CHAPTER VI.
THE BISHOP OF RAVENNA.
The autumn sun was blazing down upon the ancient city of Ravenna, and,over the flat pestilential country around it, an unwholesome malariousvapour hung thick and heavy. Perhaps in all Italy there is no moreunhealthy spot than is the neighbourhood of Ravenna. The whole countryis a swamp, the water oozes up in the fields at the very foot of itswalls, and the agriculturist has but to sink a bottomless tub in theground and he will have a well full to the brim, which no amount ofdrawing upon will exhaust. The city itself sits lonely and desertedamongst her green rice-grounds and swamps; her wide streets are empty,her churches without worshippers, her aspect mournful and desolate inthe extreme. And yet this was once a mighty city, second only toimperial Rome in magnitude and importance, the seat of Emperors, and thecradle of Christianity. The swamps then were not in existence, but thebright waves of the Adriatic broke close to its walls, and the Romangalleys lay moored in the port of Classis within bow-shot range. The seais far off now, and the rice-grounds stretch away level and flat wherethe waves broke. Classis has disappeared, and has left no sign; thehungry morasses have swallowed every stone and vestige, and the ancientchurch of St. Apollinarius alone marks where the place once stood;while, where the galleys anchored, the thick groves of the pine forestextend for miles in an unbroken shade. The emperors and exarchs, theGothic and Frank monarchs, the conquerors innumerable who in turnslorded it there; the great family of Polenta, the patrons of art, whofor centuries were her masters;--all these are gone, and their tombsalone tell that they ever existed: and now it lies forgotten and alone,visited only for the sake of its early Christian churches, with theirglorious mosaics.
Perhaps in all Italy there was at that time no city which, for its size,contained so large a number of priests; probably its hush and quietsuited them; but nearly every other person in the streets was anecclesiastic, and the clang of the bells calling to prayer from theirpicturesque round campaniles never ceased. It was past mid-day, and masswas over in most of the churches, when two aged women, in black dressesand thick veils, which entirely concealed their faces, rang at the bellof the Bishop's palace. The door was opened by a man in a sort ofsemi-clerical attire. On giving their names, he bowed respectfully, andsaying "His lordship is expecting you," led the way up some wide stairs,through a long corridor, and then signing to them to wait a moment, heentered the room; returning in a few seconds, he requested them toenter, and closed the door behind them. It was a very large room,although its length was comparatively greater than its width. A range ofbookshelves, extending from the floor to a height of about five feet,ran completely round it, and upon the dark-panelled walls were hung along series of portraits, probably those of the bishop's predecessors inoffice. Above, the ceiling was divided by a richly-gilt framework into anumber of irregular partitions, in which were inserted a fine series ofpaintings by ancient masters, the subjects of which were not all sostrictly Scriptural as might have been expected in the palace of aChurch dignitary. The light entered by a very large window at the end ofthe apartment, the panes of which were of the small diamond pattern.With his back to this window, by the side of a large chair, in which hehad apparently been sitting reading when his visitors were announced,stood the Bishop of Ravenna. Although he had returned from mass somequarter of an hour, he still wore a part of the robes in which he hadofficiated. It is probable that as he expected the ladies who had justentered, and as he was particularly anxious upon this occasion toimpress their minds strongly, he had purposely retained these insigniaof his office to add to the power which he had for many years beenaccustomed to exercise over them. Not, indeed, that the bishop neededany adventitious aids to his personal appearance. He was a tall, statelyfigure, but little bent with the weight of the seventy years which hadpassed over him. His hair was silver white, but the lines of the facewere still strong and marked. His manner was very variable,--at timescommanding, even harsh; at other moments mild and persuasive. As anorator he had few equals in his Church,--the varying modulations of hisvoice alternately awing and melting his audience. He advanced to meetthe two women, who, their veils raised now, hurried towards him, andknelt at his feet to receive the blessing which he impressively bestowedupon them. That done, he raised them, and placed them in chairs facingthe one he himself occupied.
