‘No?’ said Francis. ‘I rather thought that according to modern psychology some people do.’
I finally lost patience with him. ‘Can we forget the modern psychology for a moment and concentrate on the spiritual
dimensions of what was going on? The flogging was necessary because I was so deeply sunk in pride that I was unable to learn humility and obedience in any other way – I was being forcibly turned around and redirected along the correct spiritual path. But once that had been done I was set free to realize my full ability to serve God at last – and
that’s
why I can say with truth that an enduring happiness only began for me when I met Father Darcy.’
‘And your happiness continued when he kicked you north to Ruydale, the toughest house in the Order – are you sure you don’t enjoy suffering, Jonathan?’
‘Is that another of the witty remarks which I’m supposed to find amusing? I can’t tell you how irritated I’m becoming by your psycho-analytical poses – shouldn’t you now pause to remind yourself that you’re a priest and not a Harley Street quack? If you did you’d have no trouble understanding that the suffering I had to endure –
endure,
not enjoy – was a necessary part of my development into a good monk, and I endured it –
endured
it – because my call to be a good monk was so strong.’
‘Yet now you have what is apparently an equally strong call to stop being a good monk – and why, Jonathan,
why?
Has your life at Grantchester become too soft and easy for you? Do you think you’d suffer more if you went out into the world?’
‘You’re being deeply offensive. I absolutely deny –’
‘Save your breath. Come back at four o’clock tomorrow and – hullo, the clock’s stopped! Ah yes, of course – I forgot to wind it this morning.’ Francis rose to his feet, moved to the fireplace and produced a key from a china vase on the mantelshelf. Then he looked back at me over his shoulder. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he demanded. ‘You’re dismissed.’
Retiring to the chapel I futilely tried to pray.
I was now convinced that Francis was determined to reduce my call to a delusion by burying its spiritual dimensions beneath
the rubble of a garbled psycho-analysis. I could see all too clearly the theory which he was developing. Deciding that I was a masochist who had finally exhausted the potential for suffering offered by the monastic life, he was toying with the idea that Father Darcy’s death had been the mythical ‘final trigger’ which had sent me over the edge of sanity. Having suffered the delightful humiliation of being rejected by my mentor and the exquisite pain of failing to become the Abbot-General, I had realized that the Order now offered me nothing but an intolerably pain-free life at Grantchester, and unable to face a monastic future without my favourite sadist I was chafing to return to the world where with any luck I might acquire a wife who would beat me every night. How delicious! All I would have to do would be to buy a whip and a chain or two and then I could live happily ever after.
This atheistic vision of a maimed psyche so appalled me that I even wondered – and this was the final horror – if there could be a grain of truth in it. Surely if the theory were quite inapplicable I should be laughing at its absurdity? But my whole future was at stake. How could I laugh when the future I knew I had to have was now threatened with abortion? Indeed all thought of both present and future had suddenly become so agonizing that instinctively I took refuge in the remote past. Closing my eyes I reached up to clasp my mother’s hand as we walked down the garden to find Chelsea, serene elegant Chelsea who washed her paws so fastidiously before the sitting-room fire on the long winter evenings when my father read his books and my mother sewed in silence and I sat listening to her thoughts.
‘You and your cats!’ said my father to my mother. ‘In the old days you’d have been burnt as a witch!’ And the high clear voice which had belonged to me long ago said in panic: ‘They won’t burn her now, will they? I don’t want her dying and going away.’
My memory shifted. I felt Martin’s small sticky hand in mine and heard him say: ‘I don’t want you going away any more.’
I said aloud in 1940: ‘Martin –’
But then the light was switched off in my memory and stripping off my habit I went to bed and willed myself into unconsciousness.
‘We’ve discussed your relationship with your wife,’ said Francis, ‘we’ve inspected your relationship with your mistress and now today we’re going to examine your relationship with your children. What happened to them after your wife’s death?’
‘My mother-in-law took charge.’
‘I detect a lack of enthusiasm. How did you tolerate her living in your home?’
‘She didn’t live there. She took the children into her own home and I moved to bachelor quarters on the Naval base. But I wasn’t there much. I still spent most of my time at sea.’
‘Did the children mind not living with you?’
‘I told them that the quality of time fathers spent with their children was more important than the quantity.’
‘Are you good with children?’ said Francis idly, but I could feel his large sleek powerful psyche prowling around mine as he sought to induce a fatal relaxation. ‘Are you one of those gifted adults who always know what to say to anyone under sixteen?’
‘It depends on whether there’s any psychic affinity.’
‘And does such an affinity exist between you and your children?’
‘No. I can’t communicate with them without words as I used to communicate with my mother.’
‘Disappointing for you. How you must have longed for a couple of little replicas of yourself instead of these two people whom you obviously found so alien!’
‘You couldn’t be more mistaken. I despise parents who long for replicas – I consider such a desire indicative of gross selfishness and an inflated self-esteem.’
‘Aren’t you reacting rather strongly? It’s a very human trap
for a parent to fall into, I’ve always thought, and it’s certainly not an uncommon one … However I won’t press that point; we already know from Father Darcy’s record that even if you didn’t long for replicas you were nonetheless capable of finding your children a disappointment. But what about your grandchildren?’ said Francis, sweeping on before I could argue further with him. ‘Any affinity there? I notice you never mention them, but perhaps that’s because you’re so sensitive about your age that you dislike being reminded you’re a grandfather.’
‘Nonsense! My silence is because my grandchildren are strangers to me. They were born after I entered the Order so I’ve seldom seen them.’
‘What kind of a man is your son-in-law?’
‘He’s an outstandingly boring atheist who earns his living as an accountant in one of Starmouth’s shipbuilding firms.’
