In the Confessional by Amelia B Edwards
The things of which I write befell — let
me see, some fifteen or eighteen years ago.
I was not young then; I am not old now. Perhaps
I was about thirty-two; but I do not know
my age very exactly, and I cannot be certain
to a year or two one way or the other.
My manner of life at that time was desultory
and unsettled. I had a sorrow — no matter
of what kind — and I took to rambling about
Europe; not certainly in the hope of forgetting
it, for I had no wish to forget, but because
of the restlessness that made one place after
another triste and intolerable to me.
It was change of place, however, and not excitement,
that I sought. I kept almost entirely aloof
from great cities, Spas, and beaten tracks,
and preferred for the most part to explore
districts where travellers and foreigners
rarely penetrated.
Such a district at that time was the Upper
Rhine. I was traversing it that particular
summer for the first time, and on foot; and
I had set myself to trace the course of the
river from its source in the great Rhine glacier
to its fall at Schaffhausen. Having done this,
however, I was unwilling to part company with
the noble river; so I decided to follow it
yet a few miles farther — perhaps as far
as Mayence, but at all events as far as Basle.
And now began, if not the finest, certainly
not the least charming part of my journey.
Here, it is true, were neither Alps, nor glaciers,
nor ruined castles perched on inaccessible
crags; but my way lay through a smiling country,
studded with picturesque hamlets, and beside
a bright river, hurrying along over swirling
rapids, and under the dark arches of antique
covered bridges, and between hillsides garlanded
with vines.
It was towards the middle of a long day’s
walk among such scenes as these that I came
to Rheinfelden, a small place on the left
bank of the river, about fourteen miles above
Basle.
As I came down the white road in the blinding
sunshine, with the vines on either hand, I
saw the town lying low on the opposite bank
of the Rhine. It was an old walled town, enclosed
on the land side and open to the river, the
houses going sheer down to the water’s edge,
with flights of slimy steps worn smooth by
the wash of the current, and over-hanging
eaves, and little built-out rooms with penthouse
roofs, supported from below by jutting piles
black with age and tapestried with water-weeds.
The stunted towers of a couple of churches
stood up from amid the brown and tawny roofs
within the walls.
Beyond the town, height above height, stretched
a distance of wooded hills. The old covered
bridge, divided by a bit of rocky island in
the middle of the stream, led from bank to
bank — from Germany to Switzerland. The
town was in Switzerland; I, looking towards
it from the road, stood on Baden territory;
the river ran sparkling and foaming between.
I crossed, and found the place all alive in
anticipation of a Kermess, or fair, that was
to be held there the next day but one. The
townsfolk were all out in the streets or standing
about their doors; and there were carpenters
hard at work knocking up rows of wooden stands
and stalls the whole length of the principal
thoroughfare. Shop-signs in open-work of wrought
iron hung over the doors. A runlet of sparkling
water babbled down a stone channel in the
middle of the street. At almost every other
house (to judge by the rows of tarnished watches
hanging in the dingy parlour windows), there
lived a watchmaker; and presently I came to
a fountain — a regular Swiss fountain, spouting
water from four ornamental pipes, and surmounted
by the usual armed knight in old grey stone.
As I rambled on thus (looking for an inn,
but seeing none), I suddenly found that I
had reached the end of the street, and with
it the limit of the town on this side. Before
me rose a lofty, picturesque old gate-tower,
with a tiled roof and a little window over
the archway; and there was a peep of green
grass and golden sunshine beyond. The town
walls (sixty or seventy feet in height, and
curiously roofed with a sort of projecting
shed on the inner side) curved away to right
and left, unchanged since the Middle Ages.
A rude wain, laden with clover and drawn by
mild-eyed, cream-coloured oxen, stood close
by in the shade.
I passed out through the gloom of the archway
into the sunny space beyond. The moat outside
the walls was bridged over and filled in-a
green ravine of grasses and wild-flowers.
A stork had built its nest on the roof of
the gate-tower. The cicalas shrilled in the
grass. The shadows lay sleeping under the
trees, and a family of cocks and hens went
plodding inquisitively to and fro among the
cabbages in the adjacent field. Just beyond
the moat, with only this field between, stood
a little solitary church — a church with
a wooden porch, and a quaint, bright-red steeple,
and a churchyard like a rose-garden, full
of colour and perfume, and scattered over
with iron crosses wreathed with immortelles.
