The Dawn of All

by Robert Hugh Benson

  (I)

  "So you go back to England to-morrow?" said Father Adrian, asthey sat a night or two later in the guest-room of the FrenchBenedictines, where the monk was staying.

  "We start to-morrow night," said the old priest. "Monsignor isinfinitely better, and we must both get back to work. And you?"

  "I stay here to finish the revising of my book," said the monk quietly.

  * * * * *

  The man who had lost his memory had piled impression onimpression during the last forty-eight hours. There was first thecase of the German girl. She had been examined by the samedoctors as those who had certified to her state half an hourbefore the cure, and the result had been telegraphed over theentire civilized world. The fracture was completely repaired; andalthough she was still weak from her long illness, she gainedstrength every hour. Then there was the case of the Russian. Hetoo had received back his sight, although not instantaneously; ithad come to him step by step. An hour ago he had been pronouncedhealed, and had passed the usual tests in the examination-rooms.But these cases, and others like them which the priests hadinvestigated, were only a part of the total weight of impressionswhich Monsignor Masterman had received. He had seen here forhimself a relation between Science and Faith--a co-operationbetween them, with the exigencies of each duly weighed andobserved by them both--which set Nature and Supernature beforehim in a completely new light. As Mr. Manners had said atWestminster a week or two before, the two seemed to have met atlast, each working from different quarters, on a platform onwhich they could work side by side. The facts were no longerdenied by either party. Science allowed for the mysteries ofFaith; Faith recognized the achievements of Science. Each grantedthat the other possessed a perfectly legitimate sphere of actionin which the methods proper to that sphere were imperative andfinal. The scientist accepted the fact that Religion had a rightto speak in matters that lay beyond scientific data; thetheologian no longer denounced as fraudulent or disingenuous theclaims of the scientist to exercise powers that were at lastfound to be natural. Neither needed to establish his own positionby attacking that of his partner, and the two accordingly,without prejudice or passion, worked together to define yetfurther that ever-narrowing range of ground between the twoworlds which up to the present remained unmapped. Suggestion, forexample, acting upon the mutual relations of body and mind, wasrecognized by the theologian as a force sufficient to producephenomena which in earlier days he had claimed as evidentlysupernatural. And, on the other side, the scientist no longermade wild acts of faith in nature, in attributing to herachievements which he could not for an instant parallel by anydeliberate experiment. In a word, the scientist repeated, "Ibelieve in God "; and the theologian, "I recognize Nature."

  Monsignor sat apart in silence, while the others talked.

  He had thought in Rome that he had reached interior conviction;he understood now in Lourdes that his conviction had not gone sodeep as he had fancied. He had learned in Versailles that theChurch could reorganize society, in Rome that she could reconcilenations; he had seen finally in Lourdes that she couldresolve philosophies.

  And this very discovery made him the more timid. For he began towonder whether there were not yet further discoveries which hewould have to make--workings out and illustrations of theprinciples he had begun to perceive. How, for example, he beganto ask himself, would the Church deal with those who did notrecognize her claims--those solitary individuals or groups hereand there who, he knew, still clung pathetically to the olddreams of the beginning of the century--to the phantom ofindependent thought and the intoxicating nightmare of democraticgovernment? It was certain now that these things weredreams--that it was ludicrously absurd to imagine that a mancould profitably detach himself from Revelation and the stream oftradition and development that flowed from it; that it wasridiculous to turn creation upside-down and to attempt to governthe educated few by the uneducated many. Yet people didoccasionally hold impossible and absurd theories. . . . How,then, would these be treated by the Church when once her powerhad been finally consolidated? How was she to reconcile thegentleness of the Christian spirit with the dogmatism of theChristian claim? . . . He recalled one or two hints that FatherJervis had let drop, and he was conscious of a touch of fear.

  He woke up to externals again at the sound of a sentence ortwo from the monk.

  "I beg your pardon," he said. "What was that?"

  "I was saying that the news from Germany is disquieting."

  "Why?"

  "Oh! nothing definite. They expect trouble. They say that theEmperor is extraordinarily interested in this girl's case, andthat the Socialists of Berlin are watching him. Berlin is theirlast stronghold, you know."

  "By the way," interrupted Father Jervis suddenly, "I've enquiredabout that man with the curious name--Zola. I find he had quite avogue at one time. And now I come to think of it, I believeManners mentioned him."

  "Zola?" mused the monk. "Yes, I'm nearly sure I've heard of him.Wasn't he an Elizabethan?"

  "No, no. He died at the end of the last century. I find he didwrite a little romance about Lourdes. There was even a copy inthe library here. I hadn't time to look at it; but M. Meurot toldme it was one of those odd little attacks on religion that werepopular once. That's all I could find out."

  Monsignor compressed his lips. Somewhere out of his abysmalmemory there lurked a consciousness that Zola had once been ofsome importance; but he could add nothing to the discussion.

  Dom Adrian stood up and stretched himself.

  "It's time for bed," he said. "Look" (he nodded towards thewindow), "the devotions are just ending."

  From out of the luminous gulf beneath, beyond the tiers of roofsthat lay, step-like, between this hostel and the river, rose upthat undying song of Lourdes--that strange, haunting old melody ofthe story of Bernadette, that for a hundred and fifty years hadbeen sung in this place--a ballad-like song, without grace ofmusic or art, which yet has so wonderful an affinity with the oldcarols of Christendom, which yet is so unforgettable and soaffecting. As the three stood side by side looking out of thewindow they saw the serpent of fire, that rope-coil of tapersthat, stretching round the entire Place, humped over the flightsof steps and the platforms set amongst the churches, writhesincessantly on itself. But, even as they watched, the serpent grewdim and patchy, and the lights began to go out, as group aftergroup broke away homewards. They had wished their Mother goodnight, there in that great French town which has so wonderful anaroma of little Nazareth; they had sung their thanksgivings; theyhad offered their prayers. Now it was time to sleep under Herprotection, who was the Mother both of God and man. . . .

  "Well, good night," said Monsignor. "We shall meet in London."

  "I hope so," said the young monk gravely.

  "I am afraid that young man will be in trouble," said FatherJervis softly, as they came down the steps. "His book, you know."

  "Eh?"

  "Well, it's best not to talk of it. We shall soon know. He's asbrave as a lion."

  PART II

  CHAPTER I