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The Ghost Monk by Rosa Prade Aunt Felicia used often to tell the story of her friend, Father Canalice, and the Ghost Monk of Gontran, and it is given here as she related it. I never knew a more delightful person than Father Canalese—Dr.
Canalese, I always called him, because, not being myself of the Catholic communion, I prefer when it is permissible to use the more secular mode of address.Besides, there was a certain savour of the world about Dr. Canalese.
He was in some respects the typical priest of society—well-bred, highly cultivated, dignified, courteous. and with much knowledge of men and women, he was indeed a frequent and ever-welcome guest in the houses of many of the great Catholic nobility.
Though of foreign extraction, he was to all intents an Englishman, and was for a long time, till his health broke, the head of an important Catholic seminary in London.
This position gave him a greater freedom than is usual with the clergy of the Church of Rome.He was a Jesuit, which fact had perhaps something to say to his extreme charm of manner, his exquisite tact, and his varied social gifts.
There was nothing of the ascetic about Dr. Canalese, but he in no sense realized the conventional notion of the Jesuit priest.If there ever lived an earnest, pure-minded, and truly religious man, it was my friend Father Canalese.
I call him my friend, though I am not as a rule fond of priests, and, as my husband belongs to the Roman persuasion, I have had some opportunities of observing the class.
Fortunately, Gaston is liberal in his views, robust as well as scholarly in his tastes, and has a keen sense of humour.Thus the priests who are his intimate friends are generally men of culture, and are interesting apart from their calling.
Dr. Canalese had the reputation of being a proselytist, and it was said that he had made many a convert among a particular order of women—that which is essentially of London society—the kind of woman who gravitates by temperament towards the Mother Church.
I am not that kind of woman, and Dr. Canalese, after one or two conversations, in which I frankly stated my objections to his creed, gave up any proselytizing notions he might have entertained, and accepted my friendship on another basis.
It was these candid talks which made me know and appreciate the man—his real sincerity, his almost feminine power of sympathy, his toleration of other opinions than his own, and his practical common sense.
I met him more than once as a guest during his vacation at the house of a Catholic relative's of Gaston's, and so charmed was I with the first sermon I heard him preach in our relative's chapel, that afterwards I often went to hear him at the Pro-Cathedral when in London, where his extraordinary eloquence and the poetic grace of his diction caused him to be frequently chosen for the courses of sermons delivered there by popular Catholic divines.
It was, therefore, with the greatest satisfaction, that I found he was staying at Cannes one winter when my husband and I went out for six weeks' sunshine—a six weeks made memorable ever afterwards by the companionship of Dr. Canalese.
He had been granted leave of absence on account of lung delicacy.He looked worn and transparent, but no serious symptoms had shown themselves, and it was not supposed that he was in real danger.
He told us that his doctor's prescription was to live out of doors, to drive as much as possible, to nourish himself with food, and to give up work and study for a time. Dr. Canalese was not rich.
What good Catholic priest has ever more than suffices for the necessaries of existence?
We saw that he denied himself the drives, which were his greatest pleasure, and we, therefore, always made a point of asking him to accompany us on the different expeditions we made in the neighbourhood of Cannes.
One day we begged him to go with us on a rather long excursion to a queer little old-world place in the hills behind Grasse, a place which is almost unknown to the ordinary tourist on the Riviera, and which yet has a history that goes back to the Saracens, for it was once the stronghold of the most ancient and almost the greatest of the Provençal families.
This place is called Saint Xavier de Gontra, I noticed that an excited look came over the priest's face, and he smiled with almost a boyish eagerness.You are doing me a greater kindness than you could have imagined, he said.I accept joyfully.
I know San Xavier de Gontra, he went on. I have the most strange and solemn association with the place, which I have not visited for many years.
I had an immense longing to go there again, but it is a long expedition, and I cannot now walk over the hills as I used, and, in short, there are difficulties in the way. We knew what the difficulties were.
Father Canalese would have considered it sinful selfishness to waste thirty francs on carriage hire for the gratification of a sentimental desire of his own.I jumped to the conclusion that his association with the place was a sentimental one.
He had spoken of it with a hushed drop of his voice, and now I ventured to ask him what the story was.The hesitation of his manner made me feel convicted of an impertinent curiosity."'I have hardly ever spoken of it,' he answered.
"'I don't think I could do so here,' and he glanced round the crowded drawing-room of the hotel."'Perhaps when we are there I shall be able to tell it you.That experience made a great impression on me.It has, to a certain extent, influenced my life.
He did tell us the story when we were sitting on a little stone terrace, an abutment of the fortified wall of the old chateau of Gontre, after we had gone over the church, had talked to the curé, had inspected the ancient portraits, and had taken photographs, Gaston and I, of the principal features of interest in this strange human eerie perched on the gross hills.
Father Canolis had left us to this occupation.He had seemed curiously subdued, the hectic in his cheeks glowed.He and the curé had gone off together.
Afterwards, as I left Gaston to develop his negatives and strolled through the narrow streets of the village, gleaning such information as I might from the patois of a picturesque crone who sat spinning at the doorway of a ruined house, by and by I found the church and went in.
There I beheld Father Canolis prostrate before the high altar, absorbed in an ecstasy of spiritual devotion.I softly closed the door, for I did not want to disturb him.Gaston was waiting for me in front of the chateau.
