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 malarious
vapour hung thick and heavy. Perhaps in all Italy there is no more
unhealthy spot than is the neighbourhood of Ravenna. The whole country
is a swamp, the water oozes up in the fields at the very foot of its
walls, and the agriculturist has but to sink a bottomless tub in the
ground and he will have a well full to the brim, which no amount of
drawing upon will exhaust. The city itself sits lonely and deserted
amongst her green rice-grounds and swamps; her wide streets are empty,
her churches without worshippers, her aspect mournful and desolate in
the extreme. And yet this was once a mighty city, second only to
imperial Rome in magnitude and importance, the seat of Emperors, and the
cradle of Christianity. The swamps then were not in existence, but the
bright waves of the Adriatic broke close to its walls, and the Roman
galleys lay moored in the port of Classis within bow-shot range. The sea
is far off now, and the rice-grounds stretch away level and flat where
the waves broke. Classis has disappeared, and has left no sign; the
hungry morasses have swallowed every stone and vestige, and the ancient
church of St. Apollinarius alone marks where the place once stood;
while, where the galleys anchored, the thick groves of the pine forest
extend for miles in an unbroken shade. The emperors and exarchs, the
Gothic and Frank monarchs, the conquerors innumerable who in turns
lorded it there; the great family of Polenta, the patrons of art, who
for centuries were her masters;--all these are gone, and their tombs
alone tell that they ever existed: and now it lies forgotten and alone,
visited only for the sake of its early Christian churches, with their
glorious 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 quiet
suited them; but nearly every other person in the streets was an
ecclesiastic, and the clang of the bells calling to prayer from their
picturesque round campaniles never ceased. It was past mid-day, and mass
was over in most of the churches, when two aged women, in black dresses
and thick veils, which entirely concealed their faces, rang at the bell
of the Bishop's palace. The door was opened by a man in a sort of
semi-clerical attire. On giving their names, he bowed respectfully, and
saying "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, he
entered the room; returning in a few seconds, he requested them to
enter, and closed the door behind them. It was a very large room,
although its length was comparatively greater than its width. A range of
bookshelves, extending from the floor to a height of about five feet,
ran completely round it, and upon the dark-panelled walls were hung a
long series of portraits, probably those of the bishop's predecessors in
office. Above, the ceiling was divided by a richly-gilt framework into a
number of irregular partitions, in which were inserted a fine series of
paintings by ancient masters, the subjects of which were not all so
strictly Scriptural as might have been expected in the palace of a
Church dignitary. The light entered by a very large window at the end of
the 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 he
had apparently been sitting reading when his visitors were announced,
stood the Bishop of Ravenna. Although he had returned from mass some
quarter of an hour, he still wore a part of the robes in which he had
officiated. It is probable that as he expected the ladies who had just
entered, and as he was particularly anxious upon this occasion to
impress their minds strongly, he had purposely retained these insignia
of his office to add to the power which he had for many years been
accustomed to exercise over them. Not, indeed, that the bishop needed
any adventitious aids to his personal appearance. He was a tall, stately
figure, but little bent with the weight of the seventy years which had
passed over him. His hair was silver white, but the lines of the face
were still strong and marked. His manner was very variable,--at times
commanding, even harsh; at other moments mild and persuasive. As an
orator he had few equals in his Church,--the varying modulations of his
voice alternately awing and melting his audience. He advanced to meet
the two women, who, their veils raised now, hurried towards him, and
knelt at his feet to receive the blessing which he impressively bestowed
upon them. That done, he raised them, and placed them in chairs facing
the one he himself occupied.
"My dear sisters," he began, in Italian, "I received your note before I
went out this morning, telling me that you were here, and would call
upon me after mass. I was indeed glad to hear of your coming. It is
three years now since I last saw you. It was in a humbler lodging than
this that you then visited me."
"My sister and myself were indeed glad to learn that your services to
the Church had met the reward so richly deserved," the elder of the two
women said.
The bishop waved his hand deprecatingly.
"The Church has far too highly honoured my poor services," he said; "and
indeed I should have been well content to have remained in the sphere in
which I had so long worked; but it was not for me to oppose my will to
that of those who know far better than I can do what is best for our
holy Church. And you, sisters, how has it fared with you these three
years? Not badly in health, I should say, for you are in no way changed
since I saw you last."
"Our health is good, truly, father, but our minds fare but badly. We are
weary of this long struggle, which has ended only in defeat, as our
letters have told you; and now we hope that you will grant the prayer we
have so often made, and allow us to retire into a convent for the rest
of our days."
"But your struggle has not ended in a defeat," the bishop said, ignoring
the request contained in the last part of the speech. "No defeat can
come until the end of a battle. It is true that the news which you send
me is very bad. It is bad that the apostate who wrongfully holds Harmer
Place is still impenitent, still more bad that he should have determined
to will the property which rightfully belongs to the Church away to
other hands. But that I know that in this you are weak, that your hearts
turn towards him who is unworthy of it, I should long since have called
down the anger of an offended God upon him."
"No, no, father," the younger of the two women, who had not as yet
spoken, said; "he is mistaken, grievously mistaken indeed, and we lament
it with tears, while we pray for him continually; but in other respects
he is very good, very kind to all, most of all to us."