‘Tedious for you! If he’s got to be an atheist he might at least have the grace to be an amusing one,’ said Francis, and made a note which included the words ‘strangers’, ‘antipathy’ and ‘disappointment’.
‘Something tells me,’ I said, ‘that once again you’re forming quite the wrong impression of my family life. Let me stress that I’m devoted to both my children and I’ve always tried to do my best for them.’
‘Of course. You palmed them off on a woman you, disliked and occasionally dropped in to see them whenever you weren’t far away at sea.’
Once more I was slammed on the rack.
‘So I wasn’t mistaken,’ I said as I clenched my fists to endure the pain. ‘You have indeed formed quite the wrong impression of my family life. I wrote to my children frequently. When I was ashore I saw them as much as possible and when I left the Navy after the War I even undertook a very hard, difficult chaplaincy at Starmouth prison so that I could be near them
during their adolescence. I cared deeply about their welfare, I –’
‘Dear me, I seem to have drawn blood! What a sadist I am! But perhaps you only enjoyed sadism when it came from Father Darcy.’
‘I most strongly deny –’
‘Why did you really take on that hard difficult chaplaincy at the prison? I suppose that once the War was over and there was no chance of you being killed or maimed the Navy had nothing left to offer so you deliberately sought an environment where you could suffer vicariously with all the men condemned to be flogged or hanged!’
I said with great precision in my clearest voice: ‘I’m deeply opposed to both corporal and capital punishment. I have never received a perverted sexual pleasure through either watching or receiving physical punishment. I have never either sought or welcomed flagellation.’
‘You certainly gave me the impression you welcomed that flogging from Father Darcy. And if you’re so deeply opposed to corporal punishment, how did you reconcile yourself to compulsory self-discipline as a novice?’
‘Self-discipline! Nobody could hurt themselves with the kind of scourge the Order provides, and anyway even at Ruydale we often used to thump our beds to make the required sounds while the Master turned a blind eye –’
‘I agree that for normal people self-discipline is little more than a symbolic act, but for a masochist entranced with punishment even a Fordite scourge could provide some interesting possibilities –’
‘
I am not a masochist entranced with punishment!’
‘You certainly seem to be entranced with Martin who’s giving you some heavy punishment at the moment! How did you really feel all those years ago when he kicked over the traces, cocked a snook at the Varsity and went off to daub himself with greasepaint?’
‘I’ve already told you –’
‘You’ve told me nothing! You mouthed a few platitudes, the
sort of platitudes saintly fathers are expected to utter, but now I think it’s time we heard the truth. How did you take this rejection by your son of you and your way of life?’
‘He didn’t reject me.’
‘He has now! You’ve been a failure there, haven’t you? You were a failure as a husband and a failure as a father – and while you were sleeping with your mistress you were a failure as a priest. No wonder you entered a monastery! After all those disasters the only way you could repair the damage to your self-esteem was to go through hell in order to be a success as a monk!’
Leaping to my feet I shouted: ‘Damn you, that’s a bloody lie!’ Then I covered my face with my hands and somehow managed to say: ‘I’m sorry, Father, that was unforgivable.’
‘Vulgar behaviour – even blasphemous language – I can forgive,’ said Francis, ‘particularly when I was providing great provocation, but what I find hard to forgive is your persistent evasiveness. If you do have a genuine call instead of a mere emotional problem which could be solved with competent counselling, you’ll want to be absolutely honest with me, and being honest in this context means giving frank answers to my questions about Martin.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’
‘Very well, I accept your apology but if your repentance is genuine you’ll now go away, pray that you may be granted a genuine humility which will prevent you lying to preserve your pride, and return tomorrow prepared to tell me all about that son of yours – and when I say all, Jonathan, I mean ALL, from Alpha to Omega.’
‘The silence of God has at all times been a great trial to mankind.’
W. R. INGE
Dean of St Paul’s 1911–1934
Mysticism in Religion
I was in such distress that for a long time I could do nothing but pace up and down my cell. Francis was now behaving as if he suspected the quarrel with Martin had been the final trigger, and the most terrible aspect of this new development was that I myself, becoming increasingly aware of how deeply Martin had disturbed me, was beginning to wonder if he might not be connected with my vision despite all my previous doubts. However once I admitted the call was rooted in a psychological disturbance I remained convinced I would be doomed. Francis, ruthlessly setting aside any possibility of divine involvement, would speed ahead to a neat psychological conclusion and dispatch me to Ambrose for weeks of medical supervision; possibly I might even be ordered to resign as abbot. And all the time the chapel would be waiting for me in some corner of England which I would never find …
Or would it be waiting? My psyche froze as the demon of doubt finally encircled it. I remembered that I had received no further word from God either confirming my vision or clarifying it. I still had no idea what work I was being called to do.
Perhaps there was no chapel.
Perhaps I was deluded.
Closing my eyes with a shudder I knew I was in hell.
Hours later I fell asleep, and as I lost my grip on consciousness my life unfurled beyond finite time until past and present streamed side by side, interweaving and interchanging, while the future was the blank mirror waiting to reflect their final image. I dreamt I was studying the visions of Ezekiel and feeling frightened because my vision was so dull in comparison. Then Francis said as he removed my Bible: ‘If your vision was genuine God would have ordered you to perform a symbolic act – remember Ezekiel!’ But I answered: ‘I performed my symbolic act. I entered the Order.’ And I added to Father Darcy: ‘I have to live in imitation of Christ. There’s no other way I can live with myself and stay sane.’
Then Father Darcy took me to the punishment cell and on the wall hung the crucifix, the image of Christ crucified, Christ atoning, and I knew then, knew beyond any shadow of doubt, that for my children’s sake all the suffering would have to be borne.