Ghost Stories of Old New Orleans

The Singing Capuchin

The Singing Capuchin When it rains in New Orleans—a soft, warm, laughing spring rain that makes the violets in the borders blink and gurgle— there are old people who will tell you that the rain sings. Not just a song of glistening marshes and dripping magnolias and rising bayous, nor a song of dancing feet and frilled skirts and young frolicking. But a song which hearts learn to sing, in the fullness of time—a song which rises like slow smoke from the heavy ashes of experience, fanned by the winds of perplexity. It is a whimsical old tale, and it begins away back in 1745, when New Orleans houses were built of cypress, four to a square, with ditches all around to drain off surface water—to this day there are aged Creoles who refer to a square as an "islet." It was in that year that a new monk came to the Capuchin monastery, and took his turn at celebrating the Mass in the parish Church of Saint-Louis. Pere Dagobert he was, tall and handsome and debonair as any noble at the Court of France. There was a swing of assurance to him which along at the first caused a faint ripple of astonishment among the younger male parishioners, and a sense of apprehension among the older ones. Could it be quite all right, this twinkle in the young priest's eye, as he cast a glance over his flock at the moment of beginning his sermon? There were no reservations among the members of that early congregation. They worshiped God wholeheartedly, entrusting to their priest every secret of their isolated existence. 3 (17*0) 4 Ghost Stories of Old New Orleans This young Capuchin from France—surely he was not a day over twenty-five! ' And yet, when they were girded for stern criticism, there was his friendly hand held out to them at the church door, his fine eyes smiling at them as though he could read every thought in their craniums, his clear voice sending a blessing after them. How could you sit in harsh judgment on a man like that? Oui, he had a voice, to be sure. Even the grandmeres stopped saying their beads when young Pere Dagobert began singing the Mass. The grandperes sighed a little, and wiped their watery eyes. The silly jeunes filles knelt enchanted, their mouths open, rising to their feet like slim young machines at the proper time—fascinated, entranced, hypnotized! And the prim, placid mesdames, those cool-headed young matrons who kept so firm a hand on the reins of their several households, whose judgment was so sound, whose scheme of life was so precise and so beautifully ordered—were they quite as cool and unemotional as they made out? The sunshine was very golden and lovely. The River dappled and shimmered. There were mocking birds in the magnolias and the live oaks. The orange trees were in flower, and the mint and sweet marjoram were fragrant in the borders. There was jasmine pouring over green lattices, and peach blossoms and scarlet pomegranate blooms. The world was a wonderful place, and Sunday was a wonderful day, especially early in the morning . . . when young Pere Dagobert was singing the Mass. But gradually the newness of things wore off, and the handsome Capuchin drew his people gracefully into his way, without their realization or protest. Pere Dagobert was like no one on earth. He was Pere Dagobert. Sometimes he was pastor of the parish Church of SaintLouis , and sometimes he was not. Occasionally one or another of the friars would take the services, while Pere Dagobert lolled luxuriously on the shady galleries of the Capuchin plantation up the river. Returning, he would speak pridefully of the fine growths of indigo and oranges and figs. Did he soil his hands in the rich loam which Hi§ Catholic The Singing Capuchin $ Majesty, Louis XV, and le bon Dieu had conferred upon the Order of Saint-Francis? He did not. He stretched himself lazily in a long chair under the cool vines of the gallery just outside the refectory, and sipped choice wines and French brandy, and coffee strong as lye. When the sun sank, he strolled under the bearded live oaks, singing softly and helping himself now and again from a jeweled snuffbox, like any worldling. Did he fast on Fridays and other regulation seasons? He did...