The Priest, the Woman and the Confessional

by Charles Paschal Telesphore Chiniquy

Pale and dismayed, I left the church after the service, and returned to the house of my relations. I took my place at the table, but could not eat, so much was I troubled. I went to my room for the purpose of commencing my examination of conscience, and to try to recall every one of my sinful actions, thoughts and words!

Although scarcely over ten years of age, this task was really overwhelming to me. I knelt down to pray to the Virgin Mary for help, but I was so much taken up with the fear of forgetting something or making a bad confession, that I muttered my prayers without the least attention to what I said. It became still worse, when I commenced counting my sins, my memory, though very good, became confused: my head grew dizzy: my heart beat with a rapidity which exhausted me, and my brow was covered with perspiration. After a considerable length of time, spent in those painful efforts, I felt bordering on despair from the fear that it was impossible for me to remember exactly every thing, and to confess each sin as it occurred. The night following was almost a sleepless one: and when sleep did come, it could hardly be called sleep, but a suffocating delirium. In a frightful dream, I felt as if I had been cast into hell, for not having confessed all my sins to the priest. In the morning, I awoke fatigued, and prostrate by the phantoms and emotions of that terrible night. In similar troubles of mind were passed the three days which preceeded my first confession.

I had constantly before me the countenance of that stern priest who had never smiled upon me. He was present to my thoughts during the days, and in my dreams during the nights, as the minister of an angry God, justly irritated against me, on account of my sins. Forgiveness had indeed been promised to me, on condition of a good confession; but my place had also been shown to me in hell, if my confession was not as near perfection as possible.

Now, my troubled conscience told me that there were ninety chances against one that my confession would be bad, either if by my own fault, I forget some sins, or if I was without that contrition of which I had heard so much, but the nature and effects of which were a perfect chaos in my mind.

At length came the day of confession, or rather of judgment and condemnation. I presented myself to the priest, the Rev. Mr. Beaubien.

He had then, the defects of lisping and stammering which we, often turned into ridicule. And as nature had unfortunately endowed me with admirable powers as a mimic, the infirmities of this poor priest afforded only too good an opportunity for the exercise of my talent. Not only was it one of my favorite amusements to imitate him before the pupils amidst roars of laughter but also, I preached portions of his sermons before his parishioners of villages, with similar results. Indeed, many of them came from considerable distances to enjoy the amusement of listening to me, and they rewarded me, more than once, with cakes of maple sugar, for my performances.

These acts of mimicry were, of course, among my sins; and it became necessary for me to examine myself upon the number of times I had mocked the priests. This circumstance was not calculated to make my confession easier or more agreeable.

At last, the dread moment arrived, I knelt for the first time, at the side of my confessor, my whole frame trembled: I repeated the prayer preparatory to confession, scarcely knowing what I said, so much was I troubled by fears.

By the instructions which had been given us before confession, we had been made to believe that the priest was the true representative, yea, almost the personification of Jesus Christ. The consequence was that I believed my greatest sin was that of mocking the priest—and I, as I had been told that it was proper first to confess the greatest sins, I commenced thus: "Father I accuse myself of having mocked a priest!"

Hardly had I uttered these words, "mocked a priest", when this pretended representative of the humble Jesus, turning towards me, and looking in my face, in order to know me, better, asked abruptly; "what priest did you mock, my boy?"