The churchyard gate and the church door stood
open. I went in. All was clean, and simple,
and very poor. The walls were whitewashed;
the floor was laid with red bricks; the roof
raftered. A tiny confessional like a sentry-box
stood in one corner; the font was covered
with a lid like a wooden steeple; and over
the altar, upon which stood a pair of battered
brass candlesticks and two vases of artificial
flowers, hung a daub of the Holy Family, in
oils.
All here was so cool, so quiet, that I sat
down for a few moments and rested. Presently
an old peasant woman trudged up the church-path
with a basket of vegetables on her head. Having
set this down in the porch, she came in, knelt
before the altar, said her simple prayers,
and went her way.
Was it not time for me also to go my way?
I looked at my watch. It was past four o’clock,
and I had not yet found a lodging for the
night.
I got up, somewhat unwillingly; but, attracted
by a tablet near the altar, crossed over to
look at it before leaving the church. It was
a very small slab, and bore a very brief German
inscription to this effect: —
To the Sacred Memory
of
The Reverend Pčre Chessez,
For twenty years the beloved Pastor of this
Parish.
Died April 16th, 1825. Aged 44.
He Lived A Saint; He Died A Martyr.
I read it over twice, wondering idly what
story was wrapped up in the concluding line.
Then, prompted by a childish curiosity, I
went up to examine the confessional.
It was, as I have said, about the size of
a sentry-box, and was painted to imitate old
dark oak. On the one side was a narrow door
with a black handle, on the other a little
opening like a ticket-taker’s window, closed
on the inside by a faded green curtain.
I know not what foolish fancy possessed me,
but, almost without considering what I was
doing, I turned the handle and opened the
door. Opened it — peeped in-found the priest
sitting in his place — started back as if
I had been shot — and stammered an unintelligible
apology.
“I — I beg a thousand pardons,” I exclaimed.
“I had no idea — seeing the church empty
— ”
He was sitting with averted face, and clasped
hands lying idly in his lap — a tall, gaunt
man, dressed in a black soutane. When I paused,
and not till then, he slowly, very slowly,
turned his head, and looked me in the face.
The light inside the confessional was so dim
that I could not see his features very plainly.
I only observed that his eyes were large,
and bright, and wild-looking, like the eyes
of some fierce animal, and that his face,
with the reflection of the green curtain upon
it, looked lividly pale.
For a moment we remained thus, gazing at each
other, as if fascinated. Then, finding that
he made no reply, but only stared at me with
those strange eyes, I stepped hastily back,
shut the door without another word, and hurried
out of the church.
I was very much disturbed by this little incident;
more disturbed, in truth, than seemed reasonable,
for my nerves for the moment were shaken.
Never, I told myself, never while I lived
could I forget that fixed attitude and stony
face, or the glare of those terrible eyes.
What was the man’s history? Of what secret
despair, of what life-long remorse, of what
wild unsatisfied longings was he the victim?
I felt I could not rest till I had learned
something of his past life.
Full of these thoughts, I went on quickly
into the town, half running across the field,
and never looking back. Once past the gateway
and inside the walls, I breathed more freely.
The wain was still standing in the shade,
but the oxen were gone now, and two men were
busy forking out the clover into a little
yard close by. Having inquired of one of these
regarding an inn, and being directed to the
Krone, “over against the Frauenkirche,”
I made my way to the upper part of the town,
and there, at one corner of a forlorn, weed-grown
market-place, I found my hostelry.
The landlord, a sedate, bald man in spectacles,
who, as I presently discovered, was not only
an innkeeper but a clock-maker, came out from
an inner room to receive me. His wife, a plump,
pleasant body, took my orders for dinner.
His pretty daughter showed me to my room.
It was a large, low, whitewashed room, with
two lattice windows overlooking the market-place,
two little beds, covered with puffy red eiderdowns
at the farther end, and an army of clocks
and ornamental timepieces arranged along every
shelf, table, and chest of drawers in the
room. Being left here to my meditations, I
sat down and counted these companions of my
solitude.
Taking little and big together, Dutch clocks,
cuckoo clocks, chālet clocks, skeleton clocks,
and pendules in ormolu, bronze, marble, ebony,
and alabaster cases, there were exactly thirty-two.
