ABSOLUTION
THERE was once a priest with
cold, watery eyes, who, in the still of
the night, wept cold tears. He
wept because the afternoons were
warm and long, and he was unable
to attain a complete mystical
union with our Lord. Sometimes,
near four o'clock, there was a rustle
of Swede girls along the path by
his window, and in their shrill laugh-
ter he found a terrible
dissonance that made him pray aloud for the
twilight to come. At twilight the
laughter and the voices were
quieter, but several times he had
walked past Romberg's Drug Store
when it was dusk and the yellow
lights shone inside and the nickel
taps of the soda-fountain were
gleaming, and he had found the scent
of cheap toilet soap desperately
sweet upon the air. He passed that
way when he returned from hearing
confessions on Saturday nights,
and he grew careful to walk on
the other side of the street so that
the smell of the soap would float
upward before it reached his
nostrils as it drifted, rather like
incense, toward the summer
moon.
But there was no escape from the
hot madness of four o'clock.
From his window, as far as he
could see, the Dakota wheat thronged
the valley of the Red River. The
wheat was terrible to look upon and
the carpet pattern to which in
agony he bent his eyes sent his thought
brooding through grotesque
labyrinths, open always to the unavoid-
able sun.
One afternoon when he had reached
the point where the mind
runs down like an old clock, his
housekeeper brought into his study
a beautiful, intense little boy
of eleven named Rudolph Miller. The
little boy sat down in a patch of
sunshine, and the priest, at his wal-
nut desk, pretended to be very
busy. This was to conceal his relief
that some one had come into his
haunted room.
Presently he turned around and
found himself staring into two
enormous, staccato eyes, lit with
gleaming points of cobalt light. For
a moment their expression
startled him then he saw that his visitor
was in a state of abject fear.
"Your mouth is
trembling," said Father Schwartz, in a haggard
voice.
The little boy covered his
quivering mouth with his hand.
"Are you in trouble?"
asked Father Schwartz, sharply. "Take your
hand away from your mouth and
tell me what's the matter."
The boy Father Schwartz
recognized him now as the son of a
parishioner, Mr. Miller, the
freight-agent moved his hand reluc-
tantly off his mouth and became
articulate in a despairing whisper.
"Father Schwartz I've
committed a terrible sin."
"A sin against purity?"
"No, Father . . .
worse."
Father Schwartz's body jerked
sharply.
"Have you killed
somebody?"
"No but I'm afraid "
the voice rose to a shrill whimper.
"Do you want to go to
confession?"
The little boy shook his head
miserably. Father Schwartz cleared
his throat so that he could make
his voice soft and say some quiet,
kind thing. In this moment he
should forget his own agony, and try
to act like God. He repeated to
himself a devotional phrase, hoping
that in return God would help him
to act correctly.
"Tell me what you've
done," said his new soft voice.
The little boy looked at him
through his tears, and was reassured
by the impression of moral
resiliency which the distraught priest had
created. Abandoning as much of
himself as he was able to this man,
Rudolph Miller began to tell his
story.
"On Saturday, three days
ago, my father he said I had to go to
confession, because I hadn't been
for a month, and the family they
go every week, and I hadn't been.
So I just as leave go, I didn't care.
So I put it off till after supper
because I was playing with a bunch
of kids and father asked me if I
went, and I said 'no,' and he took
me by the neck and he said 'You
go now,' so I said 'All right,' so I
went over to church. And he
yelled after me : 'Don't come back till
you go.' . . ."
II
"On Saturday, Three Days
Ago."
The plush curtain of the
confessional rearranged its dismal creases,
leaving exposed only the bottom
of an old man's old shoe. Behind the
curtain an immortal soul was
alone with God and the Reverend
Adolphus Schwartz, priest of the
parish. Sound began, a labored
whispering, sibilant and
discreet, broken at intervals by the voice
of the priest in audible
question.
Rudolph Miller knelt in the pew
beside the confessional and
waited, straining nervously to
hear, and yet not to hear what was
being said within. The fact that
the priest was audible alarmed him.
His own turn came next, and the
three or four others who waited
might listen unscrupulously while
he admitted his violations of the
Sixth and Ninth Commandments.
