CHAPTER IV
Father Fabiano
Paolina entered hesitatingly, and starting at the echoes of herfootsteps on the flagstones, wet and green, and slimy from the water,which often in every year lies many inches deep on the floor of thechurch. She advanced towards a small marble altar which stands quiteisolated in the middle of the huge nave. And as she neared it sheperceived, with a violent start, that there was a living figure kneelingat it. So still, so utterly motionless had this solitary worshipperbeen, so little visible in the dim light was the hue of the Franciscan'sfrock that entirely covered him, that Paolina had not imagined thatthere had been any living creature in the church. She saw, however, inthe same instant that she became aware of his presence, that the figurewas that of a Capucin friar, and doubted not that he must be theguardian of the church, whom she had been told she would find there.
The little low altar, of an antiquity coeval with that of the church,which stands in the centre of the nave, is the sole exception to theentire and utter emptiness of the place. There are, indeed, ranged alongthe walls of the side aisles, several ancient marble coffins, curiouslycarved, and with semi-circular covers, which contain the bodies of theearliest Bishops of the See. But the little altar is the sole objectthat breaks the continuity of the open floor. The body of St. Apollinarewas originally laid beneath it, but was in a subsequent age removed to amore specially honourable position under the high altar at the easternend of the church. There is still, however, the slab deeply carved withletters of ancient form, which tells how St. Romauld, the founder of theorder of Camaldoli, praying by night at that altar, saw in a vision St.Apollinare, who bade him leave the world, and become the founder of anorder of hermits.
It was on the same stones that the knees of St. Romauld had pressed,that the Capucin was kneeling, as Paolina walked up the nave of thechurch. The peaked hood of his brown frock was drawn over his head, forthe air of the church was deadly cold, and the fever and ague of many asuccessive autumn had done their work upon him. He was called PadreFabiano, and was said to be, and looked to be, upwards of eighty yearsold. Probably, however, his age was much short of that. For the natureof his dwelling-place was such as to stand in the place of time, in itspower to do worse than time's work on the human frame.
Of course, it can be no matter of question, why a monk is here or isthere, does this or does that. Obedience to the will of his superiors isthe only reason for all that, in the case of other human beings, dependson their own volition. The monk has no volition.
No human being who had, it might be supposed, would consent to live atSt. Apollinare in Classe, with one lay brother for a companion, anddischarge the duties assigned to the Padre Fabiano. But the question whyhis superiors sent him there, was still one that might suggest itself,though it was little likely ever to be answered. And the absence of allanswer to such question was supplied by the gossips of Ravenna, by talesof some terrible crime against ecclesiastical discipline of which thePadre Fabiano had been guilty some sixty years or so ago. Certain it wasthat he had occupied his dreary position for many years; and it waswonderful that fever and ague and the marsh pestilence had not longsince dismissed him to the reward of his long penitence on earth.
He rose from his knees as Paolina approached him, and gravely bent hiscowled head to her in salutation.
"You are early, Signora," he said. "I suppose you are the person forwhom yonder scaffold has been prepared."
"Yes, father, I am the artist for whom leave has been obtained to copysome of your mosaics."
"You will find it cold work, daughter. The church is damp somewhat. Youwould do better, methinks, not to begin your day's work till the sun hashad time to warm the air a little."
"I had no thought, father, of beginning to-day. I have brought nothingwith me. I only thought that I would walk out and have a look at the jobbefore me. It is not so far from the city as I thought."
"It is far enough to be as lonely and as deserted as if it were athousand miles from a human habitation," said the monk, looking into thegirl's face with a grave smile.
"Yet you live here, from year's end to year's end all alone, Padre mio,"said Paolina, timidly.
"Not quite so, daughter," replied he. "Brother Barnaba, a lay brother ofour order, is my companion. But he is ill with a touch of ague atpresent."
"And how early would it be not inconvenient to you, Padre mio, to openthe church for me?" asked Paolina.
"I spoke not of your being early on my account, daughter. If you comehere at sunrise, you will find the gate open, and me where you found methis morning; and if you come at midnight you will find the same."
"At midnight, father!" said Paolina, with a glance of surprise and pity.
"Last October I was down with the fever," returned the monk; "but sincethat time I have not failed one night to be on my knees where theblessed St. Romauld knelt at the stroke of midnight. But I have not hadhis reward;--doubtless because I am not worthy of it."
"What was the reward of St. Romauld, father?" demanded Paolina.
"His midnight prayers were rewarded by the vision of St. Apollinare inglory, who spoke to him, and gave him the counsel he sought. Night afternight, and hour after hour, have I knelt and prayed. And I have heardthe moaning of the wind from the Adriatic among the pines of the forestyonder, and I have seen the great crucifix above the high altar sway andmove in the moonlight when it comes streaming through the southernwindows; and sometimes I have hoped--and prayed--and hoped--but novision came!"
