From God our Heavenly Father
A blessed angel came,
And unto certain shepherds
Brought tidings of the same,
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by name.
It’s been three years since the forces of Christian Britain established a foothold in Moslem Britain, and it’s been three years since the Reverend Christopher Grey last completed a remembrance. He has written many a letter and many a sermon in the past three years, but he has not had time to make more than rough sketches of new remembrances. Nor is he likely, alas, to finish another remembrance. I promised him I’d ‘tidy up’ some of his correspondence and the remembrances for him if he was unable to get back to them. And who am I? I am Francesco Bontini, formerly a priest in the Roman Catholic Church, now defrocked, formerly a citizen of my beloved Italy, now in exile, and a friend of the Rev. Grey for the past twenty-five years. I am 70 years old, and the Rev. Grey is 101 years old. He is currently awaiting yet another trial for his life, this time in Italy at the Vatican court. There is no doubt that he will be sentenced to death as he was three years ago in London, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself, nor do I want to go too far afield from fulfilling the task the Rev. Grey gave me. I am to devote my time to his correspondence and his remembrances.
Let me quote from the Reverend’s last completed remembrance to set the stage for what follows:
The fall of Britain did not come by way of an invasion. It came at the invitation of the liberals. The hatred of the white race that was so manifest in the white-hating Jacobins such as Price and Priestly became the religion of the modern university-trained Britons. So this land of dear souls, at least still dear to me, is now “leas’d out” to the Moslems. The liberals called them refugees and hoped to use them to destroy their enemies, which were all white Britons, but they miscalculated. The Moslems were supposed to be grateful to the liberals, and as a token of their gratitude they were supposed to become a part of white-hating Liberaldom. Instead, they set up their own Moslem state in which the liberals who weren’t executed played only a supporting role.
At first the “refugees” were content to do things democratically. They won a few elections and occupied most of London so that the police were afraid to act against them when they committed felonies such as rape, murder, and armed robbery, but after a few years of nominal control of Britain’s larger cities the Moslems decided to take complete control. They did away with democracy and set up a Moslem state. Britain was divided into nine fiefdoms, with a caliph at the head of each. The high Caliph resided in London at Buckingham Palace, the former home of the Kings and Queens of Britain.
The various members of the British parliament voted, before they were dismissed, for the execution of the royal family and anyone who was even remotely connected to the royal line of descent. The Queen, her husband, Prince George, Prince Stephen and Princess Margaret, were all executed on the old chopping block that was the site of so many royal beheadings in the past. Only Prince Arthur survived, but I’ll come back to him later. By sacrificing the royal family the members of Parliament had hoped not only to save their lives, they also hoped to obtain some position in the new Moslem government. This was only the case with about 15% of the members of Parliament. That was the approximate number of parliamentary members who did obtain minor posts in one of the Moslem fiefdoms. Having spent a lifetime betraying their own people they made themselves useful to the various caliphs by sniffing out any white resistance to Moslem rule and reporting that resistance to the caliph in their particular fiefdom. But there is only room for so many slimy informants in any administration. Eighty-five percent of the former members of the British Parliament were executed along with their families two weeks after they voted for the execution of the royal family.
There was no resistance to the Moslem takeover within the ranks of the military or the police for the simple reason that there was no official takeover. The liberals voted to dissolve their government and turn the reins of power over to the caliphs. So when the caliphs came in they inherited the liberals’ military and the liberals’ police. The members of the military and police forces had been trained to support the state so when the state became Moslem, the police and the military, having been raised with no moral instincts, simply continued working for the Moslem state. There were some executions of the higher ranking officials in all the armed forces so that the leadership positions could be occupied by Moslems, but the regular rank and file police officers and the rank and file soldiers were allowed to continue to serve the new Moslem state. The white policemen and the white members of the military were often harder on the native-born white British civilians than the Moslem soldiers and policemen were, because the white policemen and soldiers wanted to prove their loyalty to the new government.
Some of the pagan nationalist parties had welcomed the Moslem invaders in the hope that they would put paid to the Jews’ account, but the old saying, “Be careful what you wish for, because you might get more than you bargained for,” could be applied to the neo-pagan nationalists just as it could be applied to their liberal enemies and counterparts. The feminists who all wanted to sleep with the refugees and said, “Better rapists than racists,” soon discovered that rape was not as pleasant in reality as it was in their fantasies. Nor was being one wife among many as fulfilling as they had hoped.
Nor were the neo-pagans who wanted the Moslems to crack down on the feminists and the Jews delighted to learn that they, just by virtue of being white, were considered to be Christian and outside the ken of Moslem humanity. They were not allowed to become part of Islamic Britain.
And the blacks? They went back to their natural state. The Moslems used them as slaves and henchmen. So long as they got their share of white blood and white women, they seemed quite content to descend from the pedestal that the liberals had put them on.
The brunt of the invasion, which was more of betrayal than an invasion, fell upon the native-born white Britons. They never believed, even as the Moslems and the third world scum poured into their nation, that their government, their own people, would hand them over to the tender mercies of the Moslems. But of course that is exactly what happened. Some families, far too few, saw what was coming and attempted to go rural, but simply going rural delayed the Moslems for a time, it didn’t provide any long-term solution to the problem of an Islamic Britain.
The executions were not wholesale, but they were not non-existent either. If any member of a white British family was suspected of any resistance to Sharia law, the whole family was exterminated. My rough estimate is that about 40% of the white Britons were exterminated after the official Moslem takeover. And the rest of the Brits were watched carefully by the traitors who used to sit in Parliament, but now spent their time looking for the enemies of Islam. And when you look for enemies, you usually find them, whether they are real enemies or imaginary ones.
The church men fared better than Parliament and the native-born. The Anglican and Roman Catholic churches simply proclaimed that Allah was God and Jesus Christ was a subordinate prophet to Mohammed. This enabled them to maintain their tax-exempt status and to continue holding church services. The state religion was, of course, Islam. Anyone who openly avowed Christianity or who was discovered to have avowed Christianity in private was immediately executed.
But there were a few — my friend John Chambers was one — who saw what was coming and went underground before the Moslem takeover. John and a few stalwart Britons are at large and they constitute a fighting remnant that I hope will grow into an army that will ultimately, led by Arthur II, drive the Moslems from Britain. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m still not ready to talk about Prince Arthur, the young man who was born to be King of Britain.
My own case was a curious one. I had a long record of open hostility to Islam, liberalism, and black barbarism. I had not had a position in the official church for over 25 years, but I was perceived to be the leader of Christian Britain. I never ceased my walks through London even after the Moslem takeover, and I even managed to save some white Britons from being raped and murdered by roving black and Moslem gangs. I didn’t know why I was unmolested at the time, but I later learned that it was because I was considered to be a special case that had to be handled in a special way. When I was finally arrested, I was not formally charged or arraigned. I spent three months in prison before I was told the charge against me and what my fate was.
Christopher was sentenced to death after that trial, but he escaped and lived to see Prince Arthur become King Arthur II and reclaim most of Wales, Cornwall, and a small segment of Scotland for Christian Britain. Most of Britain is still in the hands of the Moslems, but white Britons now have a foothold in Britain even if it is a tenuous foothold. The majority of whites that are still living in Britain have sided with the Moslems against their own people. Why have they done so? It’s not easy to fathom, but it seems to me that the white grazers, as Christopher calls them, think they have a better chance to survive if they adhere to the Islamic-Liberal state than to the Christian state of King Arthur. And they may be right, from a purely amoral, practical standpoint. But what the white grazers do not realize is that it is King Arthur’s presence that has enabled the white grazers to survive. Once there was a place of refuge to flee to, the Caliph thought it wise to loosen up some of the restrictions on the whites living within Moslem Britain. If they lost all their whites, who would run the hospitals and provide the technological services necessary to maintain a nation? Certainly not the negroes. When the whites had no place to flee to, the Moslems’ attitude was ‘take it or leave it,’ knowing full well that there was no place to go. Now, they must be more careful. They still kill the blasphemers, but they are a little more careful about their killing. If a white Briton can help keep Moslem Britain going, he is now in less danger than before King Arthur established Christian Britain.
