Читать книгу Glamorous Powers - Susan Howatch - Страница 45

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 you’re saying is that you intend to be as arrogant and obstinate as ever! Very well, let me now ask you the question I would have asked yesterday if you hadn’t driven me into losing my temper: during your month of reflection at Grantchester did you receive any further enlightenment on the subject of what this call’s all about?’

‘No. But I’m convinced that if I leave the Order I’ll be led to the chapel, and once I get there –’

‘Stop!’ Francis held up his hand. Then he said incredulously: ‘Can I possibly have misheard you? Is it conceivable that you seriously believe you’ll be led to this place? You imagine a latter-day Star of Bethlehem will be hanging over the chapel, perhaps, to guide you on your way?’

‘No, Father. All I’m saying is –’

‘That’s enough! Be quiet!’

Silence. I folded my hands together and waited.

‘I can see it’s a complete waste of time talking to you at the moment,’ said Francis. ‘I’m beginning to think old age has softened your brain. Go to the workshop and ask them if they can let you have some wood to play with. When people are mentally disturbed they’re often encouraged to work with their hands.’

‘Yes, Father.’ I did succeed in making a dignified retreat but I could not help thinking as I left the room that this time Francis had fared far better in the interview than I had.