by Ellen Wood
“To what happy chance do I owe this surprise?” from the Frere Procureur. “It is life from the dead.”
“I am here for a special purpose,” replied Mr. Wood. “Are you not glad to see me?”
“I tell you it is as life from the dead,” returned the monk with fervour. “To see you and hear your voice I would at any moment accept a month’s penance. Have you come straight from home?”
“We have been some days on the road, loitering amidst those scenes you have yourself so much loved — never more splendid than now. But you, shut up within these walls—”
“Hush,” cried the monk painfully. “Do not remind me of days passed for ever. Do not reopen wounds hardly yet closed. Rather pray that I may grow resigned to this silence of the tomb, this death in life. Not that I would undo what I have done, or go back to the world I have abandoned. I am only upset for the moment at hearing your voice and grasping your hand. It brings back the lost life so vividly. But I am resigned and not unhappy.”
“I am glad to hear it,” returned Mr. Wood, “but I am surprised, for you are taking refuge in a life altogether unsuited to you. You were never intended for a monk, and I told you at the time you would repent it. But you were obstinate, Julien—”
“Hush!” again interrupted the monk. “I left that name behind me when I entered here; do not awaken happier thoughts by using it. Now I am Frére Jeronimo.”
“And are you really resigned and happy? If so, the expression of your face when you opened the door belied you.”
Frere Jeronimo hesitated a moment. “The change from the busy world to this living tomb has been great,” he replied at length. “At first the contrast was severe — the transition too abrupt. The silence and solemnity appalled me; I admit it. There ought, I think, to be intermediate stages or establishments, so that one might gradually become accustomed to this entombment. But I am growing used to it. Believe me, I am not unhappy and I do not repent. If I had to do it over again I doubt if I should hesitate. What has the world done for me, after all? What have I found in it that I should care to renounce? Yet now and then I find myself dwelling with a certain longing upon the past — just as if I had found it all an earthly paradise.”
They had passed into the Salle de Bourgogne, a refectory given over to the use of visitors. It was empty, and the brother went up to a large press or cupboard, and, taking out some Chartreuse, offered a glass to his visitor.
“I thought I saw your carriage not far off,” he remarked; “and I also thought I saw—”
“Never mind what you thought,” interrupted Mr. Wood. “Are you alone in the monastery — no visitors staying here?”
“None whatever; nor likely to have any.”
“Good. Shall you be on guard to-night?”
“No; but the brother whose turn it is is a sleepy fellow, and will only too gladly give it up to me — if you wish it.”
“I want to come and hear the midnight mass—”
“Nothing easier,” interrupted Frere Jeronimo.
“Yes; but I wish to bring a friend with me.”
“Why not?”
“A friend who will be dressed as a monk, of whom you must ask no questions, and who will not speak to you.”
“A mystery!” laughed the brother. “This really suggests the world, and I thought I had done with mysteries and the world for ever.”
“You will be quite alone? We shall not be likely to meet any one? — any of the fathers or brothers?”
“Not a creature. Be here three minutes after the clock has struck midnight. The door will be a little open. I shall be absolutely alone. The corridors will be empty. Every one will have gone in to the midnight mass. I might take you from one end of the building to the other without fear of interruption. But I do not understand. How do you purpose arriving here at midnight? It is an unearthly hour — unless you are staying in the monastery.”
“Leave that to me,” was the reply. “At three minutes after your clock has struck midnight you will find us here. Remember it is full moon, and the night will be almost as light as day.”
“It is the day for the monks to take their walk,” said the brother as they separated. “Go into the mountains, and you will see them. But if you are not alone, do not speak to them. They will not look at you.”
For some two hours after this Mr and Mrs. Wood wandered in the pine-scented woods, revelling in the wonderful wealth and beauties of nature — their path a perfect carpet of green moss, wild flowers and ferns; hardy plants that grew in these high latitudes. The silence and solitude were intense, for out of sight of the monastery buildings they might have been in the wilds of a desert.