Rudolph had never committed
adultery, nor even coveted his neigh-
bor's wife but it was the
confession of the associate sins that was
particularly hard to contemplate.
In comparison he relished the less
shameful fallings away they
formed a grayish background which
relieved the ebony mark of sexual
offenses upon his soul.
He had been covering his ears
with his hands, hoping that his re-
fusal to hear would be noticed,
and a like courtesy rendered to him
in turn, when a sharp movement of
the penitent in the confessional
made him sink his face
precipitately into the crook of his elbow. Fear
assumed solid form, and pressed
out a lodging between his heart and
his lungs. He must try now with
all his might to be sorry for his
sins not because he was afraid,
but because he had offended God.
He must convince God that he was
sorry and to do so he must first
convince himself. After a tense
emotional struggle he achieved a
tremulous self-pity, and decided
that he was now ready. If, by
allowing no other thought to
enter his head, he could preserve this
state of emotion unimpaired until
he went into that large coffin set
on end, he would have survived
another crisis in his religious life.
For some time, however, a
demoniac notion had partially possessed
him. He could go home now, before
his turn came, and tell his mother
that he had arrived too late, and
found the priest gone. This, unfor-
tunately, involved the risk of
being caught in a lie. As an alternative
he could say that he had gone to
confession, but this meant that he
must avoid communion next day,
for communion taken upon an un-
cleansed soul would turn to
poison in his mouth, and he would
crumple limp and damned from the
altar-rail.
Again Father Schwartz's voice
became audible.
"And for your "
The words blurred to a husky
mumble, and Rudolph got excitedly
to his feet. He felt that it was
impossible for him to go to confession
this afternoon. He hesitated
tensely. Then from the confessional came
a tap, a creak, and a sustained
rustle. The slide had fallen and the
plush curtain trembled.
Temptation had come to him too late. . . .
"Bless me, Father, for I
have sinned. ... I confess to Almighty
God and to you, Father, that I
have sinned. . . . Since my last con-
fession it has been one month and
three days. ... I accuse myself
of taking the Name of the Lord in
vain. . . ."
This was an easy sin. His curses
had been but bravado telling of
them was little less than a brag.
". . . of being mean to an
old lady."
The wan shadow moved a little on
the latticed slat.
"How, my child?"
"Old lady Swenson,"
Rudolph's murmur soared jubilantly. "She
got our baseball that we knocked
in her window, and she wouldn't
give it back, so we yelled
Twenty-three, Skidoo,' at her all afternoon.
Then about five o'clock she had a
fit, and they had to have the
doctor."
"Go on, my child."
"Of of not believing I was
the son of my parents."
"What?" The
interrogation was distinctly startled.
"Of not believing that I was
the son of my parents."
"Why not?"
"Oh, just pride,"
answered the penitent airily.
"You mean you thought you
were too good to be the son of
your parents ?"
"Yes, Father." On a
less jubilant note.
"Go on."
"Of being disobedient and
calling my mother names. Of slandering
people behind their back. Of
smoking "
Rudolph had now exhausted the
minor offenses, and was approach-
the sins it was agony to tell. He
held his fingers against his face like
bars as if to press out between
them the shame in his heart.
"Of dirty words and immodest
thoughts and desires," he whispered
very low.
"How often?"
"I don't know."
"Once a week? Twice a
week?"
"Twice a week."
"Did you yield to these
desires?"
"No, Father."
"Were you alone when you had
them?"
"No Father. I was with two
boys and a girl."
"Don't you know, my child,
that you should avoid the occasions
of sin as well as the sin itself?
Evil companionship leads to evil
desires and evil desires to evil
actions. Where were you when this
happened?"
"In a barn in back of "
"I don't want to hear any
names," interrupted the priest sharply.
"Well, it was up in the loft
of this barn and this girl and a fella,
they were saying things saying
immodest things, and I stayed."
"You should have gone you
should have told the girl to go."
He should have gone ! He could
not tell Father Schwartz how his
pulse had bumped in his wrist, how
a strange, romantic excitement
had possessed him whea those
curious things had been said. Perhaps
in the houses of delinquency
among the dull and hard-eyed incor-
rigible girls can be found those
for whom has burned the whitest fire.
