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ETIKA A |
Robert Hugh Benson |
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92A6A2 |
Lord of the
World |
23.12.2007 |
The Story of the Coming
Antichrist
Lord of the World by Robert
Hugh Benson.
BOOK I – THE ADVENT.
CHAPTER II – DIE ANKUNFT
I Percy
Franklin and Father Francis
Der abtrünnige Priester (titles by ETIKA)
PERCY FRANKLIN'S correspondence
with the Cardinal Protector of England occupied
him directly for at least two hours every day, and for
nearly eight hours indirectly.
For
the past eight years the methods of the Holy See had once more been revised
with a view to modern needs, and now every important province throughout the
world possessed not only an administrative metropolitan but a representative in
Rome whose business it was to be in touch with the Pope on the one side and the
people he represented on the other.
In
other words, centralisation had gone forward rapidly, in accordance with the
laws of life; and, with centralisation, freedom of method and expansion of
power. England's Cardinal-Protector was one Abbot Martin, a Benedictine, and it
was Percy's business, as of a dozen more bishops, priests and laymen (with
whom, by the way, he was forbidden to hold any formal consultation), to write a
long daily letter to him on affairs that came under his notice.
It
was a curious life, therefore, that Percy led. He had a couple of rooms
assigned to him in Archbishop's House at
At
ten o'clock he was ready to receive callers,
and till noon he was generally busy with both those who came to see him on
their own responsibility and his staff of half-a-dozen reporters whose business
it was to bring him marked paragraphs in the newspapers and their own comments.
He then breakfasted with the other priests in the house, and set out soon after
to call on people whose opinion was necessary, returning for a cup of tea soon
after sixteen o'clock.
Then he settled down, after the rest of his office and
a visit to the Blessed Sacrament, to compose his letter, which though short,
needed a great deal of care and sifting. After dinner he made a few notes for
next day, received visitors again, and went to bed soon after twenty-two
o'clock. Twice a week it was his business to assist at Vespers in the
afternoon, and he usually sang high mass on Saturdays.
It was, therefore, a curiously distracting life, with
peculiar dangers.
It was one day, a week or two after his visit to
"In ten minutes," said Percy, without
looking up.
He snapped off his last lines, drew out the sheet, and
settled down to read it over, translating it unconsciously from Latin to
English.
"
"EMINENCE: Since yesterday I have a little more information. It
appears certain that the Bill establishing Esperanto
for all State purposes will be brought in in June. I
have had this from Johnson. This, as I have pointed out before, is the very
last stone in our consolidation with the continent, which, at present, is to be
regretted .... A great access of Jews to Freemasonry
is to be expected; hitherto
they have held aloof to some extent, but the 'abolition of the Idea of God' is tending to draw in those Jews,
now greatly on the increase once more, who repudiate all notion of a personal
Messiah. It is 'Humanity' here, too, that is at work. To-day I heard the Rabbi
Simeon speak to this effect in the City, and was impressed by the applause he received .... Yet among others an expectation is growing that
a man will presently be found to lead the Communist
movement and unite their forces more closely. I enclose a verbose cutting
from the New People to that effect; and it is echoed
everywhere. They say that the cause must give birth to one such soon; that they
have had prophets and precursors for a hundred years past, and lately a
cessation of them. It is strange how this coincides superficially with
Christian ideas. Your Eminence will observe that a simile of the 'ninth wave'
is used with some eloquence .... I hear to-day of the secession of an old
Catholic family, the Wargraves of Norfolk, with
their chaplain Micklem, who it seems has been busy in
this direction for some while. The Epoch announces it with satisfaction,
owing to the peculiar circumstances; but unhappily such events are not uncommon
now .... There is much distrust among the laity. Seven priests in
"Recommendation. That formal excommunication of the Wargraves and
these eight priests should be issued in
Percy laid down the sheet,
gathered up the half dozen other papers that contained his extracts and running
commentary, signed the last, and slipped the whole into the printed envelope
that lay ready.
Then he took up his biretta and
went to the lift.
The moment he
came into the glass-doored parlour he saw that the
crisis was come, if not passed already. Father
Francis looked miserably ill, but there was a curious hardness, too, about
his eyes and mouth, as he stood waiting. He shook his head abruptly.
