by Brian Moore
Thy sins. This: the body is the temple of the Holy Ghost. My temple degraded by alcohol. No, I didn’t, not really. But drunkenness, a mortal sin, a sin of commission. O, my God, I am heartily sorry. Too late for that then. Judgment Day. Other sins? Seven, deadly: pride, covetousness, lust. Lust, the sins of the flesh. My sinful dreams, my evil thoughts. Sins of intent. O forgive me. Mortal sin. Anger, gluttony, my sin, drinking. Envy, O, yes, I have committed that sin, yesterday, Moira O’Neill, I envied, I hated her. And how many other women have I envied? Many. Mea culpa, mea culpa. Sloth, the last sin. Sloth, remember, I asked old Father Farrelly about that once, no my child, he said in the darkness of the confession box, I do not think you are guilty of that sin.
Lust, envy, gluttony. Three on which I will be judged. And — worst of all — the sin against faith. Pride. I doubted. Only last week in Saint Finbar’s, the greatest sin of all. I denied God, like Peter, the tears wore grooves in Peter’s cheeks. And last night, that horrid Bernard, what does He care about you, he said, and I thought, yes, He does not care. Mortal sin. Cast into outer darkness. Loss of faith, loss of God, the greatest sorrow any human soul can feel, the missioner said. Mea maxima culpa. Perhaps that is why I sit here weeping, not knowing why I weep.
Three mortal sins I have, blackening my soul at this moment. Lucifer, daring to pit himself against God, to challenge His being. O, it’s no wonder terrible things happen to me, I deserve them and worse, sitting here feeling sorry for myself while I am lost in the sight of God. No, I must put it right. Right with Him. For until then nothing can be right, nothing can succeed.
She turned the gas fire out. Hell-flames faded to white corpse bones in the dying heat of the mantles. She washed her face with cold water, no rouge now, no pomps of the flesh. In sackcloth they went, the penitents. O, you can understand it. She trembled, she felt ill, vomit rose, but it was a cross she was glad to accept. She went out then, downstairs, welcoming Mrs Henry Rice’s prying peep from behind plucked lace curtains. A rebuke, deserved.
She walked all the way to the church, although she felt it an effort to put one foot in front of the other. No mercy now, she said, no mercy for my sinful flesh. And she prayed as she walked, she talked quietly to God, God above who did not hear, and no wonder, she said, He cannot hear until I take my black rotten soul to be shriven.
God’s confessor, His anointed priest would hear it all, he would give comfort. Father Quigley, I’ll go to, a general confession, the kind I’m going to make should not be said before a young curate. Hollow-cheeked, he came before her, his accusing voice calling his parishioners to repent, to forget the world and its follies, to get down on their bended knees and prepare for their last end. He will be glad, a man of God, seeing the sinner sworn in God’s ways, the erring sheep shorn of her sins. And at Mass, that day when I saw him first, I knew he would take poor Father Farrelly’s place, a real shepherd, and maybe even better than Father Farrelly, more stern. For poor Father Farrelly had known her and her aunt, had had tea there many a time, and goodness knows, he was the easy-going man in confession, nothing seemed to shock him. Too easy, she said, walking down the street that led to Saint Finbar’s. Too easy on me.
Her plan was to find out the hours of the confessional at the new parish. There were usually confessions at six in the evening, and she had not thought what she would do until then. But when she went into the vestibule, small children ran past her, swinging on the door handles. She entered the gloom of the church, expecting to find some schoolchildren’s devotions in session. But instead, there were lines of children, one or two to a bench, forming two fidgeting, inattentive crocodiles on either side of a confessional. She went up the side aisle and read the name on the confession box. Rev. D. Hanratty. C.C.
No. A young priest with a skin the colour of grapefruit and a pompous Maynooth manner. She had heard him preach at Mass a few Sundays back. Young. Not wise in the ways of the world.
Then she saw the other two-tailed crocodile on the far side. Little boys in one line, waiting to go in behind the door marked MEN. And little chittering girls kneeling in the other line to tell their sins under the door marked WOMEN. Their confessor had not yet arrived.
