Ambrose.’
‘But nevertheless it was accompanied by –’
‘Why are you laying such stress on this trivial physical phenomenon? Sexuality should be accepted without fuss, not turned into an object of morbid speculation!’
‘Yes, Father. Did you ejaculate?’
‘Ambrose, I know you’re asking these ridiculous questions with the best will in the world, but I really think –’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you –’
‘I’m not upset!’
‘– but I’m merely anxious to get everything quite clear in my mind. Now, if these sexual manifestations are irrelevant, am I right in thinking that the visions have nothing to do with any event, sexual or otherwise, which may be taking place in your life at the time?’
I willed myself to be calm and recalled my duty to be honest. ‘No, that’s not right,’ I said with reluctance. ‘There’s usually an event which seems to act as a trigger.’ I hesitated before adding: ‘In 1937 I had a vision about a young priest whom I’d just helped through a grave spiritual crisis. It seemed clear afterwards that this crisis, which had absorbed me deeply, had acted as a stimulant, triggering this psychic glimpse of one of his possible futures.’
‘And may I ask if you’ve identified the trigger of this latest vision?’
I said flatly: ‘There was no trigger. The vision came from God.’
We sat in silence for a moment. I sensed that Ambrose was anxious to signal not only his respect for me but his reverence for any gift from God, and because I was aware of his sympathy I managed to control my anger when he eventually asked: ‘Have you felt persecuted lately?’
‘No. And I haven’t been hearing voices either. I’m not a paranoid schizophrenic’
‘The most difficult patients, as any doctor will tell you,’ said Ambrose, smiling at me, ‘are always the ones who like to run their own interviews and dictate the results to their unfortunate physicians.’ He stood up before adding: ‘However I have to admit that in my opinion you’re physically very fit for a man of sixty, and I’m not surprised you feel no older than forty-five.’
At last I was able to relax. ‘Thank you, Ambrose!’ I said, smiling back at him, but after I had left the infirmary I realized he had ventured no opinion on my mental health at all.
V
‘I’ve been reading your file,’ said Francis when I returned to his room at four o’clock that afternoon. ‘Of course I’d read it before – I plucked it from the safe as soon as the old man had breathed his last – but in the light of the present situation I find it doubly fascinating.’
Father Darcy, like all efficient dictators, had kept files on those subject to his authority so that he always knew who was likely to cause trouble. The information had been acquired not only from the regular reports of his abbots but from his annual visitations to their houses.
I said dryly: ‘I doubt if a fascinating file should be a source of pride.’
‘That shows a promising spirit of humility.’ Francis,entrenched behind his theatrical mannerisms, began to flick idly through the assorted papers in the bulging cardboard folder, and suddenly I wondered if he were feeling insecure, playing for time while he steadied his nerves. ‘The part I enjoyed most,’ he was saying amused, ‘was the section about Whitby the cat. Whitby! Was he named about the Synod?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ll be surprised to hear Father Darcy gives him a favourable mention. “A very superior animal,” he writes, “much admired by the community.”’
I said nothing, but the mention of Father Darcy seemed to give Francis the confidence he needed and he embarked on the necessary speech. ‘This is how I intend to proceed,’ he said briskly. ‘Every afternoon at this time you’ll come here and we’ll discuss certain aspects of your situation. Let me hasten to reassure you that at this stage I’ve no intention of behaving like either a prosecuting
‘But nevertheless it was accompanied by –’
‘Why are you laying such stress on this trivial physical phenomenon? Sexuality should be accepted without fuss, not turned into an object of morbid speculation!’
‘Yes, Father. Did you ejaculate?’
‘Ambrose, I know you’re asking these ridiculous questions with the best will in the world, but I really think –’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you –’
‘I’m not upset!’
‘– but I’m merely anxious to get everything quite clear in my mind. Now, if these sexual manifestations are irrelevant, am I right in thinking that the visions have nothing to do with any event, sexual or otherwise, which may be taking place in your life at the time?’
I willed myself to be calm and recalled my duty to be honest. ‘No, that’s not right,’ I said with reluctance. ‘There’s usually an event which seems to act as a trigger.’ I hesitated before adding: ‘In 1937 I had a vision about a young priest whom I’d just helped through a grave spiritual crisis. It seemed clear afterwards that this crisis, which had absorbed me deeply, had acted as a stimulant, triggering this psychic glimpse of one of his possible futures.’
‘And may I ask if you’ve identified the trigger of this latest vision?’
I said flatly: ‘There was no trigger. The vision came from God.’
We sat in silence for a moment. I sensed that Ambrose was anxious to signal not only his respect for me but his reverence for any gift from God, and because I was aware of his sympathy I managed to control my anger when he eventually asked: ‘Have you felt persecuted lately?’
‘No. And I haven’t been hearing voices either. I’m not a paranoid schizophrenic’
‘The most difficult patients, as any doctor will tell you,’ said Ambrose, smiling at me, ‘are always the ones who like to run their own interviews and dictate the results to their unfortunate physicians.’ He stood up before adding: ‘However I have to admit that in my opinion you’re physically very fit for a man of sixty, and I’m not surprised you feel no older than forty-five.’
At last I was able to relax. ‘Thank you, Ambrose!’ I said, smiling back at him, but after I had left the infirmary I realized he had ventured no opinion on my mental health at all.
V
‘I’ve been reading your file,’ said Francis when I returned to his room at four o’clock that afternoon. ‘Of course I’d read it before – I plucked it from the safe as soon as the old man had breathed his last – but in the light of the present situation I find it doubly fascinating.’
Father Darcy, like all efficient dictators, had kept files on those subject to his authority so that he always knew who was likely to cause trouble. The information had been acquired not only from the regular reports of his abbots but from his annual visitations to their houses.
I said dryly: ‘I doubt if a fascinating file should be a source of pride.’
‘That shows a promising spirit of humility.’ Francis,entrenched behind his theatrical mannerisms, began to flick idly through the assorted papers in the bulging cardboard folder, and suddenly I wondered if he were feeling insecure, playing for time while he steadied his nerves. ‘The part I enjoyed most,’ he was saying amused, ‘was the section about Whitby the cat. Whitby! Was he named about the Synod?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ll be surprised to hear Father Darcy gives him a favourable mention. “A very superior animal,” he writes, “much admired by the community.”’
I said nothing, but the mention of Father Darcy seemed to give Francis the confidence he needed and he embarked on the necessary speech. ‘This is how I intend to proceed,’ he said briskly. ‘Every afternoon at this time you’ll come here and we’ll discuss certain aspects of your situation. Let me hasten to reassure you that at this stage I’ve no intention of behaving like either a prosecuting
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