Dawn of All — Part 2, Chapter 3

(I)

It was not until the afternoon of the third day, as the trial of Dom Adrian Bennett drew to its close, that the man who had lost his memory could no longer resist the horrible fascination of the affair, and presented himself at the door of the court-room.

He had learned that morning that the end of the trial was in sight.

It was outside a block of buildings somewhere to the north of St. Paul's Cathedral that the car set him down.

He learned at the porter's lodge the number of the court, and then passed in, following his directions, through a quadrangle that was all alight with scarlet creepers, where three or four ecclesiastics saluted him, up a staircase or two, and found himself at last at a tall door bearing the number he wanted.

As he hesitated to knock, the door opened, and a janitor came out.

"Can I go in?"

asked the priest.

"I am from Archbishop's House."

"I can take you into the gallery at the back, Monsignor," said the man.

"The body of the court is full."

"That will do."

They went round a corner together and came to a door up three or four stairs.

The janitor unlocked this and threw it back.

Farther steps rose within the doorway, and Monsignor as he set foot on the first had a vivid impression that the court he was approaching was crowded with people.

There was no sound at first, but an atmosphere of intense and expectant force.

It was a little curtained gallery in which the priest found himself, not unlike a box at a theatre, looking out upon the court from the corner immediately adjacent to the wall against which the raised seats of the judges were placed.

He looked round the court, himself sitting a little back in a kind of shame, first identifying the actors in this dreadful drama.

He was glad that the gallery had no other occupant than himself.

First there were the judges--three men sitting beneath a canopied roof, beneath which, over their heads, hung a large black and white crucifix.

He knew them, all three.

There was the Dominican in the centre--one of that Order which has had charge of heresy-courts since the beginning--a large-faced, kindly featured, rosy man, with a crown of white hair, leaning back now with closed eyes, listening, and obviously alert; on his right, farther from the spectator, sat the Canon-Theologian of Westminster, a small, brown-faced man with black eyes, looking considerably younger than his years; and on this side the third judge, pale and bald and colourless--a priest who held the degree of Doctor in Physical Science as well as in Theology--he at this instant was drumming gently with a large white hand on the edge of his desk.

Beneath the judges' dais was the well of the court, very much, somehow, as Monsignor had expected (for this was his first experience in a Church court), with the clerks' table immediately beneath the desks, and half a dozen ecclesiastics ranged at it.

Some strange-looking instruments stood within reach of the presiding clerk, but he recognized these as the mechanical recorders, of which he had had some experience himself.

They were of the nature of phonographs, and by an exceedingly ingenious and yet very simple system could be made to repeat aloud any part of the speeches or answers that had been uttered in the course of the trial.

At either end of the clerks' table rose up a structure like a witness-box, slightly below the level of the judges' desks.

Opposite the desks was the lightly railed dock for the prisoner.

The rest of the court was seated for the public, and as the spectator saw, was completely filled, chiefly with ecclesiastics.

Even the gangways were thronged with standing figures.

And over all hung that air of intense expectancy and attention.

He glanced once more round the court, once more at the judges.

Then he allowed himself to look full at the prisoner, whom he had not seen since his departure from Lourdes.

Dom Adrian was just as he remembered him, perhaps a shade paler from the fierce attention of the last three days, but he had the same serene, confident air; his eyes were bright and luminous, and his voice (for he was speaking at this moment) perfectly natural and controlled.

It was hard at first to pick up the thread of what he was saying.

He had a sheet or two of paper before him, to which he referred as he spoke, and he seemed to be summing up, in a very allusive manner, some earlier speeches of his.

Technical terms made their appearance from time to time, and decrees were quoted by their initial Latin words--decrees which conveyed nothing to the listener in the gallery.

It was difficult too, at this distance, to understand the very swift Latin which he spoke in a conversational voice that was almost casual.

His whole air was of one who is interested, but not overwhelmingly concerned, in the subject under debate.

He ended at last, and bowed.

Obviously they were not at a very critical part of the trial, thought Monsignor.

He felt extraordinarily reassured.

He had expected more of a scene.

The Dominican opened his eyes and took up a pen.

He glanced at his companions, but they made no sign or movement.

"You have made it perfectly clear," he said.

"Nothing could be clearer.

I see" (he turned slightly to right and left, and his fellow-judges nodded gently in acquiescence)--"I see no reason to modify what I said just now, and the judgment of the court must stand.

Nothing can be clearer to my mind--and I must say that my assessors wholly concur, as you heard just now--nothing can be clearer than that you have contradicted in the most express terms the decrees in question, and that you have refused to modify or to withdraw any of the theses under dispute.

Further, you have refused to avail yourself of any of the releases which are perfectly open to you by law.

You declined all those openings which I indicated to you, and you appear determined to push the matter to extremes.

I must tell you then plainly that I see nothing for it but the forwarding of our opinions to Rome, and I cannot hold out to you the smallest prospect that you will meet with a different judgment from the highest court."

