Father Francis, the youngest priest at the cathedral, was hearing confessions on a Saturday afternoon. He stepped out of the confessional to stretch his legs a moment and walked up the left aisle toward the flickering red light of the Precious Blood, mystical in the twilight of the cathedral. Father Francis walked back to the confessional, because too many women were waiting on the penitent bench. There were not so many men.
Sitting again in the confessional, he said a short prayer to the Virgin Mary to get in the mood for hearing confessions. He wiped his lips with his handkerchief, cleared his throat, and pushed back the panel, inclining his ear to hear a woman’s confession. The panel slid back with a sharp grating noise. Father Francis whispered his ritual prayer and made the sign of the cross. The woman hadn’t been to confession for three months and had missed mass twice for no good reason. He questioned her determinedly, indignant with this woman who had missed mass twice for no good reason. In a steady whisper he told her the story of an old woman who had crawled on the ice to get to mass. The woman hesitated, then told about missing her morning prayers.… “Yes, my child yes, my child …” “And about certain thoughts …” “Now, about these thoughts; let’s look at it in this way …” He gave the woman absolution and told her to say the beads once for her penance.
Closing the panel on the women’s side he sat quietly for a moment in the darkness of the confessional. He was a young priest, very interested in confessions.
Father Francis turned to the other side of the confessional, pushing back the panel to hear some man’s confession. Resting his chin on his hand after making the sign of the cross, he did not bother trying to discern the outline of the head and shoulders of the man kneeling in the corner.
The man said in a husky voice: “I wanna get off at the corner of King and Yonge Street.”
Father Francis sat up straight, peering through the wire work. The man’s head was moving. He could see his nose and his eyes. His heart began to beat unevenly. He sat back quietly.
“Cancha hear me, wasamatter, I wanna get off at King and Yonge,” the man said insistently, pushing his nose through the wire work.
On the man’s breath there was a strong smell of whiskey. Father Francis nervously slid the panel back into position. As the panel slid into place he knew it sounded like the closing of doors on a bus. There he was hearing confessions, and a drunken man on the other side of the panel thought him a conductor on a bus. He would go into the vestry and tell Father Marlow.
Father Francis stepped out of the confessional to look around the cathedral. Men and women in the pews and on the penitents’ benches wondered why he had come out of the confessional twice in the last few minutes when so many were waiting. Father Francis wasn’t feeling well, that was the trouble. Walking up the aisle, he rubbed his smooth cheek with his hand, thinking hard. If he had the man thrown out he might be a tough customer and there would be a disturbance. There would be a disturbance in the cathedral. Such a disturbance would be sure to get in the papers. Everything got in the papers. There was no use telling it to anybody. Walking erectly he went back to the confessional. Father Francis was sweating.
Rubbing his shoulder-blades uneasily against the back of the confessional, he decided to hear a woman’s confession. It was evading the issue – it was a compromise, but it didn’t matter; he was going to hear a woman’s confession first.
The woman, encouraged by many questions from Father Francis, made an extraordinarily good confession, though sometimes he did not seem to be listening very attentively. He thought he could hear the man moving. The man was drunk – drunkenness, the over-indulgence of an appetite, the drunken state. Scholastic psychology. Cardinal Mercier’s book on psychology had got him through the exam at the seminary.
“When you feel you’re going to tell a lie, say a short prayer to Mary the mother of God,” he said to the woman.
“Yes, father.”
“Some lies are more serious than others.”
“Yes, father.”
“But they are lies just the same.”
“I tell mostly white lies,” she said.
“They are lies, lies, lies, just the same. They may not endanger your soul, but they lead to something worse. Do you see?”
“Yes, father.”
“Will you promise to say a little prayer every time?”
Father Francis could not concentrate on what the woman was saying. But he wanted her to stay there for a long time. She was company. He would try and concentrate on her. He could not forget the drunken man for more than a few moments.
