(II)
"You will be astonished at Ireland," said Father Jervis a few hourslater, as they sat together in the little lighted cabin on theirway across England. "You know, of course, the general outlines?"
Monsignor roused himself.
"I know it's the Contemplative Monastery of Europe," he said.
"Just so. It's also the mental hospital of Europe. You see it'svery favourably placed. None of the great lines of volors passover it now. It's entirely secluded from the world. Of coursethere are the secular business centres of the country, as theyalways were, in north and south--Dublin and Belfast; they're likeany other town, only rather quieter. But outside these you mightsay that the whole island is one monastic enclosure. I've broughta little book on it I thought you might like to look at."
He handed a little volume out of his bag. (It was printed on theusual nickel-sheets, invented by Edison fifty years before.)
"And to-night?" asked Monsignor heavily.
"To-night we're staying at Thurles. I made all arrangementsthis afternoon."
"And our programme?"
Father Jervis smiled.
"That'll depend on the guest-master," he said, "We put ourselvesentirely under his orders, as I told you. He'll see us to-nightor to-morrow morning; and the rest is in his hands."
"What's the system?" asked Monsignor suddenly and abruptlylooking at him.
"The system?"
"Yes."
Father Jervis considered.
"It's hard to put it into words," he said. "I suppose you mightsay that they used atmosphere and personality. They're thestrongest forces we know of--far stronger, of course, thanargument. It's very odd how they used to be neglected---"
"Eh?"
"Yes; until quite recently there was hardly any deliberate use ofthem at all. Well, now we know that they effect more than anypersuasion . . . or . . . or . . . diet. And of course enclosedReligious naturally become experts in interior self-command, andtherefore can apply these things better than anyone else."
He waved his hands vaguely and explanatorily.
"It's impossible to put it into words," he said. "The veryessence of it is that it can't be."
Monsignor sighed and looked drearily out of the window.
* * * * *
As the hours of the day had gone by it had been this drearinessthat had deepened on him, after the violent emotions of themorning. It was as if he already saw himself beaten down andcrushed by those forces he had begun to recognize. And even thisreminder that he was passing for a few days under a tyranny thatwas yet more severe failed to requicken any resentment. Inwardlythe fire smouldered still red and angry; outwardly he was passiveand obedient, and scarcely wished to be otherwise.
There was nothing of interest to be seen out of the window. Theautumn evening was drawing in, and the far-off horizon of hills,with the rim of the sea already visible beyond it, was dark andlead-coloured under the darkening sky. He thought vaguely of DomAdrian, in that melancholy and ineffective mood which eveningsuggests . . . he had been alive at this hour last night andnow . . . Well, he had passed to the Secret which this worldinterpreted now so confidently. . . .
They halted above Dublin, and he watched, as weeks ago at Brighton,the lighted stage swing outside the windows. He noted a couple ofwhite-frocked monks or friars, hooded in black, standing among therest. Then he watched the stage drop out of sight, and the lightsof Dublin spin eastwards and vanish. Then he turned listlessly tothe book his friend had given him, and began to read.
As he stood himself on the platform at Thurles, bag in hand (theybrought no servants to Ireland), it seemed to him that alreadythere was a certain sense of quietness about him. He told himselfit was probably the result of self-suggestion. But, for all that,it seemed curiously still. Beneath he saw great buildings,flattened under the height at which he stood--court after court,it appeared, each lighted invisibly and as clear as day. Yet nofigures moved across them; and in the roadways that ran here andthere was no crawling stream of ant-like beings such as he hadseen elsewhere. Even the officials seemed to speak in undertones;and Father Jervis said no word at all. Then, as he felt the swiftdropping movement beneath his feet, he saw the great lighted shiphe had just left whirl off westwards, resembling a giganticluminous moth, yet without bell or horn to announce its journey.
He followed his friend out through the doorway of theground-platform to which the stage descended, and into theinterior of a great white car that waited--still with a strangesense of irresponsibility and heaviness. He supposed that all waswell--as well as could be in a world such as this. Then he leanedback and closed his eyes. There were three or four others in thegreat car, he noticed; but all were silent.
He opened them again as the car stopped. But the priest besidehim made no movement. He looked out and saw that the car washalted between two high walls and in front of a great archedgateway. Even as he looked the gates rolled back noiselessly andthe car moved through. (The others had got out, he noticed.)
It seemed, as they sped on, as if they were going through thestreets of some strange dead city. All through which they passedwas perfectly visible in the white artificial light. Now they ranbetween high walls; now along the side of a vast courtyard; now astructure resembling the side of a cloister slid by them swiftlyand steadily--gone again in an instant. It was not untilafterwards that he realized that there had hardly been one windowto be seen; and not one living being.
And then at last the car stopped, and a monk in brown opened thedoor of the car.