"_On Saturday, Three Days Ago._"
The plush curtain of the confessional rearranged its dismal creases,
leaving exposed only the bottom of an old man's old shoe. Behind the
curtain an immortal soul was alone with God and the Reverend Adolphus
Schwartz, priest of the parish. Sound began, a labored whispering,
sibilant and discreet, broken at intervals by the voice of the priest in
audible question.
Rudolph Miller knelt in the pew beside the confessional and waited,
straining nervously to hear, and yet not to hear what was being said
within. The fact that the priest was audible alarmed him. His own turn
came next, and the three or four others who waited might listen
unscrupulously while he admitted his violations of the Sixth and Ninth
Commandments.
Rudolph had never committed adultery, nor even coveted his neighbor's
wife--but it was the confession of the associate sins that was
particularly hard to contemplate. In comparison he relished the less
shameful fallings away--they formed a grayish background which relieved
the ebony mark of sexual offenses upon his soul.
He had been covering his ears with his hands, hoping that his refusal to
hear would be noticed, and a like courtesy rendered to him in turn, when
a sharp movement of the penitent in the confessional made him sink his
face precipitately into the crook of his elbow. Fear assumed solid form,
and pressed out a lodging between his heart and his lungs. He must try
now with all his might to be sorry for his sins--not because he was
afraid, but because he had offended God. He must convince God that he
was sorry and to do so he must first convince himself. After a tense
emotional struggle he achieved a tremulous self-pity, and decided that
he was now ready. If, by allowing no other thought to enter his head, he
could preserve this state of emotion unimpaired until he went into that
large coffin set on end, he would have survived another crisis in his
religious life.
For some time, however, a demoniac notion had partially possessed him.
He could go home now, before his turn came, and tell his mother that he
had arrived too late, and found the priest gone. This, unfortunately,
involved the risk of being caught in a lie. As an alternative he could
say that he _had_ gone to confession, but this meant that he must avoid
communion next day, for communion taken upon an uncleansed soul would
turn to poison in his mouth, and he would crumple limp and damned from
the altar-rail.
Again Father Schwartz's voice became audible.
"And for your----"
The words blurred to a husky mumble, and Rudolph got excitedly to his
feet. He felt that it was impossible for him to go to confession this
afternoon. He hesitated tensely. Then from the confessional came a tap,
a creak, and a sustained rustle. The slide had fallen and the plush
curtain trembled. Temptation had come to him too late....
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.... I confess to Almighty God and
to you, Father, that I have sinned.... Since my last confession it has
been one month and three days.... I accuse myself of--taking the Name of
the Lord in vain...."
This was an easy sin. His curses had been but bravado--telling of them
was little less than a brag.
"... of being mean to an old lady."
The wan shadow moved a little on the latticed slat.
"How, my child?"
"Old lady Swenson," Rudolph's murmur soared jubilantly. "She got our
baseball that we knocked in her window, and she wouldn't give it back,
so we yelled 'Twenty-three, Skidoo,' at her all afternoon. Then about
five o'clock she had a fit, and they had to have the doctor."
"Go on, my child."
"Of--of not believing I was the son of my parents."
"What?" The interrogation was distinctly startled.
"Of not believing that I was the son of my parents."
"Why not?"
"Oh, just pride," answered the penitent airily.
"You mean you thought you were too good to be the son of your parents?"
"Yes, Father." On a less jubilant note.
"Go on."
"Of being disobedient and calling my mother names. Of slandering people
behind my back. Of smoking----"
Rudolph had now exhausted the minor offenses, and was approaching the
sins it was agony to tell. He held his fingers against his face like
bars as if to press out between them the shame in his heart.
"Of dirty words and immodest thoughts and desires," he whispered very
low.
"How often?"
"I don't know."
"Once a week? Twice a week?"
"Twice a week."
"Did you yield to these desires?"
"No, Father."
"Were you alone when you had them?"
"No, Father. I was with two boys and a girl."
"Don't you know, my child, that you should avoid the occasions of sin as
well as the sin itself? Evil companionship leads to evil desires and
evil desires to evil actions. Where were you when this happened?"
"In a barn in back of----"
"I don't want to hear any names," interrupted the priest sharply.
"Well, it was up in the loft of this barn and this girl and--a fella,
they were saying things--saying immodest things, and I stayed."
"You should have gone--you should have told the girl to go."
He should have gone! He could not tell Father Schwartz how his pulse had
bumped in his wrist, how a strange, romantic excitement had possessed
him when those curious things had been said. Perhaps in the houses of
delinquency among the dull and hard-eyed incorrigible girls can be found
those for whom has burned the whitest fire.
"Have you anything else to tell me?"
"I don't think so, Father."
Rudolph felt a great relief. Perspiration had broken out under his
tight-pressed fingers.
"Have you told any lies?"
The question startled him. Like all those who habitually and
instinctively lie, he had an enormous respect and awe for the truth.
Something almost exterior to himself dictated a quick, hurt answer.
"Oh, no, Father, I never tell lies."
For a moment, like the commoner in the king's chair, he tasted the pride
of the situation. Then as the priest began to murmur conventional
admonitions he realized that in heroically denying he had told lies, he
had committed a terrible sin--he had told a lie in confession.
In automatic response to Father Schwartz's "Make an act of contrition,"
he began to repeat aloud meaninglessly:
"Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee...."
He must fix this now--it was a bad mistake--but as his teeth shut on the
last words of his prayer there was a sharp sound, and the slat was
closed.
A minute later when he emerged into the twilight the relief in coming
from the muggy church into an open world of wheat and sky postponed the
full realization of what he had done. Instead of worrying he took a deep
breath of the crisp air and began to say over and over to himself the
words "Blatchford Sarnemington, Blatchford Sarnemington!"
Blatchford Sarnemington was himself, and these words were in effect a
lyric. When he became Blatchford Sarnemington a suave nobility flowed
from him. Blatchford Sarnemington lived in great sweeping triumphs. When
Rudolph half closed his eyes it meant that Blatchford had established
dominance over him and, as he went by, there were envious mutters in the
air: "Blatchford Sarnemington! There goes Blatchford Sarnemington."
He was Blatchford now for a while as he strutted homeward along the
staggering road, but when the road braced itself in macadam in order to
become the main street of Ludwig, Rudolph's exhilaration faded out and
his mind cooled, and he felt the horror of his lie. God, of course,
already knew of it--but Rudolph reserved a corner of his mind where he
was safe from God, where he prepared the subterfuges with which he often
tricked God. Hiding now in this corner he considered how he could best
avoid the consequences of his misstatement.
At all costs he must avoid communion next day. The risk of angering God
to such an extent was too great. He would have to drink water "by
accident" in the morning, and thus, in accordance with a church law,
render himself unfit to receive communion that day. In spite of its
flimsiness this subterfuge was the most feasible that occurred to him.
He accepted its risks and was concentrating on how best to put it into
effect, as he turned the corner by Romberg's Drug Store and came in
sight of his father's house.