Diary of a Country Priest Page #2

motioning to a chair.

On seeing you, I felt you had come

with some purpose in mind.

None other than to pay a call.

And that you also meant

to keep it to yourself.

I assure you.

I see I was wrong.

Your parishioners worry you

a good deal, Father.

Yet it's such a small parish.

Small on the map, madam.

It's a strange task

you've been entrusted with.

Yes, madam.

How little we know

what a human life really is.

Though I'd arrived feeling fine,

I found myself suddenly incapable

of holding a conversation

or even answering questions.

It's true that I'd walked

very quickly.

I'd lost a lot of time

with the ill Mrs. Ferrant.

Father!

Heavens, what's the matter?

You seem to be suffering terribly.

Where is the pain?

Here, in the pit of my stomach.

But it's nothing.

Nothing at all.

Forgive me, madam,

I must take my leave.

I'm seriously ill.

I was first struck

by this disease six months ago.

I went to see Dr. Delbende.

He's an old man, rumored

to be brutal, who's now retired.

The priest of Torcy

informed him I would be coming.

He palpated my stomach at length

with thick and unclean hands.

He'd just returned from hunting.

When things get you down,

come and pay me a call.

I wouldn't say that to everyone,

but the priest in Torcy has spoken of you.

And I like your eyes.

Faithful eyes.

Dog's eyes.

You and Torcy and I

are of the same race, an odd race.

The idea that I belonged

to the same race as these hefty men

would never have occurred to me.

- What race?

- The race that holds on.

And why does it hold on?

No one quite knows.

As a schoolboy I came up

with a motto for myself:

''Face up to it.''

Face up to what? I ask you.

Injustice?

I'm not one to go around

babbling about justice.

I don't expect it for myself.

From whom should I ask it?

I don't believe in God.

I'm not very experienced,

but I always recognize the tone

that gives away a deeply wounded soul.

You're not up to much.

Just look at that.

Anyone can see you've not

always had enough to eat.

Well, it's too late now.

And the alcohol -what about that?

Alcohol?

Not what you've drunk, of course.

What was drunk for you,

long before you came into the world.

Sraphita worries me a lot.

I wonder sometimes if she hates me.

She torments me

with such exceptional maturity.

Morning, Sraphita.

I returned her book bag that afternoon.

I was received very roughly.

Yes, I scold myself

for praying so little and so poorly.

But do I have time to pray?

I met the priest from Torcy

on the road to Gesvres.

He gave me

a ride back to the rectory.

The bishop must be

hard up for priests

to put a parish in your hands.

I could burden you with advice,

but what's the point?

I've known pupils

who'd solve the toughest problems,

just like that, out of spite.

Where have I gone wrong?

You're too fussy.

Just like a hornet in a bottle.

But I think you have

the spirit of prayer.

Monks are more shrewd than us.

Besides, you have no common sense.

Your great schemes don't hold water.

As for knowledge of men,

the less said the better.

Face-to-face with your new parish,

you cut an odd figure.

And so?

So? Well, carry on.

What else can I say?

A bad night.

I never endeavored

to pray so much.

At first quietly, calmly,

then with an almost desperate will

that made my heart tremble.

This morning I received a letter

written on cheap paper,

unsigned.

''A well-wisher advises you

to seek a transfer to another parish.

The sooner, the better.

I feel sorry for you,

but I repeat:
Get out.''

I made a strange discovery:

The handwriting was identical.

Another terrible night.

It was raining so hard

I didn't dare go to the church.

I couldn't pray.

I know very well that

the desire to pray is already prayer,

and that God couldn't ask for more.

But it wasn't a question of duty.

At that moment, I needed prayer

like I needed air in my lungs

or oxygen in my blood.

Behind me, there was no longer

familiar day-to-day life

which one can leave behind

in one fell swoop.

Behind me there was nothing,

and before me was a wall.

A black wall.

Suddenly something seemed

to shatter in my breast,

and I was seized by a trembling

that lasted over an hour.

What if it had only been an illusion?

Even the saints knew

their hour of failure and loss.

I lay face-down at the foot of my bed.

I only wanted to show

complete acceptance

and surrender.

The same solitude, same silence,

but this time, no hope in breaking

through the obstacle.

There's no obstacle. Nothing.

God has left me.

Of this I'm sure.

I haven't slackened in my duties.

The incredible improvement

in my health makes my work easier.

Dr. Delbende?

Are you sure?

Dr. Delbende was found at the edge

of the woods near Bazancourt,

with his skull blown out,

already cold.

He rolled to the bottom

of a tree-lined ditch.

It's thought his gun

got caught in the branches

and went off.

The priest from Torcy kept vigil

for two nights by his friend's corpse.

He was visibly anguished.

It was rumored that

Dr. Delbende had committed suicide.

You don't think Dr. Delbende

might have -

He was very disheartened.

He believed up to the very end

that his patients would return.

His younger colleagues spread the word

that he knew nothing of antiseptics,

and his patients fled.

The paying ones, of course.

Not the others.

But the truth is

he'd lost his faith

and couldn't get over not believing.

I was in no condition to listen

to his confidences just then.

They were like molten lead

poured on an open wound.

I have never suffered so much

and likely never will again,

even when I die.

If he really killed himself...

do you think-

If anyone else

were to ask me that!

God is the only judge.

Dr. Delbende was a just man,

and God is judge of the just.

We're at war, after all.

One must face the enemy.

''Face up to it,'' as he used to say.

You remember his motto?

No, I haven't lost faith.

This abrupt and cruel ordeal

may have upset my reason, my nerves.

But my faith remains.

I can feel it.

I stood up with the feeling,

the certainty, that I had heard

someone calling me.

Yet I knew I wouldn't find anyone.

You'll keep your word?

Young lady, I will do what I promise.

I was overwhelmed.

I know nothing of people

and never will.

I ran to Torcy.

Father is away.

He won't be back

for eight or ten days at least.

I was so disappointed

I had to lean against the wall.

You know I can't receive you here.

What you promised to do

must be done today.

Tomorrow will be too late.

She knew I'd been to the rectory.

She is as sly as an animal!

I trusted her.

You get used to her eyes.

You imagine they're kind.

Now I'd like to tear out

those eyes of hers

and stamp on them

with my foot, like this!

Have you no fear of God?

I'll kill her!

Kill her or kill myself!

You mustn't stay here.

There's only one place

I can listen to you.

On your knees.

I don't want to confess.

You know quite well

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