Pope Benedict XVI. Photograph: Getty Images
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Profile: Pope Benedict XVI

The Pope is emerging as an ultra-reactionary. First he antagonised Muslims. Now he has outraged Jewish groups by favouring a Holocaust denier.

Pope John Paul II contributed to the collapse of the Soviet system and pressed home spiritual values in a world he saw in steep moral decline. Papa Wojtyla castigated Reaganomics and Thatcherism even as the Berlin Wall fell. He followed John XXIII in extending the hand of friendship to the Jewish faith. When he died, in April 2005, John Paul bequeathed the more-than-billion-strong Catholic Church (16 per cent of the population of the planet) to a 78-year-old German theologian named Joseph Ratzinger.

Both men survived the Second World War, in strikingly different circumstances. Wojtyla was a slave worker in a Polish quarry. He directed and acted in anti-fascist plays in an underground theatre and attended a secret seminary. He helped Jewish refugees. Ratzinger was a member, albeit reluctantly, of the Hitler Youth, and served as an anti-aircraft gunner in the Wehrmacht, whiling away periods of inaction by reading Goethe and Schiller. He would look back nostalgically, as if through a mist of incense, on the rich Catholic liturgy and ornate vestments of churches in his Bavarian homeland.

He would never see the Third Reich as a German phenomenon. Preaching at Auschwitz many years later, he said he had come there as a son of "that people over which a ring of criminals rose to power by false promises . . . with the result that our people could be used and abused as an instrument of their thirst for destruction and power". In the 1950s he became a seminary student and rose, via academic theology, to the top Vatican job of protecting doctrinal orthodoxy. Finally, he was elected Pope Benedict XIV after a conclave of only two days.

Had John Paul II been alive today, as the global financial crisis unfolds, observers would praise him for his unique moral guidance. Benedict XVI, however, is embroiled in a squalid quarrel that has compromised his moral authority. On 24 January 2009, he rescinded the excommunication, imposed by John Paul II in June 1988, on four dissident Catholic bishops, one of whom is a blatant Holocaust denier. The men are members of a breakaway Catholic group known as the ­Society of Saint Pius X. They were illicitly raised to their bishoprics by the society's founder, the late Archbishop Marcel Lefebvre, also excommunicated in 1988.

The leader of the four is one Bernard Fellay, who has been negotiating reconciliation with Benedict for several years. Another, Bernard Tissier de Mallerais, has in the past, with consummate irony, accused Benedict himself of apostasy. A third, Bishop Richard Williamson, is the Holocaust denier. He is 68 and an Anglican convert to Catholicism under the influence of the late Malcom Muggeridge. He was rector of a seminary near Buenos Aires, but was dismissed from the post early this month. An old boy of Winchester public school and a Cambridge graduate, he was once a novice at the Catholic Oratory in the Brompton Road in London.

The raison d'être of the Society of Saint Pius X is to deplore the reforms of the Second Vatican Council (Vatican II) of the mid-1960s. Lefebvrists, as they are also known, have a long list of discontents: these include a loathing of equal status for women and a hatred of homosexuality. They are opposed to the Vatican II document that absolved contemporary Jews of responsibility for the crucifixion of Jesus. In particular, the society laments the virtual abolition of the Latin Mass by Paul VI in 1968, and its replacement with a modernised ritual in the vernacular.

The name of the society is significant. Pius X (pope from 1903-14), officially sainted by one of his keenest admirers, the wartime pope, Pius XII, did much to shape the Catholic Church from the first decade of the 20th century to the 1960s. Pius X initiated a campaign against what he called the "Modernists" - Catholic liberal teachers who appealed to historical criticism and non-literal interpretations of scripture ("They should be beaten with fists," he said). Pius presided over a worldwide witch-hunt for Modernists, or liberals, involving spies, denunciations without hearings, dismissals, excommunications and persecutions beyond the grave. Every priest was required to take an anti-Modernist oath at ordination. It was enough to be seen carrying a liberal newspaper to stand accused. When the English leader of the Modernists, Father George Tyrrell, died in 1909, he was refused burial in consecrated ground. The priest who said prayers over his grave was suspended. In the view of the late pope's followers today, the Church of Pius X - from their perspective the authentic Catholic Church - has been wrecked by the reforms of Vatican II.