Twenty-eight were going merrily. As no two
among them were of the same opinion as regarded
the time, and as several struck the quarters
as well as the hours, the consequence was
that one or other gave tongue about every
five minutes. Now, for a light and nervous
sleeper such as I was at that time, here was
a lively prospect for the night!
Going down-stairs presently with the hope
of getting my landlady to assign me a quieter
room, I passed two eight-day clocks on the
landing, and a third at the foot of the stairs.
The public room was equally well-stocked.
It literally bristled with clocks, one of
which played a spasmodic version of Gentle
Zitella with variations every quarter of an
hour. Here I found a little table prepared
by the open window, and a dish of trout and
a flask of country wine awaiting me. The pretty
daughter waited upon me; her mother bustled
to and fro with the dishes; the landlord stood
by, and beamed upon me through his spectacles.
“The trout were caught this morning, about
two miles from here,” he said, complacently.
“They are excellent,” I replied, filling
him out a glass of wine, and helping myself
to another. “Your health, Herr Wirth.”
“Thanks, mein Herr — yours.”
Just at this moment two clocks struck at opposite
ends of the room — one twelve, and the other
seven. I ventured to suggest that mine host
was tolerably well reminded of the flight
of time; whereupon he explained that his work
lay chiefly in the repairing and regulating
line, and that at that present moment he had
no less than one hundred and eighteen clocks
of various sorts and sizes on the premises.
“Perhaps the Herr Engländer is a light
sleeper,” said his quick-witted wife, detecting
my dismay. “If so, we can get him a bedroom
elsewhere. Not, perhaps, in the town, for
I know no place where he would be as comfortable
as with ourselves; but just outside the Friedrich’s
Thor, not five minutes’ walk from our door.”
I accepted the offer gratefully.
“So long,” I said, “as I ensure cleanliness
and quiet, I do not care how homely my lodgings
may be.”
“Ah, you’ll have both, mein Herr, if you
go where my wife is thinking of,” said the
landlord. “It is at the house of our pastor
— the Pčre Chessez.”
“The Pčre Chessez!” I exclaimed. “What,
the pastor of the little church out yonder?”
“The same, mein Herr.”
“But — but surely the Pčre Chessez is
dead! I saw a tablet to his memory in the
chancel.”
“Nay, that was our pastor’s elder brother,”
replied the landlord, looking grave. “He
has been gone these thirty years and more.
His was a tragical ending.”
But I was thinking too much of the younger
brother just then to feel any curiosity about
the elder; and I told myself that I would
put up with the companionship of any number
of clocks, rather than sleep under the same
roof with that terrible face and those unearthly
eyes.
“I saw your pastor just now in the church,”
I said, with apparent indifference. “He
is a singular-looking man.”
“He is too good for this world,” said
the landlady.
“He is a saint upon earth!” added the
pretty Fräulein.
“He is one of the best of men,” said,
more soberly, the husband and father. “I
only wish he was less of a saint. He fasts,
and prays, and works beyond his strength.
A little more beef and a little less devotion
would be all the better for him.”
“I should like to hear something more about
the life of so good a man,” said I, having
by this time come to the end of my simple
dinner. “Come, Herr Wirth, let us have a
bottle of your best, and then sit down and
tell me your pastor’s history!”
The landlord sent his daughter for a bottle
of the “green seal,” and, taking a chair,
said: —
“Ach Himmel! mein Herr, there is no history
to tell. The good father has lived here all
his life. He is one of us. His father, Johann
Chessez, was a native of Rheinfelden and kept
this very inn. He was a wealthy farmer and
vine-grower. He had only those two sons — Nicholas,
who took to the church and became pastor of
Feldkirche; and this one, Matthias, who was
intended to inherit the business; but who
also entered religion after the death of his
elder brother, and is now pastor of the same
parish.”
“But why did he ‘enter religion?’”
I asked. “Was he in any way to blame for
the accident (if it was an accident) that
caused the death of his elder brother?”
“Ah Heavens! no!” exclaimed the landlady,
leaning on the back of her husband’s chair.
“It was the shock — the shock that told
so terribly upon his poor nerves! He was but
a lad at that time, and as sensitive as a
girl — but the Herr Engländer does not
know the story. Go on, my husband.”
