran his eyes\nslowly over the two.\n\n\"Come back to the hall,\" he said, so slowly that even the priest\nunderstood it, and turned.\n\n\"The envoy's coming,\" whispered Hardy breathlessly, as he paused\nbefore following. \"You'll remember, Monsignor? . . .\"\n\nIt was hardly a minute since they had left, and yet all confusion\nhad vanished. Every man was back in his seat, with that same\nimpassive and yet attentive air that they had worn when Monsignor\nfirst saw them. Yet, with his new knowledge, it seemed to him as\nif he could detect, beneath all that, something of the\nindecisiveness of which he had just learned. Certainly they were\nunder admirable discipline; yet he began to see that even\nsocialistic discipline had its limitations.\n\nThe President was already in the act of sitting down, Hardy was\nstepping up behind him, and the priest was still hesitating by\nthe door, when down at the lower end of the hall there was a\nmovement among those who guarded it, the great doors opened, and\na figure walked straight in, without looking to right or left.\n\nHe came on and up; and as he came the hush fell deeper. It was\nimpossible even to see his face; he was in a long travelling\ncloak that fell to his feet; a travelling cap covered his head;\nand about his throat and face was thrown a great white scarf,\nsuch as the air-travellers often use. He came on, still without\nlooking to right or left, walking as if he had some kind of right\nto be there, straight up to the witness-box, ascended the steps,\nand stood there for an instant motionless.\n\nThen he unwound his scarf, lifted his cap and dropped it beside\nhim, threw back his cloak with a single movement, and stood\nthere--a white figure from head to foot, white capped. . . .\nThere was a great sigh from the men on the platform; two or three\nsprang to their feet, and sat down again as suddenly. Only the\nPresident did not move. Then there fell an absolute silence.\n\n\n\n(V)\n\n\"Eh well,\" said the Pope in delicate French; \"I am\narrived in time then.\"\n\nHe looked round from side to side, smiling and peering--this\nlittle commonplace-looking Frenchman, who had in his hand at this\nperiod of the world's history an incalculably greater power than\nany living being on earth had ever before wielded--Father of\nPrinces and Kings, Arbiter of the East, Father as well as\nSovereign Lord of considerably more than a thousand million\nsouls. He stood there, utterly alone with a single servant\nwaiting out there, half a mile away, at the flying-stage, in the\npresence of the Council who in the name of the malcontents of the\nhuman race had declared war on the world of which he was now all\nbut absolute master. No European nation could pass a law which he\nhad not the right to veto; not one monarch claimed to hold his\ncrown except at the hands of this man. And the East--even the\npagan East--had learned at last that the Vicar of Christ was the\nFriend of Peace and Progress.\n\nAnd he stood here, smiling and peering at the faces.\n\n\"I come as my own envoy,\" said the Pope presently, adjusting his\ncollar. \"'The King said, \"They will reverence My Son,\"' so I am\ncome as the Vicar of that Son. You have killed my two messengers,\nI hear. Why have you done that?\"\n\nThere was no answer. From where the priest stood he could hear\nlaboured breathing on all sides, but not a man moved or spoke.\n\n\"Eh well then, I have come to offer you a last opportunity of\nsubmitting peacefully. In less than an hour from now the armed\ntruce expires. After that we shall be compelled to use force. We\ndo not wish to use force; but society must now protect itself. I\ndo not speak to you in the name of Christ; that name means\nnothing to you. So I speak in the name of society, which you\nprofess to love. Submit, gentlemen, and let me be the bearer of\nthe good news.\"\n\nHe spoke still in that absolutely quiet and conversational tone\nin which he had begun. One hand rested lightly on the rail\nbefore him; the other gently fingered the great cross on his\nbreast, naturally and easily, as the priest had seen him finger\nit once before in his own palace. It was unthinkable that such a\nweight in the world's history rested on so slight a foundation.\nYet for a few frozen moments no one else moved or spoke. It is\nprobable that the scene they witnessed seemed to them\nunsubstantial and untrue.\n\nThen, as the priest still stood, fascinated and overwhelmed, he\nnoticed a movement in the great chair before him. Very slowly\nthe President shifted his position, clasping his hands loosely\nbefore him and bending forward a little. Then a dialogue began,\nof which every word remained in the priest's mind as if written\nthere. It was in French throughout, the smooth delicacy of the\nPope's intonation contrasting strangely with the heavy German\naccent of the other.\n\n\"You come as an envoy, sir. Do you then accept our terms?\"\n\n\"I accept no terms. I offer them.\"\n\n\"And those?\"\n\n\"Absolute and unconditional submission to myself.\"\n\n\"You received our notice as to the treatment of such envoys?\"\n\n(There was a rustle in the hall, but the other paid no attention.)