Théodule Sabot’s Confession
Whenever Sabot came into the public-house of Martinville, a roar of laughter went up in anticipation. The fellow was as good as a play. He had no love for parsons, not he! He ate them alive.
Sabot (Théodule), master joiner, represented the radical party at Martinville. He was a tall thin man with a sly grey eye, hair brushed on to his temples, and a small thin-lipped mouth. When he said, “Our holy father the washout” in a certain way he had, the whole company yelled with laughter. He was careful to work on Sunday while Mass was going on. Every year he killed his pig on the Monday in Holy Week, so as to have black puddings till Easter, and when the rector passed he always said merrily:
“There’s the fellow who’s just been swallowing his God out of a pint-pot.”
The priest, a stout man, also very tall, feared him for his chaff, which won him many supporters. The reverend Maritime had a diplomatic mind, and dearly loved a crafty scheme. For six years the struggle went on between these two, secret, bitter, and incessant. Sabot was on the town council, and it was thought that he would be made mayor, which would certainly constitute the definite defeat of the Church.
The elections were about to take place, and the religious party in Martinville trembled for its security. One morning the rector went off to Rouen, telling his servant that he was going to the archbishop’s palace.
Two days later he returned, looking joyful and triumphant. Next day everyone knew that the chancel of the church was to be restored. His Lordship had given six hundred francs towards it out of his own pocket. All the old deal stalls were to be removed and replaced by new ones of oak. It was an important piece of carpentry, and by the evening everyone was talking of it.
Théodule Sabot did not laugh.
When he walked through the village next day, neighbours, friends and enemies alike, all asked him jestingly:
“Is it you who’s to do the church choir?”
He found nothing to answer, but his heart was black with rage.
“It’s a fine job,” they added unkindly. “It’s worth a good two or three hundred.”
Two days later it was known that the work of repair was to be entrusted to Célestin Chambrelan, the joiner at Percheville. Then the rumour was denied, and then it was announced that all the church pews were to be replaced as well. It would cost quite two thousand francs, and they had appealed to the government for the money. There was great excitement.
Théodule Sabot could not sleep. Never, within the memory of man, had a local joiner executed such a task. Then the story ran that the rector was heartbroken at giving this work to a joiner who was a stranger to the village, but that Sabot’s opinions were a barrier that prevented the contract from being entrusted to him.
Sabot knew it. At nightfall he betook himself to the rectory. The servant told him that the rector was at church. He went there.
Two lay sisters, sour old spinsters, were decorating the altar for the month of St. Mary, under the direction of the priest. He stood in the middle of the choir, protruding his enormous stomach, and was superintending the labours of the women who, perched on chairs, were arranging flowers round the shrine.
Sabot felt uneasy there, as though he had entered the house of his deadliest foe, but his greed for gain spurred him on. He came up cap in hand, taking no notice of the lay sisters, who remained motionless upon their chairs, stupefied with amazement.
“Good morning, parson,” he stammered.
“Good morning, joiner,” replied the parson without turning his head, engrossed in the work at the altar.
Sabot, who had rather lost his bearings, found nothing more to say. After a pause, however, he added:
“You are making preparations?”
“Yes,” replied Maritime, “we are drawing near to the month of St. Mary.”
“Quite, quite,” said Sabot, and was silent.
He was by now anxious to leave without speaking at all, but a glance at the choir restrained him. He saw that there were sixteen stalls to be repaired, six on the right and eight on the left, the vestry door occupying two places. Sixteen oak stalls were to be had for three hundred francs at the outside, and with a little good management a clever workman could make a clear two hundred francs on the job. He managed to stammer:
“I’ve come for the work.”
The rector looked surprised.
“What work?” he asked.
“The work to be done,” murmured Sabot, now quite desperate.
At that the priest turned and stared at him, saying:
“Do you mean the repairs to the choir of my church?”
At the tone adopted by the priest, Théodule Sabot felt a shiver run up his spine, and once more he suffered a violent longing to slink away. But he replied meekly:
“Yes, your reverence.”