But presently the solitude was broken. Suddenly they came upon the monks, cloaked and cowled, filing through an upward path — a strange patchwork of humanity upon the mountain side.
They were all conversing together, as if they had much to say, and were making up for a whole week’s silence. Yet what could they have to talk about — these men who had long ago renounced life, and knew little or nothing of what was going on in the world? It was difficult to imagine. But their voices rose clear and loud, and they seemed to be making the most of their week’s “half-holiday.” Silent at all other times, they are even commanded to talk on these occasions. Our travellers watched them until they disappeared, but long after that the echo of their voices might be heard in the sparkling atmosphere — a strange sound in these mountain regions.
“And so I suppose I was not allowed to see even the refectory and the cemetery?” remarked Mrs. Wood. “I am not disappointed, for I did not think it possible, even with the help of your friend the Frere Procureur.”
“All in good time,” was the laughing reply. “You don’t know what may yet be in store for you.”
They had re-entered the carriage, and were returning to St. Laurent du Pont. At the forge the blacksmith was wielding his hammer, and the travellers alighted and spoke to him, for he was no stranger to Mr. Wood, to whom the neighbourhood was well known, and whose name bore weight and influence in the country. At length St. Laurent was reached.
“And now you must rest,” said Mr. Wood to his wife. “Our day is not over, and I am afraid your strength will be a little taxed. I intend to take you for a drive to-night, and to show you by moonlight all the wonders you have just seen in sunshine.”
“But will it not be too much for me?” objected Mrs. Wood, in her surprise. “Do you think I shall be able to stand it? And are not the nights still cold?”
“I will take every care of you,” was the reply; “and I have thought of everything. It will not be a very cold night, and I have an extra cloak for you in my portmanteau. As for fatigue, you will be too absorbed in the scene to dream of being tired. You don’t know what wild gorges and snowcapped mountains and dense pine forests are under the moonlight magic.”
“I think I can imagine all that,” replied Mrs. Wood, laughing; “and I also think the night drive rather a wild idea, but I am quite ready to take it if you wish it. At what hour shall we start?”
“At ten o’clock.”
“And do you mean to go quite up to the monastery?”
“Up to the very doors.”
“That will make it midnight — the witching hour. We shall see ghosts,” laughed Mrs. Wood— “the ghosts of all the dead-and-gone monks who have lived up there for the last seven hundred years. What an army there would be! Henry, it is a wild scheme of yours — and all for a little moonlight!”
CHAPTER XIII
“When in the down I sink my head,
Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, times my breath;
Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, knows not Death,
Nor can I dream of thee as dead.”
THE day passed on, Mrs. Wood resting until eight o’clock. At eight they dined, and at ten re-entered the carriage and began their morning’s experience over again.
“What have you there?” asked Mrs. Wood, seeing her husband come out with something over his arm.
“A funny brown cloak, with a capuchon. It is not mine — I never wore brown in my life. You have made some mistake, Henry.”
“It is all right,” he laughed. “You may find it cold up in the mountains, and may want an extra cloak whilst walking about.”
They set out It was a magnificent night, and not cold. The full moon sailed majestically in a cloudless sky. In the narrow gorge all was dark and impenetrable. They could hear the running water, but could not see it; nor the ferns, nor the brushwood, nor the overhanging trees. The forge was closed, its owner no doubt sleeping the sleep of the just and the hard-worked; but the penetrating moonbeams threw it into light and shade, together with the old bridge close to which it stood. All looked ghostly and mysterious in the pale light, backed by the high snow-capped mountains and dense pine woods.
The quiet of day had been nothing to this midnight hush. The carriage made slow progress, the urging postboy and treading horses alone breaking in upon the solemn silence and repose. Within about half a mile of the monastery Mr. Wood stopped the carriage, bade it remain there, and they alighted and walked. Calm and peaceful was the night, and now the stillness was that of a dead world. Not the cry of a bird, not the fluttering of a wing broke upon the air. The mountains stood in utter solitude and majesty, twice magnified in the pale moonlight.