"I have come to say
good-bye, father. I can bear it no more."
Percy was careful to show no
emotion at all. He made a little sign to a chair, and himself
sat down too.
"It is an end of
everything," said the other again in a perfectly steady voice. "I believe nothing. I have
believed nothing for a year now."
"You have felt nothing, you
mean," said Percy.
"That won't do,
father," went on the other. "I tell you there is nothing left. I
can't even argue now. It is just good-bye."
Percy had nothing to say. He had
talked to this man during a period of over eight months, ever since Father
Francis had first confided in him that his faith was going. He understood
perfectly what a strain it had been; he felt bitterly compassionate towards
this poor creature who had become caught up somehow
into the dizzy triumphant whirl of the
New Humanity.
External facts were horribly
strong just now; and faith, except to one who had learned that Will and Grace were all and emotion nothing, was as a child crawling about in the midst of some huge
machinery: it might survive or it might not; but it required nerves of steel to
keep steady.
It was hard to know where blame could be assigned; yet
Percy's faith told him that there was blame due.
In the ages of faith a very inadequate grasp of
religion would pass muster; in these
searching days none but the humble and the pure could stand the test for long,
unless indeed they were protected by a miracle of ignorance.
The alliance of
Psychology and Materialism did indeed seem, looked at from one angle, to
account for everything; it needed a robust supernatural perception to
understand their practical inadequacy.
And as regards Father Francis's personal
responsibility, he could not help feeling that the other had allowed ceremonial to play too great a part in his religion, and
prayer too little. In him the external had absorbed the internal.
So he did not allow his sympathy to show itself in his
bright eyes.
"You think it my fault, of course," said the
other sharply.
"My dear father," said Percy, motionless in
his chair, "I know it is your fault. Listen to me. You say Christianity is
absurd and impossible. Now, you know, it cannot be that! It may be untrue—I am not speaking of that now, even though I am
perfectly certain that it is absolutely true—but it cannot be absurd so long as educated and virtuous people continue
to hold it. To say that it is absurd is simple pride; it is to dismiss all who
believe in it as not merely mistaken, but unintelligent as well—"
"Very well, then," interrupted the other;
"then suppose I withdraw that, and simply say that I do not believe it to be
true."
“You do not withdraw it," continued Percy
serenely; "you still really believe it to be absurd: you have told me so a
dozen times. Well, I repeat, that is pride, and quite sufficient to account for
it all. It is the moral attitude that matters. There may be other things too—"
Father Francis looked up sharply. "Oh! the old story !" he said sneeringly.
"If you tell me on your word of honour that there
is no woman in the case, or no particular programme of sin you propose to work
out, I shall believe you. But it is an old story, as you say."
"I swear to you there is not," cried the
other.
"Thank God then!" said Percy. "There
are fewer obstacles to a return of faith."
There was silence for a moment after that. Percy had
really no more to say. He had talked to him of the inner life again and again,
in which verities are seen to be true, and acts of faith are ratified; he had
urged prayer and humility till he was almost weary of the names; and had been
met by the retort that this was to advise sheer self-hypnotism; and he had
despaired of making clear to one who did not see it for himself that while Love
and Faith may be called self-hypnotism from one angle, yet from another they
are as much realities as, for example, artistic faculties, and need similar
cultivation; that they produce a conviction that they are convictions, that
they handle and taste things which when handled and tasted are overwhelmingly
more real and objective than the things of sense. Evidences seemed to mean
nothing to this man.
So he was silent now, chilled himself by the presence
of this crisis, looking unseeingly out upon the plain, little old-world parlour, its tall window, its strip of matting,
conscious chiefly of the dreary hopelessness of this human brother of his who
had eyes but did not see, ears and was deaf. He wished he would say good-bye,
and go. There was no more to be done.
Father Francis, who had been sitting in a lax kind of
huddle, seemed to know his thoughts, and sat up suddenly.
"You are tired of me," he said. "I will
go."
"I am not tired of you, my dear father,"
said Percy simply. "I am only terribly sorry. You see I know that it is all true."
The other looked at him heavily.
"And I know that it is not," he said.