The woman finished her confession. Father Francis, breathing heavily, gave her absolution. Slowly he pushed back the panel – a street-car, a conductor swinging back the doors on a street-car. He turned deliberately to the other side of the confessional, but hesitated, eager to turn and hear another confession. It was no use – it couldn’t go on in that way. Closing his eyes he said three “Our Fathers” and three “Hail, Marys,” and felt much better. He was calm and the man might have gone.
He tried to push back the panel so it would not make much noise, but moving slowly, it grated loudly. He could see the man’s head bobbing up, watching the panel sliding back.
“Yes, my son,” Father Francis said deliberately.
“I got to get off at King and Yonge,” the man said stubbornly.
“You better go, you’ve got no business here.”
“Say, there, did you hear me say King and Yonge?”
The man was getting ugly. The whiskey smelt bad in the confessional. Father Francis drew back quickly and half closed the panel. That same grating noise. It put an idea into his head. He said impatiently: “Step lively there; this is King and Yonge. Do you want to go past your stop?”
“All right, brother,” the man said slowly, getting up clumsily.
“Move along now,” Father Francis said authoritatively.
“I’m movin’; don’t get so huffy,” the man said, swinging aside the curtains of the confessional, stepping out to the aisle.
Father Francis leaned back in the confessional and nervously gripped the leather seat. He began to feel very happy. There were no thoughts at all in his head. Suddenly he got up and stepped out to the aisle. He stood watching a man going down the aisle swaying almost imperceptibly. The men and women in the pews watched Father Francis curiously, wondering if he was really unwell because he had come out of the confessional three times in a half-hour. Again he went into the confessional.
At first Father Francis was happy hearing the confessions, but he became restive. He should have used shrewd judgment. With that drunken man he had gone too far, forgotten himself in the confessional. He had descended to artifice in the confessional to save himself from embarrassment.
At the supper-table he did not talk much to the other priests. He had a feeling he would not sleep well that night. He would lie awake trying to straighten everything out. The thing would first have to be settled in his own conscience. Then perhaps he would tell the bishop.
1928
AN ESCAPADE
Snow fell softly and the sidewalks were wet. Mrs. Rose Carey had on her galoshes and enjoyed the snow underfoot. She walked slowly, big flakes falling on her lamb coat and clinging to her hair, the falling snow giving her, in her warm coat, a feeling of self-indulgence. She stood on the corner of Bloor and Yonge, an impressive woman, tall, stout, good-looking for forty-two, and waited for the traffic light. Few people were on this corner at half past eight, Sunday evening. A policeman, leaning against a big plate-glass window, idly watched her cross the road and look up to the clock on the fire hall and down the street to the theater lights, where Reverend John Simpson held Sunday service. She had kept herself late, intending to enter the theater unnoticed, and sit in a back seat, ready to leave as soon as the service was over. Bothered by her own shyness, she remembered that her husband had asked if Father Conley was speaking tonight in the cathedral.
Under the theater lights someone said to he
r: “This way, lady. Step this way, right along now.”
She stopped abruptly, watching the little man with a long nose and green sweater, pacing up and down in front of the entrance, waving his hands. He saw her hesitating and came close to her. He had on a flat black hat, and walked with his toes turned out. “Step lively, lady,” he muttered, wagging his head at her.
She was scared and would have turned away but a man got out of a car at the curb and smiled at her. “Don’t be afraid of Dick,” he said. The man had grey hair and a red face and wore a tie pin in a wide black tie. He was going into the theater.
“Run along, Dick,” he said and, turning to Mrs. Carey, he explained: “He’s absolutely harmless. They call him Crazy Dick.”
“Thank you very much,” Mrs. Carey said.
“I hope he didn’t keep you from going in,” he said, taking off his hat. He had a generous smile.
“I didn’t know him, that was all,” she said, feeling foolish as he opened the door for her.
