“The truth which should be accessible but which I’m at present too muddled to discern?”
“That’s it. Now—” The old boy leant back in his chair, removed his spectacles and began to polish them on the skirt of his habit. His casual, relaxed manner was very soothing. “Let me tell you what I think has happened. For the first seven years of your life—very important years, as any Jesuit will tell you—you were Neville One, living in a benign world dominated by two loving adults, your father and your nurse Tabitha. This was an excellent start in life, although it might be worth noting that from infancy you would have been aware of two contrasting types of women, the simple motherly soul and the remote complex blue-stocking.
“Then your father died, Tabitha disappeared, your mother became even more remote and your uncle made it plain that if you wanted to survive you had to become just like him; in other words, Neville Two had to reject his father. This you did most successfully, but as you grew up, Neville One, who had never quite died but had merely been locked up, began to rattle the bars of his prison. You became very tired of Uncle Willoughby. Like most young men you wanted to assert yourself and become independent of those who had authority over you, so when you heard Professor Raven declaring: ‘It’s all a unity! It’s all one!’ it was hardly surprising that Neville One was spurred to break out of jail. And once he was free you were able to re-establish your loyalty to your father, whom you saw as a profoundly religious man.
“Now it’s Neville Two’s turn to be locked up, but after a while you find you can’t live without him after all. He’s the one who knows how to survive and flourish. He can’t be consigned to prison, but how is he going to run in harness with Neville One when they’re so incompatible? This is a very difficult problem, but you solve it by binding the two Nevilles together and enfolding them in a new identity. They’re still separate—a merger is impossible because of the acute dissimilarity—but at least they’re contained harmoniously within Neville Three, who’s emerged into the world to keep them trotting smoothly in tandem.
“The arrival on the scene of Neville Three has a most unexpected result. Your mother, who’s been very much on the fringe of your life all these years, now discovers that this new Neville is irresistible, a miraculous manifestation of her husband and her brother, those two gentlemen who were so dissimilar that it would have seemed to her impossible that they could ever be combined in one person. You’ve got rid of Uncle Willoughby by this time, but nature abhors a vacuum; you’ve always had a focal point in your emotional life, and even now you’re a grown man you find you still need this powerful presence, the audience which can be guaranteed to applaud your dazzling performance whenever you step on stage.
“It’s easy to deduce that you feel compelled to give this dazzling performance because you want to win the love, attention and security which were all so brutally wiped from your life when you were seven years old, but in fact I suspect this compulsion preceded your father’s death. You had a brother close to you in age, someone with whom you were inevitably in competition from the cradle onwards. I’ll wager you’ve always felt this need to produce a strong performance for the people who matter and thus prove your superiority not only to them but to yourself.
“But we must return to Neville Three, who has just discovered the ideal new audience: his mother, who not only bathes him in doting approval but cheers him on as he goes chasing the prizes. Obviously this relationship gave you the most enormous emotional satisfaction—why else would you have been so careful to marry a woman of whom your mother couldn’t help but approve? Of course you loved your wife for her many admirable qualities, but you did mention that the desire to please your mother was not entirely absent from your mind. And what kind of woman could your mother be expected to tolerate? Why, an educated and refined version of Tabitha, a motherly soul who knew her place and offered no rivalry. Interestingly, you said you met your wife when you were Neville Two, so even in those days, it seems, when your mother was so remote, she was still immensely important to you.
“Now we reach the point in your life when things start to go wrong. Your mother comes to live with you and the move is a disaster. A fifth child arrives. Your perfect wife begins to show worrying imperfections. However, you survive all these setbacks without too much trouble; you merely readjust your identities, putting Neville One on a short leash and giving Neville Two, the expert in survival, a free rein. In the circumstances this is an understandable move, but the result is that Neville Three becomes dislocated. He’s no longer containing Nevilles One and Two in harmony. Neville Two’s setting the pace, and Neville Two, when all’s said and done, hasn’t much idea of what being a clergyman is all about.
“Then in September 1941 comes the event which finally blows your multiple personality wide apart: Your mother dies. Can Neville Three live without her? Indeed, can any of the Nevilles live without their special audience cheering them on as they give their magnificent performances on stage? Your father, your uncle, your mother—they’re all gone now, and for the first time in your life you have to define yourself as you really are as you stand alone before a deserted auditorium. In other words, you can’t be any of the Nevilles any more because each Neville was a creation of—or perhaps I should say a response to—one of those three all-important older figures. You realise there has to be a Neville Four—or possibly someone equally new, a Stephen—to complement this radically different phase of your existence, but as soon as you’re aware of this you realise you can’t possibly give birth to your new personality on your own. You need another powerful emotional presence who can act as a midwife—not someone like Grace, who was a mere adjunct of the earlier Nevilles, but someone very original and fascinating, a strong personality, someone who’ll cheer you on as you go chasing the prizes—someone, in fact, just like the lady who becomes your second wife.
