ought in, that he should see
clearly around him and within him, before he could recover the energy and
calmness of reason, the strength of martyrdom, the determination to
sacrifice everything to the peace of his conscience.

Then came the crisis. He was a priest and he no longer believed. This had
suddenly dawned before him like a bottomless abyss. It was the end of his
life, the collapse of everything. What should he do? Did not simple
rectitude require that he should throw off the cassock and return to the
world? But he had seen some renegade priests and had despised them. A
married priest with whom he was acquainted filled him with disgust. All
this, no doubt, was but a survival of his long religious training. He
retained the notion that a priest cannot, must not, weaken; the idea that
when one has dedicated oneself to God one cannot take possession of
oneself again. Possibly, also, he felt that he was too plainly branded,
too different from other men already, to prove otherwise than awkward and
unwelcome among them. Since he had been cut off from them he would remain
apart in his grievous pride; And, after days of anguish, days of struggle
incessantly renewed, in which his thirst for happiness warred with the
energies of his returning health, he took the heroic resolution to remain
a priest, and an honest one. He would find the strength necessary for
such abnegation. Since he had conquered the flesh, albeit unable to
conquer the brain, he felt sure of keeping his vow of chastity, and that
would be unshakable; therein lay the pure, upright life which he was
absolutely certain of living. What mattered the rest if he alone
suffered, if nobody in the world suspected that his heart was reduced to
ashes, that nothing remained of his faith, that he was agonising amidst
fearful falsehood? His rectitude would prove a firm prop; he would follow
his priestly calling like an honest man, without breaking any of the vows
he had taken; he would, in due accordance with the rites, discharge his
duties as a minister of the Divinity, whom he would praise and glorify at
the altar, and distribute as the Bread of Life to the faithful. Who,
then, would dare to impute his loss of faith to him as a crime, even if
this great misfortune should some day become known? And what more could
be asked of him than lifelong devotion to his vow, regard for his
ministry, and the practice of every charity without the hope of any
future reward? In this wis