She crossed the altar, genuflecting before the tabernacle, and hurried down the far aisle. The little half-door where the priest sat, was open, the curtain flapped in the wind of her passing. Over the door she saw his name. Rev. F. X. Quigley. Adm. Relieved, she knelt down at the end of the crocodile of little girls. The chittering ceased and the children turned frank, curious eyes on her. A woman, praying. Then, seeing no danger from her, they resumed their whispering, their squirming. All awaited the priest.
Ten minutes later he came out of the sacristy, making a busy genuflection as he passed the altar, his black soutane swirling around his large black boots, the ends of his stole fluttering. His dark eyes glared at the children as he came through the gate and into the body of the church. Warning: be quiet. You are in God’s house. With the possibility of a good clip on the ear to enforce reverence. Or tell your teacher. No nonsense.
Wise in the moods of authority, the children practised silence, leaned their heads against the benches in front of them and feigned prayer. Quickly, Father Quigley strode past the line of boys and reached his half-door. But turned then and looked along the line of little girls. That woman at the end of the line, didn’t she know these were children’s confessions? Or was she at the ninth station of the cross? Maybe, most likely, yes. Satisfied, he slammed the door shut behind him, pulled the red plush curtain across to hide his upper half and sat his bony buttocks on the horsehair cushion covering the wooden seat.
Penance-giver, he prepared for the penance of listening. Expiator, he hurried to his task of washing away the twin sinful crocodiles. He shot the little slot open with a plock! on the first quivering boy who waited in the darkness on his knees, his small story rehearsing in his mind. Father Quigley bent his head, rested it on his hand. Rissoles, he thought, they give me the heartburn.
‘Blessme Father forIhavesinned,’ the boy whispered.
‘How long since last confession?’ Father Quigley said, the efficient foreman, setting the belt of sins in motion. Rissoles, he thought, as the boy told of lies. I must ask Father Hanratty if he likes them. We could surely do better than rissoles on a Monday, with a whole roast chicken yesterday, there should be more than Monday rissoles out of it.
Outside the confessional, the children appeared to be engaged in a form of musical chairs. As each small penitent left the box, the remaining queue moved up one bench nearer. Thus, every few minutes the crocodile reared up, weaving in and out of the benches, and Miss Hearne, a tall vertebra in the crocodile’s tail, was obliged to move in turn. It was distracting and she found little time for sustained prayer. She did, however, manage to say her confiteor and again examine her conscience. And so, head-filled with ejaculations and contrition, she at last found herself in front of the door marked WOMEN. The trembling had come back and her sickness was on her again. Just nervousness, she said to herself. But she knew it was also the after effects of drink.
A little girl ducked out through the door, ran to a bench, mumbled her penance and left the church. The queue behind Miss Hearne grew restless. The crocodile waited to rear forward again. A small fist dug in Miss Hearne’s back.
‘It’s your turn, missis.’
Shakily Miss Hearne went in, closed the door behind her and knelt in the shadowy anonymity of the small cabinet. A cross with an ivory Christ hung above her head. Behind the iron grille with its wooden shutter, she could hear Father Quigley’s grunting interrogation of a small boy. She waited, holding the edge of the grille for comfort. He would help her. He would know what was best. She heard his deep manly voice begin the words of absolution. Soon.
Plock! Light filled the dark box as he slid the wooden door aside. Framed by the grille, she saw his hollow-cheeked face, his head resting on one hand, the purple and white of the stole around his neck. He leaned forward, list
ening, not looking at her.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
‘How long since last confession?’
‘Three weeks, Father.’
Father Quigley (Aha!) had waited. After all, if it was a real sinner, come back after a year, maybe, that would be different. But you might know it, his mind raged, one of these old bodies that takes an hour to tell you nothing. ‘What do you mean, three weeks, my good woman, don’t you know this confession period is for the children? For the children. The grown-ups’ confession is at six and eight. Not now. Now, what’s the meaning of this, coming here with the children, with the children?’
‘O, Father, I’m sorry, Father, but I had to come now. I have to make a general confession, Father.’
