Susan Howatch - Glamorous Powers

Without hesitation I said: ‘Apart from the north light at the end there was no obvious distortion of reality – no six naked women, as you put it, dancing in the glade. If the vision had been triggered by a sexual difficulty I feel some form of sexual symbolism would have shown up.’

‘What about the rich woman’s bag?’

‘I don’t believe that was a sexual symbol. If it were then I suspect the lid would have been open to reveal a feminine garment such as a nightgown.’

‘Very well, but let’s stay with the subject of your sexual difficulties. I concede there was no sexual symbolism in the vision but that might have been because you’d obtained physical relief earlier that night. How can you be sure that the vision wasn’t triggered by a far more complex sexual malaise arising from a disintegrating adjustment to the celibate life?’

‘Primarily because I’ve been through much worse times without any vision being triggered. The truth is this difficulty with my celibacy wasn’t as bad as you’re trying to make out.’

‘And Mrs Ashworth?’

‘With all due respect I think you should guard against turning that particular molehill into a mountain. Obviously I find the woman more attractive than I want to admit and obviously I’ve been protecting myself from that weakness by stressing my dislike of her, but I’m not in love with the woman, I’m never likely to be in love with her and such attraction which exists is only of the most trivial kind.’

‘So might the ageing Antony have said when he saw the still youthful Cleopatra – but I take your point. And now we’ve reached the subject of ageing let me ask you this: why are you so sure that your current crisis isn’t the result of your panic when you awoke on the morning of your sixtieth birthday and realized old age was staring you in the face?’

‘There was no panic. I’m a mature man, not an elderly adolescent clinging to a lost youth! I admit I disliked the idea of being sixty, but what’s so abnormal about that? You yourself admitted that you spent three days sunk in gloom after your own birthday this year – how are you enjoying being sixty years old?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ said Francis, ‘I’m now enjoying myself immensely. But I dare say that’s because I’ve been fortunate enough to acquire this fascinating new career as the Abbot-General.’

Conversation ceased. As Francis caressed his spectacles languidly I was appalled to realize that my fists were clenched. Surreptitiously I relaxed my fingers one by one.

‘Congratulations!’ I said at last. ‘That was a neat twist of the thumbscrew. Are we reaching the point where you wheel on the rack?’

‘Let’s first see how well you defend yourself against the charge that you’re attempting to storm out of the Order in a fit of pique because you failed to become the Abbot-General.’

‘I’m neither a fool nor a bad monk. I’ve got enough brains to see I’d be very miserable here in London, and I’d never request to be absolved from my vows out of mere injured pride.’ I hesitated but when Francis remained silent I added: ‘For seventeen years I’ve had the strongest possible call to the cloister, and on the one occasion ten years ago when I really did long to leave my longing had nothing to do with my lack of preferment. On the contrary, at the time of the Whitby affair I’d just been made Master of Novices and my future in the Order was rosy.’

‘But on that occasion you had Father Darcy to steer you through the crisis to safety – and that brings us to the next point: how do you deny the charge that this vision is simply a spiritual aberration brought on by the loss of your mentor?’

I had long since decided that I had no choice but to grasp this particular bull by the horns. ‘I could only rebut that charge by proving there’s nothing wrong with my spiritual health,’ I said, ‘and since we both know that my spiritual health has recently been impaired by emotional stress, I can’t offer a water-right defence. All I can say is that it never once occurred to me that I couldn’t survive in the Order without my spiritual director. Think of my pride! What would Father Darcy have said if I’d chucked in the sponge in such a pusillanimous fashion? No, of course I had to go on. There was no choice.’

There was a silence while Francis began to polish his spectacles on the skirt of his habit. I could not decide whether he had no idea what to say next or whether he was trying to rattle me by keeping quiet.

‘I suppose,’ I said to show him I was unrattled, ‘you now want me to say something about Martin.’

‘You’re inviting me to wheel on the rack?’

‘No rack’s necessary. I’m willing enough to talk – and willing enough to concede that he thoroughly upset me. In fact I’m even willing to concede that he could have triggered the vision. But I don’t think he did, and I’ll tell you why: if he’d been the trigger I believe the vision would have been different – for instance, I’m sure he would have appeared in it, just as Charles Ashworth appeared in my vision of 1937. And there’s another point which is important here: why should Martin’s problems make me want to leave the Order? Even if I were in the world I could do no more than pray for him, and I can do that equally well in the cloister.’

‘True. But this is where we wonder if you’re subconsciously longing to rebel against old age and wipe out your disillusionment with Martin by taking a young second wife and begetting the ideal son.’

‘You can’t seriously think I’d be quite such a fool!’

‘Fortunately for the human race matrimony and procreation aren’t confined to fools.’

‘Yes, but to embark on both at the age of sixty when I know I can serve God best as a celibate –’

‘Why shouldn’t God now wish you to serve him as a married man?’

‘But I’ve had no indication of that!’

‘You’ve had no indication of anything! All you’ve experienced is this mindless urge to leave the Order, and it’s quite obvious that this could have been triggered by one or more of a number of circumstances –’

‘There was no trigger.’ I tried not to raise my voice but failed. ‘This vision came from God!’

‘You still have no doubts about that?’

‘Absolutely none!’ I said with a dogmatism guaranteed to inflame any superior past endurance.

‘How arrogant!’ exclaimed Francis. ‘How wholly lacking in humility! How utterly devoid of any willingness to admit you could be wrong!’ As he stood up I too rose to my feet and we faced each other across his desk. ‘Go to your cell,’ said my superior, ‘and don’t come out of it – unless there’s an air-raid – until you’re due to return here at four tomorrow. I find your attitude profoundly unedifying.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Walking out I somehow resisted the temptation to slam the door.

I wondered if he intended me to fast, but my supper arrived on a tray and later Ambrose appeared, inquiring about my health. Evidently Francis was taking no chances with my mental equilibrium by allowing me to slide into physical debility.

The knowledge that I had deftly repelled Francis’ efforts to undermine my confidence was very cheering; settling down to enjoy my solitary confinement I read, meditated, prayed and retired to bed in a mood which could almost be described as complacent.

However my complacency began to fade when I returned to his office on the following afternoon and was obliged to wait outside the door for ten minutes before he gave me permission to enter. Such a petty exhibition of power I found very irritating and my irritation increased when he ordered me into the room only to keep me standing in front of his desk while he finished writing a memorandum. I was beginning to seethe with anger when I realized that any loss of temper would constitute a victory for him, and at once I willed myself to be calm.