Diary of a Country Priest Page #3

with thick and unclean hands.

He'd just returned from hunting.

When things get you down,

come and pay me a call.

I wouldn't say that to everyone,

but the priest in Torcy has spoken of you.

And I like your eyes.

Faithful eyes.

Dog's eyes.

You and Torcy and I

are of the same race, an odd race.

The idea that I belonged

to the same race as these hefty men

would never have occurred to me.

- What race?

- The race that holds on.

And why does it hold on?

No one quite knows.

As a schoolboy I came up

with a motto for myself:

''Face up to it.''

Face up to what? I ask you.

Injustice?

I'm not one to go around

babbling about justice.

I don't expect it for myself.

From whom should I ask it?

I don't believe in God.

I'm not very experienced,

but I always recognize the tone

that gives away a deeply wounded soul.

You're not up to much.

Just look at that.

Anyone can see you've not

always had enough to eat.

Well, it's too late now.

And the alcohol -what about that?

Alcohol?

Not what you've drunk, of course.

What was drunk for you,

long before you came into the world.

Sraphita worries me a lot.

I wonder sometimes if she hates me.

She torments me

with such exceptional maturity.

Morning, Sraphita.

I returned her book bag that afternoon.

I was received very roughly.

Yes, I scold myself

for praying so little and so poorly.

But do I have time to pray?

I met the priest from Torcy

on the road to Gesvres.

He gave me

a ride back to the rectory.

The bishop must be

hard up for priests

to put a parish in your hands.

I could burden you with advice,

but what's the point?

I've known pupils

who'd solve the toughest problems,

just like that, out of spite.

Where have I gone wrong?

You're too fussy.

Just like a hornet in a bottle.

But I think you have

the spirit of prayer.

Monks are more shrewd than us.

Besides, you have no common sense.

Your great schemes don't hold water.

As for knowledge of men,

the less said the better.

Face-to-face with your new parish,

you cut an odd figure.

And so?

So? Well, carry on.

What else can I say?

A bad night.

I never endeavored

to pray so much.

At first quietly, calmly,

then with an almost desperate will

that made my heart tremble.

This morning I received a letter

written on cheap paper,

unsigned.

''A well-wisher advises you

to seek a transfer to another parish.

The sooner, the better.

I feel sorry for you,

but I repeat:
Get out.''

I made a strange discovery:

The handwriting was identical.

Another terrible night.

It was raining so hard

I didn't dare go to the church.

I couldn't pray.

I know very well that

the desire to pray is already prayer,

and that God couldn't ask for more.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes