Glamorous Powers. Susan Howatch

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.

      II

      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.

      Eventually he motioned me to sit down. Then he said abruptly: ‘Now listen to me. There are two things I want to make clear. Number one: I’m convinced this vision of yours had a trigger. And number two: the existence of a trigger doesn’t necessarily imply the vision didn’t come from God.’

      I assumed what I hoped was my politest expression and said nothing.

      ‘You believe,’ pursued Francis, ‘that in order to prove this vision’s from God you must maintain that it has no connection with anything which was going on in your life at the time. However I’m now certain that this approach is erroneous.’

      Still I said nothing, but I was aware that my polite expression was becoming strained.

      ‘I’m not denying that God’s capable of sending people visions out of the blue,’ resumed Francis, ploughing on purposefully. ‘All I’m saying is that I don’t think this is likely in your case, and I say that because, as you reminded me yesterday, your call to the cloister was so strong. I think God would have had to prepare the ground before he gave the blast on the trumpet; otherwise you would have been either deaf to the blast or convinced you were mistaken. So from the point of view of discernment the crucial question becomes: what was the vision’s final trigger? I think that once we can answer that question we’ll be a lot closer to solving this mystery.’

      By this time I had given up trying to look polite and was concentrating on achieving a meek expression.

      ‘Jonathan, I find it unnerving when you give a bravura performance of the model monk. Could you please stop acting and venture a comment which isn’t entirely lacking in honesty?’

      ‘I find your opinions very interesting, Father, but I can’t help wondering if you might be mistaken. If a final trigger had existed I’m sure I’d be able to identify it.’

      ‘How typical!’ said Francis in disgust. ‘You think you can do anything, don’t you – even read your subconscious mind! It never occurs to you in your arrogance that your subconscious mind may be beyond the reach not only of your intellectual powers but of your tiresome psychic powers as well!’

      ‘Well, of course I’m as capable as anyone else of suppressing a truth I’ve no wish to face, but all I’m saying is –’

      ‘All