The Dawn of All

by Robert Hugh Benson

(II)

It was a moment before either spoke. The old priest broke the silence. He was a gentle-faced old man, not unlike a very shrewd and wide-awake dormouse; and his white hair stood out in a mass beneath his biretta. But the words he used were unintelligible, though not altogether unfamiliar.

"I . . . I don't understand, father," stammered the man.

The priest looked at him sharply.

"I was saying," he said slowly and distinctly, "I was saying that you looked very well, and I was asking you what was the matter."

The other was silent a moment. How, to explain the thing! . . . Then he determined on making a clean breast of it. This old man looked kindly and discreet. "I . . . I think it's a lapse of memory," he said. "I've heard of such things. I . . . I don't know where I am nor what I'm doing. Are you . . . are you sure you're not making a mistake? Have I got any right——?"

The priest looked at him as if puzzled.

"I don't quite understand, Monsignor. What can't you remember?"

"I can't remember anything," wailed the man, suddenly broken down. "Nothing at all. Not who I am, nor where I'm going, or where I come from. . . . What am I? Who am I? Father, for God's sake tell me."

"Monsignor, be quiet, please. You mustn't give way. Surely——"

"I tell you I can remember nothing. . . . It's all gone. I don't know who you are. I don't know what day it is, or what year it is, or anything——"

He felt a hand on his arm, and his eyes met a look of a very peculiar power and concentration. He sank back into his seat strangely quieted and soothed.

"Now, Monsignor, listen to me. You know who I am"—(he broke off). "I'm Father Jervis. I know about these things. I've been through the psychological schools. You'll be all right presently, I hope. But you must be perfectly quiet——"

"Tell me who I am," stammered the man.

"Listen then. You are Monsignor Masterman, secretary to the Cardinal.
You are going back to Westminster now, in your own car——"

"What's been going on? What was all that crowd about?"

Still the eyes were on him, compelling and penetrating.

"You have been presiding at the usual midday Saturday sermon in
Hyde Park, on behalf of the Missions to the East. Do you remember
now? No! Well, it doesn't matter in the least. That was Father
Anthony who was preaching. He was a little nervous, you noticed.
It was his first sermon in Hyde Park."

"I saw he was a friar," murmured the other.

"Oh! you recognized his habit then? There, you see; your memory's not really gone. And . . . and what's the answer to Dominus vobiscum?"

"Et cum spiritu tuo."

The priest smiled, and the pressure on the man's arm relaxed.

"That's excellent. It's only a partial obscurity. Why didn't you understand me when I spoke to you in Latin then?"

"That was Latin? I thought so. But you spoke too fast; and I'm not accustomed to speak it."

The old man looked at him with grave humour. "Not accustomed to speak it, Monsignor! Why——" (He broke off again.) "Look out of the window, please. Where are we?"

The other looked out. (He felt greatly elated and comforted. It was quite true; his memory was not altogether gone then. Surely he would soon be well again!) Out of the windows in front, but seeming to wheel swiftly to the left as the car whisked round to the right, was the Victoria Tower. He noticed that the hour pointed to five minutes before one.

"Those are the Houses of Parliament," he said. "And what's that tall pillar in the middle of Parliament Square?"

"That's the image of the Immaculate Conception. But what did you call those buildings just now?"

"Houses of Parliament, aren't they?" faltered the man, terrified that his brain was really going.

"Why do you call them that?"

"It is their name, isn't it?"

"It used to be; but it isn't the usual name now."

"Good God! Father, am I mad? Tell me. What year is it?"

The eyes looked again into his.

"Monsignor, think. Think hard."

"I don't know. . . . I don't know. . . . Oh, for God's sake! . . ."

"Quietly then. . . . It's the year nineteen hundred and seventy-three."

"It can't be; it can't be," gasped the other. "Why, I remember the beginning of the century."

"Monsignor, attend to me, please. . . . That's better. It's the year nineteen hundred and seventy-three. You were born in the year—in the year nineteen hundred and thirty-two. You are just forty years old. You are secretary and chaplain to the Cardinal—Cardinal Bellairs. Before that you were Rector of St. Mary's in the West. . . . Do you remember now?"

"I remember nothing."

"You remember your ordination?"

"No. Once I remember saying Mass somewhere. I don't know where."

"Stay, we're just there." (The car wheeled in swiftly under an archway, whisked to the left, and drew up before the cloister door.) "Now, Monsignor, I'm going in to see the Prior myself and give him the papers. You have them?"

"I. . . I don't know."