The standard of living in new Britain – or is it old Britain? – is certainly lower than the British people were used to, but there is life, spiritual life, in this nation. We are certainly on the right path. What will follow? Will we retake all of Britain, or will we ultimately be eradicated from the face of the earth? I don’t know, I’m not a prophet. In the meantime my friend and mentor has given me a task to do.
Some years back Peter Delaine came to see Christopher in his study. He gave Christopher a manuscript to read, written by Delaine’s great-grandfather, who was also named Peter Delaine. His great-grand sire told about the murder of his father at the hands of Haitian savages and the rescue of his mother, his sister, and himself from those same savages. The man who rescued him was his uncle Brian Delaine. I’ll let Peter Delaine describe his uncle:
My uncle was three years younger than my father and came to Saint-Domingue one year after my father did. Like my father he was completely loyal to France and did not see himself as any less of a Frenchman because he chose to seek his fortune in French Saint-Domingue instead of in France. But in every other way, my uncle was different from my father. Father was a man of slender build, very handsome and calm in temperament. I never once heard my father raise his voice in anger. In contrast, my uncle had a much more volatile nature. He often raised his voice in anger and quite often, when angry, seemed on the verge of physical violence, especially during some of his heated arguments with Father Genevesse.
My uncle was several inches shorter than my father, but he actually appeared taller because of his large, almost herculean physique. It was amazing that two brothers with the same bloodlines could look so different. My father looked every inch the French Aristocrat, while my uncle looked more like a French peasant than a French aristocrat.
Despite their differences in personality, or maybe because of those differences, my father and my uncle were very close. It was a great disappointment to my father when my uncle decided not to settle down on an estate next to him. Instead my uncle invested his part of the family fortune in a merchant ship and became a seafaring man. Because of the life he chose, he was frequently away from Saint-Domingue on long voyages of a mercantile nature. I don’t think my father quite approved of the seafaring life, but he never reproached my uncle for it, although he would occasionally make a joke about finding a good wife for Uncle Brian who would make him stay on land for more than just one week every other month.
I, of course, was very interested in my uncle’s voyages. I always looked forward to his visits to our estate, when he would tell me stories of his travels and the seafaring men who accompanied him on his voyages.
My uncle knew that my father didn’t approve of the life he had chosen, so he always prefaced his stories with, “If your father permits, I’ll tell you of…” My father always permitted it, because he loved his brother and he loved me. And despite my love for my uncle’s sea stories, I never considered any life for myself other than the one my father wanted me to have, that of a French aristocrat tending to his plantation in Saint-Domingue.
It was a good life. Much has been written, since that way of life has disappeared, about lazy, good-for-nothing French aristocrats who lived off the sweat of black slaves. That is a lie, just as the Jacobin story of fat, indolent aristocrats who deserved to be guillotined in the name of liberty, equality, and fraternity is a lie. The truth is that the black man lived off the sweat, ingenuity and vision of the white ruling class. Now that Saint-Domingue is Haiti, what is the lot of the black man? Rape, murder, poverty, and mayhem are normal in the Haiti of the black man. They were vile aberrations in the Saint-Domingue of the French aristocrats.
The climactic events of my life happened when I was 16, two years after the French Revolution. That is how long it took before liberty, equality, and fraternity brought rivers of blood to Saint-Domingue.
I am 95 years old, but I have carried the memory of the events of 79 years ago with me through all these years. Nothing will ever erase the memory of that terrible night and its aftermath.
After the night of sorrows when Peter’s father was murdered, he and his family settled in England. But Brian Delaine continued his seafaring life. He became a Scarlet Pimpernel-type figure, going back to Haiti and to France on several occasions:
“Like the Scarlet Pimpernel he kept his identity secret. Unlike the Scarlet Pimpernel he had no songs written about him, but amongst the French émigré population in England he was called the scourge of Jacobinism. He never reconciled with the French government, not under Napoleon nor the Republic. My uncle, a descendant of Brain Delaine, told me that whenever the topic of reconciliation came up Brain Delaine simply stated, ‘They are all regicides; I will never make peace with them.’ And he never did.”
“He lived the rest of his life in England?”
“Yes, except for his rescue missions to France and two or three trips to Haiti.”
“Why Haiti? What was there left for him to do?”
“My uncle never gave me any details about those trips. All he said was that his great grandfather’s excursions to Haiti were for rescue and punitive purposes. So I can only assume that the family sword was unsheathed again on those missions.”
Before he was taken prisoner by the Vatican Army, Christopher was working on a translation of a segment of Brian Delaine’s diary that his great, great-nephew had in his possession at the time of his death. Much of the diary was illegible, but Christopher was able to understand the essential details of a rescue mission, prior to the rescue mission that was included in his remembrance of Peter Delaine, in Jacobin France during the reign of Robespierre. Brian Delaine had reason to believe that his oldest brother’s daughter, the brother who stayed in France, was still alive. He set out to find her and bring her back to England with him. In order to do that he needed to penetrate one of the Jacobin enclaves in order to come into contact with a Jacobin woman who knew, according to Brian’s informants, the whereabouts of his niece. What follows is Christopher’s translation of Brian Delaine’s diary. As he often does, Christopher put the diary in dramatic form, without altering the essential narrative of Brian Delaine. Christopher explained to me that what would have been impossible for most French aristocrats of that time, to pose as a member of the French lower class, was possible for Brian Delaine because of the sea-faring life he had led. Granted he was a captain, not a seaman, but he had come in contact with all sorts of men from the lower classes. He knew how they talked and he could ape their manners. What follows is Christopher’s translation of Brian Delaine’s first rescue mission to Jacobin France.
Cast of Characters
Priest – Father Sieyès
Revolutionary Poet and Man of Paris – Peter Chalier
Feminist – Rose Lacombe
Petty Thief and Informant
Strongman, Lackey for Madame Lacombe – Gorgo
Brian Delaine, assuming the identity of a common seaman named Charles Delarose
Act I. Scene I. A room above a butcher shop in Paris
Poet: I don’t see why we have to meet here all the time. There is no need for secrecy anymore, the Revolution has taken care of that.
Butcher: Why shouldn’t we meet here?
Poet: Because the place stinks of rotten meat, that’s why.
Butcher: It doesn’t stink, I use only fresh meat. I don’t keep rotting flesh on the premises.
Father Sieyès: (laughing) Maybe what we smell is the rotting flesh of the headless bodies cast off by Madame Guillotine.
Petty Thief: We still meet here because Madame Lacombe wants us to meet here.
Poet: And we must always do what Madame Lacombe tells us to do.
Butcher: Don’t try to act like you’re not afraid of her, we are all afraid of her, and you’re no exception.
Poet: I am a poet, I fear no man and no woman.
Butcher: Nonsense. I say that you are afraid of her.
Petty Thief: What do you mean when you say you are a poet? Are poets without fear? No one with an ounce of common sense would willingly run afoul of Madame Lacombe. She is a trusted lieutenant of Robespierre himself. One false step, and you’ll be facing Madame Guillotine yourself, Monsieur Poet. Your verses won’t save you.
Butcher: Or she might have you strangled instead. That imbecilic giant that is always by her side will do whatever she commands.
Father Sieyès: Where did he come from?
