Glamorous Powers. Susan Howatch

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СКАЧАТЬ In desperation I thrust aside The Revelations of Dame Julian and sought to distract myself with the unknown author of The Cloud of Unknowing.

      But no distraction was forthcoming. Almost immediately I read: ‘Oftimes the devil feigneth quaint sounds in their ears, quaint lights and shining in their eyes, and wonderful smells in their noses; and all is but falsehood.’

      Snapping the book shut I gave a convulsive shudder and dragged my way down to the chapel for Vespers.

      VII

      ‘I lied to you yesterday,’ I said to Francis when we met again. ‘I’m sorry. I know very well I’ve got to be entirely truthful in order to help you reach the right decision.’

      Francis never asked what the lie was. That impressed me. Nor did he make any attempt to humiliate me further by embarking on a justifiable reproof. That impressed me even more. Instead he motioned me to sit down and said abruptly: ‘It’s a question of trust, isn’t it, and you don’t trust me yet.’

      I forced myself to say: ‘I do want to trust you.’

      ‘Well, at least that’s a step in the right direction.’

      ‘And I do accept that you’re a first-class monk –’

      ‘No, you don’t. You accept that I’m a first-class administrator and you accept that the old man gave me a first-class training, but I’ve still to prove I’m a first-class monk, and that’s why it’s just as vital for me as it is for you that I should deal with your crisis correctly. I know perfectly well that you believe the only reason why I became Abbot-General was because I knew how to exploit the old man’s secret longing for a son. Well, now I have the chance to prove the old man wasn’t completely off his head and that I really am the right man for the job, so accept that I have a powerful motive to behave properly here, Jonathan, and do please discard your fear that I’ll be unable to wield the charism of discernment unless you regularly throw in a lie or two to help me along.’

      Yet again I was impressed. I heard myself say: ‘It takes courage to be as honest as that. Thank you. I can’t promise you I’ll succeed in matching your honesty, but I can promise I’ll do my best to try.’

      ‘Then put on your boxing-gloves,’ said Francis, not ill-pleased by this exchange, ‘and let’s step back into the ring for the next round.’

      VIII

      ‘Today,’ said Francis, ‘we’re going to talk about your son.’ Flicking through the pages of my file he added: ‘There’s not much on record about either of your children. Abbot James noted a few details when you entered the Grantchester house and later when you were at Ruydale Father Darcy made a note – ah yes, here it is – remarking that it was fortunate you were in a remote part of England where your children could only rarely visit you. “Frequent family visits,” writes Father Darcy, “would not have been good for Jonathan’s emotional equilibrium and would have provided a severe spiritual distraction.” Have you any comment to make on that judgement?’

      ‘Father Darcy knew that like any conscientious father I tend to spend an unnecessary amount of time worrying about my children’s welfare.’

      ‘But was there so much to worry about once you’d entered the Order? Your daughter’s marriage has been a success, you’ve always said, and your son’s certainly not been a failure as an actor.’

      I said: ‘I’m very proud of both my children.’

      ‘Nevertheless it must have given you a jolt when Martin decided to go on the stage.’

      ‘It was hardly a bolt from the blue. He’d always excelled at acting, and when he decided to make a career of it I felt it would be churlish to stand in his way.’

      ‘What a model father! If he’d been my son I’m quite sure I shouldn’t have behaved with such saintly resignation … How old was he?’

      ‘Eighteen. It was the year I entered the Order. Martin was determined to support himself by taking part-time jobs while he was earning a pittance in repertory. My daughter was married. I was free to go my own way.’

      ‘Eighteen’s very young. Are you absolutely certain there was no row when he declared his thespian intentions?’

      ‘Martin and I don’t have rows! Our relationship has always been excellent!’

      ‘Yet last month, on the day before your vision, you and he had what you described as a “disagreement”. Will you now tell me, please, exactly what happened?’

      I had rehearsed this moment many times. ‘He disclosed to me that he wasn’t leading a Christian life. Naturally I was upset.’

      Francis looked at me over the top of his spectacles. ‘He’s thirty-five now, isn’t he? Isn’t that rather old to be sowing wild oats?’

      I said nothing.

      What’s the problem? Trapped in an eternal triangle?’

      I heard myself say in an obstinate voice: ‘Martin must choose how to live his life. He’s a grown man and I’ve no right to interfere.’

      ‘But if the life he’s chosen to live is unChristian –’

      ‘Well, of course I pray for him to be brought back to Christ. Of course.’ Despite my rehearsals I was finding the conversation difficult to sustain.

      ‘Has he been leading this unChristian life for some time?’

      ‘Apparently.’

      ‘Yet you had no idea?’

      I shook my head.

      ‘Despite your so-called excellent relationship with him?’

      I wanted to shout: ‘You bastard!’ and hit him. The violence of my reaction shocked me. Bending my head I stared down at the obscene luxury of the Indian carpet.

      After a pause Francis said gently: ‘I’m sorry. Obviously the revelation was a great shock to you,’ and I knew my defences had been destroyed. I could cope with Francis being worldly, cynical, aggressive, snide and downright bloody-minded. But I could not cope with him understanding my misery and being kind.

      I stood up. That was wrong. When a monk is seated in the presence of his superior he should never stand until he has been given permission to do so, but now, compelled to turn my back on Francis in order to conceal my emotion, I crossed the room and stood facing the clock on the mantelshelf. My voice said: ‘I made a mess of that scene with Martin. I should have communicated by showing compassion, by forgiving. How can anyone be brought to Christ if Christ’s representative fails to display a Christian face?’

      As I stopped speaking I found I was focusing my entire concentration on the clock in an effort to expel my pain by projecting it in a stream of power from the psyche. The clock’s hands quivered; I saw the pendulum falter, and as the present began to grind to a halt the past overwhelmed me, not the recent past but the distant past when I had prostituted my powers in order to ‘get on’ up at Cambridge. ‘I can make your watch stop just by looking at it …’ СКАЧАТЬ