The Dawn of All

by Robert Hugh Benson

  (III)

  Monsignor Masterman lifted his eyes as the door closed, and sawthe young monk standing before him, beside the little table.

  He had sat down again in the gallery while the abbot was gone,watching mechanically the ushers come into the court and removethe recording-boxes one by one; and meantime in his soul hewatched also, rather than tried to arrange, the thoughts thatfled past in ceaseless repetition. He could plan nothing,formulate nothing. He just perceived, as a man himself sentencedto death might perceive, that the Supreme Horror was a reality atlast. The very ordinariness of the scene he had witnessed, thefamiliarity of some of the faces (he had sat next at dinner, nota week ago, the brown-faced Canon-Theologian), the conversationalmanner of the speakers, the complete absence of any dramaticsolemnity--these things increased the terror and repugnance hefelt. Were the preliminaries of Death for Heresy so simple as allthat? Was the point of view that made it possible so utterlyaccepted by everyone as to allow the actual consummation to comeabout so quietly? . . .

  The thing seemed impossible and dreamlike. He strove to holdhimself quiet till he could understand. . . . But at the sightof the young monk, paled and tired-looking, yet perfectlyserene, his self-control broke down. A spasm shook his face; hestretched out his hands blindly and helplessly, and some soundbroke from his mouth.

  He felt himself taken by the arm and led forward. Then he slippedinto a chair, and dropped his face in his hands upon the table.

  It was a few moments before he recovered and looked up.

  "There, there, Monsignor," said the monk. ". . . I didn't expectthis. There's nothing to----"

  "But . . . but----"

  "It's a shock to you, I see. . . . It's very kind. . . . But Iknew it all along. Surely you must have known----"

  "I never dreamt of it. I never thought it conceivable. It'sabominable; it's----"

  "Monsignor, this isn't kind to me," rang out the young voicesternly; and the elder man recovered himself sharply. "Please talkto me quietly. Father Abbot tells me you will see the Cardinal."

  "I'll do anything--anything in my power. Tell me what I can do."

  He had recovered himself, as under a douche of water, at thesharpness of the monk's tone just now. He felt but one thing atthis instant, that he would strain every force he had to hinderthis crime. He remained motionless, conscious of that sensationof intense tightness of nerve and sinew in which an overpressedmind expresses itself.

  The monk sat down, on the farther side of the table.

  "That's better, Monsignor," he said, smiling. . . . "Well, there'sreally not much to do. Insanity seems the only possible plea."

  He smiled again, brilliantly.

  "Tell me the whole thing," said the prelate suddenly andhoarsely. "Just the outline. I don't understand; and I can donothing unless I do."

  "You haven't followed the case?"

  Monsignor shook his head. The monk considered again.

  "Well," he said. "This is the outline; I'll leave out technicaldetails. I have written a book (which will never see the lightnow) and I sent an abstract of it to Rome, giving my main thesis.It's on the miraculous element in Religion. I'm a Doctor inPhysical Science, you know, as well as in Theology. Now there's acertain class of cure (I won't bother you with details, but acertain class of cure) that has always been claimed bytheologians as evidently supernatural. And I'll acknowledge atonce that one or two of the decrees of the Council of 1960certainly seem to support them. But my thesis is, first, thatthese cures are perfectly explicable by natural means, andsecondly, that therefore these decrees must be interpreted in asense not usually received by theologians, and that they do notcover the cases in dispute. I'm not a wilful heretic, and Iaccept absolutely therefore that these decrees, as emanating froman ecumenical council, are infallibly true. But I repudiateentirely--since I am forced to do so by scientific fact (or, wewill say, by what I am persuaded is scientific fact)--the usualtheological interpretation of the wording of the decrees. Well,my judges take the other view. They tell me that I am wrong inmy second point, and therefore wrong also in my first. They tellme that the decrees do categorically cover the class of cure Ihave dealt with; that such cures have been pronounced by theChurch therefore to be evidently supernatural; and that thereforeI am heretical in both my points. On my side, I refuse to submit,maintaining that I am differing, not from the Catholic Church asshe really is, (which would be heretical), but from the CatholicChurch as interpreted by these theologians. I know it's rash ofme to set myself against a practically universal and receivedinterpretation; but I feel myself bound in conscience to do so.Very well; that is the point we have now reached. I could notdream of separating myself from Catholic Unity, and thereforethat way of escape is barred. There was nothing for it, then, butfor my judges to pronounce sentence; and that they did, tenminutes before you came in. (I saw you come in, Monsignor.) I amsentenced, that is to say, as an obstinate heretic--as refusingto submit to the plain meaning of an ecumenical decree. Thereremains Rome. The whole trial must go there _verbatim_. Threethings may happen. Either I am summoned to explain any statementsthat may seem obscure. (That certainly will not happen. I havebeen absolutely open and clear.) Or the sentence may be quashedor modified. And that I do not think will happen, since I have,as I know, all the theologians against me."