The priest dived forward and extracted a small despatch-box from some unseen receptacle.

"Your keys, please, Monsignor."

The other felt wildly about his person. He saw the steady eyes of the old priest upon him.

"You keep them in your left-hand breast pocket," said the priest slowly and distinctly.

The man felt there, fetched out a bundle of thin, flat keys, and handed them over helplessly. While the priest turned them over, examining each, the other stared hopelessly out of the window, past the motionless servant in purple who waited with his hand on the car-door. Surely he knew this place. . . . Yes; it was Dean's Yard. And this was the entrance to the cloister of the Abbey. But who was "the Prior," and what was it all about?

He turned to the other, who by now was bending over the box and extracting a few papers laid neatly at the top.

"What are you doing, father? Who are you going to see?"

"I am going to take these papers of yours to the Prior—the Prior of Westminster. The Abbot isn't here yet. Only a few of the monks have come."

"Monks! Prior! . . . Father!"

The old man looked him in the eyes again.

"Yes," he said quietly. "The Abbey was made over again to the Benedictines last year, but they haven't yet formally taken possession. And these papers concern business connected with the whole affair—the relations of seculars and regulars. I'll tell you afterwards. I must go in now, and you must just remain here quietly. Tell me again. What is your name? Who are you?"

"I. . . I am Monsignor Masterman. . . secretary to
Cardinal Bellairs."

The priest smiled as he laid his hand on the door.

"Quite right," he said. "Now please sit here quietly, Monsignor, till I come back."

(III)

He sat in perfect silence, waiting, leaning back in his corner with closed eyes, compelling himself to keep his composure.

It was, at any rate, good luck that he had fallen in with such a friend as this—Father Jervis, was it not?—who knew all about him, and, obviously, could be trusted to be discreet. He must just attend to his instructions quietly then, and do what he was told. No doubt things would come back soon. But how very curious this all was about Hyde Park and Westminster. He could have sworn that England was a Protestant country, and the Church just a tiny fragment of its population. Why, it was only recently that Westminster Cathedral was built—was it not? But then this was the year seventy-three . . . and . . . and he could not remember in what year the Cathedral was built. Then again the horror and bewilderment seized him. He gripped his knees with his hands in an agony of consternation. He would go mad if he could not remember. Or at least——Ah! here was Father Jervis coming back again.

The two sat quite silent again for a moment, as the car moved off.

"Tell me," said the priest suddenly, "don't you remember faces, or people's names?"

The other concentrated his mind fiercely for a moment or two.

"I remember some faces—yes," he said. "And I remember some names. But I cannot remember which faces belong to which names. . . . I remember . . . I remember the name Archbishop Bourne; and . . . and a priest called Farquharson——"

"What have you been reading lately? . . . Ah! I forgot. Well; but can't you remember the Cardinal . . . Cardinal Bellairs?"

"I've never heard of him."

"Nor what he looks like?"

"I haven't a notion."

The priest again was silent.

"Look here, Monsignor," he said suddenly, "I'd better take you straight up to your rooms as soon as we arrive; and I'll have a notice put up on your confessional that you are unable to attend there to-day. You'll have the whole afternoon—after four at least—to yourself, and the rest of the evening. We needn't tell a soul until we're certain that it can't be helped, not even the Cardinal. But I'm afraid you'll have to preside at lunch to-day."

"Eh?"

"Mr. Manners is coming, you know, to consult with the Cardinal; and I think if you weren't there to entertain him——"

Monsignor nodded sharply, with compressed lips.

"I understand. But just tell me who Mr. Manners is?"

The priest answered without any sign of discomposure.

"He's a member of the Government. He's the great Political Economist. And he's coming to consult with the Cardinal about certain measures that affect the Church. Do you remember now?"

The other shook his head. "No."

"Well, just talk to him vaguely. I'll sit opposite and take care that you don't make any mistakes. Just talk to him generally. Talk about the sermon in Hyde Park, and the Abbey. He won't expect you to talk politics publicly."

"I'll try."

The car drew up as the conversation ended; and the man who had lost his memory glanced out. To his intense relief, he recognized where he was. It was the door of Archbishop's House, in Ambrosden Avenue; and beyond he perceived the long northern side of the Cathedral.

"I know this," he said.

"Of course you do, my dear Monsignor," said the priest reassuringly. "Now follow me: bow to any one who salutes you; but don't speak a word."

