Chapter XXV

At these words then (how could I help myself?)
My heart-gates flew wide open; emptied all,—
The whole the priest had told me of my sin;
And how we should not talk together more.

How wild it made him! Never had I seen
One shaken so. His anger frighten’d me.
“This crafty priest,” he said, “you ask’d of God:
He answer’d you about the Church, ‘of course.’
And of the Church about the priests, ‘of course,’
And of the priests about himself, ‘of course.’
I tell you this is cursèd selfishness;
I tell you it is downright sacrilege!—
To strain the oceans of the Infinite
Down through that sieve, man’s windpipe, wheezing out,
‘I deal the voice of God, I, I, the priest.’”

“O Haydn,” said I, “How—how can you dare?”

“How dare?” he cried out, “dare? Am I a dog,
A dog or woman cringing to a man,
Because of kicks or curses?”
“Nay,” I sobb’d,
“I kneel before his office, not to him.”

“Poor girl,” he said, “forgive me—stop—I beg—
What? can you think that I would make you weep?
Not, darling, not of you, I meant to speak,
But of the system.”
“System,” I replied;
“Why, Haydn, are you not a Christian, then?”

“And wherefore not?” he ask’d.
“Because,” I said,
“You speak so of the Church.”
“But I,” said he,
“Was arguing not of that, but of the priest.”

“And he has been ordain’d,” I said: “And you,
You reverence not the ministers of God?”

“Of God,” he mutter’d,—“yes, when that they are.
I reverence the princeship; not the prince
Who doffs his regal robes, and leaves his throne,
And lowers his aims and slaves it with mere serfs.”