"It is very beautiful; I wish I could believe it. I don't think I shall be ever happy again—but—but
there it is."
Percy sighed. He had told him so often that the heart
is as divine a gift as the mind, and that to neglect it in the search for God
is to seek ruin, but this priest had scarcely seen the application to himself.
He had answered with the old psychological arguments that the suggestions of
education accounted for everything.
"I suppose you will cast me off," said the
other.
"It is you who are leaving me," said Percy.
"I cannot follow, if you mean that."
"But—but cannot we be friends?"
A sudden heat touched the elder priest's heart.
"Friends?" he said. "Is sentimentality all you mean by
friendship? What kind of friends can we
be?"
The other's face became suddenly heavy. "I
thought so."
"John!" cried Percy. "You see that, do
you not? How can we pretend
anything when you do not believe in God? For I do you the honour of thinking that you do
not."
Francis sprang up.
"Well—" he snapped. "I could not have believed—I am going."
He wheeled towards the door.
"John!" said Percy again. "Are you
going like this? Can you not shake hands?"
The other wheeled again, with heavy anger in his face.
"Why, you said you could not be friends with
me!"
Percy's mouth opened. Then he understood, and smiled.
"Oh! that is all you
mean by friendship, is it? — I
beg your pardon. Oh! we can be polite to one another,
if you like."
He still stood holding out his hand. Father Francis
looked at it a moment, his lips shook: then once more he turned, and went out
without a word.
II In God —
In Gott
Percy stood motionless until he heard the automatic
bell outside tell him that Father Francis was really gone, then
he went out himself and turned towards the long passage leading to the
Cathedral. As he passed out through the sacristy he heard far in front the
murmur of an organ, and on coming through into the chapel
used as a parish church he perceived that Vespers were not yet over in the
great choir. He came straight down the aisle, turned to the right, crossed the
centre and knelt down.
It was drawing on towards sunset, and the huge dark
place was lighted here and there by patches of ruddy
He
let his eyes wander round for a few moments before beginning his deliberate
prayer, drinking in the glory of the place, listening to the thunderous chorus,
the peal of the organ, and the thin mellow voice of the priest. There on the
left shone the refracted glow of the lamps that burned before the Lord in the
Sacrament, on the right a dozen candles winked here and there at the foot of
the gaunt images, high overhead hung the gigantic cross with that lean,
emaciated Poor Man Who called all who looked on Him to the embraces of a God.
Then
he hid his face in his hands, drew a couple of long breaths, and set to work.
He
began, as his custom was in mental
prayer, by a deliberate act of
self-exclusion from the world of sense. Under the image of sinking beneath
a surface he forced himself downwards and inwards, till the peal of the organ,
the shuffle of footsteps, the rigidity of the chair-back beneath his wrists—all
seemed apart and external, and he was· left a single person with a beating
heart, an intellect that suggested image after image, and emotions that were
too languid to stir themselves.
Then
he made his second descent, renounced
all that he possessed and was, and became conscious that even the body was left behind, and that his
mind and heart, awed by the Presence in which they found themselves, clung close and obedient to the will which
was their lord and protector. He drew another long breath, or two, as he
felt that Presence surge about him; he repeated a few mechanical words, and
sank to that peace which follows the relinquishment of thought.
There
he rested for a while. Far above him sounded the ecstatic music, the cry of
trumpets and the shrilling of the flutes; but they were as insignificant
street-noises to one who was falling asleep. He was within the veil of things now,
beyond the barriers of sense and reflection, in that secret place to which he
had learned the road by endless effort, in that strange region where realities
are evident, where perceptions go to and fro with the swiftness of light, where
the swaying will catches now this, now that act, moulds it and speeds it; where
all things meet, where truth is known and handled and tasted, where God
Immanent is one with God Transcendent, where
the meaning of the external world is evident through its inner side, and the
Church and its mysteries are seen from within a haze of glory.
So
he lay a few moments, absorbing and resting.
Then
he aroused himself to consciousness and began to speak.
"Lord,
I am here, and Thou art here. I know Thee. There is nothing else but Thou and
I. . . . I lay this all in Thy hands—Thy apostate priest, Thy people, the
world, and myself. I spread it before Thee—I spread it before Thee."
