Dawn of All — Part 1, Chapter 3
(I)
"Just be natural," whispered Father Jervis a quarter of an hour later, as they passed through the big ante-room.
"You needn't explain a word.
I've told him everything."
He tapped; and a voice answered.
Sitting in a big arm-chair drawn up to the writing-table, the man who had lost his memory saw a tall, thin figure, in black with scarlet buttons, and a small scarlet skull-cap crowning his iron-grey hair.
It was a little hard to make out the face at first, as the window was immediately beyond it; but he saw almost immediately that, although the face smiled at him reassuringly and welcomingly, it was entirely unfamiliar.
The Cardinal stood up as the two approached, pushing back his chair, and held out both his hands.
"My dear Monsignor," he said, and grasped the other's hands firmly and kindly.
"I .
.
.
your Eminence .
.
."
stammered the man.
"Now, now; not one word till I've done.
I've heard everything.
Come and sit down."
He led him to a chair on the hearth-rug, placed him in it, and himself sat down in his own, facing him.
The priest remained standing.
"Now, I'm going to begin with an order, on holy obedience," smiled the Cardinal.
"You and Father Jervis--if the doctor approves--are to start for a little European tour by the midnight volor."
"The .
.
.
?"
"The volor," said the Cardinal.
"It'll do you good.
Father Jervis will undertake all responsibility, and you needn't worry yourself at all.
I shall telegraph to Versailles in my own name, and make one or two arrangements, and a couple of my servants will attend you.
You will have nothing to do but get better.
You can't be spared.
It'll all come perfectly right, I have no manner of doubt.
Father Jervis, just ask the doctor to step here."
The Cardinal talked a minute or two longer, still with that soothing, peaceful air; and Monsignor, as he listened, watched the priest go up to a row of black boxes, resembling those in his own room, and take down a shutter from one of them.
He then said a rapid sentence or two in a whisper, reclosed the shutter, and came back.
"If things don't clear themselves, you will just have to learn your business over again, Monsignor," went on the Cardinal, still smiling.
"Father Jervis has told me how well you did at lunch;
and Mr. Manners said nothing, except that you were a very good host and a very graceful listener.
So you need not fear that any one will notice.
So please put out of your mind any thought that any one else will take your place here.
I shall expect you back in a month or two, and not a soul will be any the wiser.
I shall just let it be known that you're gone for a holiday.
You have always worked hard enough, anyhow, to deserve one."
At that moment, somewhere out of the air, from the direction of the boxes on the wall, a very deferential, quiet voice uttered a few words in Latin.
The Cardinal nodded.
Father Jervis went to the door and opened it, and there came through a man in a black cloak, resembling a gown, followed by a servant carrying a bag.
The bag was set down, the servant went out, and the doctor came forward to kiss the Cardinal's ring.
"I want you just to examine Monsignor Masterman," said the Cardinal.
"And, doctor, please observe absolute silence afterwards.
Just say that you have found him a little run down."
Monsignor made a movement to stand up, but the Cardinal restrained him.
"Do you remember this gentleman?"
he asked.
Monsignor stared blankly at the doctor.
"I have never seen him in my life," he said.
The doctor smiled, simply and frankly.
"Well, well, Monsignor," he said.
"It seems just a loss of memory," went on the Cardinal.
"Just tell the doctor how it happened."
The invalid made an effort; he shut his eyes for an instant to recover himself; and then he related at length his first apparent consciousness in Hyde Park, and all that had followed.
Father Jervis put a question from time to time, which he answered quite rationally; and at the close the doctor, who was sitting opposite, watching every movement of his face, leaned back, smiling.
"Well, Monsignor," he said, "it seems to me that your memory is sufficiently good.
Just put another question, father--a really difficult one--about something that has happened since noon."
"Can you remember the points of Mr. Manners' speech?"
asked the priest doubtfully.
The other paused for a moment.
"Psychology, Comparative Religion, the Philosophy of Evidence, Pragmatism, Art, Politics, and finally Recuperation.
These were the----" "Now that's astonishing!"
said the priest.