"Have you anything else to
tell me?"
"I don't think so,
Father."
Rudolph felt a great relief.
Perspiration had broken out under his
tight-pressed fingers.
"Have you told any
lies?"
The question startled him. Like
all those who habitually and in-
stinctively lie, he had an
enormous respect and awe for the truth.
Something almost exterior to
himself dictated a quick, hurt answer.
"Oh, no, Father, I never
tell lies."
For a moment, like the commoner
in the king's chair, he tasted the
pride of the situation. Then as
the priest began to murmur conven-
tional admonitions he realized
that in heroically denying he had told
lies, he had committed a terrible
sin he had told a lie in confession.
In automatic response to Father
Schwartz's "Make an act of con-
trition," he began to repeat
aloud meaninglessly :
"Oh, my God, I am heartily
sorry for having offended Thee. . . ."
He must fix this now it was a bad
mistake but as his teeth shut
on the last words of his prayer
there was a sharp sound, and the slat
was closed.
A minute later when he emerged into
the twilight the relief in com-
ing from the muggy church into an
open world of wheat and sky post-
poned the full realization of
what he had done. Instead of worrying
he took a deep breath of the
crisp air and began to say over and over
to himself the words
"Blatchford Sarnemington, Blatchford Sarnem-
ington ! "
Blatchford Sarnemington was
himself, and these words were in
effect a lyric. When he became
Blatchford Sarnemington a suave
nobility flowed from him.
Blatchford Sarnemington lived in great
sweeping triumphs. When Rudolph
half closed his eyes it meant that
Blatchford had established
dominance over him and, as he went by,
there were envious mutters in the
air: "Blatchford Sarnemington!
There goes Blatchford
Sarnemington."
He was Blatchford now for a while
as he strutted homeward along
the staggering road, but when the
road braced itself in macadam in
order to become the main street
of Ludwig, Rudolph's exhilaration
faded out and his mind cooled,
and he felt the horror of his lie. God,
of course, already knew of it but
Rudolph reserved a corner of his
mind where he was safe from God,
where he prepared the subter-
fuges with which he often tricked
God. Hiding now in this corner
he considered how he could best
avoid the consequences of his mis-
statement.
At all costs he must avoid
communion next day. The risk of anger-
ing God to such an extent was too
great. He would have to drink
water "by accident" in
the morning, and thus, in accordance with a
church law, render himself unfit
to receive communion that day. In
spite of its flimsiness this
subterfuge was the most feasible that oc-
curred to him. He accepted its
risks and was concentrating on how
best to put it into effect, as he
turned the corner by Romberg's Drug
Store and came in sight of his
father's house.
Ill
Rudolph's father, the local
freight-agent, had floated with the sec-
ond wave of German and Irish
stock to the Minnesota-Dakota
country. Theoretically, great
opportunities lay ahead of a young man
of energy in that day and place,
but Carl Miller had been incapable
of establishing either with his
superiors or his subordinates the repu-
tation for approximate
immutability which is essential to success in
a hierarchic industry. Somewhat
gross, he was, nevertheless, insuffi-
ciently hard-headed and unable to
take fundamental relationships
for granted, and this inability made
him suspicious, unrestful, and
continually dismayed.
His two bonds with the colorful
life were his faith in the Roman
Catholic Church and his mystical
worship of the Empire Builder,
James J. Hill. Hill was the
apotheosis of that quality in which Miller
himself was deficient the sense
of things, the feel of things, the hint
of rain in the wind on the cheek.
Miller's mind worked late, on the
old decisions of other men, and
he had never in his life felt the bal-
ance of any single thing in his
hands. His weary, sprightly, under-
sized body was growing old in
Hill's gigantic shadow. For twenty
years he had lived alone with
Hill's name and God.
On Sunday morning Carl Miller
awoke in the dustless quiet of six
o'clock. Kneeling by the side of
the bed he bent his yellow-gray hair
and the full dapple bangs of his
mustache into the pillow, and prayed
for several minutes. Then he drew
off his night-shirt like the rest
of his generation he had never
been able to endure pajamas and
clothed his thin, white, hairless
body in woollen underwear.