“But in the confusion following your mother’s death, you’ve made a fatal mistake. Contrary to what you suppose, your solution won’t turn you into Neville Four or Stephen, because all you’ve actually done is resurrected Neville Three by putting another woman in your mother’s shoes. So you wind up back with Neville Three, repeating the relationship with your mother, repeating the relationship which should be at an end—and Neville Three’s long been seriously unbalanced, dominated by the worldly Neville Two. As the pressures mount this imbalance increases and eventually you reach the point where your multiple personality is in danger of disintegration. You’ve somehow managed to get the personalities back in harness, but Neville One barely exists, Neville Three is no more than a facade and Neville Two is out of control, chasing the wrong prizes on a road which spirals inexorably downwards into hell.
“Now, Neville, I can’t stress too strongly that this picture I’ve painted is not the whole truth. It isn’t even the whole of that part of the truth which God has made accessible to you. But do you feel it’s a recognisable representation of what’s been going on in your life? Or do you feel I’ve created a fantasy which has no relation to reality?”
But I only said: “How do I make all my identities a unity? How can they all become one?”
5
Lucas seemed to relax; perhaps he had been afraid I would balk at his theory and put myself beyond the reach of the help he planned to offer. “Very well,” he said, leaning forward on the table, “we’ll now push the theory to its logical conclusion, which is this: If the three Nevilles are reflections of the three vital figures in your past, the way to unite the Nevilles is to harmonise those three figures—and this is where we get to the point where having described what we do know, we try to describe what we don’t know.”
“Meaning—”
“Meaning we must look beyond the melodramatic figures you presented earlier and ask ourselves what these people were really like. I know nothing beyond the rudimentary descriptions you’ve given me. You must inevitably know more, but there are bound to be great gaps in your knowledge. All we can assume for certain, given your fr
agmented warring personality, is that you’re not at peace with any of these people and that only by understanding them will you be able to forgive them and live in harmony with their memory.”
“But I understand them very well!”
“Do you? Then answer me these questions: What was really going on in your parents’ marriage? Why did she marry him and why did he marry her? How did your uncle fit into their relationship? How did your mother succeed in keeping the peace between these two very different men who both, so you say, adored her? What did your uncle’s wife think about the situation whenever she wasn’t pressing her wild-flowers? You’re so familiar with this group of people that you take a great deal for granted, but it’s a curious picture you’ve painted. The triangle—or quadrangle, if one includes your aunt—may have been harmless but it could well have been most unwholesome. I think you should find out more about it. The more you find out, the more chance there is that you’ll cease to regard these people as cardboard figures in a melodrama and see them as flesh-and-blood people with whom you can sympathise.”
“I can’t imagine—”
“That’s because you don’t want to imagine. Seeing them as cardboard figures in a melodrama is your way of neutralising the harm they’ve done you; if you can make them unreal and set them on a stage they can’t hurt you as flesh-and-blood people would, and you can always ring down the curtain to keep them at bay. But Neville, this is where the curtain must go up and stay up. This is where the characters must be allowed to come down into the auditorium, because only when you meet them face to face will you be able to move past the warring dialectic and grasp the truth which lies beyond, the truth which will set you free. It’s a question of facing the pain, you see. It’s a question of facing the pain.”
After a pause I said: “How do I do all this? Where do I begin?”
“I assume your uncle and aunt are dead. That means you must start with your brother and sister. Go to see them and find out how they see the past. You’ll hear much that’s familiar, but there’s always the chance you’ll hear something new which will put your memories in a different light. If you bear in mind that the truth is multi-faceted and your own knowledge is just one facet of that truth, you’ll see that the facets provided by other people are of the greatest importance.”
“You’re saying I must play the detective.”
“Yes, and the most successful detectives work in pairs. You’ll need someone with whom you can discuss your investigations, someone who’ll help you sift the wheat from the chaff, and this is where I make my next suggestion: Enlist Jon Darrow’s help. I think his intuitive powers could be invaluable to you here.”
At once I said: “I’m sorry, but I could never work with Darrow. We’re so incompatible that he’s incapable of helping me.”
“Who sent you here to see me?”
I was silenced.
“Let me give you a little tip on how to handle Jon,” said Lucas cosily, smoothing my ruffled feathers with effortless skill. “After all, I was his abbot for years; I should know what I’m talking about. The trick is to avoid any stance which he can regard as intolerably authoritarian—and Jon finds most authority other than his own intolerable. Did you ever clash with him in a situation where you, as the Archdeacon, represented authority?”
“Well, as a matter of fact—”
“I thought so. Then you would have seen him at his worst. But once the authority passes to him, the whole range of his remarkable gifts comes into play and he’s capable of the most exceptional work. All you have to do now is say to him: ‘Look here, let’s forget the past—and let’s forget I’m the Archdeacon. I’m sailing in uncharted seas and I need a navigator. Can you help?’ (Jon always likes nautical metaphors—they remind him of his happy days as a Naval chaplain.) If you take that approach, then I think you’ll find that the fierce dog will stop baring his teeth and start wagging his tail.”