He
paused, poised in the act, till all of which he thought lay like a plain before
a peak.
. . . "Myself, Lord-there but for Thy grace
should I be going, in darkness and misery. It is Thou Who dost
preserve me. Maintain and finish Thy work within my soul. Let me not falter for
one instant. If Thou withdraw Thy hand I fall into utter nothingness."
So his soul stood a moment, with outstretched
appealing hands, helpless and confident. Then the will flickered in
self-consciousness, and he repeated acts of faith, hope and love to steady it.
Then he drew another long breath, feeling the Presence tingle and shake about him, and began agam.
"Lord; look on Thy people. Many are falling from
Thee. Ne in
aeternum irascaris nobis. Ne in aeternum irascaris nobis. . . . I unite myself with
all saints and angels and Mary Queen of Heaven; look on them and me, and hear
us. Emitte lucem
tuam et veritatem
tuam. Thy light
and Thy truth! Lay not on us heavier burdens than we can bear. Lord, why dost
Thou not speak!"
He writhed himself forward in a passion of expectant
desire, hearing
his muscles crack in the effort. Once more he relaxed himself; and the swift
play of wordless acts began which he knew to be the very heart of prayer. The
eyes of his soul flew hither and thither, from
He saw Christ dying of desolation
while the earth rocked and groaned; Christ reigning as a priest upon His Throne
in robes of light, Christ patient and inexorably silent within the Sacramental
species; and to each in turn he directed the eyes of the Eternal Father. . . .
Then he waited for communications, and they came, so
soft and delicate, passing like shadows, that his will sweated blood and tears
in the effort to catch and fix them and correspond. . . .
He saw the Body Mystical in its agony, strained over
the world as on a cross, silent with pain; he saw this and that nerve wrenched
and twisted, till pain presented it to himself as under the guise of flashes of colour; he
saw the lifeblood drop by drop run down from His head and hands and feet. The
world was gathered mocking and good-humoured beneath.
"He saved others: Himself He cannot save. . . . Let
Christ come down from the Cross and we will believe." Far away behind bushes and in
holes of the ground the friends of Jesus peeped and sobbed; Mary herself was
silent, pierced by seven swords; the disciple whom He loved had no words of
comfort.
He saw, too, how no word would be spoken from heaven;
the angels themselves were bidden to put sword into sheath, and wait on the
eternal patience of God, for "the agony was hardly yet begun; there were a
thousand horrors yet before the end could come, that final sum of crucifixion. . . .
He must wait and watch, content
to stand there and do nothing; and the Resurrection must seem to him no more
than a dreamed-of hope. There was the Sabbath yet to come, while the Body
Mystical must lie in its sepulchre cut off from light, and even the dignity of
the Cross must be withdrawn and the knowledge that Jesus lived. That inner
world, to which by long effort he had learned the way, was all alight with
agony; it was bitter as brine, it was of that pale luminosity that is the
utmost product of pain, it hummed in his ears with a note that rose to a scream
. . . it pressed upon him, penetrated him, stretched him as on a rack. . .
. And with that his will grew sick and
nerveless.
"Lord! I
cannot bear it!" he moaned . . .
In an instant he was back again, drawing long breaths
of misery. He passed his tongue over his lips, and opened his eyes on the
darkening apse before him. The organ was silent now, and the choir was gone,
and the lights out. The sunset colour, too, had faded from the walls, and grim
cold faces looked down on him from wall and vault. He was back again on the
surface of life; the vision had melted; he scarcely knew what it was that he
had seen.
But he must gather up the threads, and by sheer effort
absorb them. He must pay his duty,
too, to the Lord that gave Himself to the senses as well as to the inner
spirit. So he rose, stiff and constrained, and passed across to the Chapel of
the Holy Sacrament.
As he came out from the block of chairs, very upright
and tall, with his biretta once more on his white hair, he saw an old woman watching him very closely. He
hesitated an instant, wondering whether she were a
penitent, and as he hesitated she made a movement towards him.
"I beg your pardon, sir," she began.
She was not a Catholic then. He lifted his biretta.
"Can I do anything for you?" he asked.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but were you at
"I was."