We went down some crumbling steps, and came upon a tiny terrace garden, closed in by a grey, lichen-grown parapet, Below us stretched the beautiful valley of the Sion, and beyond the Mediterranean, misty on the horizon.
A zigzag path led down the precipitous face of the rock on which the chateau was built.
To our right was the church, a rather imposing structure, with a tower and a Gothic doorway, and two finely carved images let into niches on each side of the great oak door.
The church and the ruins of the chateau and the houses near it showed that Gontra had once been a place of some importance.Gaston and I were speculating on its previous history when the priest joined us.
There was upon his face a curious, far-away look. He seated himself on a bench in the angle of the parapet and began abruptly.I said I would tell you the thing which happened to me here, and which made so great an impression upon me.
It was in this very church.We begged him to let us hear his story.I warn you, he said with a strange smile, that it is a ghost story and you are now hearing it at first hand. As nearly as I can remember, Dr. Canolis told his story in these words.
It was about twelve years ago, he said, before I was appointed to a seminary.I was doing an article on the ecclesiastical history of some of these old Provençal towns, and had come up here to study the inscriptions in the church.
I had arranged to stay the night in the chateau, if my investigation should keep me too late for the walk to Grasse, and the curé being as I knew absent, he had as well the care of that village yonder," Dr. Canolis pointed across the valley of the Sion.
I had gone into the church unnoticed.I had remained there interested in my work till the light failed, and then was suddenly roused from a meditation by the sound of the key turning in the door, and knew that I was locked in.
I could make no one hear me, and after a while, reflecting that I might as well sleep in the church as in one of the bare rooms of the chateau, I wrapped my cloak round me, and being very tired, was soon fast asleep.
It must have been after midnight when I awoke with a curious feeling of uneasiness.
The moon was shining brightly through the windows, and as I lay, it seemed to me that the wall on the opposite side opened, and that the figure of a monk stepped forth and walked along the side aisle in the direction of the altar.
The monk wrung his hands as he moved, and ejaculated in a tone of deep despair, Is there no one who will say a mass for my wretched soul?Then, before reaching the altar, he turned, walked slowly back to the wall, and disappeared.
I told myself that the apparition was but the illusion of a dream, and once more slept. Again I was awakened by the same feeling of uneasiness, and again the monk stepped forth from the wall and again wrung his hands and repeated his mournful plaint.
This time I knew that it was no dream.I got up and kneeled before the altar in prayer and adoration, and then once more laid down and waited till the spectre should for the third time come forth.
As the clock struck the third hour, the stone melted, as it were, behind the ghost, and it seemed as if the unhappy being were directly addressing his petition to me as he wailed, "'Oh, who will say a mass for my wretched soul?'
I got up and went towards him."'Had you no fear?'asked Gaston. None," replied Dr. Canalese, and I am telling you an absolutely true story.I do not believe that one has any fear of the supernatural, provided that he is conscious of pure motive.
At any rate, I felt none then.
I will pray for your soul if it be any comfort to you," I said, and then I went into the sacristy, of which the door was open, and robed myself, while the ghost-monk waited at the steps of the high altar, and the ghost served me as I performed this strange and solemn requiem mass.
Dr. Canalese paused.Then, exclaimed Gaston, the point of the story has yet to come, answered the priest dreamily.
As the monk stood by that part of the wall from which he had appeared, he paused for a moment, and before he disappeared, said in solemn tones, I thank you for having given me peace. There is only one way in which I can show my gratitude.
Three days before your death, you will see me again.""'Don't think me morbidly superstitious,' Father Canolese added.But as I prayed just now at that same spot, the presentiment was borne in upon me that I shall soon receive that promised visit."
He got up as he spoke. Did you notice?"he said. that space in the wall of the church where the masonry appears to have been lately disturbed.
I have been inquiring of the attendant here, and he tells me that a portion of the wall fell away a year or two ago, and that in repairing the place it was discovered to be hollow.A skeleton was found in the recess, and also a cup and a platter.
It is certain that the ghost-monk who served me at the mass was the spectre of one walled up alive, perhaps centuries ago.There was a delay in our getting away from Saint-Xavier-des-Contres.
The drive was long and the way stony, and one of the horses went lame.A mistral had risen, and we reached the hotel long after sunset, chilled to the bone.
No one was surprised to learn next day that Dr. Canalisse was laid up with an attack of congestion of the lungs.
I went to see him a few days later, and I was struck by the change in his appearance and the wonderfully spiritualized expression of his always refined and thoughtful face.
I am glad that you have come," he said quite cheerfully, for I shall not see you again.I am glad, too, that I told you the story of the ghost-monk at Gontra the other day.
You know I told you also of the presentiment which came over me that I should soon meet my spectral visitant again.He came last night.I shall die the day after tomorrow.
No reasoning could persuade Father Canalese out of this fixed idea, though the doctors assured him there was nothing in his condition to give rise to any serious apprehension.
Indeed, after an interview with the doctor, I felt sure that my friend was laboring under a morbid impression.
Nothing could, however, have been less morbid than the way in which he set about arranging his worldly affairs, if, indeed, that term could be applied to the interests of one who was, as regards sordid matters, so unworldly.
His presentiment, however, was verified.On the third night after the ghost monk had appeared to him, he died as quietly as if he had been going to sleep.
The doctors could not understand the case, nor can I. I only know that the ghost story must be true, for Dr. Canalese was incapable of even self-deception.
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