The Priest, The Woman and The Confessional | Page 4

ever written; and it will give an
unanswerable evidence of the fact that, instinctively, without consulting
each other, with an unanimity which is almost marvellous, the Roman
Catholic women, guided by the honest instincts which God has given
them, shrink from the snares put before them in the confessional-box;
and that everywhere they struggle to nerve themselves with a
superhuman courage against the torturer who is sent by the Pope to
finish their ruin and to make shipwreck of their souls. Everywhere
woman feels that there are things which ought never to be told, as there
are things which ought never to be done, in the presence of the God of
holiness. She understands that, to recite the history of certain sins, even
of thoughts, is not less shameful and criminal than to do them; she
hears the voice of God whispering into her ears, "Is it not enough that
thou hast been guilty once, when alone, in My presence, without adding
to thine iniquity, by allowing that man to know what should never have
been revealed to him? Do you not feel that you make that man your
own accomplice the very moment that you throw into his heart and soul
the mire of your iniquities? He is as weak as you are; he is not less a
sinner than yourself; what has tempted you will tempt him; what has
made you weak will make him weak? what has polluted you will
pollute him; what has thrown you down into the dust will throw him
down into the dust. Is it not enough that My eyes had to look upon your
iniquities? must my ears to-day listen to your impure conversation with
that man? Were that man as holy as My prophet David, may he not fall
before the unchaste unveiling of the new Bathsheba? Were he as strong
as Sampson, may he not find in you his tempting Delilah? Were he as
generous as Peter, may he not become a traitor at the maid-servant's
voice?"
Perhaps the world has never seen a more terrible, desperate, solemn
struggle than the one which is going on in the soul of the poor
trembling young woman, who, at the feet of that man, has to decide
whether or not she will open her lips on those things which the
infallible voice of God, united to the no less infallible voice of her
womanly honour and self-respect, tell her never to reveal to any man!

The history of that secret, fierce, desperate, and deadly struggle has
never yet, so far as I know, been fully given. It would draw the tears of
admiration and compassion of the whole world, if it could be written
with its simple, sublime, and terrible realities.
How many times I have wept as a child when some noble-hearted and
intelligent young girl, or some respectable married woman, yielding to
the sophisms with which I, or some other confessor, had persuaded
them to give up their self-respect, their womanly dignity, to speak with
me on matters on which a decent woman would never say a word with
a man! They told me of their invincible repugnance, their horror of
such questions and answers, and they asked me to have pity on them.
Yes! I often wept bitterly on my degradation when a priest of Rome! I
felt all the strength, the grandeur, the holiness of their motives for being
silent on those defiling matters. I could not but admire them. It seemed,
at times, that they were speaking the language of angels of light; that I
ought to fall at their feet, and ask their pardon for having spoken to
them of questions on which a man of honour ought never to converse
with a woman whom he respects.
But, alas! I had soon to reproach myself and regret these short instances
of my wavering faith in the infallible voice of my Church; I had soon to
silence the voice of my conscience, which was telling me, "Is it not a
shame that you, an unmarried man, dare to speak on those matters with
a woman? Do you not blush to put such questions to a young girl?
Where is your self-respect? where is your fear of God? Do you not
promote the ruin of that girl by forcing her to speak with a man on such
questions?"
I was compelled by all the Popes, the moral theologians, and the
Councils of Rome, to believe that this warning voice of my merciful
God was the voice of Satan; I had to believe, in spite of my own
conscience and intelligence, that it was good, nay, necessary, to put
those polluting, damning questions. My infallible Church was
mercilessly forcing me to oblige those poor, trembling, weeping,
desolated girls and women