"Ah! I thought so: my daughter-in-law saw you
then."
Percy had a spasm of impatience: he was a little tired
of being identified by his white hair and young face.
"Were you there, madam?"
She looked at him doubtfully and curiously, moving her
old eyes up and down his figure. Then she recollected herself.
"No,
sir; it was my daughter-in-law—I beg your pardon, sir, but——"
"Well?"
asked Percy, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.
"Are
you the Archbishop, sir?"
The
priest smiled, showing his white teeth.
"No,
madam; I am just a poor priest. Dr. Cholmondeley is
Archbishop. I am Father Percy Franklin."
She
said nothing, but still looking at him made a little old-world movement of a
bow; and Percy passed on to the dim, splendid chapel to pay his devotions.
III The Calm Before
the Great Crash – Ruhe vor dem Sturm
There
was great talk that night at dinner among the priests as to the extraordinary
spread of Freemasonry. It had been going on for many years now, and Catholics
perfectly recognised its dangers, for the profession of Masonry had been for
some centuries rendered incompatible with religion through the Church's
unswerving condemnation of it.
A
man must choose between that and his faith.
Things
had developed extraordinarily during the last century. First there had been the
organised assault upon the Church in
It
had become evident then that Catholics had been right, and that Masonry, in its higher grades at
least, had been responsible throughout the world for the strange movement
against religion.
But he had died in his bed, and the public had been
impressed by that fact.
Then came the splendid
donations in
"I hear that Felsenburgh
is a Mason," observed Monsignor Macintosh, the Cathedral Administrator. "A Grand-Master or something."
"But who
is Felsenburgh?" put in a young priest.
Monsignor pursed his lips and shook his head. He was
one of those humble persons as proud of ignorance as others of knowledge. He boasted that he never read the papers nor any book except those that had received the imprimatur; it was a priest's business, he often remarked, to preserve the faith,
not to acquire worldly knowledge. Percy had occasionally rather envied his
point of view.
"He's a mystery," said another priest,
Father Blackmore; "but he seems to be causing
great excitement. They were selling his 'Life' to-day on the Embankment."
"I met an American senator," put in Percy,
"three days ago, who told me that even there they know nothing of him, except
his extraordinary eloquence. He only
appeared last year, and seems to have carried everything before him by quite
unusual methods. He is a great linguist,
too. That is why they took him to
"Well, the Masons—" went on Monsignor.
"It is very serious. In
the last month four of my
penitents have left me because of it."
"Their inclusion of women was their master-stroke,"
growled Father Blackmore, helping himself to claret.
"It is extraordinary that they hesitated so long
about that," observed Percy.
A couple of the others added their evidence. It
appeared that they, too, had lost penitents lately through the spread of Masonry.
It was rumoured that a Pastoral was a-preparing upstairs on the subject.
Monsignor shook his head ominously. "More is
wanted than that," he said.
Percy pointed out that the Church had said her last word several centuries ago. She had
laid her excommunication on all members
of secret societies, and there was really no more that she could do.
"Except bring it before her children again and
again," put in Monsignor. "I shall preach on it next Sunday."
Percy dotted down a note when he reached his room, determining
to say another word or two on the subject to the Cardinal-Protector. He had
mentioned Freemasonry often before, but it seemed time for another remark. Then
he opened his letters, first turning to one which he recognised as from the
Cardinal.
It seemed a curious coincidence, as he read a series
of questions that Cardinal Martin's letter contained, that one of them should
be on this very subject. It ran as follows:
"What of Masonry? Felsenburgh is said to
be one. Gather all the gossip you can about him. Send any English or American biographies of him. Are you still
losing Catholics through Masonry?"
He ran his eyes down the rest of the questions. They
chiefly referred to previous remarks of his own, but
twice, even in them, Felsenburgh's name appeared.
He laid the paper down and considered a little.
It was very curious, he thought, how this man's name
was in everyone's mouth, in spite of the fact that so little was known about
him. He had bought in the streets, out of curiosity, three photographs that
professed to represent this strange person, and though one of them might be
genuine they all three could not be. He drew them out of a pigeonhole, and
spread them before him.
