Page:A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Huebsch 1916).djvu/174

 —How long is it since your last confession, my child?

—A long time, father.—

—A month, my child?—

—Longer, father.—

—Three months, my child?—

—Longer, father.—

—Six months?—

—Eight months, father.—

He had begun. The priest asked:

—And what do you remember since that time?—

He began to confess his sins: masses missed, prayers not said, lies.

—Anything else, my child?—

Sins of anger, envy of others, gluttony, vanity, disobedience.—

—Anything else, my child?—

There was no help. He murmured:

—I. . . committed sins of impurity, father.—

The priest did not turn his head.

—With yourself, my child?—

—And. . . with others.—

—With women, my child?—

—Yes, father.—

—Were they married women, my child?—

He did not know. His sins trickled from his lips, one by one, trickled in shameful drops from his soul, festering and oozing like a sore, a squalid stream of vice. The last sins oozed forth, sluggish, filthy. There was no more to tell. He bowed his head, overcome.

The Priest was silent. Then he asked:

—How old are you, my child?—

—Sixteen, father.—