  There was a pause.

  The prelate heard the words, and indeed followed their sense withhis intellect; but it appeared to him as if this concise analysishad no more vital connection with the real facts than a doctor'sdiagnosis with the misery of a mourner. He did not want analysis;he wanted reassurance. Then he braced himself up to meet theunfinished sentence. "Or----" he murmured.

  "Or the sentence will be ratified," said the monk quietly. Andagain there was silence. It was the monk again who broke it."Where Father Abbot seems to think you can help me perhaps,Monsignor, is in persuading the Cardinal to write to Rome. I donot quite know what he can do for me; but I suppose the idea isthat he may succeed in urging that the point is a disputed one,and that the case had better wait for further scientific as wellas theological investigation."

  Monsignor flung out his hands suddenly. The strain had reachedbreaking-point.

  "What's the good!" he cried. "It's the system--the whole systemthat's so hateful . . . hateful and impossible."

  "What?"

  "It's the system," he cried again. "From beginning to end it'sthe system that's wrong. I hate it more every day. It's brutal,utterly brutal and unchristian." He stared miserably at theyoung monk, astonished at the cold look in his eyes.

  The monk looked at him questioningly--without a touch ofanswering sympathy, it seemed--merely with an academic interest.

  "I don't understand, Monsignor. What is it that you----"

  "You don't understand! You tell me you don't understand! You whoare suffering under it! Why----"

  "You think I'm being unjustly treated? Is that it? Of course Itoo don't think that----"

  "No, no, no," cried the elder man. "It's not you in particular. Idon't know about that--I don't understand. But it's that anyliving being can live under such tyranny--such oppression of freethought and judgment! What becomes of science and discovery undera system like this? What becomes of freedom--of the right tothink for oneself? Why----"

  The young monk leaned a little over the table.

  "Monsignor, you don't know what you are saying. Tell me quietlywhat it is that's troubling you. Quietly, if you please. I can'tbear much more strain."

  The man who had lost his memory mastered himself with an effort.His horror had surged up just now and overwhelmed him altogether,but the extraordinary quiet of the other man and his apparentlyfrank inability to understand what was the matter brought himdown again to reality. Subconsciously, too, he perceived that itwould be a relief to himself to put his developing feeling intowords to another.

  "You wish me to say? Very well---"

  He hesitated again for words.

  "You are sure you'd better? I know you've be
en ill. Idon't want to---"

  Monsignor waved it away with a little gesture.

  "That's all right," he said. "I'm not ill now. I wish to God I were!"

  "Quietly, please," said the young man.

  He swallowed in his throat and rearranged himself in his chair.He felt himself alone and abandoned, even where he had beencertain of an emotional sympathy.

  "I know I'm clean against public opinion in what I think. I'velearnt that at last. I thought at first that it was the otherway, as . . . as I think it must have been a hundred years ago.But I see now that all the world is against me--all exceptperhaps the people who are called infidels."

  "You mean the Socialists?"

  "Yes, I suppose so. Well, it seems to me that the Church is . . ."(he hesitated, to pick his words) "is assuming an impossibleattitude. Take your own case; though that's only one: it's thesame everywhere. There are the sumptuary and domestic laws;there's the 'repression,' as they call it, of the Socialists. Buttake your own case. You are perfectly satisfied that yourconclusions are scientific, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "You're a Christian and a Catholic. And yet, because theseconclusions of yours are condemned--not answered, mind you, orrefuted by other scientists--but just condemned--condemned byecclesiastics as contrary to what they assume to betrue--you . . . you care----"

  He broke off, struggling again with fierce emotion. He felt ahand on his arm.

  "Monsignor, you're too excited. May I ask you somequestions instead?"

  Monsignor nodded.

  "Well, don't take my case only. Take the system, as you said justnow. I really want to know.... You think that the Socialistsought not to be repressed--that every man ought to be free toutter his opinions, whatever they may be. Is that it?"

  "Yes."

  "However revolutionary they may be?"

  Monsignor hesitated. He had considered this point before. He felthis answer was not wholly satisfactory. But the monk went on.

  "Suppose these opinions were subversive of all law and order.Suppose there were men who preached murder andadultery--doctrines that meant the destruction of society. Wouldyou allow these, too, to publish their opinions broadcast?"

  "Of course, you must draw the line somewhere," beganMonsignor. "Of course----"

  "Where?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You said that we must draw the line somewhere. I ask you where?"

  "Well, that, of course, must be a matter of degree."

  "Surely it must be one of principle. . . . Can't you give me anyprinciple you would allow?"

