Lord of the World | Page 5

a great deal more reason
for saying it. After all, granted the supernatural, Religious Houses are an obvious
consequence; but the object of secular education is presumably the production of
something visible--either character or competence; and it became quite impossible to
prove that the Universities produced either--which was worth having. The distinction
between [Greek: ou] and [Greek: me] is not an end in itself; and the kind of person
produced by its study was not one which appealed to England in the twentieth century. I
am not sure that it appealed even to me much (and I was always a strong
Individualist)--except by way of pathos---"
"Yes?" said Percy.
"Oh, it was pathetic enough. The Science Schools of Cambridge and the Colonial
Department of Oxford were the last hope; and then those went. The old dons crept about
with their books, but nobody wanted them--they were too purely theoretical; some drifted
into the poorhouses, first or second grade; some were taken care of by charitable
clergymen; there was that attempt to concentrate in Dublin; but it failed, and people soon
forgot them. The buildings, as you know, were used for all kinds of things. Oxford
became an engineering establishment for a while, and Cambridge a kind of Government
laboratory. I was at King's College, you know. Of course it was all as horrible as it could
be--though I am glad they kept the chapel open even as a museum. It was not nice to see
the chantries filled with anatomical specimens. However, I don't think it was much worse
than keeping stoves and surplices in them."
"What happened to you?"
"Oh! I was in Parliament very soon; and I had a little money of my own, too. But it was
very hard on some of them; they had little pensions, at least all who were past work. And
yet, I don't know: I suppose it had to come. They were very little more than picturesque

survivals, you know; and had not even the grace of a religious faith about them."
Percy sighed again, looking at the humorously reminiscent face of the old man. Then he
suddenly changed the subject again.
"What about this European parliament?" he said.
The old man started.
"Oh!... I think it will pass," he said, "if a man can be found to push it. All this last century
has been leading up to it, as you see. Patriotism has been dying fast; but it ought to have
died, like slavery and so forth, under the influence of the Catholic Church. As it is, the
work has been done without the Church; and the result is that the world is beginning to
range itself against us: it is an organised antagonism-- a kind of Catholic anti-Church.
Democracy has done what the Divine Monarchy should have done. If the proposal passes
I think we may expect something like persecution once more.... But, again, the Eastern
invasion may save us, if it comes off.... I do not know...."
Percy sat still yet a moment; then he stood up suddenly.
"I must go, sir," he said, relapsing into Esperanto. "It is past nineteen o'clock. Thank you
so much. Are you coming, father?"
Father Francis stood up also, in the dark grey suit permitted to priests, and took up his
hat.
"Well, father," said the old man again, "come again some day, if I haven't been too
discursive. I suppose you have to write your letter yet?"
Percy nodded.
"I did half of it this morning," he said, "but I felt I wanted another bird's-eye view before
I could understand properly: I am so grateful to you for giving it me. It is really a great
labour, this daily letter to the Cardinal-Protector. I am thinking of resigning if I am
allowed."
"My dear father, don't do that. If I may say so to your face, I think you have a very
shrewd mind; and unless Rome has balanced information she can do nothing. I don't
suppose your colleagues are as careful as yourself."
Percy smiled, lifting his dark eyebrows deprecatingly.
"Come, father," he said.
* * * * *
The two priests parted at the steps of the corridor, and Percy stood for a minute or two
staring out at the familiar autumn scene, trying to understand what it all meant. What he

had heard downstairs seemed strangely to illuminate that vision of splendid prosperity
that lay before him.
The air was as bright as day; artificial sunlight had carried all before it, and London now
knew no difference between dark and light. He stood in a kind of glazed cloister, heavily
floored with a preparation of rubber on which footsteps made no sound. Beneath him, at
the foot of the stairs, poured an endless double line of persons severed by a