"I could only remember four myself."
"When did you see the Cardinal last?"
asked the doctor suddenly.
"I have never seen him before, to my knowledge," faltered the sick man.
The Cardinal leaned forward and patted him gently on the knee.
"Never mind," he said.
"Then, doctor----" "Would your Eminence put a question to him on some very important matter?
Something that would have made a deep impression."
The Cardinal considered.
"Well," he said, "yes.
Do you remember the message brought by special messenger from Windsor yesterday evening?"
Monsignor shook his head.
"That'll do," said the doctor.
"Don't attempt to force yourself."
He rose from his chair, fetched his bag and opened it.
Out of it he took an instrument rather resembling a small camera, but with a bundle of minute wires of some very pliable material, each ending in a tiny disc.
"Do you know what this is, Monsignor?"
asked the doctor, busying himself with the wires.
"I have no idea."
"Well, well.
.
.
.
Now, Monsignor, kindly loosen your waistcoat, so that I can get at your breast and back."
"Is it a stethoscope?"
"Something like it," smiled the doctor.
"But how did you know that name?
Never mind.
Now then, please."
He placed the camera affair on the corner of the table near the arm-chair; and then, very rapidly, began to affix the discs--it seemed by some process of air-exhaustion--all over the head, breast, and back of the amazed man.
No sensation followed this at all, except the very faint feeling of skin-contraction at each point of contact.
"May I have that blind down, your Eminence?
.
.
.
Ah!
that's better.
Now then."
He bent closely over the square box on the table, and seemed to peer at something inside.
The others kept silence.
"Well?"
asked the Cardinal at last.
"Perfectly satisfactory, your Eminence.
There is a very faint discoloration, but no more than is usual in a man of Monsignor's temperament at any excitement.
There is absolutely nothing wrong, and--Monsignor," he continued, looking straight at the wire-bedecked invalid, "not the very faintest indication of anything even approaching insanity or imbecility."
The man who had lost his memory drew a swift breath.
"May I see, doctor?"
asked the Cardinal suavely.
"Certainly, your Eminence; and Monsignor can look himself, if he likes."
When the other two had looked, the sick man himself was given the box.
"(Carefully with that wire, please.
) There!"
said the doctor.
"Look down there."
In the centre of the box, shielded by a little plate of glass, there appeared a small semi-luminous globe.
This globe seemed tinted with slightly wavering colours, in which a greyish blue predominated; but, almost like a pulse, there moved across it from time to time a very pale red tint, suffusing it, and then dying away again.
"What is it?"
asked the man in the chair hoarsely, lifting his head.
"That, my dear Monsignor," explained the doctor carefully, "is a reflection of your physical condition.
It is an exceedingly simple, though of course very delicate instrument.
The method was discovered---" "Is it anything to do with magnetism?"
"They used to call it that, I think.
It's got several names now.
All mental disturbance has, of course, a physical side to it, and that is how we are able to record it physically.
It was discovered by a monk, of course."
"But .
.
.
but it's marvellous."
"Everything is marvellous, Monsignor.
Certainly this, however, caused a revolution.
It became the symbol of the whole modern method of medicine."
"What's that?"
The doctor laughed.
"That's a large question," he said.
"But .
.
."
"Well, in a word, it's the old system turned upside down.
A
century ago when a man was ill they began by doctoring his body.
Now, when a man's ill, they begin by doctoring his mind.
You see the mind is much more the man than the body is, as Theology always taught us.
Therefore by dealing with the mind----" "But that's Christian Science!"
The doctor looked bewildered.
"It was an old heresy, doctor," put in the Cardinal, smiling, "that denied the reality of matter.
No, Monsignor, we don't deny the reality of matter.
It's perfectly real.
Only, as the doctor says, we prefer to attack the real root of the disease, rather than its physical results.
We still use drugs; but only to remove painful symptoms."
"That .
.
.
that sounds all right," stammered the man, bewildered by the simplicity of it.
"Then .
.
.
then do you mean, your Eminence, that physical diseases are treated---?"