  The passion of just now seemed wholly gone. Monsignor had anuncomfortable sense that he had behaved like a child andthat this young monk was on firmer ground than himself. Butagain he hesitated.

  "Well, would you accept this principle?" asked Dom Adrian. "Wouldyou say that every society has a right to suppress opinions whichare directly subversive of the actual foundations on which itselfstands? Let me give an instance. Suppose you had a country thatwas a republic, but that allowed that other forms of governmentmight be equally good. (Suppose, for instance, that while allacquiesced more or less in the republic, yet that many of thecitizens personally preferred a monarchy.) Well, I suppose youwould say it was tyranny for the republic to punish themonarchists with death?"

  "Certainly."

  "So should I. But if a few of the citizens repudiated all forms ofgovernment and preached Anarchy, well, I suppose you would allowthat the government would have a perfect right to silence them?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Of course," said Dom Adrian quietly. "It was what you allowedjust now. Society may, and must, protect itself."

  "What's that got to do with it? These Socialists are notAnarchists. You're not an atheist. And even if you were, whatright would the Church have to put you to death?"

  "Oh! that's what you're thinking, is it, Monsignor? But really,you know, Society must protect itself. The Church can't interferethere. For it isn't for a moment the Church that punishes withdeath. On the contrary, the Catholic authorities are practicallyunanimous against it."

  Monsignor made an impatient movement.

  "I don't understand in the least," he said. "It seems to me----"

  "Well, shall I give you my answer?"

  Monsignor nodded.

  The monk drew a breath and leaned back once more.

  To the elder man the situation seemed even more unreal andimpossible than at the beginning. He had come, full of fierce andemotional sympathy, to tell a condemned man how wholly his heartwas on his side, to repudiate with all his power the abominablesystem that had made such things possible. And now, in fiveminutes, the scene had become one of almost scholasticdisputation; and the heretic, it seemed--the condemnedheretic--was defending the system that condemned him to a man whorepresented it as an official! He waited, almost resentfully.

  "Monsignor," said the young man, "forgive me for saying so; butit seems to me you haven't thought this thing out--that you'resimply carried away by feeling. No doubt it's your illness. . . .Well, let me put it as well as I can. . . ."

  He paused again, compressing his lips. He was pale, and evidentlyholding himself hard in hand; but his eyes were bright andintelligent. Then he abruptly began again.

  "What's wrong with you, Monsignor," he said, "is that you don'trealize--again, no doubt, owing to your loss of memory--that youdon't realize that the only foundation of society at the presentday is Catholicism. You see we _know_ now that Catholicism istrue. It has reasserted itself finally. Every other scheme hasbeen tried and has failed; and Catholicism, though it has neverdied, has once more been universally accepted. Even heathencountries accept it _de facto_ as the scheme on which the life ofthe human race is built. Very well, then, the man who strikes atCatholicism strikes at society. If he had his way society wouldcrumble down again. Then what can Catholic society do exceptdefend itself, even by the death penalty? Remember, the Churchdoes not kill. It never has; it never will. It is society thatputs to death. And it is certainly true to say that theologians,as a whole, would undoubtedly abolish the death penalty to-morrowif they could. It's an open secret that the Holy Father would doaway with it to-morrow if he could."

  "Then why doesn't he? Isn't he supreme?" snapped the other bitterly.

  "Indeed not. Countries rule themselves. He only has a veto if anactually unchristian law is passed. And this is not actuallyunchristian. It's based on universal principles."

  "But----"

  "Wait an instant. . . . Yes, the Church sanctions it in onesense. So did the Church approve of the death penalty in the caseof murder--another sin against society. Well, Christian society ahundred years ago inflicted death for the murder of the body;Christian society to-day inflicts death for a far greater crimeagainst herself--that is, murderous attacks against her ownlife-principle."

  "Then the old Protestants were right after all," burst inMonsignor indignantly; "they said that Rome would persecuteagain if she could."

  "If she could?" said the monk questioningly.

  "If she was strong enough."

  "No, no, no!" cried the other, beating his hand on the table ingentle impatience; "it would be hopelessly immoral for the Churchto persecute simply because she was strong enough--simply becauseshe had a majority. She never persecutes for mere opinions. Shehas never claimed her right to use force. But, as soon as acountry is convincedly Catholic--as soon, that is to say, as hercivilization rests upon Catholicism _and nothing else_, thatcountry has a perfect right to protect herself by the deathpenalty against those who menace her very existence as a civilizedcommunity. And that is what heretics do; and that is whatSocialists do. Whether the authorities are right or wrong in anygiven instance is quite another question. Innocent men have beenhanged. Orthodox Catholics have suffered unjustly. Personally Ibelieve that I myself am innocent; but I am quite clear that _if Iam a heretic_" (he leaned forward again and spoke slowly), "_if Iam a heretic_, I must be put to death by society."

