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 …’ The girls had worn watches as brooches in those days, and half the fun of stopping a watch had lain in the erotic adventure of putting a hand on the feminine breast to jolt the mechanism back into action.
In panic I realized I had allowed my psychic discipline to slip. My voice said shattered: ‘I’ve stopped the clock,’ but Francis at once retorted: ‘Nonsense, it just gave a hiccough. It does that sometimes,’ and to my relief I realized that the pendulum was still moving. I said confused: ‘I thought –’ but Francis interrupted me.
‘Now Jonathan, it’s no good trying to play that old parlour-trickbecause I’m well aware that you never stopped any of those watches in the old days – you merely hypnotized all those gullible girls into thinking that you did. Come back here, sit down and behave yourself – you’re acting like a half-baked novice.’
This robust approach, so reminiscent of our mentor, at once steadied me. I returned to my chair.
‘Have you heard from Martin since the quarrel?’ said Francis after allowing me a moment to regain my composure.
‘No, but I’ve written and I know that eventually he’ll write back. Martin’s always been so good at keeping in touch and sharing his world with me.’ But of course he had not shared it. Grief threatened to overwhelm me again.
‘How old was he when his mother died?’
‘Seven. Poor Betty … After the scene with Martin I thought how upset she would have been about him, and I kept thinking of her, thinking and remembering –’ I broke off. Then I added abruptly: ‘Forgive me, I’m digressing. My marriage has nothing to do with my present crisis.’
But Francis only said: ‘Hasn’t it? Yet you’ve just confessed that it was most vividly resurrected in your mind shortly before you had your vision,’ and as we stared at each other in silence we were interrupted by the rapid clanging of the chapel bell proclaiming an emergency.
IX
‘Air-raid drill,’ said Francis casually. ‘We’d better set a good example by retiring speedily to the crypt. I must say, Jonathan, you’ve picked the most tiresome time in the history of the world to embark on a spiritual crisis.’
After the drill had unfolded in a tolerably well-ordered manner there was no time to resume our interview before
‘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 …’ The girls had worn watches as brooches in those days, and half the fun of stopping a watch had lain in the erotic adventure of putting a hand on the feminine breast to jolt the mechanism back into action.
In panic I realized I had allowed my psychic discipline to slip. My voice said shattered: ‘I’ve stopped the clock,’ but Francis at once retorted: ‘Nonsense, it just gave a hiccough. It does that sometimes,’ and to my relief I realized that the pendulum was still moving. I said confused: ‘I thought –’ but Francis interrupted me.
‘Now Jonathan, it’s no good trying to play that old parlour-trickbecause I’m well aware that you never stopped any of those watches in the old days – you merely hypnotized all those gullible girls into thinking that you did. Come back here, sit down and behave yourself – you’re acting like a half-baked novice.’
This robust approach, so reminiscent of our mentor, at once steadied me. I returned to my chair.
‘Have you heard from Martin since the quarrel?’ said Francis after allowing me a moment to regain my composure.
‘No, but I’ve written and I know that eventually he’ll write back. Martin’s always been so good at keeping in touch and sharing his world with me.’ But of course he had not shared it. Grief threatened to overwhelm me again.
‘How old was he when his mother died?’
‘Seven. Poor Betty … After the scene with Martin I thought how upset she would have been about him, and I kept thinking of her, thinking and remembering –’ I broke off. Then I added abruptly: ‘Forgive me, I’m digressing. My marriage has nothing to do with my present crisis.’
But Francis only said: ‘Hasn’t it? Yet you’ve just confessed that it was most vividly resurrected in your mind shortly before you had your vision,’ and as we stared at each other in silence we were interrupted by the rapid clanging of the chapel bell proclaiming an emergency.
IX
‘Air-raid drill,’ said Francis casually. ‘We’d better set a good example by retiring speedily to the crypt. I must say, Jonathan, you’ve picked the most tiresome time in the history of the world to embark on a spiritual crisis.’
After the drill had unfolded in a tolerably well-ordered manner there was no time to resume our interview before
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