Following Benedict's act of reconciliation, the German chancellor, Angela Merkel, was outraged and demanded "clarification" of the Vatican's position on the Holocaust. Holocaust denial in Germany is a crime punishable by five years' imprisonment. Shocked German-speaking cardinals have unprecedentedly criticised the pontiff and his advisers. Williamson's utterances, which include denial of al-Qaeda's involvement in the attacks of 11 September 2001 (usually a prelude to Jewish con­spiracy fantasies), have ignited anger throughout the Catholic and Jewish worlds. The secular media were equally astonished. An editorial in the Financial Times opined that Benedict was guilty of a "solipsism of cosmic proportions". The veteran BBC Rome correspondent, David Willey, commented in the Catholic weekly the Tablet: "In three decades of covering Vatican matters, I have never seen a communications debacle comparable to [this]." But was the Williamson affair just an unfortunate gaffe in an otherwise competent papacy? Or was there method in Benedict's blunder?

A spate of recent papal initiatives speaks for itself. In the same week as the Williamson debacle, Benedict (against the recommendations of the local hierarchy) personally honoured with a bishopric a right-wing Austrian priest who had publicly preached that Hurricane Katrina was a retribution for the abortionists, pros­titutes and homosexuals of New Orleans. Just before Christmas, Benedict delivered a global sermon on how gay lifestyle choices were as much a threat to God's creation as global warming. In October, he had announced his desire to make a saint of Pius XII, provoking the anger of Jewish groups, which maintain that Pius did not do enough to save Jewish lives during the war. In the previous year, Benedict had announced the reinstatement of the Latin Mass, devoutly hoped and prayed for by the Society of Saint Pius X. As Cardinal Ratzinger, he was on record as stating that Paul VI had exceeded his authority in replacing the old rite with modern versions. So where has Benedict's papacy been heading?

Benedict's election in April 2005 brought despondency to Catholic progressives, who feared the new pope would attempt to purge the Church of its "liberals". Benedict, they believed, would restore the Church shaped by Pius X, endorsed by Pius XI, and further espoused by Pius XII. The Church of the Piuses had rejected moves towards Christian unity, treasured ornate non-participatory liturgies, disdained democracy, kept women out of the Sanctuary, condemned liberalism, and drawn an equivalence between pluralism and relativism. It is no exaggeration to say that the Church of the Piuses colluded (if not actively collaborated) through the 1920s and 1930s with the regimes of Salazar, Franco and Mussolini. It was the future Pius XII, as Cardinal Pacelli, who in 1933 signed the Reichskonkordat (a bilateral agreement between Hitler and the Vatican). At the very outset of the regime, and in exchange for greater control over German Catholics, Pacelli negotiated the withdrawal of Catholics from social and political action. A feature of the deal was agreement that the Catholic Centre Party (the last democratic party under Nazism) would abolish itself after voting for the Enabling Act giving Hitler dictatorial powers.

Gleeful traditionalist Catholics confidently expected that Benedict’s election would signal the purging of Catholic liberalism and the revoking of the norms of Vatican II. As it happened, his first year brought no marked retrenchment: the reverse, in fact; or so it seemed. Benedict spent half a day with Father Hans Küng, the Swiss liberal theologian. He also gave a lengthy private audience to the late Oriana Fallaci, an Italian atheist, feminist and critic of Catholicism. Benedict found time to play the piano, and paced his workload.

He seemed comfortable with both sides of the progressive-traditionalist divide. In January 2006, he promulgated his first encyclical, God Is Love, the tone pastoral and irenic. Traditionalists were glum; the liberals relaxed. Then, in September 2006, Benedict set back Catholic-Islamic relations several eras with just two words. At his old university in Regensburg, Bavaria, he cited a 14th-century text referring to a debate between the Byzantine emperor Manuel II and a Persian Muslim. "Show me just what Muhammad brought that was new," he quoted the emperor as saying, "and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached." That same day, an Islamist terror group sent death threats to the Vatican. Benedict did not repine.