Butcher: He used to be a strongman in a circus. He has the strength of ten men but the mind of a child.
Petty Thief: (laughing) A cruel child!
Butcher: He serves his purpose. But (staring at the poet) don’t tell me you’re not afraid of Madame Lacombe?
Poet: Well, where is she? She is the one who called the meeting.
Butcher: She’ll be here.
Petty Thief: (laughing) She probably had to spend time with her aristocratic girls.
Butcher: Don’t let her hear you say that.
Poet: Why not? This is the new France — if Madame Lacombe wants to use the young women for her own needs before she turns them over to Madame Guillotine, why should that be any concern to the rest of France?
Butcher: There is no reason at all, but I still don’t think she would like to hear people talking about it.
Father Sieyès: There is one man who doesn’t appear to be afraid of her.
Poet: And who is that?
Father Sieyès: This new recruit that she has brought among us. I don’t like him.
Poet: Because he doesn’t seem to fear Madame Lacombe?
Father Sieyès: That’s partly it, but it is also because he doesn’t seem to love the Revolution. He says the right things, but I don’t trust him. He speaks only when spoken to, and then he says very little.
Petty Thief: (looking at the poet) That is very refreshing considering the way some people run at the mouth.
Poet: Shut your face.
Father Sieyès: I hate the old regime and everything connected to it.
Butcher: Even the Son of God?
Father Sieyès: Yes, especially the Son of God. But I’ve learned to know my enemy. That sailor, or so he says, has the mark of an aristocrat, a Frenchman of the old regime.
Petty Thief: I don’t think Madame Lacombe can be so easily fooled as you think.
Father Sieyès: I don’t say that she is wrong, I say that she might have been deceived by this man.
Poet: Well, there are ways to test him.
Father Sieyès: Then I suggest we test him.
[Enter Madame Lacombe, Brian Delaine, and the strongman. Delaine’s assumed name is Charles Delarose.)
Madame Lacombe: What are you bickering about now, you fools?
Father Sieyès: Nothing.
Madame Lacombe: Then stop bickering about nothing and listen to me. I’ve just come from a meeting with Citizen Robespierre. He wants every citizens’ committee to be watchful for a man named Brian Delaine. It is rumored that he is now in France.
Butcher: Who is Brian Delaine? I can’t watch for him if I don’t know what he looks like.
Madame Lacombe: We don’t know what he looks like. We do know that he is a French aristocrat. He was born and raised in France, but he has spent a good deal of his adult life at sea, as a captain of his own ship. He had one brother who was executed for his crimes against the people while living in Haiti. Brian Delaine, after shedding innocent blood, was able to save his brother’s children and wife. His other brother and his parents were executed by Citizen Robespierre for crimes against the people. Only the one female, Brian Delaine’s niece from that branch of Delaine’s family, remains alive. I have tried to obtain information about Brian Delaine from that niece, but she has stoutly maintained her ignorance of his whereabouts. I now believe that she does not know where her uncle is.
Father Sieyès: Why do you believe her?
Madame Lacombe: Because I don’t believe a fourteen-year-old girl can deceive me.
Poet: Maybe she is a very deceptive fourteen-year-old girl. A woman at any age can deceive…
Madame Lacombe: Yes, she can deceive a man, but not another woman. And not a woman like me. Tomorrow I will turn her over to the Tribunal. Then we will see if Brian Delaine surfaces.
Petty Thief: I don’t understand all this fuss over one man.
Poet: Then you understand nothing, my dear cutthroat. This man, this Brian Delaine, has made several dramatic rescues in Haiti that has put fear in the hearts of the Haitians. Every time they turn around, they are worried that Brian Delaine will get them. He has become a bogeyman to them.
Petty Thief: But this is France, we are rational men, we don’t believe in bogeymen.
Father Sieyès: We are no different than our black brothers. In fact, we are inferior to them — they are the true people of nature, they are…
Poet: Yes, Father, we all, except our petty thief over there, have read Rousseau. But the point is that we dare not let the poetic of this Brian Delaine take hold in France. Not now, not when we have defeated the old regime.
Butcher: I do not understand what you mean when you say the ‘poetic of Brian Delaine.’
Poet: I mean what is here (pointing to his heart). The old regime gave the people a king, a God, and the things that go with a king and God. Things such as marriage and the little things that come from married love. And what do we oppose that poetic with? We oppose the Christian monarchy with a government by the people. We oppose the poetic of marriage with the freedom of lust. And we oppose the tyranny of money with the liberty of a commonality of citizens who share their money with each other. Our poetic will win, but we must never allow the old regime’s poetic to resurface. There shall be no heroes of old France in our new France.
Father Sieyès: I don’t always agree with Peter Chalier, but in this case I heartily agree with him. Our Revolution has been successful because the people’s hearts belong to us. We must not allow some hero from Christian France to steal even one heart away from the Revolution.
Butcher: Then we should make sure he does not rescue his niece.
Madame Lacombe: He won’t. In fact, I think it is his concern for his niece that will lead him up the steps to Madame Guillotine.
Father Sieyès: You haven’t said a word, Charles. What is your opinion of the poetic of the old regime? Is it really as dangerous as Peter Chalier and I think it is?
Brian Delaine: I have no opinion on the subject.
Father Sieyès: Surely, you must have some opinion.
Brian Delaine: I don’t.
Madame Lacombe: Let him be. He has been very helpful to the Revolution in his own way. He does not need to talk to you imbeciles.
Poet: Very well, but I hardly think any of us here are imbeciles.
Madame Lacombe: You are when you just talk and never act. Find me Brian Delaine, find me more aristocrats, and then I’ll call you something other than imbeciles.
Now, let me bring up a second matter that concerns Citizen Robespierre. I must speak of that loathsome reptile, the Englishman, Edmund Burke. This is what he wrote in a letter, which we intercepted, to one of our citizens. He has publicized similar letters before. I quote:
‘You find it perfectly ridiculous, and unfit for me in particular, to take these things as my ingredients of commiseration. Pray why is it absurd in me to think, that the chivalrous spirit which dictated a veneration for women of condition and of beauty, without any consideration whatever of enjoying them, was the great source of those manners which have been the pride and ornament of Europe for so many ages? And am I not to lament that I have lived to see those manners extinguished in so shocking a manner, by means of speculations of finance, and the false science of a sordid and degenerate philosophy? I tell you again, that the recollection of the manner in which I saw the queen of France, in the year 1774, and the contrast between that brilliancy, splendour, and beauty, with the prostrate homage of a nation to her, and the abominable scene of 1789, which I was describing, did draw tears from me and wetted my paper. These tears came again into my eyes, almost as often as I looked at the description; they may again. You do not believe this fact, nor that these are my real feelings; but that the whole is affected, or, as you express it, downright foppery. My friend, I tell you it is truth; and that it is true, and will be truth, when you and I are no more; and will exist as long as men with their natural feelings shall exist. I shall say no more on this foppery of mine. Oh! by the way, you ask me how long I have been an admirer of German ladies? Always the same. Present me the idea of such massacres about  any German lady here, and such attempts to assassinate her, and such a triumphant procession from Windsor to the Old Jewry, and I assure you, I shall be quite as full of natural concern and just indignation.’
Butcher: Burke is just a scribbler, he does us no harm.
Poet: I disagree, Burke has the…
Father Sieyès: The poetic?
Petty Thief: But he lives in England. What can we do about him?
Madame Lacombe: You? Probably nothing. But he (pointing to the poet) and he (pointing to the priest) might be able to combat him in their writings.
Poet. That is impossible.
Father Sieyès: Why?
Poet: Because neither you nor I possess Burke’s poetical gifts. He writes with an eloquence that is second only to Shakespeare.
Father Sieyès: Then you are an aristocrat?