So the landlord, after a sip of the “green
seal,” continued: —
“At the time my wife alludes to, mein Herr,
Johann Chessez was still living. Nicholas,
the elder son, was in holy orders and established
in the parish of Feldkirche, outside the walls;
and Matthias, the younger, was a lad of about
fourteen years old, and lived with his father.
He was an amiable good boy — pious and thoughtful
— fonder of his books than of the business.
The neighbour-folk used to say even then that
Matthias was cut out for a priest, like his
elder brother. As for Nicholas, he was neither
more nor less than a saint. Well, mein Herr,
at this time there lived on the other side
of Rheinfelden, about a mile beyond the Basel
Thor, a farmer named Caspar Rufenacht and
his wife Margaret. Now Caspar Rufenacht was
a jealous, quarrelsome fellow; and the Frau
Margaret was pretty; and he led her a devil
of a life. It was said that he used to beat
her when he had been drinking, and that sometimes,
when he went to fair or market, he would lock
her up for the whole day in a room at the
top of the house. Well, this poor, ill-used
Frau Margaret — ”
“Tut, tut, my man,” interrupted the landlady.
“The Frau Margaret was a light one!”
“Peace, wife! Shall we speak hard words
of the dead? The Frau Margaret was young and
pretty, and a flirt; and she had a bad husband,
who left her too much alone.”
The landlady pursed up her lips and shook
her head, as the best of women will do when
the character of another woman is under discussion.
The innkeeper went on.
“Well, mein Herr, to cut a long story short,
after having been jealous first of one and
then of another, Caspar Rufenacht became furious
about a certain German, a Badener named Schmidt,
living on the opposite bank of the Rhine.
I remember the man quite well — a handsome,
merry fellow, and no saint; just the sort
to make mischief between man and wife. Well,
Caspar Rufenacht swore a great oath that,
cost what it might, he would come at the truth
about his wife and Schmidt; so he laid all
manner of plots to surprise them — waylaid
the Frau Margaret in her walks; followed her
at a distance when she went to church; came
home at unexpected hours; and played the spy
as if he had been brought up to the trade.
But his spying was all in vain. Either the
Frau Margaret was too clever for him, or there
was really nothing to discover; but still
he was not satisfied. So he cast about for
some way to attain his end, and, by the help
of the Evil One, he found it.”
Here the innkeeper’s wife and daughter,
who had doubtless heard the story a hundred
times over, drew near and listened breathlessly.
“What, think you,” continued the landlord,
“does this black-souled Caspar do? Does
he punish the poor woman within an inch of
her life, till she confesses? No. Does he
charge Schmidt with having tempted her from
her duty, and light it out with him like a
man? No. What else then? I will tell you.
He waits till the vigil of St. Margaret — her
saint’s day — when he knows the poor sinful
soul is going to confession; and he marches
straight to the house of the Pčre Chessez
— the very house where our own Pčre Chessez
is now living — and he finds the good priest
at his devotions in his little study, and
he says to him:
“‘Father Chessez, my wife is coming to
the church this afternoon to make her confession
to you.’
“‘She is,’ replies the priest.
“‘I want you to tell me all she tells
you,’ says Caspar; ‘and I will wait here
till you come back from the church, that I
may hear it. Will you do so?’
“‘Certainly not,’ replies the Pčre
Chessez. ‘You must surely know, Caspar,
that we priests are forbidden to reveal the
secrets of the confessional.’
“‘That is nothing to me,’ says Caspar,
with an oath. ‘I am resolved to know whether
my wife is guilty or innocent; and know it
I will, by fair means or foul.’
“‘You shall never know it from me, Caspar,’
says the Pčre Chessez, very quietly.
“‘Then, by Heavens!’ says Caspar, ‘I’ll
learn it for myself.’ And with that he pulls
out a heavy horse-pistol from his pocket,
and with the butt-end of it deals the Pčre
Chessez a tremendous blow upon the head, and
then another, and another, till the poor young
man lay senseless at his feet. Then Caspar,
thinking he had quite killed him, dressed
himself in the priest’s own soutane and
hat; locked the door; put the key in his pocket;
and stealing round the back way into the church,
shut himself up in the Confessional.”