It was now remembered that after his election he had sacked the brilliant Vatican Arabist Archbishop Michael Fitzgerald, responsible for fostering relations with Muslim leaders. Moreover, he had earlier humiliated the Jesuit theologian Jacques Dupuis, for striving to establish a basis for a workable religious pluralism. The extraordinary meeting with the journalist Oriana Fallaci now made sense. In addition to her feminist writing, she had conducted a virulent campaign against the Muslim religion and way of life.

The Catholic Church, and the papacy in particular, had long found problems with the mere existence, let alone tolerance, of other religions. A succession of pontiffs, and notably Pope Pius IX (1846-78), declared respect for other religions a form of "insanity". Pius X, Pius XI and Pius XII only acknowledged the importance of religious freedom in countries where Catholicism was not the majority faith.

In 1965 a historic U-turn had occurred at the Second Vatican Council. After a battle royal, the council endorsed a model of mutual respect for other faiths similar to that of the American constitution: religious freedom, it said, was a human right. In another council document, Nostra Aetate ("In Our Age"), the Church said it rejected nothing that was "true and holy" in other world religions. Pius X, buried in St Peter's Basilica, might well have stirred in his grave. The Lefebvrist Society of his name to this day harbours clerics who routinely insult other religions and turn their backs on Christian ecumenism.

Is it possible that Benedict is of the same stamp? It was Ratzinger who, in 2000, wrote a document entitled Dominus Iesus. This stated that other than the Catholic faith, all religions, and indeed Christian denominations, were "defective". The take-home message was that the Anglican Church, for example, is not a proper church, and the Archbishop of Canterbury is a mere layperson of dubious baptism.

Here then is the long-term antagonism towards other religions and Christian denominations that has been the undercurrent of Benedict's thinking, putting him closer to the Society of Saint Pius X than the Catholic majority that honours Vatican II. Yet there is another undercurrent, just as important: Benedict's deep Bavarian nostalgia for the Latin liturgy shelved by Vatican II has been staunchly preserved and promoted by the Society of Saint Pius X.

In July 2007 Benedict issued instructions on the Latin rite for the whole Church. They spoke of his desire to restore the old liturgy on an equal footing with the new, in order to come to "an interior reconciliation at the heart of the Church". In the view of most Catholic commentators, this was bizarre, because there were so few aficionados of the Latin Mass and, indeed, very few priests skilled in conducting the old rituals. What possible reconciliation could he mean? In the light of his lifting of the Lefebvrist excommunications, it is now clear that he meant the four dissident bishops and the half-million membership of the Society of Saint Pius X.

In his days as a cardinal in charge of Catholic theological orthodoxy, Joseph Ratzinger often spoke of the importance of the true “salt of the earth” Catholics who would preserve the Church in the coming dark age of wholesale relativism and atheism. His attitude has been that if this means a vast number of half-hearted liberal Catholics would be lost to the true Church, so be it. The faithful, diminished “remnant”, he has preached, will keep alive the true doctrine and the authentic liturgy to await better times. It is now clear that he sees the Society of Saint Pius X as a crucial part of his salt of the earth remnant.

Did Benedict know Williamson was a Holocaust denier? It is hard to believe he did not; it was his job, as cardinal in charge of orthodoxy, to keep files on every last detail of a supposed dissident's beliefs and actions. The alarming feature of the Williamson incident, then, is that Benedict was prepared to deem the Holocaust denials mere foibles in the interests of bringing the Lefebvrists back home. And yet, Benedict is not so much bringing the Lefebvrists back in line with Vatican II, as leading the Church in the direction of the Society of Saint Pius X.

As the Pope reassures Angela Merkel and Jewish people around the world of his opposition to Holocaust denial, the Williamson incident will nevertheless have far-reaching consequences. Any expectation that the Vatican might be called on to use its traditional diplomatic expertise to help resolve differences between Israel and Iran's president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (another Holocaust denier), or Hamas and Israel, is extremely optimistic.

