The Priest, The Woman and The Confessional | Page 8

sad history. I was hardly
twenty-six years old, full of youth and life. It seemed to me that the
stings of a thousand wasps to my ears would not do me so much harm
as the words of that dear, beautiful, accomplished, but lost girl.
I do not mean to say that the revelations which she made had, in any
way, diminished my esteem and my respect for her. It was just the
contrary. Her tears and her sobs, at my feet; her agonizing expressions
of shame and regret; her noble words of protest against the disgusting
and polluting interrogations of the confessors, had raised her very high
in my mind. My sincere hope was that she would have a place in the
kingdom of Christ with the Samaritan woman, Mary Magdalene, and
all those who have washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb.

At the appointed day, I was in my confessional, listening to the
confession of a young man, when, I saw Miss Mary entering the vestry,
and coming directly to my confessional-box, where she knelt by me.
Though she had, still more than at the first time, disguised herself
behind a long, thick, black veil, I could not be mistaken; she was the
very same amiable young lady in whose father's house I used to pass
such pleasant and happy hours. I had so often heard, with breathless
attention, her melodious voice when she was giving us, accompanied
by her piano, some of our beautiful Church hymns. Who could see her
without almost worshipping her? The dignity of her steps, and her
whole mien, when she advanced towards my confessional, entirely
betrayed her and destroyed her incognito.
Oh! I would have given every drop of my blood, in that solemn hour,
that I might have been free to deal with her just as she had so
eloquently requested me to do--to let her weep and cry at the feet of
Jesus to her heart's content! Oh! if I had been free to take her by the
hand, and silently show her her dying Saviour, that she might have
bathed His feet with her tears, and spread the oil of her love on His
head, without my saying anything else but "Go in peace: thy sins are
forgiven!"
But there, in that confessional-box, I was not the servant of Christ, to
follow His divine, saving words, and obey the dictates of my honest
conscience. I was the slave of the Pope! I had to stifle the cry of my
conscience, to ignore the inspirations of my God! There, my conscience
had no right to speak; my intelligence was a dead thing! The
theologians of the Pope, alone, had a right to be heard and obeyed! I
was not there to save, but to destroy; for, under the pretext of purifying,
the real mission of the confessor, often in spite of himself, is to
scandalize and damn the souls.
As soon as the young man, who was making his confession at my left
hand, had finished, I, without noise, turned myself towards her, and
said, through the little aperture, "Are you ready to begin your
confession?"
But she did not answer me. All that I could hear was, "Oh, my Jesus,

have mercy upon me! Dear Saviour, here I am with all my sins; do not
reject me! I come to wash my soul in Thy blood; wilt Thou rebuke
me?"
During several minutes, she raised her hands and her eyes to heaven,
and wept and prayed. It was evident that she had not the least idea that I
was observing her; she thought the door of the little partition between
her and me was shut. But my eyes were fixed upon her; my tears were
flowing with her tears, and my ardent prayers were going to the feet of
Jesus with her prayers. I would not have interrupted her, for any
consideration, in this her sublime communion with her merciful
Saviour.
But, after a pretty long time, I made a little noise with my hand, and,
putting my lips near the opening of the partition which was between us,
I said, in a low voice, "Dear sister, are you ready to begin your
confession?"
She turned her face a little towards me, and said, with a trembling voice,
"Yes, dear Father, I am ready."
But she then stopped again to weep and pray, though I could not hear
what she said.
After some time of silent prayer, I said, "My dear sister, if you are
ready, please begin your confession."
She then said, "My dear Father, do you remember the prayers which I
made to you, the other day? Can you allow me to confess my sins
without forcing me to forget the respect I owe to myself,