\n\n\"But certainly.\"\n\n\"You come armed then--protected in some manner?\"\n\nThe Pope smiled. He made a little opening gesture with his hands.\n\n\"I come as you see me; no more.\"\n\n\"Your armies are behind you?\"\n\n\"The European air-fleets start from every quarter at midnight.\"\n\n\"With your consent?\"\n\n\"But certainly.\"\n\n\"You understand that this means immeasurable bloodshed?\"\n\n\"But certainly.\"\n\n\"You defend that?\"\n\n\"My Master came bringing not peace, but a sword. But I am not\nhere to teach theology.\"\n\n\"But until midnight----\"\n\n\"Until midnight I am in your hands.\"\n\nAgain the silence fell, deeper than ever. Monsignor took his eyes\noff the Pope's face for an instant to glance round what he could\nsee of the circle. All were staring steadily, some half sunk down\nin their seats, others stretched forward, clasping the outer\nedges of the desks with strained hands, all staring at this quiet\nwhite figure who faced them. He looked again at that face. If\nthere had been in it, not merely agitation or fear, but even\nunusual paleness, if there had been in those hands, one of which\nbore the great Papal ring, not merely trembling, but even a sign\nof constriction or tenseness, it might well have been, thought\nthe priest afterwards, that the scene would have ended very\ndifferently. But the naturalness and ease of the pose were\nabsolute. He stood there, the hands lightly laid one upon the\nother, his face palish certainly, but not colourless. There was\neven a slight flush in his cheeks from his quick walk up the long\nhall. It was a situation in which the weight of a hair would turn\nthe scale. . . .\n\nThen the President lifted his head slightly, and a tremor ran\nround the circle.\n\n\"I see no reason for delay,\" he said heavily. \"Our terms were\nclear. This man came with the full knowledge of them and the\nconsequences of disregarding them----\"\n\nThe Pope lifted his hand.\n\n\"One instant, Mr. President----\"\n\n\"I see no reason----\"\n\n\"Gentlemen-----\"\n\nA murmur of consent rolled round the thirty persons sitting there,\nso unmistakable that the man who up to now had ruled them all with\na hint or gesture dropped his head again. Then the Pope went on.\n\n\"Gentlemen, I have really no more to say than that which I have\nsaid. But I beg of you to reconsider. You propose to kill me as\nyou have killed my messengers. Well, I am at your disposal. I did\nnot expect to live so long when I set out from Rome this morning.\nBut, then, what will you gain? At midnight every civilized nation\nis in arms. And I will tell you what perhaps you do not\nknow--that the East is supporting Europe. The Eastern fleets are\nactually on their way at this moment that I speak. You propose to\nreform Society. I will not argue as to those reforms; I say only\nthat they are too late. I will not argue as to the truth of the\nChristian religion. I say only that the Christian religion is\nalready ruling this world. You kill me? My successor will reign\nto-morrow. . . . You kill the Emperor; his son, now in Rome, at\nthat moment begins to reign. Gentlemen, what do you gain? Merely\nthis--that in days to come your names will be foul in all men's\nmouths. . . . At this moment you have an opportunity to submit;\nin a few minutes it will be too late.\"\n\nHe paused a moment.\n\nThen, to the priest's eyes, it seemed as if some subtle change\npassed over his face and figure. Up to now he had spoken,\nconversationally and quietly, as a man might speak to a company\nof friends. But, though he had not noticed it at the time, he\nremembered later how there had been gathering during his little\nspeech a certain secret intensity and force like the kindling of\na fire. In this pause it swept on and up, flushing his face with\nsudden colour, lifting his hands as on a rising tide, breaking\nout suddenly in his eyes like fire, and in his voice in passion.\nThe rest saw it too; and in that tense atmosphere it laid hold\nof them as with a giant's hand; it struck their tight-strung\nnerves; it broke down the last barriers on which their own fears\nhad been at work.\n\n\"My children,\" cried the White Father, no longer a Frenchman now,\nbut a very Son of Man. \"My children, do not break my heart! So\nlong and hard the labour--two thousand years long--two thousand\nyears since Christ died; and you to wreck and break the peace that\ncomes at last; that peace into which through so great tribulations\nthe people of God are entering at last. You say you know no God,\nand cannot love Him; but you know man---poor wilful man--and would\nyou fling him back once more into wrath and passion and lust for\nblood?--those lusts from which even now he might pass to peace if\nit were not for you. You say that Christ is hard--that His Church\nis cruel, and that man must have liberty? I too say that man must\nhave liberty--he was made for it; but what liberty would that be\nwhich he has not learned to use?\n\n\"My children! have pity on men, and on me who strive to be their\nfather. Never yet has Christ reigned on earth till now--Christ who\nHimself died, as I, His poor servant, am ready to die a thousand\ntimes, if men may but themselves learn to die to self and to live\nto Him. Have pity, then, on the world you love and hope to serve.