They stood and listened to the silence. A faint breeze went whispering through the pine forests, as if the spirits of the dead-and-gone monks of many an age were abroad. A little ahead they now saw the ghostly monastic pile looming out in the moonlight, which glittered upon the slanting roofs and found its reflection in some of the windows. As they walked, the turret-clock struck the witching hour, and twelve strokes slowly rang out upon the midnight air: signal for the ghosts to appear, if any existed.
It was a solemn moment, an inexpressibly solemn and magnificent scene. A tremulousness seized Mrs. Wood for an instant, and her husband quickly enveloped her in the cloak he carried over his arm. She did not observe that it was a counterpart of a monk’s cloak, lined with soft white fur. “I am not cold,” she said, submitting passively to his care. “If I shivered, I think it was at the effect of this wonderful scene, and the sudden striking of midnight — a ghostly sound in the stillness.”
And now they were almost at the very door of the monastery. “Henry,” said Mrs. Wood, startled by a sudden thought, “you are surely not going in, to leave me here alone?”
“My dear!” he protested. “I am going to take you to see the refectory, and the cloisters and graveyard in the moonlight. Now that we are here it would be a pity to miss all this. It is all arranged: I have permission. But within the walls it is cold; let me draw your hood.”
It was no sooner said than done; and Mrs. Wood might have been mistaken for a young diminutive monk or novice; the face almost hidden by the capuchon., nothing visible but the outlines of the small slender form. All had passed so suddenly that there was no time for thought or question.
The door was a little open. Evidently their voices or footsteps had been heard; Frere Jeronimo was listening at his post, for the door opened wider, and the pale, refined face of the monk, almost hidden by the cowl, shone out in the moonlight.
“Cest bien vous,” he whispered. “Follow me. Fear nothing. I am alone. The matines have commenced.”
They passed in, and the door closed on profound darkness. Striking a light in a lantern, he took the lead without turning or looking, and without a word led the way to the refectory: the Salle de Bourgogne: a large white-washed room, with long bare tables. At the end of a table, near the door, on a plate stood two small glasses of Chartreuse, the bottle at hand. With a half smile Mr. Wood offered one to his wife, knowing well it would be refused, but did not refuse one himself in those cold quarters. Always the most abstemious of men, no one was a better judge of good wine, or appreciated it more in moderation: a man of refined taste as well as of artistic temperament.
The Salle de Bourgogne was full of ghostly shadows, which danced and flitted over walls and ceiling as the lantern moved in the hand of the monk. It looked bare, cold and cheerless; exactly the room fitted for men who had passed for ever from the world and given up their lives to fasting and vigil. Yet, as we have said, it was not the secluded refectory of the monks, but the public room set apart for those who from curiosity or some worthier motive visited the monastery; perhaps to spend a day or two within its hospital walls: a hospitality confined to the most meagre and penitential fare. All were privileged to wander about halls and corridors, cloisters and graveyard; to come and go as they would; but if they asked to be admitted to the realms where the celebrated liqueur was made, and to be shown its secrets, an ominous shake of the head with indrawn lips was the sole response. If in the corridors they met a father or brother, the cowl was more closely drawn, nothing was seen but the outline of a pale subdued face and eyes that seemed full of a sad introspection. A Trappist would have murmured “Memento Mori” in passing, but the Carthusians are vowed to silence. At all times there have been those who have braved the ordeal of nights in a cloister, attracted by the sense of mystery attached to every monkish community. Have we not all felt this, even in deserted monasteries that perhaps have not echoed for centuries to the sound of sandalled footsteps and midnight chanting? The element still lurks in the silent corridors, the ghostly atmosphere still hangs about the empty cell; the spirits of dead-and-gone monks haunt every turning and corner, and will do so as long as the stones are left one upon another.