Blessus and saveus, Father Francis Xavier Quigley said to himself. A general confession, no less. And I promised to see Father Feeny for golf at half-past one. Well, you never know, maybe she’s in trouble, this poor soul.
‘A general confession, my child, is there something that’s bothering you? Something in particular? Some sin in particular? Is that it?’
‘O Father, yes Father.’
‘All right, my child, tell me about that sin.’
‘O father — it’s drinking.’
‘I see. Drinking to excess, is it? How many times?’ (I wouldn’t have taken her for that.)
‘O Father, yesterday. And last week, I lost all control.’
‘I see. And have you done this many times before?’
‘No, Father. Well — yes — sometimes. You see, Father, I had a lot of things I was unhappy about Father, and that started it.’
‘I see. You know, that’s a very bad habit, drinking to excess, drunkenness, that is, it leads to all sorts of sins.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Yes, it leads to other sins. Do you understand that, my child?’
‘O yes, Father. Father I . . .’
‘Now, any other sins, my child?’
‘Yes, Father. I doubted my faith, Father. I need your advice because I had moments of doubt, Father.’
Father Quigley raised his head. His face was in profile and it seemed as though he were listening to some distant sound. ‘And what doubts were those, my child?’ he asked in a quiet voice.
‘Well, Father, I doubted that God was in the tabernacle. I doubted if He cared about me.’
‘I see. And did you have this doubt for long, my child?’
‘O, no, Father. It passed almost immediately. But it occurs to me now and then, this thought, although I try to stop it.’
‘And did you pray to Our Lord for guidance, my child? You should pray for guidance, pray to our Holy Mother and to the Sacred Heart if ever such a thing should happen again. Everyone has moments of doubt, my child, everyone, even the holy saints. But you must pray for faith. You will do that now, won’t you?’
‘O, yes, Father. But Father why? I mean, why should I be losing my faith like this? Why do I doubt? Why doesn’t the Sacred Heart answer my prayers? Why?’
(These single women, I’m sure she’s single, they’d talk your head off, every blessed one of them.) ‘Well, my child, God’s ways aren’t our ways. You should ask for guidance, pray every day to our Blessed Mother to help you. Will you do that now?’
‘O, yes, Father. Father . . .’
‘Now, any other sins, my child? Anything else?’
‘Father, I want to ask your advice about another matter.’
‘Yes?’
‘Father, I’ve nobody to advise me. You see, Father, I live alone, I’ve lived alone since my aunt died. Father Farrelly used to be my regular confessor, before I moved to this parish. He’s gone now, Father, I’m alone a great deal and I often feel a bit depressed, that’s how I started to take a drop to cheer me up. And recently, I was nearly engaged to a man, but it — it hasn’t worked out very well. And, of course, Father, when you’re my age, that’s a worry. I’ve got no relatives at all, just friends and — mind you, I’m not saying this man would have been quite suitable, I don’t think so, as a matter of fact — but anyway, as I was saying, I’m all alone and I’m afraid because I don’t feel well sometimes and a drink seems to help me. I know it’s sinful, and I know I should pray more, and . . .’
But she stopped speaking. She had seen his face. A weary face, his cheek resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes shut. He’s not listening, her mind cried. Not listening!
He began to speak: ‘Now, my child, we all have burdens put upon us in this life, crosses we have to bear, trials and tribulations we should offer up to Our Lord. And prayer is a great thing, my child, a great thing. We should never be lonely because we always have God to talk to. And our guardian angel to watch over us. And we have a mother, our Heavenly Mother, to help us and intercede for us. Yes, we have a Holy Family, each and every one of us. All we need to do is pray. Pray, my child, ask God’s aid in fighting these temptations.’
‘Yes, Father.’ (O, he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t.)
‘Now, I want you to say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys as penance for your sins.’
And then his voice, mumbling the Latin, giving the sacred words of absolution, the words in which, acting as God’s medium, he washed the soul white as purest snow. His fingers raised in the sign of forgiveness. The confession was over.
‘God bless you now, my child. And say a prayer for me.’