\nServe it indeed as best you can. Let us serve it together!\"\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nThere was an instant's silence.\n\nHe stood there, his hands clasped in agony upon his cross. Then\nhe flung his hands wide in sudden, silent appeal.\n\nThere was a crash of an overturned desk; the crying out of\ndesperate voices all together, and as from the great tower\noverhead there beat out the first stroke of midnight, the priest,\non his knees now, saw through eyes blind with tears, figures\nmoving and falling and kneeling towards that central form that\nstood there, a white pillar of Royalty and sorrow, calling for\nthe last time all the world unto him.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nBut the President sat still at his desk, motionless.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n\n(I)\n\nThe sight on which the watcher's eyes rested, as he sat, hung\nhere in motionlessness above Westminster, a hundred feet higher\nthan the great St. Edward's Tower itself, was one not only\nundreamed of, but even inconceivable to men of earlier days.\n\nFor it seemed as if some vast invisible air-way had been flung\nstraight from the midst of London, down away to the south-west\nhorizon, where it ran into the faint summer haze thirty miles\naway. So level was the line held by the waiting volors on either\nside--vast barges shining like silver, hung with the great\nstate-cloths of modern days--that it appeared as if the eye\nitself were deceived, as if there were indeed a pavement of\ncrystal, a river of glass, so clear as itself to be unseen, on\nwhose surface floated this navy of a dream such as the world\nitself had never imagined.\n\nNow and again, like a fly on water, there darted from one side to\nthe other a tiny boat, in the blue and silver of the city guards,\nor dropped, ducked and vanished; now and again it wheeled, and\ncame whirling up the line, vanishing at last in the long\nperspective. But, for the rest, the monsters waited motionless in\nthe sunlight, their state-cloths, hung as from the old barges,\nfrom stem to stern, as motionless as themselves, except when now\nand again the summer breeze stirred from the south-west, lifting\nthe lazy streamers, wafting softly the heavy embroideries, and\nstirring, even as the wind stirs the wheat, the glittering giants\nthat waited to do their Lord honour.\n\nOpposite the air-barge where the watcher sat, perhaps a hundred\nyards away, floated the royal boat, between a pair of warships,\none blaze of scarlet, blue, and gold, flapping out the Royal\nStandard of England, and flashing the glass of the stern-cabin as\nthe great creature rocked gently now and again in the breeze; and\nupon its deck rose up the canopy where the king and his consort\nsat together, and the line of scarlet guards visible behind. On\nthe warships on either side the crew waited, the ship itself\ndressed as for a review, every man motionless at his post, with\nthe crash of brass sounding from the lower decks. And so down the\nline the eye of the watcher went again and again, fascinated by\nthe beauty and the glory, down past where the great ducal barges\nhung, each in order, past the officers of state, past the\nParliament barges, down to where the boats, in numbers beyond all\nreckoning, faded away into the haze.\n\nTo those who looked across to where the man himself sat the\nsight must have been no less amazing. For he sat there, in his\nnew dress of Cardinal's scarlet, on the throne of ceremony\nbeneath his canopy with his attendants about him, on a wide deck\nlaid down with scarlet, its prow crowned by the silver cross--a\nsilent watching figure, with a splendour of romance about him\nmore suggestive even than the material glory that showed his\nnewly won dignity.\n\nThere was not a soul there in those astounding crowds, whether\namong those who, hanging here between heaven and earth, awaited\nfor the ceremonial reception, the coming of him who was Vicar of\none and Lord of the other, or even among those incalculable\nmultitudes beneath, who packed the streets, crowded the flat roofs\nand looked from every window. It was this man, they knew, this\ntiny red figure, sitting solitary and motionless, who scarcely\nthree months before had stood before the revolutionary Council of\nBerlin, of his own will and choice--who had gone there and faced\nwhat seemed a certain death, for love of the old man whose body\nnow lay beneath the high-altar of the tremendous cathedral\nbeneath, and to whose office and honours he had succeeded, and for\nthe sake of the message he had carried. It was this man, alone of\nthe whole Christian world, who after looking into the face of\ndeath, not for himself only, but for one who was dearer to him and\nto that Christian world than life itself, had seen in one moment\nthe last storm roll away from human history for ever; who had seen\nwith his own eyes, Christ in His Vicar--_Princeps gloriosus_ come\nat last--take the power and reign.