The minister was moving on stage and talking quietly. She knew it was the minister because she had seen his picture in the papers and recognized the Prince Albert coat and the four-in-hand tie with the collar open at the throat. She took three steps down the aisle, fearfully aware that many people were looking at her, and sat down, four rows from the back. Only once before had she been in a strange church, when a friend of her husband’s had got married, and it hadn’t seemed like church. She unbuttoned her coat, leaving a green and black scarf lying across her full breasts, and relaxed in the seat, getting her big body comfortable. Someone sat down beside her. The man with the grey hair and red face was sitting beside her. She was annoyed, she knew she was too aware of his closeness. The minister walked the length of the platform, his voice pleasant and soothing. She tried to follow the flow of words but was too restless. She had come in too late, that was the trouble. So she tried concentrating, closing her eyes, but thought of a trivial and amusing argument she had had with her husband. The minister was trying to describe the afterlife and some of his words seemed beautiful, but she had no intention of taking his religious notions seriously.
The seat was uncomfortable, and she stretched a little, crossing her legs at the ankles. The minister had a lovely voice, but so far he’d said nothing sensational, and she felt out of place in the theater and slightly ashamed.
The man on her right was sniffling. Puzzled, she watched him out of the corner of her eye, as he gently dabbed at his eyes with a large white handkerchief. The handkerchief was fresh and the creases firm. One plump hand held four corners, making a pad, and he was watching the minister intently.
She was anxious not to appear ill-bred, but a man, moved by the minister’s words, or an old thought, was sitting beside her, crying. She did not glance at him again till she realized that his elbow was on the arm of her seat, supporting his chin, while he blinked and moved his head. He was feeling so bad she was uncomfortable, but thought that he looked gentlemanly, though feeling miserable. He was probably a nice man, and she was sorry for him.
She expected him to get up and go out. Other people were noticing him. A fat woman, in the seat ahead, craned her neck. Mrs. Carey wanted to slap her. The man put the handkerchief over his face and didn’t lift his head. The minister was talking rapidly. Mrs. Carey suddenly felt absolutely alone in the theater. Impulsively she touched the man’s arm, leaning toward him, whispering: “I’m awfully sorry for you, sir.”
She patted his arm a second time, and he looked at her helplessly, and went to speak, but merely shook his head and patted the back of her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated gently.
“Thank you very much.”
“I hope it’s all right now,” she whispered.
He spoke quietly: “Something the minister said, it reminded me of my brother who died last week. My younger brother.”
People in the row ahead were turning angrily. She became embarrassed, and leaned back in her seat, very dignified, and looked directly ahead, aware that the man was now holding her hand. Startled, she twitched, but he didn’t notice. His thoughts seemed so far away. She reflected it could do no harm to let him hold her hand a moment, if it helped him.
She listened to the minister but didn’t understand a word he was saying, and glanced curiously at the grey-haired man, who didn’t look at her but still held her hand. He was handsome, and a feeling she had not had for years was inside her, her hand suddenly so sensitive. She closed her eyes. Then the minister stopped speaking and, knowing the congregation was ready to sing a hymn, she looked at his hand on hers, and at him. He had put away the handkerchief and now was smiling sadly. She avoided his eyes, removing her hand as she stood up to sing the hymn. Her cheeks were warm. She tried to stop thinking altogether. It was necessary to leave at once only she would have to squeeze by his knees to reach the aisle. She buttoned her coat while they were singing, ready to slip past him. She was surprised when he stepped out to the aisle, allowing her to pass, but didn’t look at him. Erect, she walked slowly up the aisle, her eyes on the door. Then she heard steps and knew he was following. An usher held open the door and she smiled awkwardly. The usher smiled.
Outside, she took a few quick steps, then stood still, bewildered, expecting Crazy Dick to be on the street. She thought of the green sweater and funny flat hat. Through the doorway she saw the grey-haired man smiling at the usher and putting on his hat, the tie pin shining in the light. Tucking her chin into her high fur collar she walked rapidly down the street. It was snowing harder, driving along on a wind. When she got to a car stop she looked back and saw him standing on the sidewalk in front of the theater doors. A streetcar was coming. She was sure he took a few steps toward her, but she got on the car. The conductor said, “Fares please,” but hardly glancing at him, she shook wet snow from her coat and sat down, taking three deep breaths, while her cheeks tingled. She felt tired, and her heart was thumping.
