I found myself
opposite to Ste. Gudule, and the bell, whose voice you know, began to
toll for evening salut. I went in, quite alone (which procedure you
will say is not much like me), wandered about the aisles where a few
old women were saying their prayers, till vespers begun. I stayed
till they were over. Still I could not leave the church or force
myself to go home--to school I mean. An odd whim came into my head.
In a solitary part of the Cathedral six or seven people still
remained kneeling by the confessionals. In two confessionals I saw a
priest. I felt as if I did not care what I did, provided it was not
absolutely wrong, and that it served to vary my life and yield a
moment's interest. I took a fancy to change myself into a Catholic
and go and make a real confession to see what it was like. Knowing
me as you do, you will think this odd, but when people are by
themselves they have singular fancies. A penitent was occupied in
confessing. They do not go into the sort of pew or cloister which
the priest occupies, but kneel down on the steps and confess through
a grating. Both the confessor and the penitent whisper very low, you
can hardly hear their voices. After I had watched two or three
penitents go and return I approached at last and knelt down in a
niche which was just vacated.
Pages:
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185