\n\nHe too was conscious of all this, at least subconsciously, as he\nsat motionless, a figure carved in ivory, a man who had found\npeace at last. Here, in the contemplating brain, as with his eyes\nhe looked over the vast city of London, enormous and exquisite\nbeyond the dreams of either the reformers or the artists of a\ncentury ago, seen as through the crystal of the summer air, as he\nlifted his eyes now and again to the solemn barges opposite with\nall that that dignity meant; above all as he looked down that\nimmeasurable line, that roadway of a god, along which presently\nat least the Vicar of a God should come--all this and a thousand\nmemories more--memories of events such as few experience in a\nlifetime, crowded into twelve months--passed in endless defile,\ncoherent and consistent at last under the pointing finger of Him\nwho had directed and evolved them all.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nFirst, then, he saw himself, a child in knowledge, beginning life\nat a point where many leave it off, plunged into a world that was\nwholly strange and bewildering, a world which, though Christian in\nname, seemed brutal in nature--brutal as the pagan empires were\nbrutal, yet without the excuse of their ignorance and passion.\n\nYet his intellect had seemed unable to refute the conclusion of\nthat march of events, that coherence of all ideals in a reasoned\nwhole, that fulfilment of instincts, that play of forces, upon\nwhich, as upon a tide, Catholicism had floated to final victory\nin the history of mankind. Not one element had seemed wanting;\nand, as if to convince by sensible visions that brain which\nshrank from merely argued logic, one by one he had seen for\nhimself as in a picture lesson, how at Versailles the social\ntangle of an individual kingdom had once more submitted to\nmonarchy--that faulty mirror of the Divine government of the\nworld; how at Rome the stability of rival kingdoms, had found\nitself once more in an arbiter whose kingdom was not of this\nworld; how finally, at Lourdes, in the widest circle of all, the\nvery science of the world itself had found itself not confronted\nor opposed, but welcomed and transcended, by a school of thinkers\nwhose limitations lay only in the Infinite.\n\nOnce more then he had returned. Yet he had found that the head\nand the imagination are not all; that man has a heart as well;\nand that this has its demands no less inexorable that those of\nintellect. And it was this heart of his that had seemed outraged\nand silenced. For he had found in Christianity a synthesis of\nideas--a coincidence of knowledge--which, while satisfying that\nhead, emerged in a system to which his heart could be no party.\nHe had learned that \"Christian society must protect itself\"; and\nhe had seemed in this to find a denial of the essential Christian\ndoctrine that success comes only by defeat, and triumph by the\nCross. It had seemed to him that Christ had accepted the taunts\nat last, had come down from the Cross and won the homage only of\nthose who did not understand Him. He had been quieted indeed for\na time, under the power of men who, whatever the rest of the\nworld might do, still thought that suffering was the better part.\nYet he had been quieted; not convinced.\n\nThen he had sought a glimpse of the reverse of the picture--of\nthat which now seemed the sole alternative to that faith which he\nfeared--a glimpse only; yet full of significance. For he had seen\nmen to whom the better part of themselves seemed nothing; men who\nwalked with downcast eyes, piling mud and stones together, and\nfancying the heap to be a very City of God.\n\nThen, swift as grace itself, had come his answer.\n\nHe had seen men who had already all that the world could give,\nmen who, he had thought, lusted only for power, go to an unknown\nand yet a certain death for the sake of a world over which he\nhad thought they cared only to reign--and go with smiles and\ncheerfulness. And while he still hung in indecision, still\nhesitated as to whether this or that were the Kingdom of\nGod--this shrinking dream of a world sufficient to itself, or\nthis brightening vision--then the last light had come, and he\nhad seen one to be victor by sheer self-abnegation, by contempt\nof his own life, by the all but divine power of an ordinary man\nwalking in grace. There had been no rhetoric in that triumph, no\npromises, no intoxication of phrases, no overwhelming\npersonality such as that which had faced him. There had been\nnothing but a little quiet personage with a father's heart, who\nby his very fidelity to his human type, by the absolute\nsimplicity of his presence had first climbed to the highest\npoint that man could reach, and then by that same fidelity and\nsimplicity, had cast himself down, and in the very hour that\nfollowed the unconditional surrender which his enemies had made,\nhad granted them a measure of liberty such as they had never\ndreamed of. In the name of the Powers, whose super-lord and\nrepresentative he was, he had abolished the death-penalty for\nopinions subversive of society or faith, substituting in its\nplace deportation to the new American colonies; he had flung\nopen certain positions in Catholic states hitherto tenable only\non a profession of the Christian religion to all men alike; and\nhe had guaranteed to the new colonies in America a freedom from\nexternal control and a place among civilized powers such as they\nhad never expected or asked.