"My dear sisters," he began, in Italian, "I received your note before Iwent out this morning, telling me that you were here, and would callupon me after mass. I was indeed glad to hear of your coming. It isthree years now since I last saw you. It was in a humbler lodging thanthis that you then visited me."
"My sister and myself were indeed glad to learn that your services tothe Church had met the reward so richly deserved," the elder of the twowomen said.
The bishop waved his hand deprecatingly.
"The Church has far too highly honoured my poor services," he said; "andindeed I should have been well content to have remained in the sphere inwhich I had so long worked; but it was not for me to oppose my will tothat of those who know far better than I can do what is best for ourholy Church. And you, sisters, how has it fared with you these threeyears? Not badly in health, I should say, for you are in no way changedsince I saw you last."
"Our health is good, truly, father, but our minds fare but badly. We areweary of this long struggle, which has ended only in defeat, as ourletters have told you; and now we hope that you will grant the prayer wehave so often made, and allow us to retire into a convent for the restof our days."
"But your struggle has not ended in a defeat," the bishop said, ignoringthe request contained in the last part of the speech. "No defeat cancome until the end of a battle. It is true that the news which you sendme is very bad. It is bad that the apostate who wrongfully holds HarmerPlace is still impenitent, still more bad that he should have determinedto will the property which rightfully belongs to the Church away toother hands. But that I know that in this you are weak, that your heartsturn towards him who is unworthy of it, I should long since have calleddown the anger of an offended God upon him."
"No, no, father," the younger of the two women, who had not as yetspoken, said; "he is mistaken, grievously mistaken indeed, and we lamentit with tears, while we pray for him continually; but in other respectshe is very good, very kind to all, most of all to us."
"That may be, sister Angela," the bishop said, sternly. "It is easy tobe kind in manner when all goes well with you in the world; it is easierand more pleasant, but it is mere outside. What avails this if withinall is rotten, if the vital point of all is wanting? Such a man is but awhited sepulchre. However," he continued, more mildly, "for your sake,my sisters, the Church has been content to wait; for your sake it hasforborne to use the power of cursing and anathema which is confided toher, here upon earth; for your sake it is content to remain tranquilunder the privation of the worldly goods which in her hands would havedone such incalculable good, but which are now devoted to far differentpurposes."
Here the bishop paused, and there was silence for a little, and then theelder sister again asked,--
"And our request, father; will you grant us now that we may retire to aconvent? Our task is done here."
"Your task is not done," the bishop said, sternly, "and may not berelinquished. Our path in this life must be regulated by our duty, notour wishes. Your duty is plain,--to endeavour to restore to the Churchthat property of which it has been unjustly defrauded. No one canperform this but you; and although at present things have worked butill, yet no one can say what may yet occur. You have already, in yourbrother's present position, a striking instance of the unexpected way inwhich the events of this world occur, and how little we can foresee theintentions of God. Who can say, therefore, that in time this great wrongmay not be rectified, and that the will of your dead brothers, thosetrue children of the Church, may not yet be carried into effect? Eventshave indeed turned out badly, but there is no ground for losing hope;and you, who have hitherto worked so well for the good cause, I littlelooked to
see shrink from your allotted task; I expected better thingsof you, sister Cecilia and sister Angela,--you, of all women, havingonce put your hands to the plough, I did not think to see turn back fromthe labour."
"But we have tried hard, father, very hard for many long years," CeciliaHarmer said, "and it is only because we find that our work has come tonothing, that it is over, as it were, that we would gladly retire to diein peace and quietness. It is eighteen years since we left the conventwe had entered, when the news came of our nephew's death. You bade usgo, and we went. For eighteen years we have worked and hoped. Hope andwork are over now; let us rest."
