‘I know this is going to be just as tedious for you as it’ll undoubtedly be for me, Jonathan,’ said Francis in his most businesslike voice as soon as I was seated, ‘but I’m afraid that today we’ll really have to discuss sexual matters.’
‘I was wondering how long you’d be able to keep off the subject of Havelock-Ellis! Are you sure it’s wise to allow all your men access to his work?’ I was well aware that this critical
response represented a gross impertinence, but I was becoming a little tired of standing by meekly while Francis flexed the muscles of his power.
For a moment I thought he would lose his temper but he controlled himself; and despite all my animosity I was impressed. Dealing with a recalcitrant monk was never easy; dealing with a hostile abbot would without doubt be a nightmare, and the temptation to wield one’s power repressively, even violently, would be strong.
‘No monk in this house is permitted to take a book from the psychology section of the library without my permission,’ he said at last, ‘but I thought it right that everyone should be able to see what’s on offer. I wanted to avoid the hypocritical situation sanctioned by Father Darcy in which a select group of men is granted unlimited freedom in their reading while the superior continues to declare virtuously that only devotional and theological books can stand on the library shelves. Now if you’ve satisfied your urge to be obnoxious in order to prove to me that you’re under strain, may we proceed with this interview?’
Finding myself wholly outmanoeuvred by this honest and dignified reply I could only say: ‘I’m extremely sorry, Father. I’m afraid I was in error. Forgive me.’
‘Very well, but let me take advantage of your penitent mood by turning immediately to the subject of your celibacy; perhaps your penitence will encourage a frank response. Have you any comment to make about your past difficulties here?’
I said cautiously: ‘The difficulties weren’t serious. My chief problem as a monk has been in accepting authority, not in doing without women.’
‘Nevertheless I see from your file that there’s been at least one occasion during your career in the Order when you’ve longed – and I quote your own words, recorded with startling fidelity by Father Darcy – “to chuck it all up and fuck every woman in sight”.’
‘I assure you I don’t usually use such language, but I was extremely upset when I made that remark and having worked
for years among working-class men who used that sort of word with monotonous regularity –’
‘My dear Jonathan, just because you’ve always taken a “holier-than-thou” attitude to my own occasional lapses into vulgarity, there’s no need for you to go into such a paroxysm of embarrassment now that I’ve caught you out in a rare verbal indiscretion! The truth is, as you well know, that so long as you avoid blasphemy and talk like a gentleman in front of your subordinates I don’t care a fig about your language. And now if we may return to the subject of your sexual frustration –’
‘I see no point in dwelling on it. All normally-sexed monks feel frustrated occasionally.’
‘Quite. But would it be fair to say, do you think, that these bouts of difficulty with your celibacy coincided with periods of emotional stress in other areas of your life?’
I said obtusely: ‘I’m not sure I understand you.’
‘I think you do but you’re playing for time while you try to drum up an innocuous response. Very well, let me be more precise: we all have our different ways of coping with emotional disturbances. When I was in the world I used to cope with them by drinking too much, but I seem to remember you were never greatly interested in food and drink. Your solace always lay elsewhere.’
‘Only when I was a very young man. But after my call to the priesthood –’
‘– you turned over a new leaf, yes, of course you did, but nevertheless isn’t it a fact that when you experienced emotional turbulence as a monk you also experienced a period of difficulty with your celibacy?’
‘Well –’
‘And isn’t it a fact that in the emotional stress which followed Father Darcy’s death you might have expected to experience yet another bout of discontent with the celibate life?’
I said abruptly: ‘I thought you assured me at the beginning of these conversations that you didn’t intend to behave like a prosecuting counsel.’
We stared at each other.
‘So!’ said Francis. ‘You sidestep the question! May I remind you that we’ll get absolutely nowhere unless –’
‘I was aware of sexual tension but it wasn’t an urgent problem. It didn’t interfere with my work – indeed I worked harder than ever in order to take my mind off the difficulty.’
‘And no doubt this aggravated the exhaustion which led to your depression.’
‘I deny –’
‘Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? But never mind, we’ve somehow succeeded in establishing that you felt sexually tense. Now let’s turn again to that young woman Mrs Charles Ashworth. How often has she been coming to see you and why does she come?’
I had been prepared for this assault. I said: ‘I helped her husband through a profound spiritual crisis in 1937 and she was part of that crisis. Without breaking the secrecy of the confessional it’s impossible for me to say more than that as the result of the crisis I know facts about them which no one else knows, and in consequence I’m important as a confidant to them both. Indeed Mrs Ashworth has apparently come to see me as a comforting presence in her life. There’s no question of counselling – I’ve referred her to Dame Veronica at Dunton – but occasionally Mrs Ashworth finds it helpful to visit me for a short talk and I always try to be available to see her.’