  Monsig
nor was dumb with sheer amazement, and a consciousness thathe had been baffled. He felt he had been intellectually tricked;and he felt it an additional outrage that he had been tricked bythis young monk with whom he had come to sympathize.

  "But the death penalty!" he cried. "Death! that is the horror. Iunderstand a spiritual penalty for a spiritual crime--but aphysical one. . . ."

  Dom Adrian smiled a little wearily.

  "My dear Monsignor," he said, "I thought I had explained that itwas for a crime against society. I am not put to death for myopinions; but because, holding those opinions, which aredeclared heretical, and refusing to submit to an authoritativedecision, I am an enemy of the _civil state_ which is upheldsolely by the sanctions of Catholicism. Remember it is _not_ theChurch that puts me to death. That is not her affair. She is aspiritual society."

  "But death! death, anyhow!"

  The man's face grew grave and tender.

  "Is that so dreadful," he said, "to a convinced Catholic?"

  Monsignor rose to his feet. It seemed to him that his whole moralsense was in danger. He made his last appeal.

  "But Christ!" he cried; "Jesus Christ! Can you conceive thatgentle Lord of ours tolerating all this for one instant! I cannotanswer you now; though I am convinced there is an answer. But isit conceivable that He who said, 'Resist not evil,' that He whoHimself was dumb before his murderers----"

  Dom Adrian rose too. An extraordinary intensity came into hiseyes, and his face grew paler still. He began in a low voice, butas he ended his voice rang aloud in the little room.

  "It is you who are dishonouring our Lord," he said. "Certainly Hesuffered, as we Catholics too can suffer, as you shall see oneday--as you have seen a thousand times already, if you knowanything of the past. But is that all that He is? . . . Is Hejust the Prince of Martyrs, the supreme Pain-bearer, the silentLamb of God? Have you never heard of the wrath of the Lamb? ofthe eyes that are as a flame of fire? of the rod of iron withwhich He breaks in pieces the kings of the earth? . . . TheChrist you appeal to is nothing. It is but the failure of a Manwith the Divinity left out . . . the Prince of sentimentalists,and of that evil old religion that once dared to call itselfChristianity. But the Christ we worship is more than that--theEternal Word of God, the Rider on the White Horse, conquering andto conquer.... Monsignor, you forget of what Church you are apriest! It is the Church of Him who refused the kingdoms of thisworld from Satan, that He might win them for Him self. He hasdone so! _Christ reigns!_ . . . Monsignor, that is what you haveforgotten! Christ is no longer an opinion or a theory. He is aFact. _Christ reigns!_ He actually rules this world. And theworld knows it."

  He paused for one second, shaking with his own passion. Then heflung out his hands.

  "Wake up, Monsignor! Wake up! You are dreaming. Christ is theKing of men again, now--not of just religiously minded devots. Herules, because He has a right to rule. . . . And the civil powerstands for Him in secular matters, and the Church in spiritual. Iam to be put to death! Well, I protest that I am innocent, butnot that the crime charged against me does not deserve death. Iprotest, but I do not resent it. Do you think I fear death? . .Is that not in His hands too? . . . Christ reigns, and we allknow it. And you must know it too!"

  All sensation seemed to have ebbed from the man wholistened. . . . He was conscious of a white ecstatic face withburning eyes looking at him. He could no longer actively resistor rebel. It was only by the utmost effort that he could stillkeep from yielding altogether. Some great pressure seemed toenfold and encircle him, threatening his very existence as anindividual. So tremendous was the force with which the words werespoken, that for an instant it seemed as if he saw in mentalvision that which they described--a Supreme Dominant Figure,wounded indeed, yet overmastering and compelling in Hisstrength--no longer the Christ of gentleness and meekness, but aChrist who had taken His power at last and reigned, a Lamb thatwas a Lion, a Servant that was Lord of all; One that pleaded nolonger, but commanded. . . .

  And yet he clung still desperately and blindly to his old ideal.He pushed off from him this dominating Presence; his whole selfand individuality would not yield to Him who demanded thesacrifice of both. He saw this Christ at last, and by a flash ofintuition perceived that this was the key to this changed worldhe found so incomprehensible; and yet he would not have it--hewould not have this Man to rule over him. . . .

  He made one last effort; the vision passed and he stood up,feeling once more sensation come back, understanding that he hadsaved himself from an extinction more utter than that of death.

  "Well," he said quietly--so quietly that he almost deceivedhimself too,--"well, I will remember what you say, Dom Adrian,and I will do what I can with the Cardinal."

  CHAPTER IV