Passing out of the refectory, the brother still guiding, they went rapidly down a long passage which presently led them to the cloisters and little cemetery. All shone out clearly and distinctly in the moonlight, and the pavement was flecked with ghostly shadows. Small wooden crosses marked where the dead lay in solemn peace and repose. The whole atmosphere of the place at this witching hour was weird and wonderful, the scene strangely beautiful and impressive. They lingered only long enough to take it all in, a never-fading recollection; then the brother, who had stood silent and motionless, again moved and led the way.
Once more through one long silent passage and another; then up a short staircase; the light extinguished; a door quietly opened; and they stood in a dark gallery, looking down upon a singular scene. A small, long chapel, a row of monks down each side, cloaked and cowled; each monk had a lantern near him, and these lanterns alone lighted up the place, which was in semi-darkness. Not a ray penetrated to the gallery; the greater part of the chapel was in gloom, and the altar at the far end could only be faintly outlined. The monks themselves were in shadow only relieved by the flickering lanterns. A few only had thrown back their hoods, and the lantern-light threw its pale glare upon cadaverous faces that seemed consumed with an inward fire of penitence or regret.
Nothing human could have looked more ghostly. They were chanting Gregorian music, melancholy and monotonous enough for a dirge — a perpetual funeral hymn, a Nunc Dimittis from the world. Occasionally one of the fathers rose, took up his lantern, flitted like a phantom down the aisle, between the two rows of kneeling monks, and, taking his place at a lectern, would chant for a short time from a book, guided by his own light, and then return to his seat. So it has been for centuries; so it still is to-day; for the Grande Chartreuse, in consideration of the revenue it brings to the Government by the sale of its liqueur, has not been abolished.
After a time Frere Jeronimo turned, opened the door near which he stood, and they passed out of the gallery. The door closed, and the voices of the monks became distant and unreal. The visit was over.
During the whole time Mrs. Wood had felt as one in a dream; and as one in a dream she now passed down the staircase and through the long, cold vaulted corridors. Once more they stood in the entrance hall, the door opened, admitting a flood of moonlight; a pressure of the hand was all that passed between Mr. Wood and Frere Jeronimo, and the door closed upon the midnight visitors. They were in the outer world again, surrounded by the wholesome influence of the sky, the mountai
ns and pine forests, and heaven’s pure air. Then, and then only, Mrs. Wood breathed freely.
“If I had known, I could not have undertaken it!” was all the remonstrance she ever uttered. “Suppose by some chance — such things will happen — we had been discovered?”
“My dear,” returned her husband, “it was impossible. I knew what I was about, and so did Frere Jeronimo, as he calls himself now. You don’t suppose I would have subjected you to the slightest risk. But I was determined that you should see the inside of a monastery, if it could be managed, and hear something of a midnight mass. It seemed a pity you should take this moonlight drive, and not have this at the end of it. Nor was it difficult, as you perceive; and you are not the first of your sex by many who has seen a monastic interior. The happiest man to-night in that building is Fibre Jeronimo at the thought of having rendered me a service. But our visit must be kept a profound secret for his sake. What an existence!”
And Mrs. Wood never knew whether the remembrance gave her pleasure or pain. A nervousness had come upon her in that midnight gallery she never liked to recall. But in after years she would often lose herself in a vision of that wonderful drive, the moonlit mountains and forests, the weird and ghostly silence upon all. For many a long day she could hear the solemn tolling of midnight upon the startled air, and imagine that she saw phantom forms flitting up the mountain passes, in and out of the dense pine forests.
They found the carriage where they had left it, the horses’ heads turned towards St. Laurent. And what Mr. Wood had remarked was quite true: the strange novelty of the scene and situation had driven away fatigue. It is also certain, as we have said, that no one but he, daring in all his thoughts, accustomed to success, to his own will and way, with energy and activity beyond the lot of most men, would have planned such an excursion.