“Then the priest died!” I exclaimed, remembering
the epitaph upon the tablet.
“Ay, mein Herr — the Pčre Chessez died;
but not before he had told the story of his
assassination, and identified his murderer.”
“And Caspar Rufenacht, I hope, was hanged?”
“Wait a bit, mein Herr, we have not come
to that yet. We left Caspar in the confessional,
waiting for his wife.”
“And she came?”
“Yes, poor soul! she came.”
“And made her confession?”
“And made her confession, mein Herr.”
“What did she confess?”
The innkeeper shook his head.
“That no one ever knew, save the good God
and her murderer.”
“Her murderer!” I exclaimed.
“Ay, just that. Whatever it was that she
confessed, she paid for it with her life.
He heard her out, at all events, without discovering
himself, and let her go home believing that
she had received absolution for her sins.
Those who met her that afternoon said she
seemed unusually bright and happy. As she
passed through the town, she went into the
shop in the Mongarten Strasse, and bought
some ribbons. About half an hour later, my
own father met her outside the Basel Thor,
walking briskly homewards. He was the last
who saw her alive.
“That evening (it was in October, and the
days were short), some travellers coming that
way into the town heard shrill cries, as of
a woman screaming, in the direction of Caspar’s
farm. But the night was very dark, and the
house lay back a little way from the road;
so they told themselves it was only some drunken
peasant quarrelling with his wife, and passed
on. Next morning Caspar Rufenacht came to
Rheinfelden, walked very quietly into the
Polizei, and gave himself up to justice.
“‘I have killed my wife,’ said he. ‘I
have killed the Pčre Chessez. And I have
committed sacrilege.’
“And so, indeed, it was. As for the Frau
Margaret, they found her body in an upper
chamber, well-nigh hacked to pieces, and the
hatchet with which the murder was committed
lying beside her on the floor. He had pursued
her, apparently, from room to room; for there
were pools of blood and handfuls of long light
hair, and marks of bloody hands along the
walls, all the way from the kitchen to the
spot where she lay dead.”
“And so he was hanged?” said I, coming
back to my original question.
“Yes, yes,” replied the innkeeper and
his womankind in chorus. “He was hanged
— of course he was hanged.”
“And it was the shock of this double tragedy
that drove the younger Chessez into the church?”
“Just so, mein Herr.”
“Well, he carries it in his face. He looks
like a most unhappy man.”
“Nay, he is not that, mein Herr!” exclaimed
the landlady. “He is melancholy, but not
unhappy.”
“Well, then, austere.”
“Nor is he austere, except towards himself.”
“True, wife,” said the innkeeper; “but,
as I said, he carries that sort of thing too
far. You understand, mein Herr,” he added,
touching his forehead with his forefinger,
“the good pastor has let his mind dwell
too much upon the past. He is nervous — too
nervous, and too low.”
I saw it all now. That terrible light in his
eyes was the light of insanity. That stony
look in his face was the fixed, hopeless melancholy
of a mind diseased.
“Does he know that he is mad?” I asked,
as the landlord rose to go.
He shrugged his shoulders and looked doubtful.
“I have not said that the Pčre Chessez
is mad, mein Herr,” he replied. “He has
strange fancies sometimes, and takes his fancies
for facts — that is all. But I am quite
sure that he does not believe himself to be
less sane than his neighbours.”
So the innkeeper left me, and I (my head full
of the story I had just heard) put on my hat,
went out into the market-place, asked my way
to the Basel Thor, and set off to explore
the scene of the Frau Margaret’s murder.
I found it without difficulty — a long,
low-fronted, beetle-browed farmhouse, lying
back a meadow’s length from the road. There
were children playing upon the threshold,
a flock of turkeys gobbling about the barn-door,
and a big dog sleeping outside his kennel
close by. The chimneys, too, were smoking
merrily. Seeing these signs of life and cheerfulness,
I abandoned all idea of asking to go over
the house. I felt that I had no right to carry
my morbid curiosity into this peaceful home;
so I turned away, and retraced my steps towards
Rheinfelden.
It was not yet seven, and the sun had still
an hour’s course to run. I reentered the
town, strolled back through the street, and
presently came again to the Friedrich’s
Thor and the path leading to the church. An
irresistible impulse seemed to drag me back
to the place.