\n\nThis then was the new type of man who had at last conquered the\nworld. It was not a superman that had been waited for so long,\nnot a demigod armed with powers of light; not man raising\nhimself above his stature, building towers on earthly\nfoundations that should reach to heaven; but just man, utterly\ntrue to himself and his instincts, walking humbly before his\nGod; looking for a city that has no foundations, coming down to\nhim out of heaven. It was supernature, not superman; grace and\ntruth transfiguring nature; not nature wrenching itself vainly\ntowards the stature of grace. It was man who could suffer, who\ncould reign; since he only who knows his weakness, dares to be\nstrong. . . . _Vicisti Galilaee!_\n\n\n\n(II)\n\nSlowly then he had come to see that, as had been told him long\nbefore, the kingdoms of this world were already passing into the\nhands of a higher dominion--and this was the significance of this\nmicrocosm of those kingdoms that now lay before his bodily eyes.\n\nThere, opposite to him, in the blaze of sunlight, stood the\nthrone that for a thousand years had faced the throne of the\nFisherman, now as a dependant, now as a rebel--stable and fixed\nat last in its allegiance. Here beneath him lay London, the\nfinest city in the world, where, if ever anywhere, had been tried\nthe experiment of a religion resting on the strength of a\nnational isolation instead of an universal supernationalism;--it\nhad been tried, and found wanting. Beneath him lay his own\ncathedral, already blazing within like a treasure-cave, ready for\nits consummation, without, tranquil and strong; behind him the\nancient Abbey once again in the hands of its children; far away\nto the right, seeming strangely near in this lucid atmosphere,\nhung, like a bubble, the great dome below which, as he knew,\nstood the first basilican altar in London, newly consecrated as a\nsign of its papal dignities and privileges. And beyond that again\nLondon; and yet again London, a wonderful white city, gleaming at\na thousand points with cross and spire and dome and pinnacle,\npatched with green in square and park and open space--London come\nback again at last to her ancient faith and her old prosperity.\n\nBut this was not all.\n\nFor he knew and his imagination circled out wider and wider that\nhe might take it in--he knew that Europe itself at last dwelt\nagain with one mind in her house. There beyond the\nchannel--across which ten minutes ago, as the thunder of guns had\ntold him, the Arbiter of the World had come at last with his\ntrain of kings behind him--there lay the huge continent, the\ngreat plains of France, the forests of Germany, the giant tumbled\ndebris of Switzerland, the warm and radiant coasts, the ancient\nworld-stage of Italy, passionate Spain which never yet had wholly\nlost her love. There all lay, at one at last, each her own, with\nher own liberties and customs and traditions, yet each in the\nservice of her neighbour, since each and all alike lay beneath\nthe Peace of God.\n\nStill wider fled his thought. . . . He saw to the southwards and\nfar away westwards across the seas, how now this country, now\nthat, flew its flag and administered its laws, yet how those\nflags all together saluted the Crossed Keys; how those laws,\nhowever diverse, bowed all together before the Law of Liberty;\nand how there, farther yet, already the gates of the East had\nrolled back, and how there peered out across half the world the\npatient seeking faces of those old children of earth, awakened at\nlast to destinies greater than their own--awakened, not as men\nhad once feared, by the thunder of Christian guns, but by the\ncall of the Shepherd to sheep that were not of His Fold. . . .\n\nSo there the vision lay before him--this man who had lost his\nmemory and had found a greater gift instead.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nAn old priest in the white fur of a canon came gently up the deck\nfrom behind. . . .\n\n\"Your Eminence . . .\" he said, \"they have signalled up the\nline. . . . I thought, perhaps----\"\n\nThe new Cardinal started as one from a dream.\n\n\"What is it, Father Jervis? . . .\"\n\nThe old man looked at him closely; then he laid his hand on his arm.\n\n\"Your Eminence, the King is waiting. Do you not remember? Your\nEminence was to give the signal.\"\n\nBeneath, like huge voices speaking a single word all at once,\nroared the old guns from the Tower and Greenwich and the palaces.\n\nThe Cardinal shook his head.\n\n\"I . . . I forget,\" he said; \"I was thinking. . . . What am I to do?\"\n\nThe old priest looked at him again earnestly, without speaking.\nThen he leaned forward closer still.\n\n\"Will your Eminence authorize me to give the signals?