Best Short Stories Omnibus - Volume 3

In the Confessional-3

I wished I could have seen something more of the house than that bit of roof and that one chimney. There must, I told myself, be some other entrance—some way round by the road! Musing and lingering thus, I was startled by a quiet voice close against my shoulder, saying:—

“A pleasant evening, mein Herr!”

I turned, and found the priest at my elbow. He had come noiselessly across the grass, and was standing between me and the sunset, like a shadow.

“I—I beg your pardon,” I stammered, moving away from the gate. “I was looking—”

I stopped in some surprise, and indeed with some sense of relief, for it was not the same priest that I had seen in the morning. No two, indeed, could well be more unlike, for this man was small, white-haired, gentle-looking, with a soft, sad smile inexpressibly sweet and winning.

“You were looking at my arbutus?” he said.

I had scarcely observed the arbutus till now, but I bowed and said something to the effect that it was an unusually fine tree.

“Yes,” he replied; “but I have a rhododendron round at the front that is still finer. Will you come in and see it?”

I said I should be pleased to do so. He led the way, and I followed.

“I hope you like this part of our Rhine-country?” he said, as we took the path through the shrubbery.

“I like it so well,” I replied, “that if I were to live anywhere on the banks of the Rhine, I should certainly choose some spot on the Upper Rhine between Schaffhausen and Basle.”

“And you would be right,” he said. “Nowhere is the river so beautiful. Nearer the glaciers it is milky and turbid—beyond Basle it soon becomes muddy. Here we have it blue as the sky—sparkling as champagne. Here is my rhododendron. It stands twelve feet high, and measures as many in diameter. I had more than two hundred blooms upon it last Spring.”

When I had duly admired this giant shrub, he took me to a little arbour on a bit of steep green bank overlooking the river, where he invited me to sit down and rest. From hence I could see the porch and part of the front of his little house; but it was all so closely planted round with trees and shrubs that no clear view of it seemed obtainable in any direction. Here we sat for some time chatting about the weather, the approaching vintage, and so forth, and watching the sunset. Then I rose to take my leave.

“I heard of you this evening at the Krone, mein Herr,” he said. “You were out, or I should have called upon you. I am glad that chance has made us acquainted. Do you remain over tomorrow?”

“No; I must go on tomorrow to Basle,” I answered. And then, hesitating a little, I added:—“you heard of me, also, I fear, in the church.”

“In the church?” he repeated.

“Seeing the door open, I went in-from curiosity—as a traveller; just to look round for a moment and rest.”

“Naturally.”

“I—I had no idea, however, that I was not alone there. I would not for the world have intruded—”

“I do not understand,” he said, seeing me hesitate. “The church stands open all day long. It is free to every one.”

“Ah! I see he has not told you!”

The priest smiled but looked puzzled.

“He? Whom do you mean?”

“The other priest, mon père-your colleague. I regret to have broken in upon his meditations; but I had been so long in the church, and it was all so still and quiet, that it never occurred to me that there might be some one in the confessional.”

The priest looked at me in a strange, startled way.

“In the confessional!” he repeated, with a catching of his breath. “You saw some one—in the confessional?”

“I am ashamed to say that, having thoughtlessly opened the door—”

“You saw—what did you see?”

“A priest, mon père.”

“A priest! Can you describe him? Should you know him again? Was he pale, and tall, and gaunt, with long black hair?”

“The same, undoubtedly.”

“And his eyes—did you observe anything particular about his eyes?”

“Yes; they were large, wild-looking, dark eyes, with a look in them—a look I cannot describe.”

“A look of terror!” cried the pastor, now greatly agitated. “A look of terror—of remorse—of despair!”

“Yes, it was a look that might mean all that,” I replied, my astonishment increasing at every word. “You seem troubled. Who is he?”

But instead of answering my question, the pastor took off his hat, looked up with a radiant, awe-struck face, and said:—

“All-merciful God, I thank Thee! I thank Thee that I am not mad, and that Thou hast sent this stranger to be my assurance and my comfort!”

Having said these words, he bowed his head, and his lips moved in silent prayer. When he looked up again, his eyes were full of tears.

“My son,” he said, laying his trembling hand upon my arm, “I owe you an explanation; but I cannot give it to you now. It must wait till I can speak more calmly—till tomorrow, when I must see you again. It involves a terrible story—a story peculiarly painful to myself—enough now if I tell you that I have seen the Thing you describe—seen It many times; and yet, because It has been visible to my eyes alone, I have doubted the evidence of my senses. The good people here believe that much sorrow and meditation have touched my brain. I have half believed it myself till now. But you—you have proved to me that I am the victim of no illusion.”

“But in Heaven’s name,” I exclaimed, “what do you suppose I saw in the confessional?”

“You saw the likeness of one who, guilty also of a double murder, committed the deadly sin of sacrilege in that very spot, more than thirty years ago,” replied the Père Chessez, solemnly.

“Caspar Rufenacht!”

“Ah! you have heard the story? Then I am spared the pain of telling it to you. That is well.”

I bent my head in silence. We walked together without another word to the wicket, and thence round to the churchyard gate. It was now twilight, and the first stars were out.

“Good-night, my son,” said the pastor, giving me his hand. “Peace be with you.”

As he spoke the words his grasp tightened—his eyes dilated—his whole countenance became rigid.

“Look!” he whispered. “Look where it goes!”

I followed the direction of his eyes, and there, with a freezing horror which I have no words to describe, I saw—distinctly saw through the deepening gloom—a tall, dark figure in a priest’s soutane and broad-brimmed hat, moving slowly across the path leading from the parsonage to the church. For a moment it seemed to pause—then passed on to the deeper shade, and disappeared.

“You saw it?” said the pastor.

“Yes—plainly.”

He drew a deep breath; crossed himself devoutly; and leaned upon the gate, as if exhausted.

“This is the third time I have seen it this year,” he said. “Again I thank God for the certainty that I see a visible thing, and that His great gift of reason is mine unimpaired. But I would that He were graciously pleased to release me from the sight—the horror of it is sometimes more than I know how to bear. Good night.”

With this he again touched my hand; and so, seeing that he wished to be alone, I silently left him. At the Friedrich’s Thor I turned and looked back. He was still standing by the churchyard gate, just visible through the gloom of the fast deepening twilight.

I never saw the Père Chessez again. Save his own old servant, I was the last who spoke with him in this world. He died that night—died in his bed, where he was found next morning with his hands crossed upon his breast, and with a placid smile upon his lips, as if he had fallen asleep in the act of prayer.

As the news spread from house to house, the whole town rang with lamentations. The church-bells tolled; the carpenters left their work in the streets; the children, dismissed from school, went home weeping.

“’Twill be the saddest Kermess in Rheinfelden tomorrow, mein Herr!” said my good host of the Krone, as I shook hands with him at parting. “We have lost the best of pastors and of friends. He was a saint. If you had come but one day later, you would not have seen him!”

And with this he brushed his sleeve across his eyes, and turned away.

Every shutter was up, every blind down, every door closed, as I passed along the Friedrich’s Strasse about mid-day on my way to Basle; and the few townsfolk I met looked grave and downcast. Then I crossed the bridge and, having shown my passport to the German sentry on the Baden side, I took one long, last farewell look at the little walled town as it lay sleeping in the sunshine by the river—knowing that I should see it no more.