Poet: No, I am not. I am the son of the gutter, who knew neither father nor mother.
Petty Thief: But you were raised by aristocrats.
Poet: I was adopted when I was five years old by an aristocratic family. They took me from a convent orphanage. They loved me and educated me. And in return I betrayed them when Robespierre came into power.
Father Sieyès: Why, if they loved you and treated you well did you betray them?
Poet: Because I hated them. I hated their superiority, which is what they called ‘charity.’ I am not fooled by such posturing. At the heart of their charity was a desire to lord it over me, to treat me as inferior because I needed kindness. So I rejected their kindness. And it was my testimony that sent them and my brothers and sisters by adoption to the guillotine. So don’t tell me I’m an aristocrat. I am of the people. But I believe in knowing your enemy. So I tell you, no living man can match Burke’s eloquence.
Father Sieyès: Then what should be done about Burke?
Poet: There are two ways to destroy him. The first is to bring up sordid details of his amours.
Father Sieyès: He had no amours. His personal life is quite free of clandestine affairs.
Poet: Then you must deal with him by the second way.
Father Sieyès: Which is?
Poet: Kill him. There are plenty of English Jacobins who would be quite willing to kill him.
Butcher: For the cause?
Poet: Or for money?
Madame Lacombe: Such decisions will be made by Citizen Robespierre. The people of this cell should focus on Delaine and the other French aristocrats. Do your job and France will remain a free republic. We can’t rest. The king is dead, the queen will be next. And then all of Europe will follow us.
Father Sieyès: Amen to that.
[They all look at him disapprovingly.]
I meant that metaphorically.
Madame Lacombe: (glaring at him) The meeting is over.
[As they leave, Peter Chalier speaks privately with Father Sieyès.]
Poet: If you have doubts about this Delarose let me sift him. I’ll find out if he is truly with us.
Father Sieyès: Yes, do that. And let me know as soon as possible. Her judgment is not infallible. I do not trust that man.
Poet: Leave it to me.
Act I. Scene II. A street of Paris
[Peter Chalier, the Poet, comes abreast of Brian Delaine and tries to engage him in conversation.]
Poet: Father Sieyès distrusts you because he doesn’t know where you come from and you never speak at the meetings.
Delaine: I have nothing to say. Madame Lacombe finds me useful. When she no longer finds me useful, I will find other employment.
Poet: When Madame Lacombe no longer finds you useful, you most probably will not be able to find other employment. It’s difficult to work when your head has been separated from your body.
Delaine: I suppose it is.
Poet: Doesn’t that scare you?
Delaine: Does it scare you?
Poet: I suppose it does. I do not have a martyr complex as so many of those Christians used to have. I want to live.
Poet: Ah, there you have me. I suppose I want to live so I can indulge my appetites a little longer. When I’m no longer able to indulge my appetites, I probably won’t fear death as much as I do now. But this isn’t right, you must do some of the talking.
Poet: So I can tell Father Sieyès that you are not a traitor.
Delaine: I don’t give a damn what you tell Father Sieyès.
Poet: So, I must report that I have failed to prove you guilty and I have failed to prove you innocent?
Delaine: You can report what you like. I am going that way and I don’t want you to follow. Goodbye.
Poet: (to himself) Well, round one to you, Citizen Delarose, but I will find you out yet. Just give me time.
From Brian Delaine’s Journal
What kind of country is it when these Neros of the gutter, these Jacobins, can kill thousands and thousands of innocent men, women, and children simply because they wear lace collars or say the Lord’s Prayer? France the nation no longer exists. What I see before me is a portal to hell. My niece has been turned over to the Jacobin Tribunal for trial. There is no doubt about her sentence. If she dies it will mean I have perished. If I live she will live. We shall see.
Act II. Scene I. The Trial
[There were over 200 “enemies of the people” tired that day. Juliet Delaine’s trial was number 51. She received a lengthier trial, about 10 minutes), than the others because she was the niece of Brian Delaine.]
Judge Trinchard: Juliet Delaine, you are accused of crimes against the people of France, how do you plead?
Juliet: I’m not guilty. It is this Tribunal that is guilty, it is you, and Robespierre, and every member of your council who have murdered my family and my fellow countrymen. I can understand why a poor man might steal bread for his family, but I cannot understand how men like you, who are not starving nor poor, can kill other human beings with no pangs of conscience, without the slightest thought for the God of Mercy. I don’t want to die before I’ve lived, but I will gladly place my head on the chopping block and go to my God than live one more day in your France, which you have made a hell on earth. I am a Christian, I am a Delaine, and I am French. I spit on you and Robespierre and all the Jacobin pigs in this courtroom.
Trinchard: She is condemned from her own mouth.
[The prosecutor whispers to Trinchard.]
And yet the court might be lenient. We might change your death sentence to imprisonment. You are only 14 years old, you might be reformed. If you would tell us the whereabouts of your uncle, you needn’t die on the guillotine.
Juliet: The last words I shall speak in this court are the words of my Savior: “Into thy hands I commend my spirit.”
Trinchard: You shall die the death. Send me prisoner 52.
[Prisoner 52 steps forward.]
Trinchard: Guilty, now send me prisoner 53…
Act II. Scene II. Robespierre’s chambers.
[Robespierre is seated behind his desk. The poet of the gutter, Peter Chalier, is standing before him.]
Robespierre: Citizenness Lacombe tells me that you can deliver Brian Delaine into my hands.
Chalier: Yes, I think I can.
Robespierre: I don’t deal in what you think you can do. Can you or can you not deliver Brian Delaine into my hands?
Chalier: I can if you allow me access to his niece.
Robespierre: She is in prison – she has been sentenced to death. What is to be gained by talking to her? Do you think she will tell you something that she would not tell the Tribunal under threat of death? What can you do that the Tribunal can’t?
Chalier: I can win her confidence. I can give her a friend to speak to in her last days. Make her one of the last of this group sentenced to die. Give me five days in prison with her. I was raised by aristocrats, I can pass for one. Place me in the cell with the others, and I will talk with her as a brother, as one who has also been condemned to die. And she will tell me something, I’m sure, that will lead to the capture of her uncle.
Robespierre: How can you be sure that her uncle is even in Paris?
Chalier: Because I know him.
Robespierre: You have met him?
Chalier: No, but I know him. For he too is a poet. I don’t mean that he writes verse, but he is a poet in spirit. He will not let his niece die without making an effort to save her. No matter what the odds, he will try to save her.
Robespierre: You seem to admire him.
Chalier: No, I hate him. I hate him as Satan hates Christ, his poetic genius rebukes mine. I mean to triumph over him.
Robespierre: Bah, I hate all poets. I spit on you. There is only one thing necessary: That the republic should be cleansed of everyone who opposes the will of the people. The people – my will is their will and my will is stronger than poetry, than God, and every other obstacle in my path. They thought I was weak, those royalists, those aristocrats, but it was they who were weak. I have killed the King, and soon the Queen will walk the same path to the guillotine. Brian Delaine will die, if you can bring him to me, you shall be rewarded. But I don’t need you; remember that you need me. It is my will which sustains France.
Act II. Scene III.
[The fourth day of Juliet’s imprisonment. Juliet is one of twenty aristocrats of all ages and sexes confined within a large cell while they await Madame Guillotine. The poet Chalier is one of the prisoners. He has, as he boasted, been able to make a confidante of Juliet Delaine.]
Chalier: (to Juliet) You cried out in your sleep on three different occasions last night.
Juliet: You stayed near me then?
Chalier: Yes, I shall stay near you to the end.
Juliet: You remind me of my older brother. He always took care of me. They killed him – it has all been one nightmare after another. What have we done to deserve this?
