Father Whimsett

Looking like Raphael's Perugino, eyes         So slightly, subtly aquiline, as brown         As a buck-eye, amorous, flamed, but lightly dimmed         Through thought of self while sitting for the artist;         A nose well bridged with bone for will, the nostrils         Distended as if sniffing diaphanous fire;         A very bow for lips, the under lip         Rich, kissable like a woman's; heavy cheeks         Propped with a rounded tower of flesh for neck:         Thus Perugino looked, says Raphael,         And thus looked Father Whimsett at his desk,         With vertical creases, where the nose and brow         Together come, between the eye-brows slanting         Unequally, half clown-wise, half Mephisto,         With just a touch of that abandoned humor,         And laughter at the world, the race of men,         Mephisto had for mischief, which the priest         Has for a sense which looks upon the dream         And smiles, yet pities those who move in it.         And Father Whimsett smokes and reads and smiles.         He soon will hold confessional. For days         he has heard nothing but complaints of lovers,         And searched for nullities, impediments,         Through which to give sore stricken hearts relief:         There was the youth too drunk to know he married         A woman never baptized. Now the youth         Has found another - oh this is the one!         And comes and says: Oh, holy father, help me,         May I be free to marry her I love,         And get the church's blessing when a court         Dissolves the civil contract? Holy Father,         I knew not what I did, cannot remember         Where I was married, when, my mind's a blank -         It was the drink, you know.          And so it goes,         The will is eyeless through concupiscence,         And that absolves the soul that's penitent.         And Father Whimsett reads his Latin books,         Searches for subtleties for faithful souls,         Whereby the faithful souls may have their wish,         Yet keep the gospel, too.             These Latin books         Leave him fatigued, but not fatigued to turn         Plotinus, Xenophon, Boccacio,         Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris.         And just this moment Father Whimsett reads         Catullus, killing time, before he hears         Confession, gets the music of Catullus         Along the light that enters at the eye:         Etherial strings plucked by the intellect         To vibrate to the inner ear. At times         He must re-light his half-forgot cigar.         And while the music of the Latin verse,         Which is an echo, as he stops to light         His half-forgot cigar, is wafted through         His meditation, as a tune is heard         After the keys are stayed, it blends, becomes         The soul, interpretation of these stories,         Which lovers tell him in these later days.         And now the clock upon the mantel chimes         The quarter of the hour. Up goes Catullus         By Ovid on the shelf. The dead cigar         Is thrown away. He rises from the chair -         When Father Conway enters, just to visit         Some idle moments, smoke and have a talk.         And Father Whimsett takes his seat again,         Waves Father Conway to a comfort chair,         Says "Have a smoke," and Father Conway smokes,         And sees Catullus, says you read Catullus,         And lays the morning Times upon the table,         And says to Father Whimsett: "Every day         The Times has stories better than Catullus,         And episodes which Horace would have used.         I wish we had a poet who would take         This city of Chicago, write it up,         The old Chicago, and the new Chicago,         The race track, old cafs and gambling places,         The prize fights, wrestling matches, sporting houses,         As Horace wrote up Rome. Or if we had         A Virgil he would find an epic theme         In this American matter, typical         Of our America, one phase or more         Concerning Elenor Murray. Here to-day         There is a story, of some letters found         In Arthur Fouche's mansion, under the floor,         Sensational, dramatic.          Father Whimsett         Looked steadily at Father Conway, blew         A funnel of tobacco smoke and said:         I scarcely read the Times these days, too busy -         I've had a run of rich confessionals.         The war is ended, but they still come on,         And most are lovers in the coils of love.         I had one yesterday that made me think         Of one I had a year ago last spring,         The point was this: they say forgive me father,         For I have sinned, then as the case proceeds         A greater sin comes forth, I mean the sin         Of saying sin is good, cannot be sin:         I loved the man, or how can love be sin?         Well, as a human soul I see the point,         But have no option, must lay to and say         Acknowledgment, contrition and the promise         To sin no more, is necessary to         Win absolution. Now to show the matter,         Here comes a woman, says I leave for France         To serve, to die. I have a premonition         That I shall die abroad; or if I live,         I have had fears, I shall be taken, wronged,         So driven by this honor to destroy         Myself, goes on and says, I tell you all         These fears of mine that you may search my heart,         More gladly may absolve me. Then she says,         These fears worked in my soul until I took         The step which I confess, before I leave.         I wait and she proceeds:             "O, holy father,         There is a man whom I have loved for years,         These five years past, such hopeless, happy years.         I love him and he loves me, holy father.         He holds me sacred as his wife, he loves me         With the most holy love. It cannot be         That any love like ours is guilty love,         Can have no other quality than good,         If it be love."          Well, here's a pretty soul         To sit in the confessional! So I say,         Why do you come to me? Loving your sin,         Confessing it, denying it in one breath,         Leaves you in sin without forgiveness.         Well, then she tacks about and says "I sinned,         And I am sorry. Wait a minute, father,         And see the flesh and spirit mixed again."         She wants to tell me all, I let her go.         And so she says: "His wife's an invalid,         Has been no wife to him. Besides," she says -         Now watch this thrust to pierce my holy shield -         "She is not in the church's eye his wife,         She never was baptized" - I almost laughed,         But answered her, You think adultery         Is less adultery in a case like this?         "Well, no," she says, "but could he be divorced         The church would marry us." Go on, I said,         And then she paused a little and went on:         "I said I loved this man, and it is true,         And years ago I gave myself to him,         And then his wife found out there was a woman -         But not that I was the woman - years ago         At confirmation I confessed it all,         Need only say this time I gave him up,         And crushed him out with work - was chaste for years.         And then I met a man, a different man         Who stirred me otherwise, kept after me.         At last I weakened, sinned three months ago,         And suffered for it. For he took me, left me.         As if he wanted body of me alone,         And was not pleased with that. And after that,         I think that I was mad, a furious passion         Was kindled by this second man, and left         With nothing to employ its flame. Two weeks         Went by, he did not seek me out, none knew         The hour of our departure. Then I thought         How little I had been to this first lover,         And of the years when I denied him - so         To recompense his love, to serve him, father,         Yes, to allay this passion newly raised         By this new lover, whom I thought I loved,         I went to my old lover, free of will,         And took his lips and said to him, O take me,         I am yours to do with as you choose to-night.         He turned as pale as snow and shook with fear,         His heart beat in his throat. I terrified him         With this great will of mine in this small body.         I went on while he stood there by the window,         His back toward me. Make me wholly yours,         Take no precaution, prudence throw away         As mean, unworthy. Let your life precede,         Forestall the intruder's, if one be. And if         A child must be, yours shall it be."         "He turned,         And took me in his arms...."          "And so to make         As nearly as might be a marriage, father,         I took - but let me tell you: I had thought         His wife might die at any time, so thinking         During these years I had bought bridal things;         A veil, embroideries, silk lingerie.         And I took to our room my negligee,         Boudoir cap, satin slippers, so to make         All beautiful as we were married, father.         How have I sinned? I cannot deem it wrong.         Do I not soil my soul with penitence,         And smut this loveliness with penitence?         Can I regret my work, nor take a hurt         Upon my very soul? How keep it clean         Confessing what I did (if I thought so)         As evil and unclean?"          The devil again         Entered with casuistry, as you perceive.         And so to make an end, I said to her,         You must bring to this sacrament a heart         Contrite and humble, promise me beside         To sin no more. The case is in your hands,         You can confess with lips, deny with heart,         God only knows, I don't, it's on your soul         To speak the truth or lie to me. Confess         And I'll absolve you. - For in truth my heart         Was touched by what she said, her lovely voice.         But now the story deepened. For she said,         I have not told you all. And she renewed:         "Suppose you pack your trunk and have your lunch,         Go to the station, but no train arrives,         And there you wait and wait, until you're hungry,         And nothing to do but wait, no place to lunch,         You cannot leave the station, lest the train         Should come while you are gone. Well, so it was,         The weeks went by, and still we were not called.         And I had closed my old life, sat and waited         The time of leaving to begin new life.         And after I had sinned with my first lover,         Parted from him, said farewell, ended it,         Could not go back to him, at least could think         Of no way to return that would not dull         The hour we lived together, look, this man,         This second lover looks me up again         And overwhelms me with a flaming passion.         It seemed he had thought over what I was,         Become all fire for me. He came to me,         And said, I love you, love you, looked at me,         And I could see the love-light in his eyes,         The light that woman knows. Well, I was weak,         Lonely and bored. He stirred my love besides;         And then a curious thought came in my brain:         The spirit is not found save through the flesh,         O holy father, and I thought to self,         Bring, as you may, these trials close together         In point of time and see where spirit is,         Where flesh directs to spirit most. And so         I went with him again, and found in truth         I loved him, he was mine and I was his,         We two were for each other, my old lover         Was just my love's beginning, not my love         Fully and wholly, rapturously, this man         Body and spirit harmonized with me.         I found him through the love of my old lover,         And knew by contrast, memory of the two         And this immediate comparison         Of spirits and of bodies, that this man         Who left me, whom I turned from to the first,         As I have tried to tell you, was the one.         O holy father, he is married, too.         And as I leave for France this ends as well;         No child in me from either. I confess         That I have sinned most grievously, I repent         And promise I shall sin no more."          And so,         I gave her absolution. Well, you see         The church was dark, but I knew who it was,         I knew the voice. She left. Another penitent         Entered with a story. What is this?         Here is a woman who's promiscuous.         Tried number one and then tries number two,         And comes and tells me, she has taken proof,         Weighed evidence of spirit and of body,         And thinks she knows at last, affirms as much.         Such conduct will not do, that's plain enough,         Not even if the truth of love is known         This way, no other way.         Then Father Conway         Began as follows: "I've a case like that,         A woman married, but she found her husband         Was just the cup of Tantulus and so...."         But Father Whimsett said, "Why, look at that,         I'm over-due a quarter of an hour.         Come in to-morrow, father, tell me then."         The two priests rose and left the room together.