of replies, but I was almost passing out with relief. At that point Charley broke down and began to whimper, but I grabbed him and held him so tightly that both of us were unable to do more than struggle for breath. Eventually Jon appeared and announced, rather in the manner of a tactful butler, that breakfast was available in the dining-room.
When Charley and I were alone together he told me he had completed the long journey by walking and by thumbing lifts. Having little money he had slept under hedges and survived on a diet of Mars bars. ‘The whole journey was hell,’ he concluded morosely, ‘but I wanted to see Father Darrow. I thought he’d know about everything and I’m sure he does, but he said you could explain it all better than he could.’ He hesitated but added: ‘He also said I should read the letter because letters from the dead should be treated with respect.’
I handed over the letter. Charley pocketed it and embarked upon his breakfast. He ate two fried eggs, a sausage, three rashers of bacon and a fried tomato while I toyed with half a piece of toast. Eventually I withdrew to the cloakroom where I at last achieved my ambition to vomit. On my departure from the dining-room I had heard the faint noise of tearing paper as Charley at once opened the envelope.
When I rejoined him I found that the envelope had disappeared.
Charley’s careful comment was: ‘That was an interesting letter. I might let you read it one day.’
Not surprisingly, I found myself unable to reply.
‘I was thinking,’ said Charley, ‘what a useful thing it was that Mum took me to see him – I mean him – back in 1945 when I was old enough to remember him properly. If I hadn’t seen him, I might always have wondered what he was like.’
I managed to agree that this was quite possible.
‘He seemed to like you a lot,’ said Charley at last. ‘Of course he took the blame for everything, and that was right, wasn’t it? You were the hero of the story and he was … well, what was he exactly? I can’t quite make him out. Was he a villain? Or a fool? Or a tragic figure felled by hubris like Charles Stewart Parnell? Or …’ His voice trailed away.
The pause lengthened.
Eventually Charley said in a rush: ‘Of course if you’d rather I didn’t ask any questions –’
‘But of course you must ask questions!’ I said, finally summoning the strength to behave as I should. ‘And of course I must answer them as truthfully as possible!’
But I think I knew, even as I expressed this admirable intention, that the absolute truth about my wife’s lover was still quite beyond my power to articulate.
‘Bad pride is negative; it blinds us to truths of fact or even of reason …’
AUSTIN FARRER
Warden of Keble College, Oxford, 1960–1968
A Celebration of Faith
I
I should much prefer to say no more about this dreadful scene with Charley, but unfortunately I have to go on to record what a hash I made of it; the consequences were so far-reaching.
‘It would be uncharitable to call him a villain,’ I said to Charley as I embarked on this doomed attempt to depict Samson in the light of truth, ‘and it would certainly be inaccurate to describe him as a fool. One could, perhaps, acknowledge a resemblance to Parnell, but only a superficial one. After all, Parnell was not a clergyman of the Church of England who broke the vows he made at his ordination.’ As I spoke I insisted to myself that I should speak the truth. I also insisted that I would not let the truth be distorted by my anger. I told myself fiercely: I shall not lie.
‘He was a gifted man who had weaknesses which made him vulnerable,’ I found myself saying. ‘I felt sorry for him. At the end of his life he could be considered a pathetic figure, a man ruined by the flaws in his character – but I mustn’t judge him too harshly. That wouldn’t be right.’
I drank some tea. Eventually I said: ‘It was a tragedy that those inherent weaknesses wrecked his life and wasted his talents.’
‘When you say “weaknesses”, do you mean –’
‘I mean primarily his weakness for women. It clouded his judgement. His disastrous marriage was quite obviously an example of a sexual attraction which had soon faded … but I don’t want to be too harsh on him.’
There was a pause. As I waited for the next question I saw with dismay that Charley had lost his brave air of nonchalance. His face had a pinched look.
‘I don’t want to be too harsh on him,’ I repeated hurriedly, trying to put things right. ‘Anyone can make a mistake.’ But before I could stop myself I was saying: ‘It was just a pity his mistakes were so crucial. His weakness for women was compounded by a tendency to drink too much. Certainly he enjoyed a luxurious style of life which was quite unsuitable for a priest, and in the circumstances it was hardly surprising that his moral will was sapped so that he was unable to resist the temptation which your mother presented … although of course I don’t mean to pass judgement on him for what he did to her. All judgements must be left to God.’
Charley said unevenly: ‘I just don’t understand how Mum could ever have –’
‘Oh, the whole episode was entirely his fault. She was an innocent young woman corrupted by a sophisticated older man,’ I said, but I knew at once I could not let that statement stand unmodified. Furiously I told myself: I WILL NOT LIE. ‘No, let me rephrase that last sentence,’ I said rapidly. ‘By using a cliché I’ve made the affair sound simple and it wasn’t. It was complicated.’ But even as I spoke I was thinking: Charley wants simplicity, not complexity; he wants certainties, not ambiguities; it really would be kinder to him to sketch the story in black and white.
‘But never mind all that,’ I said even more rapidly. ‘The rock-bottom truth is that he was older than she was and should have known better. Of course I’m tempted to blame him for putting her through hell, but in fact it’s futile to assign blame since our prime task is to forgive. As I keep saying, I don’t mean to pass judgement on him for what he did.’ Realising that I was becoming convoluted, once more passing judgement and rescinding it in the same breath, I made a mighty new effort to be clear and simple.
‘You don’t have to worry,’ I said. ‘I’ve brought you up. I’ve made you what you are. So long as you model yourself on me you’ll never have to worry that you’ll make a mess of your life as he did.’
Charley by this time seemed to be barely breathing. His pallor had a faint greenish tinge.
‘Upbringing’s the important thing,’ I said at top speed. ‘You needn’t worry about your heredity. I often think how like me you are, sharing so many of my interests.’
‘All I ever wanted,’ said Charley painfully, ‘was to be just like you.’
‘In that case there’s no need for you to give this man –’ I could not name him ‘–