One represented a fierce, bearded creature like a
Cossack, with round staring eyes. No; intrinsic evidence condemned this: it was
exactly how a coarse imagination would have pictured a man who seemed to be
having a great influence in the East.
The second showed a fat face with little eyes and a chinbeard. That might conceivably be genuine: he turned it
over and saw the name of a
Percy inclined to think the second was the most
probable; but they were all unconvincing; and he shuffled them carelessly
together and replaced them.
Then he put his elbows on the table, and began to
think. He tried to remember what Mr. Varhaus, the
American senator, had told him of Felsenburgh; yet it
did not seem sufficient to account for the facts.
Felsenburgh, it
seemed, had employed none of those methods common in modern politics. He
controlled no newspapers, vituperated nobody, championed
nobody: he had no picked underlings; he used no bribes; there were no monstrous
crimes alleged against him.
It
seemed rather as if his originality lay in his
clean hands and his stainless past-that, and his magnetic character. He was
the kind of figure that belonged rather to the age of chivalry: a pure, clean,
compelling personality, like a radiant child.
He
had taken people by surprise, then, rising out of the heaving dun-coloured
waters of American socialism like a
vision—from those waters so fiercely
restrained from breaking into storm ever since the extraordinary social
revolution under Mr. Hearst's disciples, a century ago.
That
had been the end of plutocracy; the famous old laws of 1914 had burst some of
the stinking bubbles of the time; and the enactments of 1916 and 1917 had
prevented their forming again in anything like their previous force.
It
had been the salvation of
It
was a weary world, he told himself, turning his eyes homewards. Everything seemed so hopeless and
ineffective. He tried not to reflect on his fellow-priests, but for the
fiftieth time he could not help seeing that they were not the men for the present situation
It
was not that he preferred himself; he knew perfectly well that he, too, was fully as incompetent: had he not proved to be so with poor Father Francis, and scores of
others who had clutched at him in their agony during the last ten years? Even the Archbishop, holy man as he was, with all his childlike
faith—was that the man to lead English
Catholics and confound their enemies?
There seemed no
giants on the earth in these days. What in the world was to be done? He
buried his face in his hands. . . .
Yes; what was wanted was a new Order in the Church; the old ones were rule-bound through no
fault of their own.
An Order was wanted without habit or tonsure, without
traditions or customs, an Order with nothing but entire and whole-hearted
devotion, without pride even in their most sacred privileges, without a past
history in which they might take complacent refuge.
They must be franc-tireurs
of Christ's Army; like the
Jesuits, but without their fatal reputation, which, again, was no fault of
their own. . . . But there must be a Founder—Who, in God's Name? —a Founder nudus sequens Christum
nudum. . .
. Yes—Franc-tireurs—priests, bishops, laymen
and women—with the three vows of course, and a special clause forbidding
utterly and for ever their ownership of corporate wealth. — Every gift
received must be handed to the bishop of the diocese in which it was given, who
must provide them himself with necessaries of life and travel. Oh ! —what could they not do? . . .
He was off in a rhapsody.
Presently he recovered, and called himself a fool. Was
not that scheme as old as the eternal hills, and as useless for practical
purposes? Why, it had been the dream of every zealous man since the First Year
of Salvation that such an Order should be founded! . .
. He was a fool. . . .
Then once more he began to think of it all over again.
Surely it was this which was wanted against the
Masons; and women, too. —Had not scheme after scheme broken down because men
had forgotten the power of women?
It was that lack that had ruined Napoleon: he had trusted Josephine, and she had failed him;
so he had trusted no other woman.
In the Catholic
Church, too, woman had been given no active work but either menial or connected with education: and was there not room
for other activities than those? Well, it was useless to think of it. It was
not his affair. If Papa Angelicus
who now reigned in Rome had not
thought of it, why should a foolish, conceited priest in Westminster set
himself up to do so?
So he beat himself on the breast once more, and took
up his office-book.
He finished in half an hour, and again sat thinking;
but this time it was of poor Father Francis. He wondered what he was doing now;
whether he had taken off the Roman collar of Christ's familiar slaves? The poor devil! And how far was he, Percy Franklin, responsible?