‘But surely,’ said Francis, ‘if you “rather dislike” the woman – your own words – aren’t these visits a bore? Why do you continue to make yourself available?’
I had anticipated this question too. ‘I feel it’s something I can do for Charles,’ I said. ‘It’s not an easy marriage for either of them and in my unusual position I have the opportunity to exert a stabilizing influence.’
‘Is Mrs Ashworth so unstable?’
‘I was referring to the marriage.’
‘And I’m referring to Mrs Ashworth. Any woman in an unstable marriage is liable to be emotionally volatile. Are you in fact telling me that you’ve been having regular private interviews
with a disturbed woman while you yourself were suffering from sexual tension?’
‘That gives an entirely false impression –’
‘I think not. Could you explain, please, why you’ve been pursuing a course of conduct which must inevitably have been bad for your spiritual health?’
I knew I had to proceed with great care. After a pause I said: ‘Perhaps I feel guilty that I dislike her and this guilt makes me feel obliged to bend over backwards to be charitable. To tell the truth, I never wanted her to marry Charles. But on the other hand I fully accepted that he felt called to make the marriage, and since this meant I had to master my dislike in order to accept God’s will, my continuing antipathy makes me feel guilty; I feel I’m failing to respond to God’s will as I should.’
Francis merely said: ‘Why do you dislike her?’
‘I think she’s a tough ambitious little baggage who’s fundamentally only interested in herself.’
‘Tell me what happened at that last meeting.’
Obediently I embarked on an account of my interview with Lyle. ‘… and then she left,’ I concluded in my most colourless voice.
‘Did she shake your hand?’
‘No.’
‘There was no physical contact of any kind between you?’
This was the one question which I had prayed he would never ask. The ensuing silence seemed intolerably loud.
‘Dear me,’ said Francis, removing his spectacles, ‘how very difficult this is. Jonathan, I’m sorry but I’m afraid I shall really have to ask –’
‘It was a very trivial incident,’ I said rapidly. ‘As I opened the door of the visitors’ parlour she exclaimed: “Thank you for always being so kind to me!” and then she stood on tiptoe, kissed me on the cheek and swept out into the hall. Naturally I knew I couldn’t possibly see her alone again, so later I wrote to her and –’
‘Did you respond to the kiss in any way?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘I’m not just talking of a voluntary response. Was there any involuntary reaction?’
‘Don’t be absurd!’ I said before I could stop myself but added at once: ‘Forgive me, Father, that was the height of disrespect. I’m sorry.’
Francis ignored the apology. ‘Why is my question absurd?’
Well …’ To my horror I found myself floundering.
‘You were in a state of sexual tension, some saucy little baggage comes along and pecks you on the cheek –’
‘My sexual tension had been dowsed by my anxiety. I was worried in case anyone had seen us, I was angry that she should have behaved like a trollop and I was repelled by my fundamental dislike of her.’
‘Jonathan,’ said Francis, ‘you may honestly believe in the truth of every word that you’re saying; I’m inclined to think that you do. But I want you to go away and reflect carefully about where the truth actually lies here. Are you sure you’ve really explained why you dislike this woman so much? Why does an affectionate peck on the cheek turn a clergyman’s respectable wife into a trollop? Why did you become so overheated just now when I suggested you might have responded involuntarily to this most fleeting and harmless of kisses? And last of all I’m going to ask you this: can you deny that only a few hours before your vision your sexual tension had been exacerbated and your emotional equilibrium undermined by your encounter with this woman?’ He paused but when I remained silent he waved his hand in dismissal and I retired, seething with angry humiliation, from the room.
Once again I found myself unable to do anything except sit on the edge of my bed. I had long since drawn up a timetable of work in which simple reading and prayer were interspersed with ‘lectio divina’ and meditation, but now I found that my will to maintain this admirable discipline had begun to flag. Hoping
for comfort I turned to Dame Julian again but this time her joyful optimism had no message for me and halfway through one of my favourite passages I realized I was thinking not of her ‘showing’ but of Francis’ appalling ‘fairy-story’. Earlier I had protected myself by refusing to dwell upon it, but now, shaken by Francis’ remorseless exposure of the Achilles’ heel represented by my sexuality, I found my defences had been impaired. 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.
‘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.’
‘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.’