Glittering Images (44 page)

‘Symbolized –’

‘– he was a symbol of hope – and in the end he was hope personified, my only hope, my last hope … I thought: if only he could be guilty, I’ll be all right – if he can go on, I can go on … And that was why – that was why –’

‘When he rejected your identification with him, he wasn’t just rejecting you as a father, was he?’

‘No, he was destroying my last hope of serving God in the Church, damning me to the hell of broken vows – and oh God, I couldn’t bear it, Father, I couldn’t bear it, I couldn’t bear it, I couldn’t bear it …’

‘It was very terrible for you,’ said Darrow, pulling his chair around the table so that he could sit beside me. ‘But you can see now, can’t you, how you used this valid identification with Jardine to drum up defences which would keep your fears about your vocation at bay. You were afraid not of losing your faith in God, which I suppose is the commonest fear of clergymen with such beleaguered psyches, but of losing your ability to serve him in the Church.’

I was able to say, ‘I believe now that eventually I’ll be able to go on in obedience to those vows I made at my ordination, but the past months have been such a nightmare of fear and doubt –’

‘Of course they have. And of course you can now understand how that nightmare burgeoned in your mind until it reached intolerable proportions. It began not merely because your father had convinced you that you were unfit and unworthy, a man who was only acting the part of a clergyman, but because you felt your father’s scepticism was to a frightening degree becoming justified. You
were
worried about your increasing need for alcohol, and you
were
finding yourself in increasing difficulties with women – but why was this happening? Not, contrary to what your father might think, because of some genetic curse. It was happening because you were under increasing psychological strain. The glittering image was becoming more and more of a burden – no wonder you wanted to drink to escape from him! – and you had this crucial problem, which you couldn’t master, about your inability to face remarriage. The tension caused by this problem remorselessly drove you into errors – errors which only made you feel more unfit, more unworthy – and the inevitable result was that you became imprisoned in a downward spiral of despair. In the circumstances the wonder is not that you became emotionally disturbed but that you didn’t do so much earlier, and in my opinion you must be absolutely dedicated to serving God; a lesser call would have disintegrated long ago.’

When I was calmer I said, ‘It was almost as if I knew I couldn’t break down until I’d found someone who could be guaranteed to glue me together again.’

‘One of the saddest aspects of your story is undoubtedly that you felt unable to confide in anyone before you met me, but before either of us makes the mistake of becoming too self-satisfied with the results of our meeting let’s remember that although your troubles have been clarified they haven’t yet been resolved. You have some hard work to do now on the home front, but we can discuss that later. At present there are more immediate matters to consider.’

‘My formal confession?’

‘Yes, it can be brief, since we’ve already discussed your errors in such depth, but you must still approach the task with care; I’m going to make some suggestions about prayer and meditation. Then once your confession’s been made we can discuss what you’re going to do on your return to the world. I think it’s extremely important for you, both emotionally and spiritually, that we draw up a very meticulous battle-plan.’

I made my formal confession before God that evening, and Father Darrow, granting me absolution, assigned me a short penance which I performed in the chapel before I went to bed. I had expected a severe penance, possibly even a protracted one, but Darrow said that the severe, protracted ordeal of my informal confession to him had formed a penance which now only required completion with prayer.

The next morning, for the first time since my arrival, I was able to participate in the mass.

All the Fordite services were conducted in the vernacular, and although the form of worship represented the apex of the High Church wing of the Church of England, the language stressed that sharp division from Rome which formed the hallmark of the Fordite monks. The chapel was ornate, but the lack of emphasis on the Virgin set it apart from any church under the Pope’s jurisdiction. I could not see the entire chapel because visitors were allowed only in a section of the transept, but the stained glass which was visible to me stressed the life of Christ and the single work of sculpture consisted of a crucifix.

I received the sacrament. I had been so buoyed up by my anticipation that it was a shock when after the first seconds of overwhelming comfort I experienced the panic of despair. I started fearing I might fall into error the moment I left my secure retreat; I began to worry that I would still be unable to face remarriage and fatherhood; I tormented myself with the dread that my feelings for Lyle were entirely illusory, that the liberating theory of my paternity was mistaken and that I was indeed utterly unfit to serve God as a clergyman.

My new hope shattered. My frail self-confidence crumbled. After the service I stumbled back to my room, pulled the blind and lay face downwards on the bed with the cross pressed against my chest as I struggled to repel the demon despair. The demon and I wrestled for some time. He never entirely vanquished me but he made exhausting attacks. I was immobilized. I needed all my strength to bar his path to my soul.

Darrow found me after his chapter meeting. He walked in, took one look at my prostrate form, pulled up the blind and said: ‘On your feet, Charles. Kick the demon in the arse and let’s get down to work.’

The mood represented by the symbol of the demon immediately dissolved into the framework of my mind. I slunk to the table.

‘I thought I’d be all right now,’ I said with shame. ‘I thought I’d be strong as an ox and brave as a lion and ready to stride out of your front door singing “Onward Christian Soldiers”.’

Darrow laughed. ‘Some frightened citizen of Grantchester would undoubtedly have summoned an ambulance! No, Charles, I’d be most perturbed if at the present stage of your profound ordeal you were to stride out of here singing a militant hymn.’ And he added as we both sat down at the table: ‘In a way I’m glad you’ve had this setback because now you’ll have no trouble believing me when I say I think you should stay here a few days longer. Spiritually you’re still extremely weak, and since taking the sacrament isn’t by itself going to restore you miraculously to full strength, I’m going to set you some spiritual exercises.’

I tried not to look alarmed. Even in the most ardent days of my training for the priesthood I had never been keen on work which offered me no chance to excel with my academic gifts.