Shudderingly, and with a sort of dread that
was half longing, I pushed open the churchyard
gate and went in. The doors were closed; a
goat was browsing among the graves; and the
rushing of the Rhine, some three hundred yards
away, was distinctly audible in the silence.
I looked round for the priest’s house — the
scene of the first murder; but from this side,
at all events, no house was visible. Going
round, however, to the back of the church,
I saw a gate, a box-bordered path, and, peeping
through some trees, a chimney and the roof
of a little brown-tiled house.
This, then, was the path along which Caspar
Rufenacht, with the priest’s blood upon
his hands and the priest’s gown upon his
shoulders, had taken his guilty way to the
confessional! How quiet it all looked in the
golden evening light! How like the church-path
of an English parsonage!
I wished I could have seen something more
of the house than that bit of roof and that
one chimney. There must, I told myself, be
some other entrance — some way round by
the road! Musing and lingering thus, I was
startled by a quiet voice close against my
shoulder, saying: —
“A pleasant evening, mein Herr!”
I turned, and found the priest at my elbow.
He had come noiselessly across the grass,
and was standing between me and the sunset,
like a shadow.
“I — I beg your pardon,” I stammered,
moving away from the gate. “I was looking
— ”
I stopped in some surprise, and indeed with
some sense of relief, for it was not the same
priest that I had seen in the morning. No
two, indeed, could well be more unlike, for
this man was small, white-haired, gentle-looking,
with a soft, sad smile inexpressibly sweet
and winning.
“You were looking at my arbutus?” he said.
I had scarcely observed the arbutus till now,
but I bowed and said something to the effect
that it was an unusually fine tree.
“Yes,” he replied; “but I have a rhododendron
round at the front that is still finer. Will
you come in and see it?”
I said I should be pleased to do so. He led
the way, and I followed.
“I hope you like this part of our Rhine-country?”
he said, as we took the path through the shrubbery.
“I like it so well,” I replied, “that
if I were to live anywhere on the banks of
the Rhine, I should certainly choose some
spot on the Upper Rhine between Schaffhausen
and Basle.”
“And you would be right,” he said. “Nowhere
is the river so beautiful. Nearer the glaciers
it is milky and turbid — beyond Basle it
soon becomes muddy. Here we have it blue as
the sky — sparkling as champagne. Here is
my rhododendron. It stands twelve feet high,
and measures as many in diameter. I had more
than two hundred blooms upon it last Spring.”
When I had duly admired this giant shrub,
he took me to a little arbour on a bit of
steep green bank overlooking the river, where
he invited me to sit down and rest. From hence
I could see the porch and part of the front
of his little house; but it was all so closely
planted round with trees and shrubs that no
clear view of it seemed obtainable in any
direction. Here we sat for some time chatting
about the weather, the approaching vintage,
and so forth, and watching the sunset. Then
I rose to take my leave.
“I heard of you this evening at the Krone,
mein Herr,” he said. “You were out, or
I should have called upon you. I am glad that
chance has made us acquainted. Do you remain
over tomorrow?”
“No; I must go on tomorrow to Basle,”
I answered. And then, hesitating a little,
I added: — “you heard of me, also, I fear,
in the church.”
“In the church?” he repeated.
“Seeing the door open, I went in-from curiosity
— as a traveller; just to look round for
a moment and rest.”
“Naturally.”
“I — I had no idea, however, that I was
not alone there. I would not for the world
have intruded — ”
“I do not understand,” he said, seeing
me hesitate. “The church stands open all
day long. It is free to every one.”
“Ah! I see he has not told you!”
The priest smiled but looked puzzled.
“He? Whom do you mean?”
“The other priest, mon pčre-your colleague.
I regret to have broken in upon his meditations;
but I had been so long in the church, and
it was all so still and quiet, that it never
occurred to me that there might be some one
in the confessional.”
The priest looked at me in a strange, startled
way.
“In the confessional!” he repeated, with
a catching of his breath. “You saw some
one — in the confessional?”
“I am ashamed to say that, having thoughtlessly
opened the door — ”
“You saw — what did you see?”
“A priest, mon pčre.”
“A priest! Can you describe him? Should
you know him again? Was he pale, and tall,
and gaunt, with long black hair?”
“The same, undoubtedly.”