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, Father . . . anything. What am I to do? Have I\nto say anything?\"\n\nHis eyes had a look of dawning terror in them as he glanced from\nside to side. The priest once again laid his hand on the\nlace-covered wrist and held it there steadily.\n\n\"Nothing at all, your Eminence. You have simply to sit still. I\nwill arrange everything.\"\n\nStill standing there, he turned slightly and made a sharp gesture\nbehind the throne with his left hand. A bell sounded instantly.\nThere was a moment's silence. Then once again a bell; and a\nchorus answered it.\n\nVery slowly the Cardinal lifted his head, and saw before him the\nRoyal barge sway ever so slightly, conscious himself that through\nhis own vessel a vibration was beginning to run as the huge\nengines beneath moved into action. Again roared the guns far down\nthe river, and, as the bellow ceased, from a thousand steeples\nbroke out the clamour of brazen tongues. . . .\n\nHe sat still; he knew at least that this he must do. . . . Surely\nthis obscurity of brain would pass again in a moment. He was\ngoing to meet the Holy Father, was he not? . . . down there, down\nthat road of light and air, along which now his great barge\nfloated side by side with the King's. That was it. He remembered\nagain now as his memory flickered in glimpses. This was the great\nProgress round the world of the new Arbiter of the World, the\nVicar of the Prince of Peace, come into his Kingdom at last.\n\nHe kept his eyes steadily before him, scarcely seeing the flash\nof the river as it swept beneath him and away, or on all sides\nthe dipping flags, the monstrous gilded prows, the bravery of\ncolour, down this broad road on which he went, scarcely conscious\nthat, as he passed, the great barges wheeled behind him to follow\nto the meeting; scarcely hearing the tremendous music that,\nsweeping up from the crowded streets below, wafted up to him the\nadoration of a free people who had learned at last that the Law\nof Liberty was the Law of Love. . . .\n\nAh! there at last they came. . . .\n\nFar down, rising every instant higher above the summer haze,\noutlined against a heaven of intensest blue, approached a cloud\nthat sparkled as it came, that broke into a thousand points of\ncolour--a long, flat cloud, seen at first as a steamer stretched\nacross the sky, curving down behind, as it seemed, into the haze\nfrom which it came. On and up it came, growing every instant,\nwidening and deepening, ever more and more clear in colour and\nform and depth.\n\nIt could be seen now of what elements it was made--a throng of\ntiny specks, moving like stately birds, which, even as the eye\nwatched, seemed to spread their wings upon the breeze that\nfollowed; to expand their bulk, and to glow, as the distance\nlessened, into the separate colours of each. . . .\n\nThen once again bellowed the guns, heard now like the voice of\narticulate thunder five miles behind, rolling up the river as if\nto welcome this fleet upon its way; and still he kept his eyes\nupon those who came so swiftly.\n\nThere in front moved the great guard-ships, monsters of\npolished steel, decked at prow and stern with the huge banners\nthat stood out straight behind in the swiftness of their\ncoming, but which, even as he looked, flapped and bellied to\nthis side and that as the speed decreased. Then, wheeling\noutwards, disclosing as they wheeled the insignia that each\nbore, the eagles of Germany, the lilies of France and the rest,\nthe guard of thirty giants fell once more into line, half a\nmile apart, as those that followed came on, and waited; beating\nthe air with the shimmer of their netted wings.\n\nThen ship after ship came up, each wheeling in its turn and\nwaiting, building now up with the speed of thought a vast\nsemicircle, expanding ever more and more swiftly, as the\nwatcher looked--himself halted now, with the royal barge on his\nright and his train of boats behind. There each in its turn\npassed the air-navies of the Great Powers, come to bring their\nLord with honour on his progress through the world--vast\narmaments of inconceivable war, enrolled at last in the service\nof the Prince of Peace.\n\nThen when the movement was complete, and there lay there across\nthe burning blue of the sky, five hundred feet in air, this vast\ncurve of glittering splendour, ten miles from horn to horn, on\ncame the great fleet that they had escorted.\n\nThere, then, the watcher saw two by two, first the barges of the\nPapal Orders, the Order of the Holy Sepulchre with its five-fold\ncross, and the Golden Spur, leading--huge medieval galleons,\ncarved at prow and stern, each bearing its insignia; then came\ncouple after couple bearing the Papal Court, followed closely by\ngreat barges, each with its canopy and throne, and the coat of\nthe Cardinal whom each bore flying overhead.\n\nAnd then a glorious sight.