When a tap came at his door presently, and Father Blackmore looked in for a talk before going to bed, Percy
told him what had happened.
Father Blackmore removed his
pipe and sighed deliberately.
"I knew it was coming," he said. "Well,
well."
"He has been honest enough," explained
Percy. "He told me eight months ago he was in trouble."
Father Blackmore drew upon
his pipe thoughtfully.
"Father Franklin," he said, "things are
really very serious. There is the
same story everywhere. What in the world is happening ?"
Percy paused before answering.
"1 think these things go
in waves," he said.
"Waves, do you think?" said the other.
"What else?"
Father Blackmore looked at
him intently.
"It is more like a dead calm, it seems to
me," he said.
"Have you ever been in a typhoon?"
Percy shook his head.
"Well," went on the other, "the most ominous thing is the calm. The
sea is like oil; you feel half-dead: you can do nothing. Then comes the storm."
Percy looked at him, interested. He had not seen this
mood in the priest before.
"Before
every great crash there comes this calm. It is always so in history. It was
so before the Eastern War; it was so before the French Revolution. It was so
before the Reformation. There is a kind of oily heaving; and everything is languid . So everything has been in
"Tell me," said Percy, leaning forward.
"Well, I saw Templeton a week before he died, and
he put the idea in my head . . . Look
here, father. It may be this Eastern affair that is coming on us; but somehow I
don't think it is. It is in religion that something is going to happen. At
least, so I think. . . . Father, who in God's name is Felsenburgh?"
Percy was so startled at the sudden introduction of
this name again, that he stared a moment without speaking. Outside, the summer night was very still. There was a
faint vibration now and again from the underground track that ran twenty yards
from the house where they sat; but the streets were quiet enough round the
Cathedral. Once a hoot rang far away, as if some ominous bird
of passage were crossing between
"Yes; Felsenburgh,"
said Father Blackmore once more.
"I cannot get that man out of my head. And yet,
what do I know of him? What does anyone know of him?"
Percy licked his lips to answer, and drew a breath to
still the beating of his heart. He could not imagine why he felt excited. After
all, who was old Blackmore to frighten him? But old Blackmore went on before he could speak.
"See how
people are leaving the Church! The Wargraves,
the Hendersons, Sir James Bartlet,
Lady Magnier, and then all the priests. Now
they're not all knaves—I wish they were; it would be so much easier to talk
of it. But Sir James Bartlet, last month! Now,
there's a man who has spent half his fortune on the Church, and he doesn't
resent it even now. He says that any religion is better than none, but that,
for himself, he just can't believe any longer. Now what does all that mean? . . . I
tell you something is going to happen. God knows what! And I can't get Felsenburgh out of my head. . . . Father Franklin—"
"Yes ?"
"Have you noticed how few great men we've got? It's not like fifty years ago, or even
thirty. Then there were Mason, Selborne, Sherbrook, and half-a-dozen others. There was Brightman, too, as Archbishop: and now! Then
the Communists, too. Braithwaite is dead fifteen years. Certainly he was
big enough; but he was always speaking of the future, not of the present; and tell me what big man they have had since then! And now
there's this new man, whom no one knows, who came forward in
Percy knitted his forehead.
"I am not sure that I understand," he said.
Father Blackmore knocked his
pipe out before answering. "Well, this," he said, standing up.
"I can't help thinking Felsenburgh is going to
do something. I don't know what; it may be for us or against us. But he is a
Mason, remember that . . . Well, well; I dare say I'm an old fool. Good-night."
"One moment, father," said Percy slowly.
"Do you mean—? Good Lord! What do you mean?" He stopped, looking at the other.
The old priest stared back under his bushy eyebrows;
it seemed to Percy as if he, too, were afraid of something in spite of his easy
talk; but he made no sign.
Percy stood perfectly still a moment when the door was
shut. Then he moved across to his prie-dieu.
Am liebsten würden wir die
deutsche Übersetzung beifügen, aber wir konnten nicht in Erfahrung bringen, ob
der Übersetzer unserer Ausgabe von 1920, H. M. von Lama – er lebte in Füssen –
schon 70 Jahre tot ist (wegen des Urheberrechts). Falls es jemand weiß, bitte
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