I was unable to resist exclaiming amused: “Don’t think I’m so obtuse that I can’t hear the real message you’re sending me behind all this cosy advice of yours! You’re saying urgently: ‘Don’t be too proud to seek help from a man you’ve never liked!’ ”
The old man laughed, much as a father might laugh when his infant offspring shows signs of promise, but all he said was: “And now, having suggested how you might approach the task of sorting out your past, let’s examine the problem of your future. The first thing you must accept is that no fairy godmother is going to appear with a magic wand and transform it into a paradise. But nevertheless there are certain steps you can take to help yourself survive …”
6
“You’ll need crutches while you’re so disabled,” said Lucas, “but you must take care they’re the right ones. Do you drink?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t. Consider yourself a temporary abstainer. Drink’s a luxury you can afford when you’re strong but it must never be a crutch to help you along when you’re weak. That way disaster lies … Is there someone, male or female, who normally acts as your confidant?”
“No.”
“That’s a pity. A sympathetic and trustworthy confidant can be an invaluable crutch. Have you never had an older clergyman in whom you could freely confide?”
“He died last year. But we were estranged for some time before his death.”
“Ah. It had in fact occurred to me that you’d apparently been drifting along without effective guidance. I assume from your previous remarks that you’re entirely opposed to the practice of auricular confession?”
“I’m sorry, I hate to sound like a bigot again, but—”
“You’re perfectly entitled to your views. In the Church of
England no one is obliged to make confession. There’s no need whatsoever for you to apologise.”
“But I’m sure you must think—”
“What I think is that I must deal with you as you are and not try to squeeze you into a mould which would only aggravate your distress. I do think you need spiritual direction, but what I mustn’t do is impose a Catholic director on you. That wouldn’t work at all.”
“I’m sure you can rely on Darrow to have a go at imposing himself!”
“No, no, you underestimate him,” said Lucas, effortlessly stroking my ruffled feathers again. “If he’d thought he could direct you, he wouldn’t have referred you to me.”
“But if—when—I ask him for help, surely he’ll jump to the conclusion—”
“Just tell him you need a confidant, not a confessor—or perhaps you might even say a fellow-detective, not a spiritual director—and he’ll know exactly what’s required of him.”
“But if Darrow’s out of the running for giving me spiritual advice, how do I find a—no, I’m sorry, I hate that word ‘director.’ It conjures up all sorts of authoritarian Romish images which make my hackles rise. I know they shouldn’t rise, I know I’m in the wrong, I know intellectually that I’m being a bigot, but emotionally—”
“Ah, those vital first seven years of our lives!” said Lucas, smiling at me. “What a very strict chapel it must have been in Maltby!” Then as I smiled too, grateful for his understanding, he added: “Why don’t we use the milder word ‘adviser’ and agree to leave the phrase ‘spiritual director’ to those who didn’t spend their early years among anti-Catholic Non-Conformists? I think later when you’re stronger you’ll have no trouble discovering a wise and devout Protestant with whom you can discuss your spiritual life, but meanwhile emergency measures seem to be called for. Could you bear it if I made some very general suggestions about how you might shore up your spiritual life in this crisis, or will you only feel driven to declare that all monks should go over to Rome?”
“I’m beginning to be very relieved that all monks haven’t gone over to Rome. Tell me what I must do.”
“No, I shan’t dictate. That’s not the way of our Church, is it? I shall only advise—or (milder still) suggest. I presume that most of your private prayers are ex tempore? Well,
there’s nothing wrong with ex tempore prayers, of course, but at present you want to be very careful that your prayers aren’t merely a flurry of words which will mar the inner stillness you must cultivate in order not only to maintain your equilibrium but to receive the word from God which will undoubtedly come.”
“But what makes you so sure there’ll be a communication?”
“When a man stands at the crossroads,” said Lucas, “there are invariably signs guiding him forward. What usually happens in such cases is this: either he’ll be beckoned forward along the same road but given the grace to proceed in a much more effective way; or else he’ll be directed on to a different road altogether. Now, I concede that perception might not be easy. You’ll almost certainly be required to exercise the charism of discernment, and here again Jon can be of use to you. He’s had considerable experience of helping people to distinguish the correct path from the incorrect path as they attempt to move forward from the crossroads.”
“But how can I be sure I’ll even hear any word from God, let alone discern the meaning of any message which comes my way? I feel so deaf—so muddled and confused—”
“That’s exactly why your life of prayer and devotion is now so crucial. You must do all you can to cultivate your receptivity. Try cutting down the ex tempore prayers to the essential intercessions and concentrate on one or two formal prayers which you can say very slowly, thinking hard on each phrase. The Collects are always helpful and no doubt you have your own favourite prayers which you can use … Then try to allocate at least an hour a day to your reading; when one reads one has to be very still and very quiet. Try to take an hour early in the morning when there’s nothing to distract you. Your concentration won’t be good at the moment, so you must do everything you can to cut distraction to a minimum.”
Ultimate Prizes Page 31