\n\nFor, moving alone in a solid phalanx, each vessel separated only\nby the space necessary for close manoeuvring, came the royal\nbarges of Europe, ranked on either side by a line of\nguard-boats--France, Austria, and Germany, then Belgium and\nHolland, then the Scandinavian kingdoms, then a crowd of lesser\nStates from the Balkan, Greece, and the Black Sea; then the\nblack-eagled barge of Russia, and finally the great galleons of\nSpain and Italy: and on each sat a royal figure beneath a canopy\nof state. And last of all moved a huge vessel, in scarlet and\nwhite, with a banner of white and gold and cross-keys at the\nprow; scarcely seen at first through the crowding craft, with a\nsquadron of guard-ships coming after.\n\nThere, then, the man who had lost his memory sat motionless, and\nwatched it all--this astounding display of inner grace\ntransformed into glory at last, that Royalty which since first\nthe Fisherman took his seat in Holy Rome, had little by little,\nthrough reverse and success, forced its way outwards on the\nworld--the leaven hid in the meal till all was leavened. . . .\nAnd it seemed to him as he looked, as if, through the splendour\nof the midday sun, the glitter of that sea of air-craft--through\nthe pealing of the bells beneath and the shock of the guns and\nthe shrill crying that filled the air--there moved other\nPresences, too, in yet a third medium than those of air and\nearth; as if diffused throughout this material plane was a world\nof more than matter and mind, more than of sense and\nperception--a world where all was reconciled and made at\none--this clash of flesh and spirit--and that at last each\nanswered to each, and spirit inspired flesh, and flesh expressed\nspirit. It seemed to him, for one blinding instant, as if at last\nhe saw how distance was contained in a single point, colour in\nwhiteness, and sound in silence, as at the very Word of Him who\nnow at last had taken His power and reigned, whose Kingdom at\nlast had come indeed, to whom in very truth All Power was given\nin heaven and earth. . . .\n\n\n\n\n\nEPILOGUE\n\nThe white-skirted, clean-looking doctor came briskly and\nnoiselessly into the little room that opened off Ward No. IV in\nthe Westminster Hospital as the clock pointed to nine o'clock in\nthe morning, and the nursing-sister stood up to receive him.\n\n\"Good morning, sister,\" he said. \"Any change?\"\n\n\"He seemed a little disturbed about an hour ago by the bells,\"\nshe said. \"But he hasn't spoken at all.\"\n\nTogether they stood and looked down on the unconscious man. He\nlay there motionless with closed eyes, his unshaven cheek resting\non his hand, his face fallen into folds and hollows, colourless\nand sallow. The red coverlet drawn up over his shoulder helped to\nemphasize his deadly pallor.\n\n\"It's a curious case,\" said the doctor. \"I've never seen coma in\nsuch a case last so long.\"\n\nHe still stared at him a moment or two; then he laid the back\nof his hand gently against the dying man's cheek, then again\nhe consulted through his glasses the chart that hung over the\nhead of the bed.\n\n\"Will he recover consciousness before the end, doctor?\"\n\n\"It's very likely; it's impossible to say. Send for me if\nthere's any change.\"\n\n\"I mayn't send for a priest, doctor?\" she said\nhesitatingly. \"You know---\"\n\nHe shook his head sharply.\n\n\"No, no. He distinctly refused, you remember. It's impossible,\nsister. . . . I'm very sorry.\"\n\nWhen he had gone, she sat down again, and drew out her beads\nfurtively upon her lap.\n\nIt was a horrible position for her. She, a Catholic, knew now\npretty well the history of this man--that he himself was a priest\nwho had lost the faith, who had associated himself with an\nhistorian who was writing a history of the Popes from what he\ncalled an impartial standpoint, who had, as the doctor said,\ndistinctly and resentfully refused the suggestion that another\npriest should be sent to help him to make his peace before he died.\nAnd, for her, as a convinced Catholic, the position had a terror\nthat is simply inconceivable to those of a less positive faith.\n\nShe could do nothing more. . . . She said her beads.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\nThere was a curious mixture of silence and sound here on this\nEaster Sunday in this bare, airy little ward, with the door\nclosed, and the windows open only at the top. The room had a\nremote kind of atmosphere about it, obtained perhaps partly by\nthe solidity of the walls, partly by the fact that it looked out\non to a comparatively unfrequented lane, partly by the\nsuggestiveness of a professional sick-room. The world was all\nabout it; yet it seemed rather to this nurse, sitting alone at\nher prayers and duties, as if she had a window into the common\nworld of life rather than that she actually was a part of it.\nEven the sounds that entered here had this remote tone about\nthem; the footsteps and talking of strayed holiday-makers,\noccasional fragmentary peals of bells, the striking of the clock\nin the high Victoria Tower--all these noises came into the room\ndelicately and suggestively rather than as interruptions, yet\ndistinct and noticeable because of the absence of the usual rush\nof traffic across the great square outside.