"There are no physical diseases left," put in the doctor.
"Of course there are accidents and external physical injuries; but practically all the rest have disappeared.
Very nearly all of them were carried by the blood, and, by dealing with this, the tissues are made immune.
Our discoveries also in the region of innervation----" "But .
.
.
but .
.
.
are there no diseases then?"
"Why, yes, Monsignor," interrupted the Cardinal, with the patient air of one talking to a child, "there are hundreds of those; and they are very real indeed; but they are almost entirely mental--or psychical, as some call them.
And there are specialists on all of these.
Bad habits of thought, for example, always set up some kind of disease; and there are hospitals for these; and even isolation homes."
"Forgive me, your Eminence," put in the doctor, with a certain imperiousness, "but I think we ought not to talk to Monsignor too much on this subject.
May I put a question or two?"
"I beg your pardon, doctor.
Certainly.
Put any question you wish."
The doctor sat down again.
"Have you been in the habit of saying Mass every day, Monsignor?"
"I .
.
.
I don't know," said the invalid.
"Yes, doctor," put in Father Jervis.
"And confession once a week?"
"Twice a week," said Father Jervis.
"I am Monsignor's confessor."
"Very good," said the doctor.
"For the present, as far as I am concerned, I should recommend confession only once a fortnight as a general rule.
Mass can be as before.
Then Monsignor may say half of his office every day, or the rosary; but not both.
And no other devotions of any kind, except the particular Examen.
If Monsignor and Father Jervis both consent, I should like the Examen to be forwarded to a priest-doctor for a few weeks."
An exclamation broke from the invalid.
"Well, Monsignor?"
"I don't understand.
What are you talking about?"
The Cardinal leaned forward.
"Monsignor, listen to me.
In these cases the doctor always gives his advice.
You see even the sacraments have their mental side;
and on this mental side the doctor speaks.
But the whole decision rests entirely with the patient and his confessor; or they can call in an expert priest-doctor.
Only a priest can possibly decide finally the relations between the grace of the sacraments and their reactionary effect upon the mind.
A lay doctor only recommends.
Are you satisfied?"
The man nodded.
It seemed very simple, so stated.
"For the rest," continued the doctor, with a certain stateliness of manner, "I order a complete change of scene.
This must be for a fortnight at least, if not longer.
If the priest-doctor's report--to whom the Examen may be sent--is not satisfactory, it will have to be for longer.
The patient must engage in no business that does not honestly interest him."
"May he travel to-night?"
asked the Cardinal.
"The sooner the better," said the doctor, rising.
"What is the matter with me?"
asked the invalid hoarsely.
"It is a small mental explosion, but it has not affected the mechanism of the brain.
There is not, as I have said, a trace of insanity or of loss of balance.
I cannot promise that the injury will be repaired; but defects that may follow from this can easily be remedied by study.
It simply depends upon yourself, Monsignor, as to in how long you can be at your post again here.
As soon as you have learned the threads of business, you will be able to apply yourself as before.
I shall look for a report in a fortnight's time at the latest.
Good day, your Eminence."
(II)
The clocks of London were all striking the single stroke of midnight as the two priests stood on the wind-sheltered platform of the volor, waiting for the start.
To Monsignor Masterman the scene was simply overwhelming.
There was hardly a detail that was not new and unfamiliar.
From where he stood on the upper deck, grasping the rail before him, his eyes looked out over a luminous city as lovely as fairyland.
There were no chimneys, of course (these, he had just learnt, had altogether disappeared more than fifty years ago), but spires and towers and pinnacles rose before him like a dream, glowing against the dark sky, lit by the soft radiance of the streets beneath.
To the right, not a hundred yards away, rose Saint Edward's tower, mellowed now to clear orange by the lapse of three-quarters of a century; to the left a flight of buildings, of an architectural design which he did not understand, but which gave him a sense of extreme satisfaction;
in front towered the masses of Buckingham Palace as he seemed always to have known it.
The platform of the flying ship on which he stood hung in dock at least three hundred feet high above the roads beneath.