He shaved. Silence in the other
bedroom where his wife lay ner-
vously asleep. Silence from the
screened-off corner of the hall where
his son's cot stood, and his son
slept among his Alger books, his col-
lection of cigar-bands, his mothy
pennants "Cornell," "Hamlin,"
and "Greetings from Pueblo,
New Mexico" and the other posses-
sions of his private life. From
outside Miller could hear the shrill
birds and the whirring movement
of the poultry, and, as an under-
tone, the low, swelling
click-a-tick of the six-fifteen through-train
for Montana and the green coast
beyond. Then as the cold water
dripped from the wash-rag in his
hand he raised his head suddenly
he had heard a furtive sound from
the kitchen below.
He dried his razor hastily, slipped
his dangling suspenders to his
shoulder, and listened. Some one
was walking in the kitchen, and he
knew by the light footfall that
it was not his wife. With his mouth
faintly ajar he ran quickly down
the stairs and opened the kitchen
door.
Standing by the sink, with one
hand on the still dripping faucet
and the other clutching a full
glass of water, stood his son. The boy's
eyes, still heavy with sleep, met
his father's with a frightened, re-
proachful beauty. He was
barefooted, and his pajamas were rolled
up at the knees and sleeves.
For a moment they both remained
motionless Carl Miller's brow
went down and his son's went up,
as though they were striking a
balance between the extremes of
emotion which filled them. Then the
bangs of the parent's mustache
descended portentously until they
obscured his mouth, and he gave a
short glance around to see if any-
thing had been disturbed.
The kitchen was garnished with
sunlight which beat on the pans
and made the smooth boards of the
floor and table yellow and clean
as wheat. It was the centre of
the house where the fire burned and the
tins fitted into tins like toys,
and the steam whistled all day on a
thin pastel note. Nothing was
moved, nothing touched except the
faucet where beads of water still
formed and dripped with a white
flash into the sink below.
"What are you doing?"
"I got awful thirsty, so I
thought I'd just come down and get "
"I thought you were going to
communion."
A look of vehement astonishment
spread over his son's face.
"I forgot all about
it."
"Have you drunk any
water?"
"No "
As the word left his mouth
Rudolph knew it was the wrong answer,
but the faded indignant eyes
facing him had signalled up the truth
before the boy's will could act.
He realized, too, that he should never
have come down-stairs ; some
vague necessity for verisimilitude had
made him want to leave a wet
glass as evidence by the sink; the
honesty of his imagination had
betrayed him.
"Pour it out,"
commanded his father, "that water!"
Rudolph despairingly inverted the
tumbler.
"What's the matter with you,
anyways?" demanded Miller angrily.
"Nothing."
"Did you go to confession
yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Then why were you going to
drink water?"
"I don't know I
forgot."
"Maybe you care more about
being a little bit thirsty than you
do about your religion."
"I forgot." Rudolph
could feel the tears straining in his eyes.
"That's no answer."
"Well, I did."
"You better look out !
" His father held to a high, persistent, in-
quisitory note : "If you're
so forgetful that you can't remember your
religion something better be done
about it."
Rudolph filled a sharp pause with
:
"I can remember it all
right."
"First you begin to neglect
your religion," cried his father, fan-
ning his own fierceness,
"the next thing you'll begin to lie and steal,
and the next thing is the reform
school ! "
Not even this familiar threat
could deepen the abyss that Rudolph
saw before him. He must either
tell all now, offering his body for
what he knew would be a ferocious
beating, or else tempt the thunder-
bolts by receiving the Body and
Blood of Christ with sacrilege upon
his soul. And of the two the
former seemed more terrible it was not
so much the beating he dreaded as
the savage ferocity, outlet of the
ineffectual man, which would lie
behind it.
"Put down that glass and go
up-stairs and dress!" his father
ordered, "and when we get to
church, before you go to communion,
you better kneel down and ask God
to forgive you for your careless-
ness."
Some accidental emphasis in the
phrasing of this command acted
like a catalytic agent on the
confusion and terror of Rudolph's mind.
A wild, proud anger rose in him,
and he dashed the tumbler passion-
ately into the sink.