Chalier: Nothing. They are men possessed by the devil, there is no other explanation. But you mustn’t lose your faith in Christ. Did not our Lord tell us that the world would hate us? We go to a better place.
Juliet: I want to die well, as my father, mother, and brother did. But I am so afraid. (she cries)
Chalier: (gently stroking her hair) There, there. Death is only terrible in the anticipation of it. When it happens, it is over quickly and then we enter the next world, a better world I’m sure.
Juliet: You’ve been such a comfort to me these last days, I feel so close to you.
Chalier: I feel close to you. I never had a sister. But you have become, at the end of my life, my sister and my whole family. They have killed my father and mother as they killed yours. And even my uncle, to whom I was quite close, was sent to the guillotine. I have no blood relations left alive. Like you, I am an orphan.
Juliet: I have an uncle, two cousins, and an aunt that are still alive.
Chalier: Indeed! Who are they?
Juliet: My uncle (in a whisper) – is Brian Delaine.
Chalier: I never knew that was your last name. This Brian Delaine is a famous man. The Jacobins hate him.
Juliet: I know, they offered me my freedom if I would tell them where he is.
Chalier: But you wouldn’t tell them?
Chalier: Is he in Paris?
Juliet: Truly, I don’t know.
Chalier: What is he like, this man called Brian Delaine?
Juliet: He is the youngest of the three sons of Edmund Delaine. My other uncle was killed in Haiti by the black Jacobins, but my Uncle managed to save my cousins and my aunt. He is a sea captain.
Chalier: I think I might have met him once on the docks. He is a tall, thin man with an aristocratic bearing, is he not?
Juliet: No, that was not my uncle you met. My uncle is of medium height and incredibly strong and well built. But he was always very kind to me and my brother. Whenever he visited he brought us presents and told us stories.
Chalier: You say your uncle saved your aunt and your cousins from the black savages of Haiti?
Juliet: By killing the savages that killed his brother and were trying to kill his brother’s family.
Chalier: Was he wounded in the fight?
Juliet: I don’t know. He was wounded at some time in his life because he has a deep scar along his right cheekbone.
Chalier: (carefully masking his excitement) No doubt a man such as your uncle could have gotten that scar in one of many fights.
Chalier: Do me one favor?
Chalier: Let me kiss your hand before I go. I didn’t want to alarm you, but I am the next to go to the guillotine. Do not cry again, my little one. Think of me when it is your turn and remember that it all passes in a moment.
[Juliet, in the midst of her tears, gives Chalier her hand and he kisses it. Chalier goes to the door and gives a significant nod to the jailer who then comes and takes him away.]
Act II. Scene IV. Room above the butcher shop
Priest: Did you tell Madame Lacombe about Delaine?
Poet: No, I just told her that she was to bring him with her by order of Robespierre.
Priest: Did she ask any questions.
Poet: She tried to but…
Priest: Yes, now you have the upper hand.
Poet: That’s right. Delaine was able to deceive her and now she just might go to the guillotine with him.
Priest: Are the soldiers posted?
Poet: Yes, don’t worry about that. As soon as Delaine walks through that door, there will be twenty muskets pointed at him.
Priest: Don’t forget that I was suspicious of him from the start.
Poet: You were right. But don’t you forget that I was the one who found out who he was.
Priest: Has the girl been executed yet?
Poet: Not yet, she is going to be executed with her uncle.
Priest: Her execution does not upset you?
Poet: No, why should it?
Priest: It shouldn’t, a true revolutionary dedicates himself to the revolution. But I thought that you might have some remnant of sentiment in you. So many of you literary people do.
Poet: I don’t. And why do you question my dedication to the revolution? I could just as easily question your dedication. After all many of your co-religionists have been executed. And do you not profess to serve Christ who is the one rallying point of the aristocrats?
Priest: Whomever Christ may have been, he is not my master. I serve the church of man. And man can only be man when he throws off all the superstitions from the past.
Poet: That’s where you are wrong, my good father. Maybe you or I don’t need superstition, but the people do. They must have gods.
Priest: Robespierre is going to give them some.
Poet: Just like that? No, Father, harvest gods and other such deities will not ultimately satisfy the people. They are happy now as they watch the aristocrats losing their heads, but once that stops they’ll start looking for something else. And what will you give them?
Priest: Their freedom.
Poet: Ah, but they don’t want freedom. They want to worship a god, and having once worshipped a human God they can’t go back to the impersonal gods of paganism.
Priest: What do you suggest?
Poet: Give them the natural savage, give them the negro.
Priest: That will come, but first we must kill all the aristocrats.
Poet: We shall. And in one half-hour we will have a most dangerous aristocrat in our hands.
Priest: That could lead to something more for you. You might be put in charge of Burke’s assassination.
Poet: I would like that. He has already done great damage to the cause in England. But his death will still be a great good. I hope I will be given that assignment. But I must come back to something you said.
Priest: What was that?
Poet: You said “whomever Christ might have been.” I take it that you do not believe that he was the son of God?
Priest: Not any more than I am a son of God.
Poet: That’s curious, because I do believe He was the son of God.
Priest: Surely, as an educated man you can’t believe in fairy tales?
Poet: But I do. I believe in the son of God because I hate him. My hate is such a part of me that if I was to deny its reality, I would have to deny myself. I live for that hate; there is nothing for me without it. My entire life, in the streets, in the orphanage, and then in the house of the aristocrats who adopted me, was one long admonishment to love sweet and gentle Jesus, because he loved me. Bah, did I ever ask for his love? No, I did not, and I never shall. Satan will take me as his equal and I prefer equality with the devil to a subservience to Christ.
Priest: I don’t see how a man, an educated man such as yourself, can become so obsessed with myths.
Poet: Ah, my friend, they are not myths. In fact…
Priest: Quiet, I hear someone coming.
[The butcher enters the room, completely out of breath and in a panic.]
Butcher: He killed them both.
Priest: Calm down. Who was killed and by whom?
Butcher: (glancing at the poet) I know you said to tell no one why I was to bring Delarose, I mean Delaine, here, but she got it out of me.
Poet: You fool! What did she do when she found out?
Butcher: We were in her shop. She told Gorgo to kill him. But… oh, it was horrible. They wrestled. You won’t believe it, but I saw it with my own eyes. That Delaine, that fiend, he killed Gorgo, he broke his neck. Then, as Gorgo sank to the floor, Madame Lacombe pulled that pistol she carries. But Delaine leaped across the room and knocked her hand just as she fired. The bullet struck her in the heart. I stood there petrified. I thought he was going to kill me as well. But he didn’t. He said, ‘My niece lives. I exchanged places with the jailer for one hour. Tell your friend Chalier that we will meet again someday. And that day will be his last day on earth.’
Act III. Scene 1. Burke’s house in London
[During the Reign of Terror, Burke often took French aristocrats, who had managed to escape from France, into his home until they could find a place to live in Britain. At this particular time, the Count Le Blanc, his wife, his two sons, aged ten and twelve, and his two daughters, aged fourteen and eight, are all staying with Burke. Le Blanc and Burke are speaking in Burke’s study.]
Le Blanc: Even though I knew it was coming, I still can’t believe it happened.
Burke: I can’t get those lines of Shakespeare out of my head: “Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep.” It is truly a monstrous act. I never dreamed since I last saw Her Majesty some sixteen years ago – she was the Dauphiness then – at the Palace of Versailles, that she would be humiliated, tortured, and then beheaded by a band – there is no other word for it – of devils.
Le Blanc: I was privileged to call her and her husband my friends. I haven’t told my wife and children the news yet. I don’t trust myself to tell them without breaking down.
Burke: You’ll find a way. I’ve lost a wife and a son. All we can do in the face of death is cling to our common hope. And He is the one the Jacobins hate. They attack Him through His people.