The overall direction of Benedict's papacy is now apparent for all Catholics to see. It was customary to characterise Joseph Ratzinger as a "conservative" during the decades he served as the Vatican's theological watchdog. In the light of recent events, "ultra-reactionary" might be too tame an epithet to describe the alliances he is forming with a politically obnoxious group which, given half a chance, would return the Church to the authoritarian auspices of their sainted patron, Pius X.

In the aftermath of the Williamson affair, the papacy's spiritual capital, built up by John Paul II, is diminished. In the expanding global economic depression, it is hard to see how Benedict will have the moral authority to give ethical guidance to the developed world, or offer solace to the poor of the developing world where most Catholics live.

If ultra-right-wing movements should rise up to take advantage of social fragmentation and unrest, will Benedict's papacy staunchly repudiate their claims? Or will he turn by a process of reactionary heliotropism back to the example of the 20th-century Piuses?

John Cornwell is director of the Science and Human Dimension Project at Jesus College, Cambridge, and author of "Hitler's Pope: the Secret History of Pius XII" (Penguin, £9.99)

This article first appeared in the 16 February 2009 issue of the New Statesman, The New Depression

CLIVE BARDA
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The lost magic of England

The great conservative journalist Peregrine Worsthorne reflects on a long life at the heart of the establishment.

In a recent editorial meeting, our subscriptions manager happened to mention that Peregrine Worsthorne was still a New Statesman subscriber. A former editor of the Sunday Telegraph and, during a long Fleet Street career, a self-styled “romantic reactionary” scourge of liberals and liberalism, Worsthorne used to be something of a pantomime villain for the left, a role he delighted in. He had close friends among the “Peterhouse right”, the group of High Tory intellectuals who gathered around Maurice Cowling at the small, conspiratorial Cambridge college. He was a frequent contributor to Encounter (which turned out to be funded by the CIA) and an ardent cold warrior. His social conservatism and lofty affectations offended lefty Islingtonian sensibilities. On several occasions he was the Guardian’s reviewer of choice for its annual collection of journalism, The Bedside Guardian, and he invariably delivered the required scornful appraisal while praising its witty television critic, Nancy Banks-Smith. There is no suggestion, he wrote in 1981, that the “Guardian ever sees itself as part of the problem; itself as having some responsibility for the evils its writers described so well”.

His prose style was Oxbridge high table, more Walter Pater than George Orwell. It was essential not to take Worsthorne too seriously, because he delighted in mischief-making and wilful provocation – one of his targets for remorseless ridicule was Andrew Neil, when Neil edited the abrasively Thatcherite Sunday Times. He ended up suing Worsthorne, who was famous for his silk shirts and Garrick Club lunches, for libel; he was awarded damages of £1, the then cover price of the Sunday Times.

“I wrote that in the old days editors of distinguished Sunday papers could be found dining at All Souls, and something must have changed when they’re caught with their trousers down in a nightclub,” Worsthorne told me when we met recently. “I had no idea he was going to sue. I was teasing. I occasionally run into him and we smile at each other, so it’s all forgotten and forgiven.”

After his retirement in 1989, Worsthorne, although he remained a resolute defender of aristocracy, seemed to mellow, and even mischievously suggested that the Guardian had replaced the Times as the newspaper of record. In the 1990s he began writing occasionally for the New Statesman – the then literary editor, Peter Wilby, commissioned book reviews from him, as I did after I succeeded Wilby. Like most journalists of his generation, Worsthorne was a joy to work with; he wrote to length, delivered his copy on time and was never precious about being edited. (Bill Deedes and Tony Howard were the same.) He might have had the mannerisms of an old-style toff but he was also a tradesman, who understood that journalism was a craft.