She got off the car at Shuter Street. She didn’t want to go straight home, and was determined to visit the cathedral.
On the side street the snow was thick. Men from the rooming houses were shovelling the sidewalks, the shovels scraping on concrete. She lifted her eyes to the illuminated cross on the cathedral spire. The congregation had come out half an hour ago, and she felt lonely walking in the dark toward the light.
Inside the cathedral she knelt down halfway up the center aisle. She closed her eyes to pray, and remembered midnight mass in the cathedral, the Archbishop with his miter and staff, and the choir of boys’ voices. A vestry door opened, a priest passed in the shadow beside the altar, took a book from a pew, and went out. She closed her eyes again and said many prayers, repeating her favorite ones over and over, but often she thought of her husband at home. She prayed hard so she could go home and not be bothered by anything that had happened in the theater. She prayed for half an hour, feeling better gradually, till she hardly remembered the man in the theater, and fairly satisfied, she got up and left the cathedral.
1928
NOW THAT APRIL’S HERE
As soon as they got the money they bought two large black hats and left America to live permanently in Paris. They were bored in their native city in the Middle West and convinced that the American continent had nothing to offer them. Charles Milford, who was four years older than Johnny Hill, had a large round head that ought to have belonged to a Presbyterian minister. Johnny had a rather chinless faun’s head. When they walked down the street the heads together seemed more interesting. They came to Paris in the late autumn.
They got on very quickly in Montparnasse. In the afternoons they wandered around the streets, looking in art gallery windows at the prints of the delicate clever unsubstantial line work of Foujita. Pressing his nose against the window Johnny said, “Quite a sound technique, don’t you think, Charles?”
“Oh sound, quite sound.”
They never went to the Louvre or the museum in the Luxembourg Gardens, thinking it would be in
the fashion of tourists, when they intended really to settle in Paris. In the evenings they sat together at a table on the terrace of the café, and clients, noticing them, began thinking of them as “the two boys.” One night, Fanny Lee, a blonde, fat American girl who had been an entertainer at Zelli’s until she lost her shape, but not her hilarity, stepped over to the boys’ table and yelled, “Oh, gee, look what I’ve found.” They were discovered. Fanny, liking them for their quiet, well-mannered behavior, insisted on introducing them to everybody at the bar. They bowed together at the same angle, smiling so cheerfully, so obviously willing to be obliging, that Fanny was anxious to have them follow her from one bar to another, hoping they would pay for her drinks.
They felt much better after the evening with Fanny. Johnny, the younger one, who had a small income of $100 a month, was supporting Charles, who, he was sure, would one day become a famous writer. Johnny did not take his own talent very seriously; he had been writing his memoirs of their adventures since they were fifteen, after reading George Moore’s Confessions of A Young Man. George Moore’s book had been mainly responsible for their visit to Paris. Johnny’s memoirs, written in a snobbishly aristocratic manner, had been brought up to the present and now he was waiting for something to happen to them. They were much happier the day they got a cheaper room on Boulevard Arago near the tennis court.
They were happy at the cafés in the evenings but liked best being at home together in their own studio, five minutes away from the cafés. They lay awake in bed together a long time talking about everything that happened during the day, consoling each other by saying the weather would be finer later on and anyway they could always look forward to the spring days next April. Fanny Lee, who really liked them, was extraordinarily friendly and only cost them nine or ten drinks an evening. They lay awake in bed talking about her, sometimes laughing so hard the bed springs squeaked. Charles, his large round head buried in the pillow, snickered gleefully listening to Johnny making fun of Fanny Lee.
Ancient Lineage and Other Stories Page 7