The rector crossed his arms on his broad paunch, and said as though thunderstruck with surprise:
“And you … you … you, Sabot … come here and ask me that! … You … the only infidel in my parish. … Why, it would be a scandal, a public scandal. His Lordship would reprimand me; I might even lose the living.”
He paused for a few seconds to regain his breath, then proceeded more calmly:
“I quite understand that it pains you to see a work of such importance entrusted to a joiner from a neighbouring parish. But I cannot do otherwise, unless … but no … that’s impossible. You’d never agree to it, and without that … never.”
Sabot was now looking at the ranks of pews running right to the west door. Mercy! was all that to be restored?
“What must you have?” he asked. “It can’t do any harm telling.”
“I must have an overwhelming proof of your good intentions,” replied the priest firmly.
“I don’t say,” murmured Sabot, “I don’t say but what an understanding mightn’t be come to.”
“You must communicate publicly at High Mass next Sunday,” announced the rector.
The joiner felt himself growing pale and, without answering, asked:
“And the pews, are they all to be done too?”
“Yes,” replied the rector with emphasis, “but later on.”
“Well, I don’t say,” replied Sabot. “I don’t say. I’m no atheist, I’m not; I’ve no quarrel with religion. What upsets me is practising it, but in a case like this I dare say you’d not find me obstinate.”
The lay helpers had descended from their chairs and were hidden behind the altar; they were listening, livid with emotion.
The rector, perceiving that he was victorious, became familiar and jolly:
“Splendid! Splendid! Now that’s very sensible of you, very sensible. Wait and see.”
Sabot smiled uncomfortably, and asked:
“Can’t this here communion be put off for a bit, just a little bit?”
But the priest resumed his severe expression.
“From the moment that the contract is given to you, I must be certain of your conversion,” he said, then continued more mildly:
“You’d better come and confess tomorrow, for I shall have to examine you at least twice.”
“Twice? …” repeated Sabot.
“Yes,” said the priest with a smile. “You see, you need a thorough cleaning, a complete wash. I expect you tomorrow.”
“And where’ll you do it?” asked the joiner in dismay.
“Why … in the confessional.”
“What? … In that box over there in the corner? Now look here … I don’t like your box a bit.”
“Why not?”
“Why … why, I’m not used to it. And I’m a bit hard of hearing too.”
The rector showed himself accommodating.
“Very well. Come to my house, to my study. We’ll get it done there, just a little chat. Does that suit you?”
“Oh, that’ll suit me all right, but as for that box of yours, no!”
“Well, tomorrow then, after the day’s work, at six o’clock.”
“Right-o, right you are. That’s settled. See you tomorrow, rector, and damn the man who goes back on a bargain.”
He held out his huge rough hand, on which the priest let his own fall with a loud smack. The echo ran along the vaulted roof and died in the distance behind the organ pipes.
Throughout the following day Théodule Sabot felt uncomfortable. He suffered an apprehension very like the fear one suffers before having a tooth out. At every moment the thought flashed across his mind: “I’ve got to confess this evening.” And his harried soul, the soul of a not very strongly convinced atheist, was sorely troubled before the vague powerful terror of the divine mystery.
As soon as his work was over he went off to the rectory. The rector was waiting for him in the garden, reading his breviary as he walked up and down a small path. He seemed delighted to see him and welcomed him with a hearty laugh.
“Ah—here we are, then! Come in, come in, Monsieur Sabot; no one will eat you.”
Sabot entered the house first.
“If it’s all the same to you,” he faltered, “I’d like to see my little affair through at once like.”
“At your service,” replied the rector. “My surplice is here. One minute, and I’m ready to listen to you.”
The joiner, so distressed that his mind was a blank, watched him put on the white garment with its pleated folds. The priest signed to him:
“Kneel down on that hassock.”
But Sabot remained standing, ashamed at having to kneel.
“Does it do any good?” he stammered.
But the priest had become majestic.