"That may be, sister Angela," the bishop said, sternly. "It is easy to
be kind in manner when all goes well with you in the world; it is easier
and more pleasant, but it is mere outside. What avails this if within
all is rotten, if the vital point of all is wanting? Such a man is but a
whited sepulchre. However," he continued, more mildly, "for your sake,
my sisters, the Church has been content to wait; for your sake it has
forborne to use the power of cursing and anathema which is confided to
her, here upon earth; for your sake it is content to remain tranquil
under the privation of the worldly goods which in her hands would have
done such incalculable good, but which are now devoted to far different
purposes."
Here the bishop paused, and there was silence for a little, and then the
elder sister again asked,--
"And our request, father; will you grant us now that we may retire to a
convent? Our task is done here."
"Your task is not done," the bishop said, sternly, "and may not be
relinquished. Our path in this life must be regulated by our duty, not
our wishes. Your duty is plain,--to endeavour to restore to the Church
that property of which it has been unjustly defrauded. No one can
perform this but you; and although at present things have worked but
ill, yet no one can say what may yet occur. You have already, in your
brother's present position, a striking instance of the unexpected way in
which the events of this world occur, and how little we can foresee the
intentions of God. Who can say, therefore, that in time this great wrong
may not be rectified, and that the will of your dead brothers, those
true children of the Church, may not yet be carried into effect? Events
have 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 little
looked to see shrink from your allotted task; I expected better things
of you, sister Cecilia and sister Angela,--you, of all women, having
once put your hands to the plough, I did not think to see turn back from
the labour."
"But we have tried hard, father, very hard for many long years," Cecilia
Harmer said, "and it is only because we find that our work has come to
nothing, that it is over, as it were, that we would gladly retire to die
in peace and quietness. It is eighteen years since we left the convent
we had entered, when the news came of our nephew's death. You bade us
go, and we went. For eighteen years we have worked and hoped. Hope and
work are over now; let us rest."
"It has been so long, father, such weary years, almost without hope all
the while; we are so tired--so, so sick of the world. Oh, father, let us
go back to our convent!" the younger sister almost wailed, plaintively.
"My dear sister," the bishop said, and this time his voice was soft and
persuasive, "we have all our trials; life is no rosy path, but is paved
with the sharp stones of duty; but yet we must all tread it as
unflinchingly as we may, looking for strength where only it can be
found. To you has been confided a great and important mission. You have
the opportunity of doing great things for the Holy Church. You have that
great and glorious object in view, and you are, moreover, filled with
the pious hope of saving a lost soul, and that the soul of your erring
brother. It is a task which the angels themselves might be glad to
perform. 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 errors
shall be passed over. Prayers are offered up that he may be forgiven;
and when the time comes, rest assured that at least no testimony shall
be made against him; and that if the Church cannot bless, it will at
least not curse the mistaken one. Every allowance has been and will be
made for his youth at the time he forsook the right path, and the strong
influences brought to bear upon him; his life has been, as you have
testified in your letters, save as to this grievous falling off, an
exemplary one; and I trust that, when at last stricken with illness, he
will turn back as a wandering sheep to the fold. These, my sisters, are
the inducements--a lost soul to be saved, the Church to be strengthened.
Not often are such inducements offered. But," and here he raised and
hardened his voice, "it is not by inducements only that the Church acts,
but by orders and threatenings. Upon you a certain burden has been
placed, hard to bear, perhaps, but not beyond your strength. From this
task you must not shrink; your private wishes are as nothing in the
balance. You have a duty, and would fain escape it to pass your life in
the way it would please you in a convent; you would say, to serve God
there, 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 active
usefulness traced out for them--not for such as you. Who can tell what
may yet occur? I at first acceded to your request, and allowed you to
retire from the world, until your nephew's death clearly indicated that
Providence had not destined the property of the Church to pass from the
apostate father to the heretic son. Then your path of duty was clear;
and although at present the future looks dark, although your brother is
obstinate in his recusancy, and although he may talk of leaving his
property to others, yet the case is by no means hopeless. He may repent
and turn; this girl whom he has adopted may displease him; he may die
without a will. These and many other contingencies may arise, but until
his death your task cannot be ended."
"But he is younger than we are; he may survive us both," the elder
sister said.
"He may, but he may not; but that does not alter your path of duty," the
bishop answered. "But one thing I will concede. Just at present your
presence in England can do little or no good. You have my consent,
therefore, to your entering a religious house, and remaining there until
you shall hear, from the person whom you have informed me has undertaken
to 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 may
be weeks, months, or even years. When that word comes, you must be
prepared to go instantly back, and to do whatever I, or any one who may
speak in my name to you, may direct you."
"Thank you, dear father," the elder sister said, while even Angela
acquiesced mutely; "to this we are ready, quite ready, to agree. We know
the importance of our success to the Church; we grieve over seeing the
property pass away into the hands of others; and I, for my part, seem to
feel a presentiment that the time will come before long when we shall be
successful. Three times, lately, Robert and Edward have come to me in my
sleep, and have told me to hope on, for that the light will yet shine
through the darkness. You have yourself told me, father, that there is
much in dreams."
"Undoubtedly, sister; the Church has in all ages maintained that at
times revelations are made to the faithful in dreams, and by
apparitions, at which the vulgar mock. And now return to your hotel. You
shall hear from me in the course of the day; and if, as I believe, you
would rather be within reach of my ministration, than go among
strangers, I will speak to the superior of an establishment here, who
will, I am sure, gladly receive you as inmates."
Again the sisters knelt before him, and received his blessing, and then
returned through the quiet streets of Ravenna to their hotel.