He paused a moment.

There was a profound silence in the court.

As Monsignor Masterman glanced round, unable to understand what it was that caused this sense of tremendous tension, he noticed a head or two in that array of faces drop suddenly as if in overwhelming emotion.

He looked at the prisoner; but there was no movement there.

The young monk had put his papers neatly together, and was standing, upright and motionless, with his hands clasped upon them.

The Dominican's voice went on abruptly: "Have you anything further to say before the court dissolves?"

"I should like to express my sense of the extreme fairness and considerateness of my judges," said the monk, "and to say again, as at the beginning, that I commit my cause unreservedly into the hands of God."

The three judges rose together; a door opened behind and they disappeared.

Instantly a buzz of tongues began and the sound of shifting feet.

As Monsignor glanced back again at the dock, amazed at the sudden change of scene, he saw the monk's head disappearing down the staircase that led below from the dock.

He still did not understand what had happened.

He still thought that it was some minor stage of the process that was finished, probably on some technical point.

(II)

He still sat there wondering, thinking that he would let the corridors clear a little before he went out again, and asking himself what it was that had caused that obvious sensation during the judge's last words.

To all outward appearance, nothing could be less critical than what he had seen and heard.

Plainly the trial was going against the prisoner, but there had been no decision, no sentence.

The inquisitors and the prisoner had talked together almost like friends discussing a not very vital matter.

And yet the sensation had been overwhelming.

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As he rose at last, still watching the emptying court, he heard a tap on the door, and before he could speak, the Abbot of Westminster rustled up the steps, in his habit and cross and gold chain.

His face looked ominously strained and pale.

"I .

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I saw you from the court, Monsignor.

For God's sake .

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sit down again an instant.

Let me speak with you."

Monsignor said nothing.

He could not even now understand.

"I must thank you for your kind offices, Monsignor.

I know you did what you could.

His Eminence sent for me after he had seen you.

And .

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and I must ask you to help us again .

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at Rome."

"Certainly--anything .

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But----" "I fear it's hopeless," went on the abbot, staring out into the empty court, where an usher was moving quickly about from table to table setting papers straight.

"But any chance that there is must be taken.

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Will you write for us, Monsignor?

or better still, urge the Cardinal?

There is no time to lose."

"I don't understand, my lord," said the prelate abruptly, suddenly convinced that more had happened than he knew.

"I was only here just at the end, and .

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what is it I can do?"

The abbot looked at him.

"That was the end," he said quietly.

"Did you not hear the sentence?"

Monsignor shook his head.

A kind of sickness seemed to rise from his heart and envelop him.

"I heard nothing," he said.

"I came in during Dom Adrian's last speech."

The abbot licked his dry lips; there was a wondering sort of apprehensiveness in his eyes.

"That was the last formality," he said.

"Sentence was given twenty minutes ago."

"And----" The abbot bowed his head, plucking nervously at his cross.

"It has to go to Rome to be ratified," he said hurriedly.

"There will be a week or two of delay.

Dom Adrian refused any release.

But .

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but he knows there is no hope."

Monsignor Masterman leaned back and drew a long breath.

He understood now.

But he perceived he must give no sign.

The abbot talked on rapidly; the other caught sentences and names here and there: he grasped that there was no real possibility of a reversal of the judgment, but that yet every effort must be made.

But it was only with one part of his mind, and that the most superficial, that he attended to all this.

Interiorly he was occupied wholly with facing the appalling horror that, with the last veil dropped at last, now looked him in the eyes.

He stood up at last, promising he would see the Cardinal that night; and then his resolve leapt to the birth.

"I should like to see Dom Adrian alone," he said quietly; "and I had better see him at once.

Can you arrange that?"

The abbot stopped at the door of the gallery.

"Yes," he said, "I think so.

Will you wait here, Monsignor?"

(III)

Monsignor Masterman lifted his eyes as the door closed, and saw the 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 remove the recording-boxes one by one; and meantime in his soul he watched also, rather than tried to arrange, the thoughts that fled past in ceaseless repetition.

He could plan nothing, formulate nothing.

He just perceived, as a man himself sentenced to death might perceive, that the Supreme Horror was a reality at last.

The very ordinariness of the scene he had witnessed, the familiarity of some of the faces (he had sat next at dinner, not a week ago, the brown-faced Canon-Theologian), the conversational manner of the speakers, the complete absence of any dramatic solemnity--these things increased the terror and repugnance he felt.

Were the preliminaries of Death for Heresy so simple as all that?

Was the point of view that made it possible so utterly accepted by everyone as to allow the actual consummation to come about so quietly?

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The thing seemed impossible and dreamlike.

He strove to hold himself quiet till he could understand.

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But at the sight of the young monk, paled and tired-looking, yet perfectly serene, his self-control broke down.

A spasm shook his face; he stretched out his hands blindly and helplessly, and some sound broke from his mouth.

He felt himself taken by the arm and led forward.

Then he slipped into 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.

".