The slide shot shut. The box was black. Plock! The slide on the other side shot open and a boy’s voice mumbled: ‘Blessme Father for Ihave sinned.’
And she was alone in the darkness. Shriven, her sins washed away.
She opened the door and walked down the side aisle to kneel at the back of the church. Her penance said, she started a rosary to Our Lady. Perhaps through prayer, hard prayer, she could conquer her fears, her troubles. If what Father Quigley said was true, she had a family. The Holy Family. They would help her.
But as she said the second mystery, she stopped and gazed at the faraway altar. What good, if even God’s anointed priest did not understand? He did not listen, he cut me off, nicely, of course, but he cut me off. And the rude way he told me I shouldn’t be having my confession heard at this time. Instead of showing some understanding. We all have burdens, he said. As if he didn’t want to hear them, don’t bother me with your troubles. An ignorant man. God’s anointed, with God’s guidance, he should have known it was important, perhaps the most important confession of my life. But he didn’t see that. And if he didn’t see, why didn’t You tell him, O Sacred Heart, why didn’t You guide him, help him to help me? Why?
The tabernacle door was covered with a white curtain. It was screened, it gave no answer. She looked at the confessional and saw the last child leave. Then Father Quigley stepped out of his retreat. He looked up and down the church, took off his stole, and hurried towards the sacristy. He genuflected on the run as he crossed the altar. As if he’s late, she thought. Late for an appointment.
Kneeling in the silence of the church, she remembered the night she had knelt alone and saw the old sacristan make his hurried genuflection. The Priest of God and the Keeper of God’s Secrets, both passed God’s temple as though they were unbelievers, performing a perfunctory obeisance, a matter of habit. As though they both knew there was no need to bow, as though the tabernacle were empty.
Was it? Was there nothing to pray to? Was the confession she had just made a form, something you went through to ease your conscience? If it was, then how easy to explain all the miseries, the follies, all the useless novenas, the prayers that never got an answer. And if it was true, then all the priests, all the bishops, all the cardinals are wrong. Deluded men, believing that they are being helped by a God who is not there. An unhelpful God. Why does He make men suffer? Bernard had said. Why should my sins hurt Him?
She saw the Pope, Christ’s Vicar on Earth, tall, white-robed, his fingers extended in blessing. Surely he, a saint of God, would have helped her. But what if he could not? What if there was
no God? What if he, the general of the great army of the church, knew there was none? How could the Pope, the bishops, the priests, tell the people? For they had always believed in a merciful Jesus. They could not be disillusioned. It would be too cruel.
The priest had no reverence in his genuflection. And the Pope? Supposing the Pope did not know for sure, supposing the Pope did not really know if there was a God, or if . . .
Bread, only bread in the tabernacle. I am losing my faith. O merciful God do not leave me, do not abandon me, hear me; O Sacred Heart, hear my prayer. Give me faith, Sweet Jesus, give me strength, give me Thy Eternal Love.
And if it is only bread? O my God, protect me. O Holy Mary, intercede for me.
Mary, hands raised, a painted statue.
And if it is only bread?
If no one hears?
No one.
No one. The church, an empty shell, nobody to hear, no reason to pray, only statues listen. Statues cannot hear.
And if I am alone?
If I am alone it does not matter what life I lead. It does not matter. And if I die I am a dead thing. I have no eternal life. No one will remember me, no one will weep for me. No one will reward the good I have done, no one will punish the sins I have committed.
No one.
If it is only bread.
O Merciful God, save me. O Mother Mary, protect me. O saints and angels, intercede for me. O Sweet Jesus, save me. O Blessed Virgin, protect me.
Tower of Ivory,
House of Gold,
Ark of the Covenant,
Gate of Heaven.
And there, behind that gate, behind the tabernacle door?
Gate of . . .
Only bread.
She stood up, staring at the tabernacle. She stepped out of her bench. She did not genuflect. She turned away from the altar and walked slowly out of the church. Her hand, from the habit of a lifetime, found the Holy Water font, dipped two fingers in it. But she did not make the Sign of the Cross.