His father uttered a strained,
husky sound, and sprang for him.
Rudolph dodged to the side,
tipped over a chair, and tried to get
beyond the kitchen table. He
cried out sharply when a hand grasped
his pajama shoulder, then he felt
the dull impact of a fist against the
side of his head, and glancing
blows on the upper part of his body.
As he slipped here and there in
his father's grasp, dragged or lifted
when he clung instinctively to an
arm, aware of sharp smarts and
strains, he made no sound except
that he laughed hysterically sev-
eral times. Then in less than a
minute the blows abruptly ceased.
After a lull during which Rudolph
was tightly held, and during which
they both trembled violently and
uttered strange, truncated words,
Carl Miller half dragged, half
threatened his son up-stairs.
"Put on your clothes !
"
* Rudolph was now both hysterical
and cold. His head hurt him,
and there was a long, shallow
scratch on his neck from his father's
finger-nail, and he sobbed and
trembled as he dressed. He was aware
of his mother standing at the
doorway in a wrapper, her wrinkled
face compressing and squeezing
and opening out into new series of
wrinkles which floated and eddied
from neck to brow. Despising her
nervous ineffectuality and
avoiding her rudely when she tried to touch
his neck with witch-hazel, he
made a hasty, choking toilet. Then he
followed his father out of the
house and along the road toward the
Catholic church.
IV
They walked without speaking
except when Carl Miller acknowl-
edged automatically the existence
of passers-by. Rudolph's uneven
breathing alone ruffled the hot
Sunday silence.
His father stopped decisively at
the door of the church.
"I've decided you'd better
go to confession again. Go in and tell
Father Schwartz what you did and
ask God's pardon."
"You lost your temper, too !
" said Rudolph quickly.
Carl Miller took a step toward
his son, who moved cautiously
backward.
"All right, I'll go."
"Are you going to do what I
say?" cried his father in a hoarse
whisper.
"All right."
Rudolph walked into the church,
and for the second time in two
days entered the confessional and
knelt down. The slat went up
almost at once.
"I accuse myself of missing
my morning prayers."
"Is that all?"
"That's all."
A maudlin exultation filled him.
Not easily ever again would he
be able to put an abstraction
before the necessities of his ease and
pride. An invisible line had been
crossed, and he had become aware
of his isolation aware that it
applied not only to those moments
when he was Blatchford
Sarnemington but that it applied to all his
inner life. Hitherto such
phenomena as "crazy" ambitions and petty
shames and fears had been but
private reservations, unacknowledged
before the throne of his official
soul. Now he realized unconsciously
that his private reservations
were himself and all the rest a gar-
nished front and a conventional
flag. The pressure of his environ-
ment had driven him into the
lonely secret road of adolescence.
He knelt in the pew beside his
father. Mass began. Rudolph knelt
up when he was alone he slumped
his posterior back against the
seat and tasted the consciousness
of a sharp, subtle revenge. Beside
him his father prayed that God
would forgive Rudolph, and asked
also that his own outbreak of
temper would be pardoned. He glanced
sidewise at this son, and was
relieved to see that the strained, wild
look had gone from his face and
that he had ceased sobbing. The
Grace of God, inherent in the
Sacrament, would do the rest, and per-
haps after Mass everything would
be better. He was proud of
Rudolph in his heart, and
beginning to be truly as well as formally
sorry for what he had done.
Usually, the passing of the collection
box was a significant point
for Rudolph in the services. If,
as was often the case, he had no
money to drop in he would be
furiously ashamed and bow his head
and pretend not to see the box,
lest Jeanne Brady in the pew behind
should take notice and suspect an
acute family poverty. But to-day
he glanced coldly into it as it
skimmed under his eyes, noting with
casual interest the large number
of pennies it contained.
When the bell rang for communion,
however, he quivered. There
was no reason why God should not
stop his heart. During the past
twelve hours he had committed a
series of mortal sins increasing in
gravity, and he was now to crown
them all with a blasphemous
sacrilege.
"Domine, non sum dignus; ut
intres sub tectum meum; sed
tantum die verbo, et sanabitur
anima mea. . . ."
