Lord of the World

by Robert Hugh Benson

  II

  It was late that night before Percy returned, completely exhausted byhis labours. For hour after hour he had sat with the Cardinal, openingdespatches that poured into the electric receivers from all over Europe,and were brought in one by one into the quiet sitting-room. Three timesin the afternoon the Cardinal had been sent for, once by the Pope andtwice to the Quirinal.

  There was no doubt at all that the news was true; and it seemed thatFelsenburgh must have waited deliberately for the offer. All others hehad refused. There had been a Convention of the Powers, each of whom hadbeen anxious to secure him, and each of whom had severally failed; theseprivate claims had been withdrawn, and an united message sent. The newproposal was to the effect that Felsenburgh should assume a positionhitherto undreamed of in democracy; that he should receive a House ofGovernment in every capital of Europe; that his veto of any measureshould be final for three years; that any measure he chose to introducethree times in three consecutive years should become law; that his titleshould be that of President of Europe. From his side practically nothingwas asked, except that he should refuse any other official positionoffered him that did not receive the sanction of all the Powers. And allthis, Percy saw very well, involved the danger of an united Europeincreased tenfold. It involved all the stupendous force of Socialismdirected by a brilliant individual. It was the combination of thestrongest characteristics of the two methods of government. The offerhad been accepted by Felsenburgh after eight hours' silence.

  It was remarkable, too, to observe how the news had been accepted by thetwo other divisions of the world. The East was enthusiastic; America wasdivided. But in any case America was powerless: the balance of the worldwas overwhelmingly against her.

  Percy threw himself, as he was, on to his bed, and lay there withdrumming pulses, closed eyes and a huge despair at his heart. The worldindeed had risen like a giant over the horizons of Rome, and the holycity was no better now than a sand castle before a tide. So much hegrasped. As to how ruin would come, in what form and from whatdirection, he neither knew nor cared. Only he knew now that it wouldcome.

  He had learned by now something of his own temperament; and he turnedhis eyes inwards to observe himself bitterly, as a doctor in mortaldisease might with a dreadful complacency diagnose his own symptoms. Itwas even a relief to turn from the monstrous mechanism of the world tosee in miniature one hopeless human heart. For his own religion he nolonger feared; he knew, as absolutely as a man may know the colour ofhis eyes, that it was secure again and beyond shaking. During thoseweeks in Rome the cloudy deposit had run clear and the channel was oncemore visible. Or, better still, that vast erection of dogma, ceremony,custom and morals in which he had been educated, and on which he hadlooked all his life (as a man may stare upon some great set-piece thatbewilders him), seeing now one spark of light, now another, flare andwane in the darkness, had little by little kindled and revealed itselfin one stupendous blaze of divine fire that explains itself. Hugeprinciples, once bewildering and even repellent, were again luminouslyself-evident; he saw, for example, that while Humanity-Religionendeavoured to abolish suffering the Divine Religion embraced it, sothat the blind pangs even of beasts were within the Father's Will andScheme; or that while from one angle one colour only of the web of lifewas visible--material, or intellectual, or artistic--from another theSupernatural was as eminently obvious. Humanity-Religion could only betrue if at least half of man's nature, aspirations and sorrows wereignored. Christianity, on the other hand, at least included andaccounted for these, even if it did not explain them. This ... and this... and this ... all made the one and perfect whole. There was theCatholic Faith, more certain to him than the existence of himself: itwas true and alive. He might be damned, but God reigned. He might gomad, but Jesus Christ was Incarnate Deity, proving Himself so by deathand Resurrection, and John his Vicar. These things were as the bones ofthe Universe--facts beyond doubting--if they were not true, nothinganywhere was anything but a dream.

  Difficulties?--Why, there were ten thousand. He did not in the leastunderstand why God had made the world as it was, nor how Hell could bethe creation of Love, nor how bread was transubstantiated into the Bodyof God but--well, these things were so. He had travelled far, he beganto see, from his old status of faith, when he had believed that divinetruth could be demonstrated on intellectual grounds. He had learned now(he knew not how) that the supernatural cried to the supernatural; theChrist without to the Christ within; that pure human reason indeed couldnot contradict, yet neither could it adequately prove the mysteries offaith, except on premisses visible only to him who receives Revelationas a fact; that it is the moral state, rather than the intellectual, towhich the Spirit of God speaks with the greater certitude. That which hehad both learned and taught he now knew, that Faith, having, like manhimself, a body and a spirit--an historical expression and an innerverity--speaks now by one, now by another. This man believes because hesees--accepts the Incarnation or the Church from its credentials; thatman, perceiving that these things are spiritual facts, yields himselfwholly to the message and authority of her who alone professes them, aswell as to the manifestation of them upon the historical plane; and inthe darkness leans upon her arm. Or, best of all, because he hasbelieved, now he sees.

  So he looked with a kind of interested indolence at other tracts of hisnature.

  First, there was his intellect, puzzled beyond description, demanding,Why, why, why? Why was it allowed? How was it conceivable that God didnot intervene, and that the Father of men could permit His dear world tobe so ranged against Him? What did He mean to do? Was this eternalsilence never to be broken? It was very well for those that had theFaith, but what of the countless millions who were settling down incontented blasphemy? Were these not, too, His children and the sheep ofHis pasture? What was the Catholic Church made for if not to convert theworld, and why then had Almighty God allowed it, on the one side, todwindle to a handful, and, on the other, the world to find its peaceapart from Him?

