The Dawn of All

by Robert Hugh Benson

  (VI)

  On looking back afterwards on the whole experience, that whichstood out as most shocking in it all, to the priest's mind, wasthe abominable speed with which the tragedy was accomplished. Itwas merciful, perhaps, that it was so, for even the half-hour orso which elapsed before the priest had any more news draggeditself to an intolerable length.

  He walked up and down the little furnished room--some kind ofparlour, he understood, attached to a government building seizedby the revolutionaries, guarded, he knew, by a couple of men inthe passage, whose voices he occasionally heard--in a sort ofdull agony, far more torturing than positive objective fear.

  He tried to comfort himself by retelling to himself the story ofthe last few days; reminding himself how, after the firstoutburst, when the police had been shot down by these new weaponsof which he understood nothing, and the palace had been taken,and the city reduced to a state of defenceless terror--therevolutionaries had sternly repressed the second attemptedmassacre in a manner not unworthy of real civilization.

  A great deal of the whole story was unintelligible to him. Hejust knew the outlines. First, it was obvious that therevolution had been planned in all its details months before.There had been, soon after the Emperor's conversion, a greataccess of other converts, accompanied by a dispersal to othercountries, notably America, of innumerable people of the lowerclasses who were known as Socialists. All this was looked uponby the authorities as natural, and as actually reassuring. Therehad been a few protests against the new proposals with regard tolegislation; but not enough to rouse any suspicion that violencewould be attempted. Finally, when the organized emigration wasbeginning, and even the most pessimistic politicians werebeginning to regard the situation as saved, without theslightest warning the blow had been struck, obviously by thedirections of an international council whose very existence hadnot been suspected.

  As to the details of the revolution itself he was even morevague, for the understanding of it depended on an acquaintancewith the internal arrangements of Berlin, by which a kind ofinterior citadel, not outwardly fortified in any way, yet held inits compass all those immense "power-stations" by which, in thepresent day, every town was defended. (He did not know exactlywhat these "power-stations" were, beyond the fact that they werethe lineal successors of the old gun-forts, and controlled animmense number of mines both within the city and without it, aswell as some kind of "electric ray," which was the modernsubstitute for cannon.) Well, it was this "citadel," includingthe Emperor's palace, that had been suddenly seized by therevolutionaries, obviously by the aid of treachery. And the thingwas done. It was impossible for the other Powers, or even for theGerman air-navy itself, to wipe the whole place out of existence,since it was known that the Emperor himself was in the hands ofthe rebels. (It was a bald story, as he had heard it; yet hereflected that great _coups_ usually were extremely andunexpectedly simple.)

  Finally, there were the terms demanded--terms which the Powerswere unanimous in rejecting, since they included the formaldisestablishment of the Church throughout Europe and thecomplete liberty of the Press, with guarantees that these shouldcontinue. The alternative to the acceptance of these terms wasthe execution of the Emperor and formal war declared uponEurope--a war which, of course, could have but one ending, butwhich, until that end came, would mean, under the new conditionsof warfare, an almost unimaginable destruction of life andproperty, especially since (as was known) the Socialistsrepudiated all the international laws of warfare. The defiancewas, of course, a ridiculous and a desperate one, but it was thedefiance of a savage child who held all modern resources in hishands and knew how to use them. There was also possible, as somesaid, a rising all over the civilized world, should the movementmeet with success.

  So much, in brief, was what Monsignor Masterman knew. So much,indeed, was now public property all the world over, and it wasnot reassuring.

  Certainly he feared death for himself; yet, as he paced up anddown, he could honestly and sincerely tell himself that this wasnot foremost in his mind. Rather it was a sense of bewilderedshock and horror that such things could have broken in upon thatorderly, disciplined world with which he had become familiar. Itwas this horror that hung over him--its impression deepened bythe bleak April morning, the nervous strain under which hesuffered, the brusque discourtesy of the men who had receivedhim, and the knowledge that scarcely thirty-six hours before anenvoy who had come alone and peaceably had been done to death inthis silent city. And the horror also centred for him now, as ina symbol, in the old Cardinal whom he was learning to love.

  He framed, as men do when the imagination is stimulated to thehighest pitch, a dozen possible events--each seen by himmentally, clear, in a picture. He constructed for himself theCardinal's return with news of a compromise, with an announcementat least of delay. (He knew a few of the proposals that were tobe made by sanction of the Pope.) Or he saw him coming back,anxious and perturbed, with nothing decided. Or he imaginedhimself being sent for in haste. . . . And there were otherpictures, more terrible; and against these he strove with all hiswill, telling himself that it was inconceivable that such thingsshould be. Yet not one of his imaginings was as terrible as theevent itself. . . .

  It came swift and sudden, without the faintest sign or premonition.

  As he turned in his endless pacings, down at the farther end ofthe room, his ears for the instant filled with the clatter ofsome cart outside the open, barred windows, a figure came swiftlyinto the room, without the sound of a footstep to warn him.Behind he could make out two faces waiting. . . .

  It was the Cardinal who stood there, upright and serene as ever,with a look in his eyes that silenced the priest. He lifted hishand on which shone his great amethyst, and at the motion,scarcely knowing what he did, the priest was on his knees.

  "_Benedictio Dei omnipotentis Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,descendat super te, et maneat semper._"

  That was all; not a word more.

  And as the priest sprang up with a choking cry, the slenderfigure was gone, and the door shut and locked.

  CHAPTER III