The Dawn of All

by Robert Hugh Benson

  (III)

  There was only a very small group of people collected to see thesecond envoy leave for Berlin. The hour and place of starting hadbeen kept secret, on purpose to avoid a crowd; and beyond threeor four from the English College, with half a dozen privatefriends of the Cardinal, a few servants, and perhaps a dozenpassers-by who had collected below in curiosity at seeing aracing-volor attached to one of the disused flying stages on thehill behind the Vatican--no one else, in the crowds that swarmednow in the streets and squares of Rome, was even certain that anenvoy was going, still less of his identity.

  Monsignor found himself, ten minutes before the start,standing alone on the alighting-stage, while the Cardinalstill talked below.

  As he stood there, now looking out over the city, where beneaththe still luminous sky the lights were already beginning tokindle, and where in one or two of the larger squares he couldmake out the great crowds moving to and fro--now staring at thelong and polished sides of the racing boat that swayed light as aflower with the buoyancy of the inrushing gas--as he saw allthese things with his outward eyes, he was trying to understandsomething of the new impulses and thoughts that surged throughhim. He could have given little or no account of the reasons whyhe was here; of his hopes or fears or expectations. He was as onewho watches on a sheet shadow-figures whirl past confusedly,catching a glimpse here of a face or body, now of a fragmentarymovement, that appeared to have some meaning--yet grasping nothingof the intention or plan of the whole. Or, even better, he was asone caught in a mill-race, tossed along and battered, yet feelingnothing acutely, curious indeed as to what the end would be, andwhy it had had a beginning, yet fundamentally unconcerned. Thething was so: there was no more to be said. He knew that it wasnecessary that he should be here, about to start for almostcertain death, as that his soul should be inhabiting his body.

  But even all these recent happenings had not as yet illuminatedhim in the slightest as to the real character of the world thathe found so bewildering. He felt, vaguely, that he ought to haveby now all the pieces of the puzzle, but he was still as far asever from being able to fit them into a coherent whole. He justperceived this--and no more--that the extraordinary tranquillityof these Catholics in the presence of death was a realcontribution to the problem--as much as the dull earthliness ofthe Socialist colony in America. It was not merely Dom Adrian inparticular who had been willing to die without perturbation orprotest; his judges and accusers seemed just as ready when theirturn came. And he--he who had cried out at Christian brutality,who had judged the world's system by his own and found itwanting--he feared death; although, so far his fear had notdeterred him from facing it.

  He took his place in the narrow cabin in the same mood, followingthe Cardinal in after the last good-byes had been said. It was atiny place, fitted with a single padded seat on either sidecovered with linen and provided with pillows; a narrow table ranup the centre; and strong narrow windows looked directly from thesides of the boat. A stern platform, railed in and provided withsliding glass shutters, gave room to take a few steps ofexercise; but the front of the boat was entirely occupied withthe driver's arrangements. It was a comparatively new type ofboat, he learned from some one with whom he had talked just now,used solely for racing purposes; and its speed was such that theywould find themselves in Berlin before morning.

  The stern door was swung to by one who leaned from the stage.Still through the glass the Cardinal smiled out at his friendsand waved his hand. Then a bell struck, a vibration ran throughthe boat, the stage outside lined with faces suddenly swayed andthen fell into space.

  The Cardinal laid his hand on the priest's knee.

  "Now let us have a talk," he said.