Since Christmas I had been working harder than I had ever done in my
life. The Intermediate examinations would be coming on in June, but
it was not any particular anxiety to shine in them that had goaded me
to this unprecedented industry; merely I had discovered that on the
plea of work I could sit in my bedroom in the evenings, and that the
work itself kept me from thinking of other things. To-night I went
straight upstairs as usual, but after writing to Mr. Applin to say I
would come on Wednesday, I sat idle. So it was all the next day, and
the next night: I had an open book in front of me, but I read without
comprehending what I read: I was intensely excited: a kind of emotional
cloud had descended upon my mind, and I could think of nothing but my
approaching interview.
Ideas, words, shot across this mental haze like meteors, but I could
not follow them in their swift flight. On Wednesday afternoon when I
got home from school and had had my dinner I went out into the streets
and wandered aimlessly about. I had said to myself that I would not
think about the matter any more, but, needless to say, I thought of
nothing else, and so it was that when I came to a Roman Catholic church
and saw the door was open, I could not help going inside and sitting
down before one of the confessionals. The name of the priest, Father
Dempsey, was printed in large letters above it. I had a faint hope of
seeing somebody come out or go in, but in this I was disappointed.
Three little girls were busy with their beads, but they suspended their
acts of devotion to cast glances at me, and whisper, and even giggle. A
woman was kneeling before an altar that shone with ornaments suggestive
of decorations from a Christmas tree. Her eyes were fixed on a bright
oleograph of the Virgin, and her lips never ceased moving. A couple
of lighted candles seemed to sweat ugly yellow tears, which ran down
over dirty candlesticks. And then I saw a fat little sallow priest, his
chin, upper lip, and cheeks, blue from much shaving, come waddling down
the aisle, and I wondered if this were Father Dempsey. As he passed
he stared at me, and I saw in his dull little eyes that expression of
invulnerable stupidity I had noticed in the faces of so many of his
brothers when I met them in the street.
The fascination that had drawn me into the church had disappeared.
Everything――the smell of stale incense, the cheap decorations, the bad
pictures, the kneeling woman, the girls with their beads――had become
almost nauseating. The appalling unintelligence of it all shocked me,
much as the display of a diseased body had now and then shocked me. It
was wrong, it was gross, anything less spiritual I could not imagine.
And my idea of confessing to a priest was wrong. I got up and left the
church, the last thing I saw being the thick sediment of dirt at the
bottom of the stoup.
After tea I went up to my bedroom, George’s and mine, and got out my
books to do some work. At first I thought I would not go to Mr. Applin,
but as time passed this decision grew weaker, and presently, instead
of reading, I tried to make up my mind on the point. Then when it
drew near to nine o’clock I was no longer even uncertain. What had my
impressions of this afternoon to do with the step I was about to take?
Besides, they had been very superficial, and to be influenced by them
would be as stupid as to refuse to read a book because its binding
happened to be soiled.
I walked quickly to Mr. Applin’s house and knocked boldly at the door.
It opened with a startling promptitude; evidently the servant had been
in the hall.
“Is Mr. Applin at home?” I asked, my stammer suddenly beginning to
manifest itself.
“He is. Who shall I say wants him?”
“It doesn’t matter. He expects me.” I felt reluctant to give my name.
The servant did not press me to, but disappeared upstairs. She came
back very soon and asked me to “step this way,” and I obeyed her
nervously.
I entered a room and heard the door close behind me, as a man rose from
a table near the window, removing a green shade from his forehead.
I was conscious of tired eyes that looked at me out of a pale, dim,
emaciated face, but the flickering light that had seemed to shine
through them when he was preaching was not there, and his manner of
greeting me struck me as a little distant, a little chilly. I sat down
on the extreme edge of a chair and my impressions grew clearer.
“You are Peter Waring, are you not?”
“Yes,” I answered.
He had taken the chair opposite mine, and he leaned a little forward,
the tips of his fingers joined, and blue veins showing under the loose
yellow skin of his hands. He was much older than I had imagined. He
was wearing a threadbare jacket which I did not like, and I noticed
that one of the buttons near the top was not the same as the others.
My confidence had suddenly drooped. I glanced round at the unfamiliar
room, at the book-shelves which made but a poor show, and maintained
an idiotic silence. It struck me that he might think I had come for a
subscription towards a cricket club.
“I got your letter,” he said. “You want to speak to me? You are not a
member of my congregation, I think?”
“No――I come sometimes in the evening.”
I was glad I had said nothing in my letter but that I wanted to speak
to him, and he evidently hadn’t the least suspicion of the truth.
“Yes――yes――I understand. Well, don’t be afraid. If I can do anything
for you I shall be very glad, very glad.”
I thanked him and again became silent. It would have been absolutely
impossible for me to have said what I had come to say. He was too old,
too far away. It would have been like stretching out one’s hands to
warm them at the ashes in an early morning grate. I knew he wanted to
be kind, but I felt, somehow, that if I sat very still he would, in a
minute or two, forget I was in the room.
“I think I had better write,” I murmured.
“Write? But why? What is it about?” he spoke almost testily.
There was a tap at the door, and a thin, middle-aged lady, possibly a
daughter, came in with a little tray on which were some biscuits and
a tumbler of hot milk. She bowed to me and wished me good-evening. I
wanted nothing now but to get away as quickly as possible, and I envied
her as she went out, closing the door softly behind her. Suppose I
had been in the middle of my confession when the hot milk came in, I
thought. The whole thing was somehow becoming lugubriously comic.
“Are you in business or at school?” Mr. Applin asked, between two sips
of milk. “I hope you’ll excuse me taking this while it is hot, but I
had a funeral this afternoon, and I’m afraid I caught a slight chill.”
“Certainly,” I answered hastily. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. I have
really nothing to say. It is only that I liked your sermons so much,
and that I wanted to tell you so. I hope you’ll forgive me.” I got up.
“Sit down――sit down,” he murmured. “It was a very kind and charming
impulse, and I’m glad you yielded to it.”
I resumed my seat and he continued to drink his milk. He was quite
pleased with me. He asked me to what church I belonged; where I went to
school; all kinds of questions. I told him that I thought he must be
lonely sitting here by himself, and that he should have a dog, or even
a cat. I told him about Tony, and all the wonderful things he could do.
Before I came away he made me promise I would come to see him again.
Yet just as I was going out a sort of vague suspicion of other things
appeared to float into his consciousness. He detained me, with his hand
on my shoulder. “When you first came in,” he said, “I thought something
perhaps was worrying you, that you had something on your mind.” He
paused. For an instant I had seen in him what I had seen when I had
listened to him preach; for an instant I was on the point of resuming
my seat, and telling him all I had come to tell him, but he himself
broke the charm next moment by saying good-night. “And when you come
again you won’t be shy?” he added, smiling wanly.
He did not accompany me downstairs, but stood on the landing till I had
opened the hall-door. And as I pulled it after me, and ran down the
steps, I knew I should never go back.