\n\nThe nurse dozed a little over her beads. (She had been on duty\nsince the evening before, and would not be relieved for another\nhour yet.) And it seemed to her, as so often in that half-sleep,\nhalf-wakefulness, when the drowsy brain knows all necessary\nthings and awakes alert again in an instant at any unusual\nmovement or sound, as if these sounds began to take on them tones\nof other causes than those of themselves.\n\nIt seemed, for example, as if the steady murmur were the shouting\nof phantom crowds at an immeasurable distance, punctuated now\nagain by the noise of distant guns, as, somewhere round a corner\na vehicle passed over a crossing of cobble-stones; as if the\nbells of the churches rang with a deliberate purpose, to welcome\nor rejoice over some event . . . some entry of a king, she\nfancied, in a far-off city. Once even, so deep grew her\ndrowsiness, she fancied herself looking down on some such city,\nherself up in the sunlight and air, floating on the cloudy vessel\nof her own sleep. . . .\n\n\"Pray for us sinners,\" she murmured, \"now and in the hour of our death.\"\n\nThen she awoke in earnest, and saw the eyes of the patient fixed\nintelligently upon her.\n\n\"Fetch a priest,\" he said.\n\n   *   *   *   *   *\n\n\"Father,\" said the dying man an hour later, \"is that all?\nHave you finished?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear father--thank God!\" . . .\n\n\"Well; sit down a minute or two. I want to talk to you.\"\n\nThe young priest, sent for nearly an hour ago in haste from the\nCathedral, finished putting up again into his little leather case\nthe tiny stocks of holy oil with which he had just anointed the\ndying man. He had heard his confession . . . he had returned\nagain to fetch the _Viaticum_ and the oils; and now all was done;\nand the old priest was reconciled and at peace. The young man was\nstill a little tremulous; it was his first reconciliation of a\ndying apostate, and it seemed to him a marvellous thing that a\nman could come back after so long, and so simply--and an apostate\npriest at that! He had heard this man's name before, and heard\nhis story. . . .\n\nBut he was intensely anxious to know what it was that had wrought\nthe miracle. The sister had told him that until this moment the\npatient had steadily refused even the suggestion to send for a\npriest. And then, when he had come, there had been no\npreliminaries. He had simply slipped on his stole as the sister\nwent to the door, sat down by the bedside, heard the confession,\nand undertaken one or two little acts of restitution on his\npenitent's behalf.\n\nHe sat down again now and waited.\n\nThe man in the bed lay with closed eyes, and an extraordinary\npeace rested over him. It was almost impossible to believe, so\nwhite were the reflections of these clean walls, so white the\nlinen, that there was not a certain interior luminosity that\nshone over his features. His chin and lips and jaws were covered\nwith a week's stubble, his eyelids were sunk in the sockets, and\nthe temples looked shrunken and hollow; yet there was a clearness\nof skin, not yet dusky with the shadow of death, that appeared\nalmost supernatural to this young man who looked at him.\n\n\"The sign of the Prophet Jonas,\" said the dying priest\nsuddenly. . . . \"Resurrection.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"That is what I have seen,\" he said. . . \"No; I know it was a\ndream. . . But it is possible; the Church has the power within\nher. It may happen some day; or it may not. But there is no\nreason why it should not.\"\n\nThe other leant over him.\n\n\"My dear father----\" he began. The older priest smiled.\n\n\"It is a long time since I heard that,\" he said. . . . \"What's\nyour name, father?\"\n\n\"Jervis . . . Father Jervis. I come from the Cathedral.\"\n\nThe eyes opened and looked at him curiously.\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"Father Jervis,\" said the young priest again.\n\n\"Any relations?\"\n\n\"Some nephews--children. That's all of my name.\"\n\n\"Ah well! Perhaps-\" (He broke off). \"Did they tell me your name,\nbefore I became unconscious?\"\n\n\"It's very likely. I'm the visiting chaplain here.\"\n\n\"Ah well! Who knows---? But that doesn't matter. . . . Father, how\nlong have I to live?\"\n\nThe young priest leaned forward and laid his hand on the other's arm.\n\n\"A few hours only, father,\" he said gently. . . . \"You are not\nafraid?\"\n\n\"_Afraid?_\"\n\nHis eyes closed, and he smiled naturally and easily.\n\n\"Well; listen. Lean closer. . . . No . . . call the sister in.\nI want her to hear too.\"\n\n\"Sister----\"\n\nShe came forward, her eyes heavy with sleep, but they were bright\ntoo with an immense joy.\n\n\"Can you wait up a little longer, sister?\" said Father Jervis.\n\"He wants us both to hear what he has to say.\"\n\n\"Why, of course.\"\n\nShe sat down on the other side of the bed.\n\nStill the sounds from outside went on--the footsteps and the\nvoices and the bells. They were beginning to ring for the Easter\nmorning service in the Abbey; and still, within this room, was\nthis air of silence and remoteness.\n\n\"Now, listen carefully,\" said the dying man. . . .","title":"The Dawn of All","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":88841}