Shortly before Christmas, I rang Wors­thorne at the home in Buckinghamshire he shares with his second wife, Lucinda Lambton, the charming architectural writer. I asked how he was. “I’m like a squeezed lemon: all used up,” he said. Lucy described him as being “frail but not ill”. I told him that I would visit, so one recent morning I did. Home is a Grade II-listed old rectory in the village of Hedgerley. It is grand but dishevelled and eccentrically furnished. A sign on the main gates warns you to “Beware of the Dog”. But the dog turns out to be blind and moves around the house uneasily, poignantly bumping into objects and walls. At lunch, a small replica mosque in the dining room issues repeated mechanised calls to prayer. “Why does it keep doing that?” Perry asks. “Isn’t it fun,” Lucy says. She then turns to me: “Have some more duck pâté.”

As a student, I used to read Worsthorne’s columns and essays with pleasure. I did not share his positions and prejudices but I admired the style in which he articulated them. “The job of journalism is not to be scholarly,” he wrote in 1989. “The most that can be achieved by an individual newspaper or journalist is the articulation of an intelligent, well-thought-out, coherent set of prejudices – ie, a moral position.”

His Sunday Telegraph, which he edited from 1986 to 1989, was like no other newspaper. The recondite and reactionary comment pages (the focus of his energies) were unapologetically High Tory, contrary to the prevailing Thatcherite orthodoxies of the time, but were mostly well written and historically literate. Bruce Anderson was one of the columnists. “You never knew what you were going to get when you opened the paper,” he told me. “Perry was a dandy, a popinjay, and of course he didn’t lack self-esteem. He had a nostalgia for Young England. In all the time I wrote for him, however, I never took his approval for granted. I always felt a tightening of the stomach muscles when I showed him something.”

***

Worsthorne is 92 now and, though his memory is failing, he remains a lucid and engaging conversationalist. Moving slowly, in short, shuffling steps, he has a long beard and retains a certain dandyish glamour. His silver hair is swept back from a high, smooth forehead. He remains a stubborn defender of the aristocracy – “Superiority is a dread word, but we are in very short supply of superiority because no one likes the word” – but the old hauteur has gone, replaced by humility and a kind of wonder and bafflement that he has endured so long and seen so much: a journalistic Lear, but one who is not raging against the dying of the light.

On arrival, I am shown through to the drawing room, where Perry sits quietly near an open fire, a copy of that morning’s Times before him. He moves to a corner armchair and passes me a copy of his book Democracy Needs Aristocracy (2005). “It’s all in there,” he says. “I’ve always thought the English aristocracy so marvellous compared to other ruling classes. It seemed to me that we had got a ruling class of such extraordinary historical excellence, which is rooted in England
almost since the Norman Conquest.

“Just read the 18th-century speeches – the great period – they’re all Whig or Tory, but all come from that [the aristocracy]. If they didn’t come directly from the aristocracy, they turned themselves very quickly into people who talk in its language. Poetic. If you read Burke, who’s the best in my view, it’s difficult not to be tempted to think what he says has a lot of truth in it . . .”

His voice fades. He has lost his way and asks what we were talking about. “Oh, yes,” he says. “It survived when others – the French and Russians and so on – were having revolutions. It was absolutely crazy to set about destroying that. There was something magical . . . the parliamentary speeches made by Burke and so on – this is a miracle! No other country has it apart from America in the early days. And I thought to get rid of it, to undermine it, was a mistake.”

I ask how exactly the aristocracy was undermined. Even today, because of the concentration of the ownership of so much land among so few and because of the enduring influence of the old families, the great schools and Oxbridge, Britain remains a peculiar hybrid: part populist hyper-democracy and part quasi-feudal state. The Tory benches are no longer filled by aristocrats but the old class structures remain.

“Equality was the order of the day after the war,” Worsthorne replies. “And in a way it did a lot of good, equalising people’s chances in the world. But it didn’t really get anywhere; the ruling class went happily on. But slowly, and I think unnecessarily dangerously, it was destroyed – and now there are no superior people around [in politics]. The Cecil family – Lord Salisbury, he was chucked out of politics. The Cecil family is being told they are not wanted. The institutions are falling apart . . .