"It has been so long, father, such weary years, almost without hope allthe while; we are so tired--so, so sick of the world. Oh, father, let usgo back to our convent!" the younger sister almost wailed, plaintively.
"My dear sister," the bishop said, and this time his voice was soft andpersuasive, "we have all our trials; life is no rosy path, but is pavedwith the sharp stones of duty; but yet we must all tread it asunflinchingly as we may, looking for strength where only it can befound. To you has been confided a great and important mission. You havethe opportunity of doing great things for the Holy Church. You have thatgreat and glorious object in view, and you are, moreover, filled withthe pious hope of saving a lost soul, and that the soul of your erringbrother. It is a task which the angels themselves might be glad toperform. To the Church is given all power here, to bind and to loose,and, for your sakes, I have promised you that your brother's errorsshall be passed over. Prayers are offered up that he may be forgiven;and when the time comes, rest assured that at least no testimony shallbe made against him; and that if the Church cannot bless, it will atleast not curse the mistaken one. Every allowance has been and will bemade for his youth at the time he forsook the right path, and the stronginfluences brought to bear upon him; his life has been, as you havetestified in your letters, save as to this grievous falling off, anexemplary one; and I trust that, when at last stricken with illness, hewill turn back as a wandering sheep to the fold. These, my sisters, arethe inducements--a lost soul to be saved, the Church to be strengthened.Not often are such inducements offered. But," and here he raised andhardened his voice, "it is not by inducements only that the Church acts,but by orders and threatenings. Upon you a certain burden has beenplaced, hard to bear, perhaps, but not beyond your strength. From thistask you must not shrink; your private wishes are as nothing in thebalance. You have a duty, and would fain escape it to pass your life inthe way it would please you in a convent; you would say, to serve Godthere, but He will not be so served; He has given you another sphere,other tasks. The convent is for those who see no path of activeusefulness traced out for them--not for such as you. Who can tell whatmay yet occur? I at first acceded to your request, and allowed you toretire from the world, until your nephew's death clearly indicated thatProvidence had not destined the property of the Church to pass from theapostate father to the heretic son. Then your path of duty was clear;and although at present the future looks dark, although your brother isobstinate in his recusancy, and although he may talk of leaving hisproperty to others, yet the case is by no means hopeless. He may repentand turn; this girl whom he has adopted may displease him; he may diewithout a will. These and many other contingencies may arise, but untilhis death your task cannot be ended."
"But he is younger than we are; he may survive us both," the eldersister said.
"He may, but he may not; but that does not alter your path of duty," thebishop answered. "But one thing I will concede. Just at present yourpresence in England can do little or no good. You have my consent,therefore, to your entering a religious house, and remaining there untilyou shall hear, from the person whom you have informed me has undertakento let you know what is passing there, that some change has taken place,either in his sentiments towards this girl, or in his health. This maybe weeks, months, or even years. When that word comes, you must beprepared to go instantly back, and to do whatever I, or any one who mayspeak in my name to you, may direct you."
"Thank you, dear father," the elder sister said, while even Angelaacquiesced mutely; "to this we are ready, quite ready, to agree. We knowthe importance of our success to the Church; we grieve over seeing theproperty pass away into the hands of others; and I, for my part, seem tofeel a presentiment that the time will come before long when we shall besuccessful. Three times, lately, Robert and Edward have come to me in mysleep, and have told me to hope on, for that the light will yet shinethrough the darkness. You have yourself told me, father, that there ismuch in dreams."
"Undoubtedly, sister; the Church has in all ages maintained that attimes revelations are made to the faithful in dreams, and byapparitions, at which the vulgar mock. And now return to your hotel. Youshall hear from me in the course of the day; and if, as I believe, youwould rather be within reach of my ministration, than go amongstrangers, I will speak to the superior of an establishment here, whowill, I am sure, gladly receive you as inmates."
Again the sisters knelt before him, and received his blessing, and thenreturned through the quiet streets of Ravenna to their hotel.