Le Blanc: Yes, have we ever seen hell on earth in all its hideousness before these Jacobins took power?
Burke: Never. Not in Nero’s Rome nor in Islamic Spain was it quite so blatant.
Le Blanc: And it is my nation that has led the way, at least what used to be my nation.
Burke: The Jacobin illness is spreading though. Here in Britain there are many Jacobin organizations.
Le Blanc: Yes, but Britain has something that France did not have.
Le Blanc: Britain has Edmund Burke. Surely there can be no Jacobinism where Burke lives.
Burke: I have one voice and my sword is a pen. I don’t think that will be enough to stop the Jacobin plague from spreading to Britain. But then I am not a prophet.
Le Blanc: You’ve been rejected by your own party, haven’t you?
Burke: Yes, I’ll make my farewell speech tomorrow.
Le Blanc: The whole lot of them – Fox, Priestly, Price, Shelburne and the rest should be boiled in oil.
Burke: I lived and worked with them for many years, but it seemed I never really knew them nor they me. It’s unthinkable that any man would support the Jacobins, but to find that men you thought were your friends could support them is terrible.
Le Blanc: I have no explanation for what is happening.
Burke: I fear there is only one explanation – the Jacobins are of the devil. I see, in all this turmoil, the sneering face of the devil. It’s best we put on, as St. Paul enjoins us, the whole armour of Christ.
Le Blanc: Yes. And in the meantime, you should not go anywhere unarmed.
Burke: Why? Soon they’ll be rid of me; I won’t have a seat in Parliament, so why should they kill me?
Le Blanc: Because in Parliament or out of Parliament, you are still Edmund Burke, a man with a heart opposed to their vile Jacobinism and a pen that throws their lies back in their faces.
Buke: I’m not a duelist. I will walk these streets as I have always walked them, but I thank you for your concern.
Act III. Scene II. An upper room in a London dwelling
[Chalier, Priestly, and Price are there.]
Priestly: You understand that there must be no connecting link between Dr. Price, myself, or any of the English Jacobins and you and your people?
Chalier: I understand. I have four French assassins with me. They will do their work very efficiently without asking any questions.
Dr. Price: And afterwards?
Chalier: We will disappear completely. We will be back in Paris the next day. I have made all the arrangements.
Priestly: I suppose you wonder why we are taking the trouble to have Burke killed since he is resigning from the party tomorrow.
Chalier: On the contrary, I approve of what you are doing. Burke is a great danger in or out of Parliament.
Price: I’m glad you can see that. We are not having him killed because we are bloodthirsty or out of any kind of personal animosity. It is because we love humanity, at least what humanity can become one day. And Burke could set humanity back hundreds of years.
Chalier: I suppose men become Jacobins for different reasons. I don’t care for humanity at all. I want humanity to be destroyed. And the Jacobins are great destroyers. As for Burke, I hate him. When I kill him, it will be for hate’s sake and not for humanity’s sake. And frankly, gentlemen, you make me sick with all your talk of humanity. You hate Burke because he makes you feel foolish every time he speaks out against Jacobinism.
Priestly: I don’t understand you. Are you on our side or not?
Chalier: I am on Satan’s side. Yes, I believe in the devil. Does that surprise you? It surprised Father Sieyès as well. Am I on your side then if I side with Satan? Yes, I am. Although you might not acknowledge it, you are on Satan’s side as well.
Price: Nonsense, I am on God’s side.
Chalier: What God?
Price: Nature, the greatest god of them all.
Chalier: Fine, but we have talked enough. I will kill Burke tonight. He will never deliver a farewell salvo against your exalted selves. And you shall never see me again. Goodbye.
From Brian Delaine’s Diary
Chalier had four accomplices stationed along the street where Burke took his walks. Two were waiting on Gerrard Street and two were waiting on Lisle Street. Should they fail, Chalier had rented an apartment that overlooked Lisle Street from which he had a clear shot at Burke.
I followed Chalier to England because I suspected that he had been sent there to kill Burke. But I didn’t know where or how he would strike until that evening. Once I knew his plan I struck first. I killed all four assassins without much trouble. They were intent on surprising Burke, which left them open to my surprise attack.
After killing Chalier’s henchmen, I caught up with Burke and stopped him from walking within range of Chalier’s musket. Then I killed Chalier. He had his chance. MY knife against his musket. I won’t pretend that I felt any sorrow for him. He was a cold-blooded, reptilian monster, well deserving of the title — Jacobin.
Why did the Jacobins want to kill Burke? For the same reason they killed the King and Queen of France. Burke stood for old Europe, for Christ’s Europe. And the Jacobins hated him for that. St. John tells us that when Christ cured the lame and sick on the Sabbath day, the Jews asked Him why He worked on the Sabbath. Christ replied, “My Father worketh hitherto, and I work.” Then, St. John tells us, “Therefore the Jews sought the more to kill Him…” Anyone, if he follows in Christ’s footsteps by defending Christian Europe, will be hated by the Jacobins. They will not meet such individuals in fair and open debate. They will kill such individuals with less remorse than Christian Europeans would kill a fly.
And who is the greatest defender of Christian Europe? It is Burke. That is why their hatred of him has no bounds. I long for a reckoning with them all. But I am one man. We shall see if other Europeans will rise up against the Jacobin leviathan or whether they will be consumed by it. Burke and I went back to his home after the attack.
Act III. Scene III.
Burke: They killed their own King and Queen, so it doesn’t surprise me that they wanted to kill me for my defense of the King and Queen, but I am surprised that they were able to come to Britain undetected in order to kill me.
Delaine: They had to have help from the British Jacobins.
Burke: Yes, I think you’re right. And I don’t think it is an accident that the attack occurred right before I was to address the Assembly for the last time. I hate to think that it has gone this far, but my heart tells me that it has. The men I once called my friends are possessed by the devil and they hate me with the satanic hatred of the devil. But I needn’t tell you about the Jacobin devils. Your family has suffered so much at their hands. How is your niece doing?
Delaine: She’s doing well. She has met her cousins and her aunt for the first time, and she seems ready to live in the remembrance of her family and her family’s God.
Burke: Everything comes back to our common hope. They hate us, because of Him.
Delaine: Yes, they do, and He told us it would be like this.
Burke: Please, my friend, stay tonight, and if your schedule permits you can hear my resignation speech tomorrow.
Delaine: I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
From Brian Delaine’s Journal
I don’t remember the entire speech and I didn’t have a scrivener by my side, but some of the highlights stand out. Amidst sneers and jeers, Burke defended Christian Europe against the Jacobins, both foreign and domestic, cutting directly to the demonic heart of their system:
‘They who have made but superficial studies in the Natural History of the human mind, have been taught to look on religious opinions as the only cause of enthusiastick zeal, and sectarian propagation. But there is no doctrine whatever, on which men can warm, that is not capable of the very same effect. The social nature of man impels him to propagate his principles, as much as physical impulses urge him to propagate his kind. The passions give zeal and vehemence. The understanding bestows design and system. The whole man moves under the discipline of his opinions. Religion is among the most powerful causes of enthusiasm. When any thing concerning it becomes an object of much meditation, it cannot be indifferent to the mind. They who do not love religion, hate it. The rebels to God perfectly abhor the Author of their being. They hate him “with all their heart, with all their mind, with all their soul, and with all their strength.” He never presents himself to their thoughts but to menace and alarm them. They cannot strike the Sun out of Heaven, but they are able to raise a smouldering smoke that obscures him from their own eyes. Not being able to revenge themselves on God, they have a delight in vicariously defacing, degrading, torturing, and tearing in pieces his image in man. Let no one judge of them by what he has conceived of them, when they were not incorporated, and had no lead. They were then only passengers in a common vehicle. They were then carried along with the general motion of religion in the community, and without being aware of it, partook of it’s influence. In that situation, at worst, their nature was left free to counterwork their principles. They despaired of giving any very general currency to their opinions. They considered them as a reserved privilege for the chosen few. But when the possibility of dominion, lead, and propagation presented themselves, and that the ambition, which before had so often made them hypocrites, might rather gain than lose by a daring avowal of their sentiments, then the nature of this infernal spirit, which has “evil for it’s good,” appeared in it’s full perfection. Nothing, indeed, but the possession of some power, can with any certainty discover what at the bottom is the true character of any man. Without reading the speeches of Vergniaux, Français of Nantz, Isnard, and some others of that sort, it would not be easy to conceive the passion, rancour, and malice of their tongues and hearts. They worked themselves up to a perfect phrenzy against religion and all it’s professors. They tore the reputation of the Clergy to pieces by their infuriated declamations and invectives, before they lacerated their bodies by their massacres. This fanatical atheism left out, we omit the principal feature in the French Revolution, and a principal consideration with regard to the effects to be expected from a peace with it.’