“But there were people who had natural authority, like Denis Healey. I’m not saying it’s only aristocrats – a lot of Labour people had it. But now we haven’t got any Denis Healeys.”

Born in 1923, the younger son of Alexander Koch de Gooreynd, a Belgian banker, Worsthorne (the family anglicised its name) was educated at Stowe and was an undergraduate at both Cambridge (Peterhouse, where he studied under the historian Herbert Butterfield, the author of The Whig Interpretation of History) and Oxford (Magdalen College). “I have always felt slightly underprivileged and de-classed by having gone to Stowe, unlike my father who went to Eton,” Worsthorne wrote in 1985.

Yet his memories of Stowe remain pellucid. There he fell under the influence of the belle-lettrist John Davenport, who later became a close friend of Dylan Thomas. “He was a marvellous man, a famous intellectual of the 1930s, an ex-boxer, too. But in the war he came to Stowe and he was preparing me for a scholarship to Cambridge. He told me to read three books, and find something to alleviate the boredom of an examiner, some little thing you’ll pick up. And I duly did and got the scholarship.”

Can you remember which three books he recommended?

“Tawney. Something by Connolly, um . . . that’s the terrible thing about getting old, extremely old – you forget. And by the time you die you can’t remember your brother’s name. It’s a terrible shock. I used to think old age could be a joy because you’d have more time to read. But if you push your luck and get too far, and last too long, you start finding reading really quite difficult. The connections go, I suppose.”

Was the Connolly book Enemies of Promise (1938)?

“Yes, that’s right. It was. And the other one was . . . Hang on, the writer of the book . . . What’s the country invaded by Russia, next to Russia?

Finland, I say. Edmund Wilson’s To the Finland Station (1940)?

“Yes. Wilson. How did you get that?”

We both laugh.

***

Worsthorne is saddened but not surprised that so many Scots voted for independence and his preference is for Britain to remain a member of the European Union. “What’s happening is part of the hopelessness of English politics. It’s horrible. I can’t think why the Scots would want to be on their own but it might happen. The youth will vote [for independence]. This is part of my central theme: the Scots no longer think it’s worthwhile belonging to England. The magic of England has gone – and it’s the perversity of the Tory party to want to get us out of the European Union when of course we’re much more than ever unlikely to be able to look after ourselves as an independent state because of the quality of our political system.

“The people who want to get us out are obviously of an undesirable kind. That the future should depend on [Nigel] Farage is part of the sickness. I mean the real horror is for him to have any influence at all. And when you think of the great days of the Labour Party, the giants who strode the stage – famous, lasting historical figures, some of them: Healey, Attlee, who was probably the greatest, [Ernest] Bevin. I’m well aware that Labour in the good days produced people who were superior.”

He digresses to reflect on his wartime experience as a soldier – he served in Phantom, the special reconnaissance unit, alongside Michael Oakeshott, the philosopher of English conservatism who became a close friend, and the actor David Niven, our “prize colleague”.

“I remember Harold Macmillan saying to me, after the Second World War, the British people needed their belt enlarged; they’d done their job and they deserved a reward. And that’s what he set about doing. And he wasn’t a right-wing, unsympathetic man at all. But he didn’t – and this is what is good about conservatism – he didn’t turn it into an ‘ism’. It was a sympathetic feel, an instinctive feel, and of course people in the trenches felt it, too: solidarity with the rest of England and not just their own brotherhood. Of course he didn’t get on with Margaret Thatcher at all.”

Worsthorne admired Thatcher and believed that the “Conservatives required a dictator woman” to shake things up, though he was not a Thatcherite and denounced what he called her “bourgeois triumphalism”. He expresses regret at how the miners were treated during the bitter strike of 1984-85. “I quarrelled with her about the miners’ strike, and the people she got around her to conduct it were a pretty ropey lot.

“I liked her as a person. I was with her that last night when she wasn’t prime minister any more, but she was still in Downing Street and had everything cut off. The pressman [Bernard Ingham] got several of us to try to take her mind off her miseries that night. There’s a photograph of me standing at the top of the stairs.”