  He considered his emotions, but there was no comfort there, no stimulus.Oh! yes; he could pray still, by mere cold acts of the will, and histheology told him that God accepted such. He could say "_Adveniat regnumtuum. ... Fiat voluntas tua_," five thousand times a day, if God wantedthat; but there was no sting or touch, no sense of vibration through thecords that his will threw up to the Heavenly Throne. What in the worldthen did God want him to do? Was it just then to repeat formulas, to liestill, to open despatches, to listen through the telephone, and tosuffer?

  And then the rest of the world--the madness that had seized upon thenations; the amazing stories that had poured in that day of the men inParis, who, raving like Bacchantes, had stripped themselves naked in thePlace de Concorde, and stabbed themselves to the heart, crying out tothunders of applause that life was too enthralling to be endured; of thewoman who sang herself mad last night in Spain, and fell laughing andfoaming in the concert hall at Seville; of the crucifixion of theCatholics that morning in the Pyrenees, and the apostasy of threebishops in Germany.... And this ... and this ... and a thousand morehorrors were permitted, and God made no sign and spoke no word....

  There was a tap, and Percy sprang up as the Cardinal came in.

  He looked horribly worn; and his eyes had a kind of sunken brilliancethat revealed fever. He made a little motion to Percy to sit down, andhimself sat in the deep chair, trembling a little, and gathering hisbuckled feet beneath his red-buttoned cassock.

  "You must forgive me, father," he said. "I am anxious for the Bishop'ssafety. He should be here by now."

  This was the Bishop of Southwark, Percy remembered, who had left Englandearly that morning.

  "He is coming straight through, your Eminence?"

  "Yes; he should have been here by twenty-three. It is after midnight, isit not?"

  As he spoke, the bells chimed out the half-hour.

  It was nearly quiet now. All day the air had been full of sound; mobshad paraded the suburbs; the gates of the City had be
en barred, yet thatwas only an earnest of what was to be expected when the world understooditself.

  The Cardinal seemed to recover himself after a few minutes' silence.

  "You look tired out, father," he said kindly.

  Percy smiled.

  "And your Eminence?" he said.

  The old man smiled too.

  "Why, yes," he said. "I shall not last much longer, father. And then itwill be you to suffer."

  Percy sat up, suddenly, sick at heart.

  "Why, yes," said the Cardinal. "The Holy Father has arranged it. You areto succeed me, you know. It need be no secret."

  Percy drew a long trembling breath.

  "Eminence," he began piteously.

  The other lifted a thin old hand.

  "I understand all that," he said softly. "You wish to die, is it notso?--and be at peace. There are many who wish that. But we must sufferfirst. _Et pati et mori_. Father Franklin, there must be no faltering."

  There was a long silence.

  The news was too stunning to convey anything to the priest but a senseof horrible shock. The thought had simply never entered his mind thathe, a man under forty, should be considered eligible to succeed thiswise, patient old prelate. As for the honour--Percy was past that now,even had he thought of it. There was but one view before him--of a longand intolerable journey, on a road that went uphill, to be traversedwith a burden on his shoulders that he could not support.

  Yet he recognised its inevitability. The fact was announced to him asindisputable; it was to be; there was nothing to be said. But it was asif one more gulf had opened, and he stared into it with a dull, sickhorror, incapable of expression.

  The Cardinal first broke the silence.

  "Father Franklin," he said, "I have seen to-day a picture ofFelsenburgh. Do you know whom I at first took it for?"

  Percy smiled listlessly.

  "Yes, father, I took it for you. Now, what do you make of that?"

  "I don't understand, Eminence."

  "Why---" He broke off, suddenly changing the subject.

  "There was a murder in the City to-day," he said. "A Catholic stabbed ablasphemer."

  Percy glanced at him again.

  "Oh! yes; he has not attempted to escape," went on the old man. "He isin gaol."

  "And---"

  "He will be executed. The trial will begin to-morrow.... It is sadenough. It is the first murder for eight months."

  The irony of the position was evident enough to Percy as he satlistening to the deepening silence outside in the starlit night. Herewas this poor city pretending that nothing was the matter, quietlyadministering its derided justice; and there, outside, were the forcesgathering that would put an end to all. His enthusiasm seemed dead.There was no thrill from the thought of the splendid disregard ofmaterial facts of which this was one tiny instance, none of despairingcourage or drunken recklessness. He felt like one who watches a flywashing his face on the cylinder of an engine--the huge steel slidesalong bearing the tiny life towards enormous death--another moment andit will be over; and yet the watcher cannot interfere. The supernaturalthus lay, perfect and alive, but immeasurably tiny; the huge forces werein motion, the world was heaving up, and Percy could do nothing butstare and frown. Yet, as has been said, there was no shadow on hisfaith; the fly he knew was greater than the engine from the superiorityof its order of life; if it were crushed, life would not be the finalsufferer; so much he knew, but how it was so, he did not know.

  As the two sat there, again came a step and a tap; and a servant's facelooked in.

  "His Lordship is come, Eminence," he said.

  The Cardinal rose painfully, supporting himself by the table. Then hepaused, seeming to remember something, and fumbled in his pocket.

  "See that, father," he said, and pushed a small silver disc towards thepriest. "No; when I am gone."

  Percy closed the door and came back, taking up the little round object.

  It was a coin, fresh from the mint. On one side was the familiar wreathwith the word "fivepence" in the midst, with its Esperanto equivalentbeneath, and on the other the profile of a man, with an inscription.Percy turned it to read:

  "JULIAN FELSENBURGH, LA PREZIDANTE DE UROPO."