Diary of a Country Priest Page #7

nothing had changed inside me

over the last weeks,

the idea of going home with this...

thing... made me feel ashamed.

DRUGS AND SIMILAR PRODUCTS

Abbot Dufrety had studied

with me at the seminary

before being assigned

to a small parish.

I knew he'd taken a leave

from the ministry

only because of illness.

He was in shirtsleeves,

in those cotton pants

we wear under our cassocks,

and barefoot in his slippers.

You might have let me know.

I have an office in town.

I only camp out here.

The place is disgusting.

I'm supposed to eat a lot,

but I don't have much appetite.

Remember those beans

at the seminary?

The worst is, the cooking

has to be done right here.

I've taken a dislike

to the smell of frying.

Anywhere else,

I'd gobble up the stuff.

Nice of you to come.

Frankly, I'm a bit surprised.

You used to be a bit

narrow-minded in those days.

Excuse me.

I'll just clean up a bit.

I've had a good day,

which doesn't happen often.

What do you expect?

An active life is good for one.

But don't think

I've turned into an ignoramus.

I read voraciously.

I've never read so much.

I've got some notes here.

I'll show you.

I hope you'll stay for dinner.

We can have a nice chat.

What's the matter?

Here, drink this.

What do you expect?

We've got rotten blood in our veins.

A doctor told me once, ''Intellectuals,

undernourished since childhood!''

Explains a lot, don't you think?

Don't think I'm just

making excuses for myself.

I believe in utter honesty,

with others and with myself.

When I left the sanatorium,

I wanted to test myself.

I looked for a job.

It was a question of willpower

and guts. Guts, mostly.

Mind you, I'm not telling

anyone to follow me.

There are bad times.

And if it hadn't been

for a feeling of responsibility

towards someone who

sacrificed her life for me -

Well, we can talk about that

quite objectively.

She counts for nothing

in my intellectual life.

And don't think it was a bolt

from the blue, a bewilderment!

You're surprised?

But in your place,

if I'd broken my ordination promises,

I'd rather it had been

for love of a woman,

than for what you call

your intellectual life.

I don't agree.

You don't know

what you're talking about.

My intellectual life -

What's the matter?

Answer!

I don't want to die here!

Get me out of here, anywhere!

What can I do?

I can't carry him by myself,

and we can't ask the concierge

for anything.

Don't move, Father.

It will pass.

Mr. Dufrety panicked a bit

and ran off to the pharmacy.

I'm afraid you must think

poorly of me.

The room isn't tidied up

and everything's dirty.

You see, I leave to work

at 5:
00 in the morning,

and I just don't have

the strength anymore.

What is your work?

I'm a cleaning lady.

The most tiring part is rushing

from one place to another.

But what about his business?

They say there's money in it,

but he had to borrow

for the office and the typewriter.

Besides, he can't get around much.

Are you married?

No.

I was the one against it.

Why?

Because of what he is,

don't you see?

I always hoped he'd get well

at the sanatorium.

And then, if he ever wanted

to make a fresh start,

I wouldn't be in the way,

I told myself.

And what did he think of that?

Nothing.

He thought I didn't want to.

Why do you ask?

Out of friendship.

The pharmacist was right.

He just laughed at me.

It's true:
The smallest

fainting spell terrifies me.

Listen.

I must talk to you.

There's little time.

Talk to me about what?

About whom?

You.

''He's agreed to meet

with the priest in Torcy.

My old master-''

Around 4:
00, unable to sleep,

I went to his room

and found my poor colleague

unconscious on the floor.

We carried him back to bed,

whereupon he vomited up

streams ofblood.

But the hemorrhaging ended.

While we waited for the doctor,

our poor friend regained consciousness,

but he didn't speak.

Heavy beads of sweat

covered his brow and cheeks,

and his expression

told of great anguish.

His pulse was rapidly growing weak.

He motioned

that he wanted his rosary,

which I found in his pants'pocket.

From then on,

he held it pressed against his chest.

He seemed to recover some strength

and in an almost inaudible voice

asked for absolution.

His face grew calm.

He even smiled.

Though neither humanity nor friendship

would permit me to refuse,

while discharging my duties,

I explained to my unfortunate comrade

my hesitation at granting his request.

He didn't seem to hear me.

But a few moments later,

he laid his hands on mine

while his eyes entreated me

to draw closer to him.

He then said, very distinctly,

if extremely slowly,

these exact words:

''What does it matter?

All is grace. ''

I believe he died just then.

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