‘You probably won’t need to remain here longer than a week,’ said Darrow, ‘but for the next twenty-eight days I want you to rise at six in the morning and spend one hour in reading, prayer and meditation as I shall direct. You may have a cup of tea or coffee to wake you up but no food during this hour, please, and no cigarettes.’

My heart sank. I was never at my best early in the morning and before approaching an hour of spiritual exercises I felt I needed a three-course dinner, several cigarettes and a stiff whisky. Laymen think clergymen have an inexhaustible ability to pray and meditate, but in fact unless one is a monk trained to spend a large portion of each day in worship few clergymen have either the time or the energy for a full hour of solitary spiritual hard labour. Every morning I said my prayers and read the office, but these activities resembled a short spiritual sprint; what I was now being required to do was to run a spiritual mile, and I knew very well that I was out of training.

However my resolve to rebuild my life to give meaning to Jane’s death compelled me to say to Darrow, ‘I want more than anything to get fit. I’ll do whatever you say.’

‘Let me explain what I’m aiming for: I want to help you restore the balance to your spiritual life which your private problems have inevitably distorted. In your pursuit of a success which would impress your father you’ve probably tended to channel too much energy into your work as a scholar; I’m not saying you haven’t been conscientious in your public worship and private prayer, but have you been more than merely conscientious? I feel you should now devote more time to cultivating your inner life so that you can achieve more than a mere outward semblance of your vocation.’

‘I’m beginning to see why you’ve been leading me through a course of reading on mysticism.’

‘There were two reasons for that. The first was that you seemed to be too much preoccupied with the transcendence of God – a common failing among admirers of Karl Barth, I fear – and I thought you needed to be reminded of the mystics’ doctrine of synteresis, the idea that a divine spark exists in every human being –’

‘– and that God’s immanent as well as transcendent.’

‘Exactly. Mysticism provides a middle way between a Liberal protestantism stressing the immanence of God and Barth’s crisis theology stressing the transcendence.’

‘And your second reason for directing me to the mystics?’

‘I wanted to see how you reacted to a stress on the relationship between man and God which can exist beyond the rituals of formal worship, and during our subsequent discussions I began to suspect you weren’t using your spiritual gifts, such as they are, to their full capacity – with the result that your misguided belief in your unworthiness had been reinforced. And that’s another reason why you now need to spend time each day in training and rehabilitation; you need the boost to your self-esteem that the achievement of a balanced spiritual life will provide.’

I was unable to stop myself saying: ‘I feel so depressed that I’m in such a weakened state.’

‘Then it’s all the more important that we should build up your spiritual strength. Now, Charles, you clearly need some hard physical work if you’re to avoid spending the morning moping on your bed – come into the garden with me and let’s see if we can discover some small useful tree which is crying out to be cut down …’

There was no tree crying out to be cut down but there was a large patch of ground which was asking to be dug up. I dug and I dug and I dug. After a while I felt better, and later as I took a shower I remembered Lady Starmouth saying with a smile, ‘I adore Muscular Christianity!’ Her remark seemed a terrible irony now that I could acknowledge what a debilitated Christian I had become but when I looked in the glass and saw not my glittering image but my true self I thought that one day, a long way off in a future almost impossible to imagine, an approving reference to Muscular Christianity might not seem so misplaced.

It was an encouraging thought, and I knew then that I was starting to hope again, starting to rebuild my shattered confidence.

Darrow spent our afternoon session assigning me my books for the exercises and discussing the most effective techniques for meditative reading. ‘We’ll start the meditations with the Synoptic Gospels,’ he said, ‘because I want you to focus your attention on Christ and then we’ll move on to St John’s Gospel so that you can focus on the Spirit. You’re too theocentric, possibly because your psychological problems have made you preoccupied with God as Father. I’ve noticed a marked imbalance in your whole perception of the Trinity.’

I began to feel alarmed again. I might be a Doctor of Divinity but now I felt like a student about to fail an examination, and suddenly I found myself desperate to pass. Supposing I were unmasked as a complete spiritual failure? The thought of abject failure was appalling enough, but the thought of disappointing Darrow was intolerable. In panic I cast around for a solution which would protect me in my vulnerability, and when Darrow returned to my room that evening, the glittering image said to him: ‘I do wish you’d tell me more about yourself, Father! There’s so much I’d like to know.’

As soon as the words were spoken I felt myself relaxing. This was an infallible technique for acquiring the goodwill of older men; I would ask them about their past, I would listen with the ardent interest of the model disciple and I would be rewarded by a gratifying display of paternal benevolence which would be blind to all the faults and failings I was so desperately anxious to conceal. ‘Tell me about your days in the Navy!’ I urged Darrow with all the warmth and charm I could muster, but although I waited with confidence for the response which would anaesthetize my fear of unfitness, Darrow was silent. At first I thought he was merely pausing to set aside his counsellor’s mask and when he smiled at me I was sure he was about to become confidential, but then he said gravely, ‘No, Charles. If I’m to help you best I must continue to be to a large extent impersonal. I can only be your spiritual director. Nothing less. And nothing more.’

Another silence fell as I painfully perceived the machinations of my glittering image, but at last Darrow said with a firmness which enabled him to be gentle without sounding condescending, ‘This isn’t a rejection, Charles. Quite the contrary. I’d be rejecting you if I allowed you to put our relationship on a footing which would merely reinforce these psychological difficulties which have plagued you for so long. One of my most vital tasks at present is not to prove to you that you need a father-figure; it’s to prove to you that you can do without one.’

I nodded. After a while my true self was able to say, ‘Don’t think I’m unaware how absurd it is for a man of my age to need a father-figure constantly in the background.’