And how vividly I remember his final words to all the assembled Pharisees, back sliders, and hypocrites:
‘I should agree with you about the vileness of the controversy with such miscreants as the “Revolution Society,” and the “National Assembly”; and I know very well that they, as well as their allies, the Indian delinquents, will darken the air with their arrows. But I do not yet think they have the advowson of reputation. I shall try that point. My dear sir, you think of nothing but controversies; “I challenge into the field of battle and retire defeated, &c.” If their having the last word be a defeat, they most assuredly will defeat me. But I intend no controversy with Dr. Price, or Lord Shelburne, or any other of their set. I mean to set in full view the danger from their wicked principles and their black hearts. I intend to state the true principles of our constitution in church and state, upon grounds opposite to theirs. If any one be the better for the example made of them, and for this exposition, well and good. I mean to do my best to expose them to the hatred, ridicule, and contempt of the whole world; as I always shall expose such calumniators, hypocrites, sowers of sedition, and approvers of murder and all its triumphs. When I have done that, they may have the field to themselves; and I care very little how they triumph over me, since I hope they will not be able to draw me at their heels, and carry my head in triumph on their poles…
The Whigs of this day have before them, in this Appeal, their constitutional ancestors: They have the doctors of the modern school. They will choose for themselves. The author of the Reflections has chosen for himself. If a new order is coming on, and all the political opinions must pass away as dreams, which our ancestors have worshipped as revelations, I say for him, that he would rather be the last (as certainly he is the least) of that race of men, than the first and greatest of those who have coined to themselves Whig principles from a French die, unknown to the impress of our fathers in the constitution.’
I must break off from Delaine’s diary to deal with some recent events. But let me just say that I see in Delaine’s diary and Burke’s writings the exact portrait of our modern dilemma. The liberals want to attack God by striking His people, and by doing so they hope to destroy the image of God in man. Have they succeeded? To a large degree they have succeeded. There is no image of God in man in a liberal, a Moslem, or a colored heathen, but there is a resistance movement. There is the Reverend Grey and there are men such as Vogel, the leader of the resistance movement in Germany, and there are hundreds of ordinary Europeans who have cast their lot in with Christ despite the threat of dungeon, fire, and sword. The European people will not go gently into the dark night of liberalism.
Now to the recent events. The reader, if there are any readers left, might wonder why there had to be a second trial of Reverend Grey. Wasn’t he tried, convicted, and sentenced to death by the Moslem-British high court? Yes, he was, but after his escape, due to the heroic intervention of Chambers and his men, the Anglican and Moslem officials put out their own false story line. They said, in order to save face and to make themselves look honorable, that the Reverend Grey had been pardoned under the condition that he not take up arms against the Moslem-British people. Then, according to the official Islamic-British government, he did take up arms against Islamic Britain. Therefore, when he was recaptured during the Battle of Cornwall (captured because he refused to leave one of our wounded and dying soldiers) the Moslem-liberal forces decided, at the request of the Vatican, to have him tried for treason, treason against the Moslem-Christian faith. How can there be a Moslem-Christian faith? Obviously there can’t be such a blending. Our Lord is the beginning and the end, the first and the last. But in Pope Francis II’s religion there can be a blending of Islam, Christianity, and all of the pagan faiths. Pope Francis II has placed Christ in a subordinate position to Muhammed and the nature gods of the colored heathens. Such a god is not proscribed by Islam. So Pope Francis II is permitted to perform his syncretistic mass at the Vatican and the bulk of the ‘faithful’ have gone along with Pope Francis and the Moslems. There has been some resistance, but as of now the resistance has been a few scattered guerrilla movements. Hopefully greater resistance will follow, but communication between white, Christian resistance movements is very difficult.
Rev. Grey then was sent to prison in Rome to be tried and sentenced to death. No one had any doubt about the upcoming death sentence. But the trial never came about. Rome was struck by an earthquake and Christopher’s cell was found to be empty on the day after the earthquake. Whether he was buried in the rubble of the Vatican (he was housed in the Vatican dungeon) or whether he escaped was not known at the time. Then, two weeks after the earthquake, a man from my native Italy came to me with a letter. My countryman gave me his bona fides by telling me some things that only Christopher Grey could have known. He had a letter in his possession that was from Christopher. I felt like Horatio must have felt when he received Hamlet’s letter:
I’m writing this in haste, but I just had to let you know that I am alive and no longer a captive. Please keep this secret for now. I have my reasons. It won’t be long; soon I’ll be in Britain again. Till then –
In Christ, God keep you.
It wasn’t long. One week after I received the letter was the third battle of Cornwall. In the first battle, some two years previous, we established the first Christian foothold in Moslem Britain. In the second battle some three months ago, we repulsed a Moslem assault on Cornwall. In that battle Christopher was taken captive. But although we repulsed the attack, the Moslem forces were not completely routed. They still were in the area surrounding Cornwall, waiting to strike. And then on December 23rd they did strike. King Arthur II was now battle tested and so was Chambers and our British soldiers, but the Moslems had the greater numbers and they had many British officers from the old British army aiding their side. It looked as if the Moslem army would triumph. Then (I received this account from Chambers) a man on a white horse appeared. I’ll let Chambers tell the rest.
“It seemed completely out of place, like something from a bygone era. With a cross on his chest, a huge sword in his hand, he bid us charge the enemy. I thought of that vision of St. John, ‘And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself. And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood: and his name is called The Word of God.’ No, it was not the Lord. But it was his faithful apostle. It was my liege lord and kinsman, the Christ-bearer, Christopher Grey. Our men would have followed him anywhere. At that moment we became an army of Davids. We advanced behind Christopher, and we routed the Moslem forces. Cornwall is no longer in danger. I shall never, in this world, feel so connected to my people and my God as I did during that crucial moment when I followed the man on the white horse into battle for King, country, and Christ.”
The next day I met with Christopher in his newly acquired dwelling at Tintagel.
Act IV. Scene I.
Bontini: Don’t you think that a man past 100 years of age should live a more sedentary life?
Grey: That would be nice, but you young fellows of seventy will not allow me to retire. You keep finding work for me to do.
Bontini: I find work for you? I don’t think so. I advised you not to go near the battlefield to tend to the wounded. And I certainly knew nothing about your plan to lead a charge in the last battle.
Grey: No, I don’t suppose you did. So what you are saying is that I have no one to blame but myself if I have no peaceful hours.
Bontini: (smiling) Yes, that is exactly what I am saying.