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I didn't expect this.

There's nothing to----" "But .

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but----" "It's a shock to you, I see.

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It's very kind.

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But I knew it all along.

Surely you must have known----" "I never dreamt of it.

I never thought it conceivable.

It's abominable; it's----" "Monsignor, this isn't kind to me," rang out the young voice sternly; and the elder man recovered himself sharply.

"Please talk to 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 the sharpness of the monk's tone just now.

He felt but one thing at this instant, that he would strain every force he had to hinder this crime.

He remained motionless, conscious of that sensation of intense tightness of nerve and sinew in which an overpressed mind expresses itself.

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

"That's better, Monsignor," he said, smiling.

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"Well, there's really not much to do.

Insanity seems the only possible plea."

He smiled again, brilliantly.

"Tell me the whole thing," said the prelate suddenly and hoarsely.

"Just the outline.

I don't understand; and I can do nothing 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 technical details.

I have written a book (which will never see the light now) 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 in Physical Science, you know, as well as in Theology.

Now there's a certain class of cure (I won't bother you with details, but a certain class of cure) that has always been claimed by theologians as evidently supernatural.

And I'll acknowledge at once that one or two of the decrees of the Council of 1960 certainly seem to support them.

But my thesis is, first, that these cures are perfectly explicable by natural means, and secondly, that therefore these decrees must be interpreted in a sense not usually received by theologians, and that they do not cover the cases in dispute.

I'm not a wilful heretic, and I accept absolutely therefore that these decrees, as emanating from an ecumenical council, are infallibly true.

But I repudiate entirely--since I am forced to do so by scientific fact (or, we will say, by what I am persuaded is scientific fact)--the usual theological interpretation of the wording of the decrees.

Well, my judges take the other view.

They tell me that I am wrong in my second point, and therefore wrong also in my first.

They tell me that the decrees do categorically cover the class of cure I have dealt with; that such cures have been pronounced by the Church therefore to be evidently supernatural; and that therefore I am heretical in both my points.

On my side, I refuse to submit, maintaining that I am differing, not from the Catholic Church as she really is, (which would be heretical), but from the Catholic Church as interpreted by these theologians.

I know it's rash of me to set myself against a practically universal and received interpretation; but I feel myself bound in conscience to do so.

Very well; that is the point we have now reached.

I could not dream of separating myself from Catholic Unity, and therefore that way of escape is barred.

There was nothing for it, then, but for my judges to pronounce sentence; and that they did, ten minutes before you came in.

(I saw you come in, Monsignor.

) I am sentenced, that is to say, as an obstinate heretic--as refusing to submit to the plain meaning of an ecumenical decree.

There remains Rome.

The whole trial must go there _verbatim_.

Three things may happen.

Either I am summoned to explain any statements that may seem obscure.

(That certainly will not happen.

I have been absolutely open and clear.

) Or the sentence may be quashed or 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 with his intellect; but it appeared to him as if this concise analysis had no more vital connection with the real facts than a doctor's diagnosis with the misery of a mourner.

He did not want analysis;

he wanted reassurance.

Then he braced himself up to meet the unfinished sentence.

"Or----" he murmured.

"Or the sentence will be ratified," said the monk quietly.

And again 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 do not quite know what he can do for me; but I suppose the idea is that he may succeed in urging that the point is a disputed one, and that the case had better wait for further scientific as well as theological investigation."

Monsignor flung out his hands suddenly.

The strain had reached breaking-point.

"What's the good!"

he cried.

"It's the system--the whole system that's so hateful .

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hateful and impossible."

"What?"

"It's the system," he cried again.

"From beginning to end it's the system that's wrong.

I hate it more every day.

It's brutal, utterly brutal and unchristian."

He stared miserably at the young monk, astonished at the cold look in his eyes.

The monk looked at him questioningly--without a touch of answering 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 who are suffering under it!

Why----" "You think I'm being unjustly treated?

Is that it?

Of course I too don't think that----" "No, no, no," cried the elder man.

"It's not you in particular.

I

don't know about that--I don't understand.

But it's that any living being can live under such tyranny--such oppression of free thought and judgment!

What becomes of science and discovery under a system like this?

What becomes of freedom--of the right to think for oneself?

Why----" The young monk leaned a little over the table.

"Monsignor, you don't know what you are saying.

Tell me quietly what it is that's troubling you.

Quietly, if you please.

I can't bear 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 apparently frank inability to understand what was the matter brought him down again to reality.

Subconsciously, too, he perceived that it would be a relief to himself to put his developing feeling into words to another.

"You wish me to say?

Very well---" He hesitated again for words.

"You are sure you'd better?

I know you've been ill.

I

don'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 been certain of an emotional sympathy.

"I know I'm clean against public opinion in what I think.

I've learnt that at last.

I thought at first that it was the other way, as .

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as I think it must have been a hundred years ago.

But I see now that all the world is against me--all except perhaps the people who are called infidels."

"You mean the Socialists?"