They passed in together through the door, past a couple of liveried servants who held it open, up the staircase and beyond up the further flight. The old priest drew out a key and unlocked the door before them; and together they turned to the left up the corridor, and passed into a large, pleasant room looking out on to the street, with a further door communicating, it seemed, with a bedroom beyond. Fortunately they had met no one on the way.

"Here we are," said Father Jervis cheerfully. "Now, Monsignor, do you know where you are?"

The other shook his head dolorously.

"Come, come; this is your own room. Look at your writing-table,
Monsignor; where you sit every day."

The other looked at it eagerly and yet vaguely. A half-written letter, certainly in his own handwriting, lay there on the blotting-pad, but the name of his correspondent meant nothing to him; nor did the few words which he read. He looked round the room—at the bookcases, the curtains, the prie-Dieu . . . And again terror seized him.

"I know nothing, father . . . nothing at all. It's all new! For
God's sake! . . ."

"Quietly then, Monsignor. It's all perfectly right. . . . Now I'm going to leave you for ten minutes, to arrange about the places at lunch. You'd better lock your door and admit no one. Just look round the rooms when I'm gone——Ah!"

Father Jervis broke off suddenly and darted at an arm-chair, where a book lay face downwards on the seat. He snatched up the book, glanced at the pages, looked at the title, and laughed aloud.

"I knew it," he said; "I was certain of it. You've got hold of
Manners' History, Look! you're at the very page."

He held it up for the other to see. Monsignor looked at it, still only half comprehending, and just noticing that the paper had a peculiar look, and saw that the running dates at the top of the pages contained the years 1904-1912. The priest shook the book in gentle triumph. A sheet of paper fell out of it, which he picked up and glanced at. Then he laughed again.

"See," he said, "you've been making notes of the very period—no doubt in order to be able to talk to Manners. That's the time he knows more about than any living soul. He calls it the 'crest of the wave,' you know. Everything dated from then, in his opinion."

"I don't understand a word——"

"See here, Monsignor," interrupted the priest in mild glee, "here's a subject to talk about at lunch. Just get Manners on to it, and you'll have no trouble. He loves lecturing; and he talks just like a history-book. Tell him you've been reading his History and want a bird's-eye view."

Monsignor started.

"Why, yes," he said, "and that'll tell me the facts, too."

"Excellent. Now, Monsignor, I must go. Just look round the rooms well, and get to know where things are kept. I'll be back in ten minutes, and we'll have a good talk before lunch as to all who'll be there. It'll all go perfectly smoothly, I promise you."

(IV)

When the door closed Monsignor Masterman looked round him slowly and carefully. He had an idea that the mist must break sooner or later and that all would become familiar once again. It was perfectly plain, by now, to his mind, what had happened to him; and the fact that there were certain things which he recognized, such as the Cathedral, and Hyde Park, and a friar's habit, and Archbishop's House—all this helped him to keep his head. If he remembered so much, there seemed no intrinsic reason why he should not remember more.

But his inspection was disappointing. Not only was there not one article in the room which he knew, but he did not even understand the use of some of the things which he saw. There was a row of what looked like small black boxes fastened to the right-hand wall, about the height of a man's head; and there was some kind of a machine, all wheels and handles, in the corner by the nearer window, which was completely mysterious to him.

He glanced through into the bedroom, and this was not much better. Certainly there was a bed; there was no mistake about that; and there seemed to be wardrobes sunk to the level of the walls on all sides; but although in this room he thought he recognized the use of everything which he saw, there was no single thing that wore a familiar aspect.

He came back to his writing-table and sat down before it in despair. But that did not reassure him. He took out one or two of the books that stood there in a row—directories and address-books they appeared chiefly to be—and found his name written in each, with here and there a note or a correction, all in his own handwriting. He took up the half-written letter again and glanced through it once more, but it brought no relief. He could not even conjecture how the interrupted sentence on the third page ought to end.

Again and again he tried to tear up from his inner consciousness something which he could remember, closing his eyes and sinking his head upon his hands, but nothing except fragments and glimpses of vision rose before him. It was now a face or a scene to which he could give no name; now a sentence or a thought that owned no context. There was no frame at all—no unified scheme in which these fragments found cohesion. It was like regarding the pieces of a shattered jar whose shape even could not be conjectured. . . .

Then a sudden thought struck him; he sprang up quickly and ran into his bedroom. A tall mirror, he remembered, hung between the windows. He ran straight up to this and stood staring at his own reflection. It was himself that he saw there—there was no doubt of that—every line and feature of that keen, pale, professorial-looking face was familiar, though it seemed to him that his hair was a little greyer than it ought to be.