There was a rustle in the pews,
and the communicants worked
their ways into the aisle with
downcast eyes and joined hands. Those
of larger piety pressed together
their finger-tips to form steeples.
Among these latter was Carl
Miller. Rudolph followed him toward
the altar-rail and knelt down,
automatically taking up the napkin
under his chin. The bell rang
sharply, and the priest turned from
the altar with the white Host
held above the chalice :
"Corpus Domini nostri Jesu
Christi custodiat animam tuam in
vitam ceternam."
A cold sweat broke out on
Rudolph's forehead as the communion
began. Along the line Father
Schwartz moved, and with gathering
nausea Rudolph felt his
heart-valves weakening at the will of God.
It seemed to him that the church
was darker and that a great quiet
had fallen, broken only by the
inarticulate mumble which announced
the approach of the Creator of
Heaven and Earth. He dropped his
head down between his shoulders
and waited for the blow.
Then he felt a sharp nudge in his
side. His father was poking him
to sit up, not to slump against
the rail; the priest was only two
places away.
"Corpus Domini nostri Jesu
Christi custodiat animam tuam in
vitam ceternam"
Rudolph opened his mouth. He felt
the sticky wax taste of the
wafer on his tongue. He remained
motionless for what seemed an in-
terminable period of time, his
head still raised, the wafer undissolved
in his mouth. Then again he
started at the pressure of his father's
elbow, and saw that the people
were falling away from the altar like
leaves and turning with blind
downcast eyes to their pews, alone
with God.
Rudolph was alone with himself,
drenched with perspiration and
deep in mortal sin. As he walked
back to his pew the sharp taps of
his cloven hoofs were loud upon
the floor, and he knew that it was a
dark poison he carried in his
heart.
"Sagitta Volante in
Dei"
The beautiful little boy with
eyes like blue stones, and lashes that
sprayed open from them like
flower-petals had finished telling his
sin to Father Schwartz and the
square of sunshine in which he sat
had moved forward half an hour
into the room. Rudolph had become
less frightened now ; once eased
of the story a reaction had set in.
He knew that as long as he was in
the room with this priest God
would not stop his heart, so he
sighed and sat quietly, waiting for the
priest to speak.
Father Schwartz's cold watery
eyes were fixed upon the carpet
pattern on which the sun had
brought out the swastikas and the flat
bloomless vines and the pale
echoes of flowers. The hall-clock ticked
insistently toward sunset, and
from the ugly room and from the
afternoon outside the window
arose a stiff monotony, shattered now
and then by the reverberate
clapping of a far-away hammer on the
dry air. The priest's nerves were
strung thin and the beads of his
rosary were crawling and
squirming like snakes upon the green felt
of his table top. He could not
remember now what it was he should
say.
Of all the things in this lost
Swede town he was most aware of this
little boy's eyes the beautiful
eyes, with lashes that left them re-
luctantly and curved back as
though to meet them once more.
For a moment longer the silence
persisted while Rudolph waited,
and the priest struggled to
remember something that was slipping
farther and farther away from
him, and the clock ticked in the broken
house. Then Father Schwartz
stared hard at the little boy and re-
marked in a peculiar voice :
"When a lot of people get
together in the best places things go
glimmering."
Rudolph started and looked
quickly at Father Schwartz's face.
"I said" began the
priest, and paused, listening. "Do you hear
the hammer and the clock ticking
and the bees? Well, that's no good.
The thing is to have a lot of
people in the centre of the world, wher-
ever that happens to be.
Then" his watery eyes widened knowingly
"things go glimmering."
"Yes, Father," agreed
Rudolph, feeling a little frightened.
"What are you going to be
when you grow up ?"
"Well, I was going to be a
baseball-player for a while/' answered
Rudolph nervously, "but I
don't think that's a very good ambition,
so I think I'll be an actor or a
Navy officer."
Again the priest stared at him.
"I see exactly what you
mean," he said, with a fierce air.
Rudolph had not meant anything in
particular, and at the implica-
tion that he had, he became more
uneasy.
"This man is crazy," he
thought, "and I'm scared of him. He wants
me to help him out some way, and
I don't want to."