In the summer of 1989, Peregrine Wors­thorne was sacked as the editor of the Sunday Telegraph by Andrew Knight, a former journalist-turned-management enforcer, over breakfast at Claridge’s. He wrote about the experience in an elegant diary for the Spectator: “I remember well the exact moment when this thunderbolt, coming out of a blue sky, hit me. It was when the waiter had just served two perfectly poached eggs on buttered toast . . . In my mind I knew that the information just imparted was a paralysingly painful blow: pretty well a professional death sentence.”

He no longer reads the Telegraph.

“Politically they don’t have much to say of interest. But I can’t put the finger on exactly what it is I don’t like about it. Boredom, I think!”

You must read Charles Moore?

“He is my favourite. Interesting fellow. He converted to Catholicism and started riding to hounds in the same week.”

He has no regrets about pursuing a long career in journalism rather than, say, as a full-time writer or academic, like his friends Cowling and Oakeshott. “I was incredibly lucky to do journalism. What people don’t realise – and perhaps you don’t agree – but it’s really a very easy life, compared to many others. And you have good company in other journalists and so on. I was an apprentice on the Times, after working [as a sub-editor] on the Glasgow Herald.”

How does he spend the days?

“Living, I suppose. It takes an hour to get dressed because all the muscles go. Then I read the Times and get bored with it halfway through. Then there’s a meal to eat. The ­answer is, the days go. I used to go for walks but I can’t do that now. But Lucy’s getting me all kinds of instruments to facilitate people with no muscles, to help you walk. I’m very sceptical about it working, but then again, better than the alternative.”

He does not read as much as he would wish. He takes the Statesman, the Spectator and the Times but no longer the Guardian. He is reading Niall Ferguson’s biography of Kissinger, The Maisky Diaries by Ivan Maisky, Stalin’s ambassador to London from 1932 to 1943, and Living on Paper, a selection of letters by Iris Murdoch, whom he knew. “I get these massive books, thinking of a rainy day, but once I pick them up they are too heavy, physically, so they’re stacked up, begging to be read.”

He watches television – the news (we speak about Isis and the Syrian tragedy), the Marr show on Sunday mornings, and he has been enjoying War and Peace on BBC1. “Andrew Marr gave my book a very good review. He’s come back. He’s survived [a stroke] through a degree of hard willpower to get back to that job, almost as soon as he came out of surgery. But I don’t know him; he was a Guardian man.” (In fact, Marr is more closely associated with the Independent.)

Of the celebrated Peterhouse historians, both Herbert Butterfield (who was a Methodist) and Maurice Cowling were devout Christians. For High Tories, who believe in and accept natural inequalities and the organic theory of society, Christianity was a binding force that held together all social classes, as some believe was the order in late-Victorian England.

“I was a very hardened Catholic,” Worsthorne says, when I mention Cowling’s book Religion and Public Doctrine in Modern England. “My mother was divorced [her second marriage was to Montagu Norman, then the governor of the Bank of England] and she didn’t want my brother and me to be Catholic, so she sent us to Stowe. And I used to annoy her because I read [Hilaire] Belloc. I tried to annoy the history master teaching us Queen Elizabeth I. I said to him: ‘Are you covering up on her behalf: don’t you know she had syphilis?’

“Once I felt very angry about not being made Catholic. But then I went to Cambridge and there was a very Catholic chaplain and he was very snobbish. And in confession I had to tell him I masturbated twice that morning or something, and so it embarrassed me when half an hour later I had to sit next to him at breakfast. I literally gave up going to Mass to get out of this embarrassing situation. But recently I’ve started again. I haven’t actually gone to church but I’ve made my confessions, to a friendly bishop who came to the house.”

So you are a believer?

“Yes. I don’t know which bit I believe. But as Voltaire said: ‘Don’t take a risk.’”

He smiles and lowers his head. We are ready for lunch. 

Jason Cowley is editor of the New Statesman. He has been the editor of Granta, a senior editor at the Observer and a staff writer at the Times.

This article first appeared in the 11 February 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle