Made and Printed in Great Britain at _The Mayflower Press,Plymouth_. William Brendan & Son, Ltd.
PREFACE
IN a former book, called _Lord of the World_, I attempted tosketch the kind of developments a hundred years hence which, Ithought, might reasonably be expected if the present lines ofwhat is called "modern thought" were only prolonged far enough;and I was informed repeatedly that the effect of the book wasexceedingly depressing and discouraging to optimistic Christians.In the present book I am attempting--also in parable form--not inthe least to withdraw anything that I said in the former, but tofollow up the other lines instead, and to sketch--again inparable--the kind of developments, about sixty years hence which,I think, may reasonably be expected should the opposite processbegin, and ancient thought (which has stood the test ofcenturies, and is, in a very remarkable manner, being"rediscovered" by persons even more modern than modernists) beprolonged instead. We are told occasionally by moralists that welive in very critical times, by which they mean that they are notsure whether their own side will win or not. In that sense notimes can ever be critical to Catholics, since Catholics arenever in any kind of doubt as to whether or no their side willwin. But from another point of view every period is a criticalperiod, since every period has within itself the conflict of twoirreconcilable forces. It has been for the sake of tracing outthe kind of effects that, it seemed to me, each side wouldexperience in turn, should the other, at any rate for a while,become dominant, that I have written these two books.
Finally if I may be allowed, I should wish to draw attention tomy endeavours to treat of the subject of "religious persecution,"since I strongly believe that in some such theory is to be foundthe explanation of such phenomena as those of Mary Tudor's reignin England, and of the Spanish Inquisition. In practically everysuch case, I think, it was the State and not the Church which wasresponsible for so unhappy a policy; and that the policy wasdirected not against unorthodoxy, as such, but against anunorthodoxy which, under the circumstances of those days, wasthought to threaten the civil stability of society in general,and which was punished as amounting to treasonable, rather thanto heretical, opinions.
ROBERT HUGH BENSON.
ROME Lent 1911
THE DAWN OF ALL
PROLOGUE
Gradually memory and consciousness once more reassertedthemselves, and he became aware that he was lying in bed. Butthis was a slow process of intense mental effort, and was aslaboriously and logically built up of premises and deductions aswere his theological theses learned twenty years before in hisseminary. There was the sheet below his chin; there was a redcoverlet (seen at first as a blood-coloured landscape of hillsand valleys); there was a ceiling, overhead, at first as remoteas the vault of heaven. Then, little by little, the confusedroaring in his ears sank to a murmur. It had been just now as thesound of brazen hammers clanging in reverberating caves, therolling of wheels, the tramp of countless myriads of men. But ithad become now a soothing murmur, not unlike the coming in of atide at the foot of high cliffs--just one gentle continuous note,overlaid with light, shrill sounds. This too required longargument and reasoning before any conclusion could be reached;but it was attained at last, and he became certain that he laysomewhere within sound of busy streets. Then rashly he leapt tothe belief that he must be in his own lodgings in Bloomsbury; butanother long slow stare upwards showed him that the white ceilingwas too far away.
The effort of thought seemed too much for him; it gave him asense of inexplicable discomfort. He determined to think no more,for fear that the noises should revert again to the crash ofhammers in his hollow head. . . .
He was next conscious of a pressure on his lip, and a kind ofshadow of a taste of something. But it was no more than a shadow:it was as if he were watching some one else drink and perceivingsome one else to swallow. . . . Then with a rush the ceiling cameback into view: he was aware that he was lying in bed under a redcoverlet; that the room was large and airy about him; and thattwo persons, a doctor in white and a nurse, were watching him. Herested in that knowledge for a long time, watching memoryreassert itself. Detail after detail sprang into view: fartherand farther back into his experience, far down into the childhoodhe had forgotten. He remembered now who he was, his story, hisfriends, his life up to a certain blank day or set of days,between him and which there was nothing. Then he saw the facesagain, and it occurred to him, with a flash as of illumination,to ask. So he began to ask; and he considered carefully eachanswer, turning it over and reflecting upon it with what seemedto him an amazing degree of concentration.
". . . So I am in Westminster Hospital," he considered. "That isextraordinarily interesting and affecting. I have often seen theoutside of it. It is of discoloured brick. And I have beenhere . . . how long? how long, did they say? . . . Oh! that is along time. Five days! And what in the world can have happened tomy work? They will be looking out for me in the Museum. How canDr. Waterman's history get on without me? I must see about thatat once. He'll understand that it's not my fault. . . .
"What's that? I mustn't trouble myself about that? But--Oh! Dr.Waterman has been here, has he? That's very kind--very kind andthoughtful indeed. And I'm to take my time, am I? Very well.Please thank Dr. Waterman for his kindness and histhoughtfulness in enquiring. . . . And tell him I'll be with himagain in a day or two at any rate. . . . Oh! tell him that he'llfind the references to the thirteenth-century Popes in the blacknotebook--the thick one--on the right of the fire-place. They'reall verified. Thank you, thank you very much. . . . and . . . bythe way . . . just tell him I'm not sure yet about thePiccolomini matter. . . . What's that? I'm not to troublemyself? . . . But . . . Oh! very well. Thank you. . . . Thankyou very much."
There followed a long pause. He was thinking still very hardabout the thirteenth-century Popes. It was really very tiresomethat he could not explain to Dr. Waterman himself. He was certainthat some of the pages in the thick black notebook were loose;and how terrible it would be if the book were taken outcarelessly, and some of the pages fell into the fire. They easilymight! And then there'd be all the work to do again. . . . Andthat would mean weeks and weeks. . . .
Then there came a grave, quiet voice of a woman speaking in hisear; but for a long time he could not understand. He wished itwould let him alone. He wanted to think about the Popes. He triednodding and murmuring a general sort of assent, as if he wishedto go to sleep; but it was useless: the voice went on and on. Andthen suddenly he understood, and a kind of fury seized him.
How did they know he had once been a priest? Spying andbadgering, as usual! . . . No: he did not want a priest sent for.He was not a priest any more; not even a Catholic. It was alllies--lies from the beginning to the end--all that they hadtaught him in the seminary. It was all lies! There! Was thatplain enough? . . .
Ah! why would not the voice be quiet? . . . He was in greatdanger, was he? He would be unconscious again soon, would he?Well, he didn't know what they meant by that; but what had it todo with him? No: he did not want a priest. Was that clearenough? . . . He was perfectly clear-headed; he knew what he wassaying. . . . Yes; even if he were in great danger . . . even ifhe were practically certain to die. (That, by the way, wasimpossible; because he had to finish the notes for Dr.Waterman's new History of the Popes; and it would take months.)Anyhow, he didn't want a priest. He knew all about that: he hadfaced it all, and he wasn't afraid. Science had knocked all thatreligious nonsense on the head. There wasn't any religion. Allreligions were the same. There wasn't any truth in any of them.Physical science had settled one half of the matter, andpsychology the other half. It was all accounted for. So hedidn't want a priest anyhow. Damn priests! There! would they lethim alone after that? . . .
And now as to the Piccolomini affair. I
t was certain that whenAeneas was first raised to the Sacred College. . . .
Why . . . what was happening to the ceiling? How could he attendto Aeneas while the ceiling behaved like that? He had no ideathat ceilings in the Westminster Hospital could go up like lifts.How very ingenious! It must be to give him more air. Certainly hewanted more air. . . . The walls too. . . . Ought not they alsoto revolve? They could change the whole air in the room in amoment. What an extraordinarily ingenious . . . Ah! and he wantedit. . . . He wanted more air. . . . Why don't these doctors knowtheir business better? . . . What was the good of catching holdof him like that? . . . He wanted air . . . more air . . . Hemust get to the window! . . . Air . . . air! . . .
PART I
CHAPTER I