“Only upon the knees,” he said, “may the tribunal of repentance be approached.”
Sabot knelt.
“Recite the Confiteor,” said the priest.
“Eh? …” asked Sabot.
“The Confiteor. If you no longer know it, repeat one by one the words I am about to utter.”
And the rector pronounced the sacred prayer in a slow voice, scanning each word for the joiner, who repeated it after him.
“Now confess,” he said.
But Sabot said nothing, not knowing where to begin.
Then the reverend Maritime came to his aid.
“Since you seem to be rather out of practice, my child, I will question you. We will take the commandments of God one by one. Listen to me and do not distress yourself. Speak very frankly and never be afraid of confessing too much.
“ ‘Thou shalt worship one God alone and adore Him with all thy heart.’ Have you loved anyone or anything as much as God? Have you loved Him with all your soul, with all your heart, with all the strength of your love?”
Sabot perspired with the effort of thought.
“No,” he replied. “Oh, no, your reverence. I love the good God as much as I can. Oh, Lord! Yes, I love Him all right. As for saying I don’t love my children, no. I can’t say that. As for saying if I had to choose between them and the good God, as for that I won’t say. As for saying if I had to lose a hundred francs for love of the good God, as for that I won’t say. But I love Him all right, that’s quite certain. I love Him just the same.”
“You must love Him more than anything,” said the priest gravely.
And Sabot, full of goodwill, declared:
“I’ll do my best, your reverence.”
“ ‘Thou shalt not swear vainly by the name of God, nor by any other,’ ” resumed Maritime. “Have you occasionally sworn oaths?”
“No oh, no, not that! I never swear, never. Sometimes, in a moment of hot temper like, I may say ‘God blast.’ But I never swear.”
“But that is swearing,” said the priest, and added severely: “Don’t do it any more. I pass on to the next: ‘Thou shalt spend the Sabbath in serving God devotedly.’ What do you do on Sundays?”
This time Sabot scratched his ear.
“Well, I serve the good God in the best way I can, your reverence. I serve Him … at home. I work on Sundays …”
The rector magnanimously interrupted him:
“I know you will behave better in the future. I pass over the three next commandments, as I am sure you have not sinned against the two first, and we will take the sixth with the ninth. To proceed: ‘Thou shalt not take another’s goods, nor retain them wittingly.’ Have you ever in any way taken what did not belong to you?”
Théodule Sabot was indignant:
“Certainly not! Certainly not, your reverence! I’m an honest man, that I swear. As for saying that I’ve not once or twice taken an extra hour over a job when I could, as for that I won’t say. As for saying that I’ve never put a few centimes on to a bill, only a few centimes, as for that I won’t say. But I’m not a thief, oh, Lord, no!”
“Taking a single centime constitutes a theft,” answered the priest severely. “Don’t do it again.—‘Thou shalt not bear false witness nor lie in any way.’ Have you told lies?”
“No! that I haven’t. I’m not a liar; that’s one of the things I pride myself on. As for saying that I’ve never told a tall story, as for that I won’t say. As for saying that I’ve never tried to make another fellow believe what wasn’t true, when it suited me, as for that I won’t say. But as for being a liar, well, I’m no liar.”
“You must keep a closer watch upon yourself,” said the priest simply. Then he pronounced: ‘The works of the flesh thou shalt not desire save only in marriage.’ Have you ever desired or possessed any woman but your own wife?”
“No!” cried Sabot sincerely. “Certainly not, your reverence! Deceive my poor wife? No! No! Not so much as with the tip of my finger, and no more in thought than in deed. I swear that.” He paused for a few moments, and then continued in a lower voice, as though a sudden doubt had assailed him:
“As for saying that when I go to town I don’t ever go to a house—you know what I mean, a gay house—and fool about a bit and have a change of skin for once—as for that I won’t say. … But I pay, your reverence, I always pay; and if you pay, that’s that, eh?”
The rector did not insist, and gave him absolution.
Théodule Sabot is at work on the repairs to the choir, and goes to communion every month.