He had examined the whole vessel just now from stem to stern, and had found it vaguely familiar; he determined to examine it again presently.
There was no gas-bag to sustain it--so much he had noticed--though he could not say whence he had the idea that gas-bags were usual.
But it seemed to him as if the notion of airships did carry some faint association to his mind, although far less distinct than that of motor-cars and even trains.
He had enquired of his companion an hour or two earlier as they had discussed their journey as to whether they would not go by train and steamer, and had received the answer that these were never used except for very short journeys.
Here, then, he stood and stared.
It was very quiet up here; but he listened with considerable curiosity to the strange humming sound that filled the air, rising and falling, as of a beehive.
At first he thought it was the working of engines in the ship; but he presently perceived it to be the noise of the streets rising from below; and it was then that he saw for the first time that foot-passengers were almost entirely absent, and that practically the whole roadway, so far as he could make out from the high elevation at which he stood, was occupied by cars of all descriptions going this way and that.
They sounded soft horns as they went, but they bore no lights, for the streets were as light as day with a radiance that seemed to fall from beneath the eaves of all the buildings that lined them.
This effect of lighting had a curious result of making the city look as if it were seen through glass or water--a beautifully finished, clean picture, moving within itself like some precise and elaborate mechanism.
He turned round at a touch on his arm.
"You would like to see the start, perhaps," said the old priest.
"We are a little late to-night.
The country mails have only just arrived.
But we shall be off directly now.
Come this way."
The upper deck, as the two turned inwards, presented an extremely pleasant and reassuring picture.
From stem to stern it ran clear, set out, however, with groups of tables and chairs clamped to the floor, at which sat a dozen parties or so, settling themselves down comfortably.
There were no funnels, no bridge, no break at all to the delightful vista.
The whole was lighted by the same device as were the streets, for round the upper edges of the transparent walls that held out the wind shone a steady, even glow from invisible lights.
In the very centre of the deck, however, was a low railing that protected the head of a staircase, and down this well the two looked.
"Shall I explain?"
asked the old priest, smiling.
"This is the latest model, you know.
It has not been in use for more than a few months."
The other nodded.
"Tell me everything, please."
"Well, look right down there, below the second flight.
The first flight leads to the second-class deck, and the flight below to the working parts of the ship.
Now do you see that man's head, straight in the middle, in the bright light?
--yes, immediately under.
Well, that's the first engineer.
He's in a glass compartment, you see, and can look down passages in every direction.
The gas arrangements are all in front of him, and the----" "Stop, please.
What power is it that drives the ship?
Is it lighter than air, or what?"
"Well, you see the entire framework of the ship is hollow.
Every single thing you see--even the chairs and tables--they're all made of the metal _aerolite_ (as it's generally called).
It's almost as thin as paper, and it's far stronger than any steel.
Now it's the framework of the ship that takes the place of the old balloon.
It's infinitely safer, too, for it's divided by automatically closing stops into tens of thousands of compartments, so a leak here and there makes practically no difference.
Well, when the ship's at rest, as it is now, there's simply air in all these tubes; but when it's going to start, there is forced into these tubes, from the magazine below, the most volatile gas that has been discovered----" "What's it called?"
"I forget the real name.
It's generally called _aeroline_.
Well, this is forced in, until the specific gravity of the whole affair, passengers and all, is as nearly as possible the same as the specific gravity of the air."
"I see.
Good Lord, how simple!"
"And the rest is done with planes and screws, driven by electricity.
The tail of the boat is a recent development.
(You'll see it when we're once started.
) It's exactly like the tail of a bird, and contracts and expands in every direction.
Then besides that there are two wings, one on each side, and these can be used, if necessary, in case the screws go wrong, as propellers.
But usually they are simply for balancing and gliding.
You see, barring collisions, there's hardly the possibility of an accident.
If one set of things fails, there's always something else to take its place.
At the very worst, we can but be blown about a bit."
"But it's exactly like a bird, then."
"Of course, Monsignor," said the priest, with twinkling eyes, "it isn't likely that we could improve upon Almighty God's design.