Grey: I saw a marvelous American movie some years back, called Harvey. That wonderful American actor Jimmy Stewart was the star. He played a man whose best friend was a 6’ 3 ½“ white rabbit. Nobody else could see the rabbit, just Jimmy Stewart, or, as he was called in the movie, Elwood P. Dowd.
Dowd has quite a wonderful relationship with the rabbit, but his relatives (Dowd’s relatives, not the rabbit’s) try to put Dowd in a mental institution. They finally desist in their efforts because they decide that despite what they perceive to be Dowd’s insanity, he has a very pleasant personality that might be ruined should he be ‘cured’ of his white rabbit ‘delusion.’
But as it turns out, there really is a white rabbit called Harvey. And the psychiatrist treating Dowd comes to see the rabbit just as clearly as Dowd does. In quite a humorous fashion the movie turns the tables on the ‘sane’ people and gives the nod to the ‘insane’ poets of the spirit. In Harvey it is the pure in heart that see another world, a better world. Now I grant you that Harvey does not give us the name of the Author of that other world – it is after all an artwork from the 20th century – but it does, with humor and grace, bid us look to a fairy tale apprehension of existence rather than a purely material apprehension of existence. I think if we follow the fairy tale, the European fairy tale, we will end up in His Kingdom Come, which, I firmly believe, is very close to us right here on earth, because He told us that the Kingdom of God was within.
Bontini: What is your heaven?
Grey: To be with my wife, my parents, and my friends right here in Britain in the presence of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
Bontini: That might seem like a very pedestrian heaven to a lot of people.
Grey: It’s all I want.
Bontini: Like Ratty and his river?
Bontini: It will come. Is there anything you want to tell me about your… what shall I call it? Your visit to Rome?
Grey: (laughing) It was a very strange visit.
Bontini: Because of the earthquake?
Grey: No, that was rather startling, but the strangeness of the visit was the result of my audience with Pope Francis II.
Bontini: Where did he hold the audience?
Grey: In his Papal chambers, which are now part of the Vatican ruins.
Bontini: Was it a private audience?
Grey: Yes. I was brought to his chambers in chains, and I was chained to the wall during the audience. But to the best of my knowledge, when the jailers left his chambers, we were alone.
Bontini: What was his purpose in having you brought there?
Grey: I’m not exactly sure. Let me tell you what he said and then you be the judge.
Pope Francis II: I hope the chains are not too uncomfortable, but they are unfortunately necessary. You have escaped before.
Grey: These chains will hold me. Say what you have to say.
Pope Francis II: I testified against you at your last trial, and I will testify against you at your trial tomorrow. But I wanted to give you one last chance.
Grey: So did the Archbishop of Canterbury. But then he only came to my cell, you’ve invited me to your quarters.
Pope: I believe that a man can change, even a man like you.
Grey: What do I need to change?
Pope: You need to change inside. You need to see the true essence of the world.
Grey: What is the essence of the world?
Pope: That won’t do. You are not open to what I’m saying. Please, this is your last chance, your very last chance. You must really listen to me.
Let me start with that great Catholic, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. His thought might seem commonplace now, but his thought was the beginning of the Church’s realization that nature, not some anthropomorphic God, was the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. When you truly understand that concept, the whole universe is opened up for you. You become one with the natural world and the psychic world.
Grey: May I ask a few questions?
Pope: If they are genuine questions. I have no time or patience for your usual irreverence.
Grey: You find me irreverent?
Pope: Yes, I do. What would you call a man who criticizes the Church and the existing government?
Grey: I see your point. But let me ask you – where does Christ figure in this religion of yours?
Pope: It is not my religion, I did not invent it — it is the religion of mankind. As for Christ, we have dealt with Him. We have reframed his image so that He can no longer do damage to mankind.
Grey: Then He is not the Savior, the Son of the living God?
Pope: I believe I covered that topic at your last trial. And if you took the trouble to read my encyclicals you would know that the Church regards Jesus Christ as a son of God; we do not regard Jesus Christ as the Son of God. Such a concept is contrary to nature and therefore blasphemous. And that belief made mankind very unhappy. We are striving to make men happy by eliminating the concept of an anthropomorphic God, what you call the living God.
Grey: Life imitates art.
Pope: What do you mean?
Grey: You sound like the Grand Inquisitor in Dostoyevsky’s novel The Brothers Karamazov.
Pope: I have not read that book, nor have I read any of Dostoyevsky’s works. They are all on the Index.
Grey: And you are a good Catholic, you don’t read proscribed literature?
Pope: Of course I don’t. We have gone beyond all the old concepts of freedom of conscience and thought. We have fed our children the truths that can make them happy.
Grey: And those truths – what exactly are they?
Pope: That man is one with nature. That all men come from nature and all men return to nature. Personal immortality does not exist, except in its natural state. We return to nature, so we still are part of existence; we become even more natural.
Grey: Now you sound like the heretical gypsy in Scott’s Quentin Durward, but then I suppose his works are also on the Index.
Pope: Yes, they are.
Grey: “For I know that my Redeemer liveth, And that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though worms destroy this body, Yet in my flesh shall I see God.” I don’t expect you to believe that, but it is true. The natural world you speak of is only a semblance of another reality. The reality of the kingdom of God that is within.
Pope: I’ve heard all that before.
Grey: Where did you hear it?
Pope: I’ve read some history. But let us come to the point. In order to avoid execution you must take
the blinders off your eyes.
Grey: Let me come to the point, the same point that I made at my last trial and the same point that I shall make to my last dying gasp. Jesus Christ is the Son of the living God, He and He alone is the resurrection and the life. Surely His words must touch your heart? “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die; Believest thou this?” Do you believe that? If you don’t, if you truly believe in the abhorrent faith you have described to me, then you are to be pitied as a man and opposed as a religious leader.
Pope: You dare say all that to me?
Grey: Yes, what else can I say?
Pope: You fiend! (he strikes Grey across the face again and again, until Grey’s face bleeds and Pope Francis’s hands bleed) Guards!
[Four Vatican guards appear]
Take him away and send me a doctor.
Act IV. Scene II.
Bontini: Was the doctor for you?
Grey: No, it was for him. He broke his hand on one of the blows to my face.
Bontini: Your face still shows some of the marks. I thought it was from the earthquake.
Grey: No, the marks are from the Pope. They don’t amount to much. As for the earthquake, it didn’t touch me at all. Everything around my cell was crashing down, and I heard the screams of the dying and the cries of people trying to get to solid ground, but I was untouched.
My cell door was completely torn off its hinges. I was chained, so I thought that eventually the rubble would cover me, and I would cheat the executioners. But apparently the Lord wants me to tarry a little longer on this earth. A man came to my cell. He touched my chains and they fell off me. Then he led me up and out of the dungeon and out of Italy. He left me right before the Battle of Cornwall, but he left me armed and he left me with rather explicit instructions. His advice sounded rather unsound, from a military standpoint, but as it turned out, it was the perfect military strategy.
Bontini: Did he tell you his name?
Grey: He was an angel of the Lord, that is all I know.
Bontini: It’s only 1 pm. Will you be performing The Christmas Carol this Christmas Eve?
Bontini: I don’t see how you can remember every line like you do.
Grey: It’s part of my soul. All of sacred Europe is part of my soul. On January 1st, we’ll be putting on the first production of King Lear in the new-old Britain. King Arthur and the Queen will be in attendance.
Bontini: It continues.
Final Act – December 24th
Grey: (concludes his one-man performance of The Christmas Carol) “Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.
“He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!”
[and then –]
Grey: Please, stay with me for one last prayer for Christmas Eve, for Christmas Day, and for always.
[Grey and his people sing “Abide With Me”]
Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.
I need Thy presence every passing hour.
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s power?
Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.
I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me. +