"You look as if things went
glimmering," cried Father Schwartz
wildly. "Did you ever go to
a party?"
"Yes, Father."
"And did you notice that
everybody was properly dressed? That's
what I mean. Just as you went
into the party there was a moment
when everybody was properly
dressed. Maybe two little girls were
standing by the door and some boys
were leaning over the banisters,
and there were bowls around full
of flowers."
"IVe been to a lot of
parties," said Rudolph, rather relieved that
the conversation had taken this
turn.
"Of course," continued
Father Schwartz triumphantly, "I knew
you'd agree with me. But my
theory is that when a whole lot of peo-
ple get together in the best places
things go glimmering all the
time."
Rudolph found himself thinking of
Blatchford Sarnemington.
"Please listen to me!"
commanded the priest impatiently. "Stop
worrying about last Saturday.
Apostasy implies an absolute damna-
tion only on the supposition of a
previous perfect faith. Does that
fix it?"
Rudolph had not the faintest idea
what Father Schwartz was
talking about, but he nodded and
the priest nodded back at him
and returned to his mysterious
preoccupation.
"Why," he cried,
"they have lights now as big as stars do you
realize that? I heard of one
light they had in Paris or somewhere
that was as big as a star. A lot
of people had it a lot of gay people.
They have all sorts of things now
that you never dreamed of."
"Look here" He came
nearer to Rudolph, but the boy drew
away, so Father Schwartz went
back and sat down in his chair, his
eyes dried out and hot. "Did
you ever see an amusement park?"
"No, Father."
"Well, go and see an
amusement park." The priest waved his hand
vaguely. "It's a thing like
a fair, only much more glittering. Go to
one at night and stand a little
way off from it in a dark place
under dark trees. You'll see a
big wheel made of lights turning in the
air, and a long slide shooting
boats down into the water. A band
playing somewhere, and a smell of
peanuts and everything will
twinkle. But it won't remind you
of anything, you see. It will all just
hang out there in the night like
a colored balloon like a big yellow
lantern on a pole."
Father Schwartz frowned as he
suddenly thought of something.
"But don't get up
close," he warned Rudolph, "because if you do
you'll only feel the heat and the
sweat and the life."
All this talking seemed particularly
strange and awful to Rudolph,
because this man was a priest. He
sat there, half terrified, his beauti-
ful eyes open wide and staring at
Father Schwartz. But underneath
his terror he felt that his own
inner convictions were confirmed.
There was something ineffably
gorgeous somewhere that had nothing
to do with God. He no longer
thought that God was angry at him
about the original lie, because
He must have understood that Rudolph
had done it to make things finer
in the confessional, brightening up
the dinginess of his admissions
by saying a thing radiant and proud.
At the moment when he had
affirmed immaculate honor a silver pen-
non had flapped out into the
breeze somewhere and there had been
the crunch of leather and the
shine of silver spurs and a troop of
horsemen waiting for dawn on a
low green hill. The sun had made
stars of light on their
breastplates like the picture at home of the
German cuirassiers at Sedan.
But now the priest was muttering
inarticulate and heart-broken
words, and the boy became wildly
afraid. Horror entered suddenly
in at the open window, and the
atmosphere of the room changed.
Father Schwartz collapsed
precipitously down on his knees, and let
his body settle back against a
chair.
"Oh, my God ! " he
cried out, in a strange voice, and wilted to the
floor.
Then a human oppression rose from
the priest's worn clothes, and
mingled with the faint smell of
old food in the corners. Rudolph gave
a sharp cry and ran in a panic
from the house while the collapsed
man lay there quite still, filling
his room, filling it with voices and
faces until it was crowded with
echolalia, and rang loud with a
steady, shrill note of laughter.
Outside the window the blue
sirocco trembled over the wheat, and
girls with yellow hair walked
sensuously along roads that bounded
the fields, calling innocent,
exciting things to the young men who
were working in the lines between
the grain. Legs were shaped under
starchless gingham, and rims of
the necks of dresses were warm and
damp. For five hours now hot
fertile life had burned in the after-
noon. It would be night in three
hours, and all along the land there
would be these blonde Northern
girls and the tall young men from
the farms lying out beside the
wheat, under the moon.