Page 178 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

—With women, my child?
—Yes, father.
—Were they married women, my child?
He did not know. His sins trickled from his lips, one by
one, trickled in shameful drops from his soul, festering and
oozing like a sore, a squalid stream of vice. The last sins
oozed forth, sluggish, filthy. There was no more to tell. He
bowed his head, overcome.
The Priest was silent. Then he asked:
—How old are you, my child?
—Sixteen, father.
The priest passed his hand several times over his face.
Then, resting his forehead against his hand, he leaned to-
wards the grating and, with eyes still averted, spoke slowly.
His voice was weary and old.
—You are very young, my child, he said, and let me im-
plore of you to give up that sin. It is a terrible sin. It kills
the body and it kills the soul. It is the cause of many crimes
and misfortunes. Give it up, my child, for God’s sake. It is
dishonourable and unmanly. You cannot know where that
wretched habit will lead you or where it will come against
you. As long as you commit that sin, my poor child, you will
never be worth one farthing to God. Pray to our mother
Mary to help you. She will help you, my child. Pray to Our
Blessed Lady when that sin comes into your mind. I am sure
you will do that, will you not? You repent of all those sins.
I am sure you do. And you will promise God now that by
His holy grace you will never offend Him any more by that
wicked sin. You will make that solemn promise to God, will

178 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man