Let those who do not wish to enter the region into which I am about to
lead my readers, now lay aside this book. I assure them, however, there is
nothing in the previous portion of this narrative more strictly true than
what I am going to relate. I affirm, moreover, that it refers to a point
that interests every Christian soul; I might say, every human soul, but I
know beforehand that they alone will comprehend me who have faith in these
words: “I believe in God the Father Almighty,” that is to say, they who
with the Catholic Church firmly believe His Omnipotence is present, living
and acting in our midst, and there is not a single instant in which the
material and spiritual world, the world of nature and the inner world of
the human soul, cannot feel its supernatural and _miraculous_ effects. At
the mere sight of this word, I suppose every sceptical, incredulous, or
scornful reader has taken the alarm and made his escape, and I shall
henceforth address only those who speak, or at least comprehend, the
language I am about to employ.
I left the convent without deciding on the hour for following Livia’s
advice, and was already on my way home when I took the sudden resolution
to proceed without any delay to the church she had indicated. This church
was one of the finest in Naples, the only one, perhaps, in which the eye
is not offended by any of the incongruities so often found in Italy
between the beautiful proportions, the marbles, the frescos that adorn the
walls, and certain objects of devotion whose choice or execution indicates
more piety than taste. Here everything harmonized, and this harmony was
favorable to devotion. I took a chair and knelt against it on the marble
pavement; then, according to the Neapolitan custom at confession, I took
off my hat and threw over my head a scarf of black lace I wore over my
silk dress, and patiently waited for others to enter the deserted church.
It was nearly three o’clock.
I did not have to wait long. As soon as the clock struck, I saw quite a
number of men and women of every rank and age, as well as young ladies and
even children, come in and gather around the confessional, near which by
chance I had stationed myself. I turned towards a lady who knelt beside
me, and asked the name of the confessor she was awaiting. She looked up
with an air of surprise.
“Father Egidio di San Mauro, of course,” said she. “Do you not know his
confessional?”
Father Egidio was the name of the priest to whom my sister had directed
me. Chance had led me to the spot I wished to find. I was obliged to wait
a long time; but this delay, and the profound silence around, aided me in
concentrating my mind on the act I was going to perform, and enabled me, I
think, to make a good preparation. Besides, I had already gained a victory
over myself by the very act of coming here, for I had been obliged to
surmount a mixture of timidity and embarrassment one always feels about
going to a strange confessor.
At length the priest we were waiting for made his appearance. He came
slowly out of the sacristy and proceeded directly to the high altar, where
he knelt for some time in prayer. He then rose, and, crossing the church,
passed before me on his way to the confessional. He was of lofty stature,
but bowed down by years and still more by that sanctity which does not
spare the body. His white hair and bald forehead gave his mild, delicate
features a grave, imposing aspect, which at once inspired respect, though
it was impossible to feel any fear.
I ought to have been the first to approach, as I arrived before the
others; but as soon as Father Egidio seated himself in the confessional,
which, according to the Italian style, was only closed by a low door, he
perceived the children awaiting him, and, leaving the door open, he made
them a sign to approach. One by one they presented themselves before him.
He bent down his head as he addressed them, and the innocent faces raised
towards him were marked by a pious attention that was touching. He smiled
occasionally as he listened to them, and the hand they kissed when they
were done, he afterwards placed on their heads in benediction.
When the children had finished I was obliged to wait still longer, for a
young man brushed hastily by me and fell on his knees in the place they
left vacant, and this time the confession was long. Father Egidio, resting
both hands on the shoulders of his new penitent, bent his head to listen
without interrupting him, and when the young man ceased speaking, the
advice he gave in return must have touched his penitent’s heart, for, as
he listened, he bent his head lower and lower towards the old priest’s
knees, and when he rose his eyes were inundated with tears.
At last my turn came, and I knelt in the place usually taken at
confession. My voice trembled as I began, but grew stronger by degrees,
and I continued with clearness and the wish to be sincere. My troubles,
alas! were closely connected with my faults, and I not only opened my
heart and soul, but laid before him my entire life, feeling, as I did so,
the relief there is in the avowal of one’s weaknesses in confession that
can be compared to no human confidence, however great the wisdom or
sympathy that wins it. He murmured two or three times as he listened,
“Poor child!” but did not otherwise interrupt me till I had finished.
The words he addressed me then were the mildest and yet most powerful that
ever roused the human heart to a sense of duty. But when he finally told
me that though I had banished him whose presence was so dangerous to my
soul, I must likewise banish his memory with equal resolution; that the
recollections in which I still indulged without scruple ought to be
resisted, overcome, rooted out, and rejected, I felt an insurmountable
repugnance, and replied:
“No, father, I cannot do it.”
He again repeated, “Poor child!” and then said in a tone of mingled
compassion and kindness:
“You are not willing, then, to give God the place he has a right to in
your heart?”