“And his eyes — did you observe anything
particular about his eyes?”
“Yes; they were large, wild-looking, dark
eyes, with a look in them — a look I cannot
describe.”
“A look of terror!” cried the pastor,
now greatly agitated. “A look of terror
— of remorse — of despair!”
“Yes, it was a look that might mean all
that,” I replied, my astonishment increasing
at every word. “You seem troubled. Who is
he?”
But instead of answering my question, the
pastor took off his hat, looked up with a
radiant, awe-struck face, and said: —
“All-merciful God, I thank Thee! I thank
Thee that I am not mad, and that Thou hast
sent this stranger to be my assurance and
my comfort!”
Having said these words, he bowed his head,
and his lips moved in silent prayer. When
he looked up again, his eyes were full of
tears.
“My son,” he said, laying his trembling
hand upon my arm, “I owe you an explanation;
but I cannot give it to you now. It must wait
till I can speak more calmly — till tomorrow,
when I must see you again. It involves a terrible
story — a story peculiarly painful to myself
— enough now if I tell you that I have seen
the Thing you describe — seen It many times;
and yet, because It has been visible to my
eyes alone, I have doubted the evidence of
my senses. The good people here believe that
much sorrow and meditation have touched my
brain. I have half believed it myself till
now. But you — you have proved to me that
I am the victim of no illusion.”
“But in Heaven’s name,” I exclaimed,
“what do you suppose I saw in the confessional?”
“You saw the likeness of one who, guilty
also of a double murder, committed the deadly
sin of sacrilege in that very spot, more than
thirty years ago,” replied the Pčre Chessez,
solemnly.
“Caspar Rufenacht!”
“Ah! you have heard the story? Then I am
spared the pain of telling it to you. That
is well.”
I bent my head in silence. We walked together
without another word to the wicket, and thence
round to the churchyard gate. It was now twilight,
and the first stars were out.
“Good-night, my son,” said the pastor,
giving me his hand. “Peace be with you.”
As he spoke the words his grasp tightened
— his eyes dilated — his whole countenance
became rigid.
“Look!” he whispered. “Look where it
goes!”
I followed the direction of his eyes, and
there, with a freezing horror which I have
no words to describe, I saw — distinctly
saw through the deepening gloom — a tall,
dark figure in a priest’s soutane and broad-brimmed
hat, moving slowly across the path leading
from the parsonage to the church. For a moment
it seemed to pause — then passed on to the
deeper shade, and disappeared.
“You saw it?” said the pastor.
“Yes — plainly.”
He drew a deep breath; crossed himself devoutly;
and leaned upon the gate, as if exhausted.
“This is the third time I have seen it this
year,” he said. “Again I thank God for
the certainty that I see a visible thing,
and that His great gift of reason is mine
unimpaired. But I would that He were graciously
pleased to release me from the sight — the
horror of it is sometimes more than I know
how to bear. Good night.”
With this he again touched my hand; and so,
seeing that he wished to be alone, I silently
left him. At the Friedrich’s Thor I turned
and looked back. He was still standing by
the churchyard gate, just visible through
the gloom of the fast deepening twilight.
I never saw the Pčre Chessez again. Save
his own old servant, I was the last who spoke
with him in this world. He died that night
— died in his bed, where he was found next
morning with his hands crossed upon his breast,
and with a placid smile upon his lips, as
if he had fallen asleep in the act of prayer.
As the news spread from house to house, the
whole town rang with lamentations. The church-bells
tolled; the carpenters left their work in
the streets; the children, dismissed from
school, went home weeping.
“’Twill be the saddest Kermess in Rheinfelden
tomorrow, mein Herr!” said my good host
of the Krone, as I shook hands with him at
parting. “We have lost the best of pastors
and of friends. He was a saint. If you had
come but one day later, you would not have
seen him!”
And with this he brushed his sleeve across
his eyes, and turned away.
Every shutter was up, every blind down, every
door closed, as I passed along the Friedrich’s
Strasse about mid-day on my way to Basle;
and the few townsfolk I met looked grave and
downcast. Then I crossed the bridge and, having
shown my passport to the German sentry on
the Baden side, I took one long, last farewell
look at the little walled town as it lay sleeping
in the sunshine by the river — knowing that
I should see it no more.