The old monk sighed, and dropped his head upon his bosom; and Paolinagazed at him with a feeling of awe, mingled with a suddenly rising fear,that the tall and emaciated old man, whose light-blue eyes gleamed outfrom beneath his cowl, was not wholly right in his mind. She would havebeen more alarmed had she been aware that the old Padre Fabiano of St.Apollinare was generally considered in Ravenna to be crazed by all thosewho did not, instead of that, deem him a saint.
Before she had gained courage to answer him, however, he lifted hishead, with another deep sigh, and said, in a very quiet and ordinarytone and manner,
"Your scaffold is all prepared for you there, Signora, according to thedirections of the Signor Marchese Ludovico di Castelmare, who broughtwith him an order from the Archbishop's Chancellor. Will you look at it,and see if it is as you wish, and say where you wish to have it placed."
The mosaics in the apse of the centre nave are the most remarkable ofthose that remain at St. Apollinare, though many of the series ofmedallion portraits of the Bishops of the See from the foundation of it,which circle the entire nave, are very curious. Paolina had engaged tocopy two or three of the most remarkable of these; but she intended tobegin her work by attacking the larger figures in the apse. And thescaffolding had been placed there on the southern side.
"I think that is just where I should wish to have it," said Paolina,looking up at the vault. "If I may, I will go up and see whether it isnear enough to the figure I have to copy."
"Do so, my daughter. It looks a great height, but I have no doubt thatit is quite safe. The Signor Marchese was very particular in seeing toit himself. See, I will go up first to give you courage."
And so saying, the old man with a slow but firm step began to ascend theladder of the scaffolding. And when he had reached the platform at thetop, Paolina, more used to such climbing than he, and who in truth hadfelt no alarm whatever, followed him with a lighter step.
"Yes, this will do nicely, Padre mio!" she said, when she had reachedthe top; "it is placed just where it should be, and this large windowgives just all the light I want. It is a much better light than I had towork by in San Vitale."
"I never was in San Vitale," replied the monk. "I have been herefourteen years next Easter, and I have never once been in Ravenna in allthat time, nor, indeed, further away from this church than just a strollwithin the edge of the Pineta."
"That is the Pineta we see from this window, of course, Padre mio. Whata lovely view of it! And how beautiful it is! Where do
es that road goto, Padre? To Venice?"
"No, figliuola mia. It goes in exactly the opposite direction,southwards, to Cervia. The Venice road lies away to the northward,through the wood that you can see on the furthest horizon. It was bythat road I came to Ravenna. I shall never travel it again."
"From Venice, father? Did you come from Venice?" asked Paolina, eagerly.
"From La bella Venezia I came, daughter--fourteen years ago. And once inevery month I indulge myself by going to the top of our tower--you can'tsee it from this window, it is on the northern side of the church--andlooking out over the north Pineta as far as I can see towards it. MayGod and St. Mark grant that no tempter ever offer me the sight of Veniceagain at the price of my soul's salvation! I shall never, never seeVenice more!"
"You must be a Venetian, father, surely, to love it so well?" saidPaolina, after a minute or two of silence.
"A Venetian I am--or was, daughter; as I well knew you were when youfirst spoke. Might I ask your name?"
"Paolina Foscarelli, father. I am an orphan," said she, softly.
"No!" said the monk, shaking his head, with a deep sigh, and lookingearnestly into the girl's face, but without any appearance ofsurprise,--"No; you are not Paolina Foscarelli."
"Indeed, father, that is my name," said Paolina, again recurring to herdoubt whether the monk was altogether of sound mind, and speaking veryquietly and gently; "my father's name was Foscarelli, and the baptismalname of my mother was the same as mine--Paolina."
"Jacopo and Paolina Foscarelli, who lived in the little house at thecorner of the Campo di San Pietro and Paolo," rejoined the monk,speaking in a dreamy far-away kind of manner.
"I have truly heard that they lived there," said she; "but I was onlyfour years old when they died, one very soon after the other, and sincethat I have lived with a friend of my mother's, Signora Steno."
"The child of Jacopo and Paolina Foscarelli," said the monk, in the samedreamy tone, and pressing his thin emaciated hands before his eyes as hespoke; "and you have come here to find me?"
"Nay, father, not to find you. I knew not that the padre guardiano ofSt. Apollinare was a Venetian. I came only to copy these pictures for myemployer."
"Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful are the ways of God! PaolinaFoscarelli, daughter of Jacopo and Paolina, I Fabiano---"
"Look, padre min!" cried Paolina, suddenly and sharply, turning verypale, and grasping the parapet rung of the scaffolding as she spoke,"look! in the bagarino there on the road, just passing the church;certainly that must be the Signor Marchese Ludovico!--And with him--thatlady?--yes, it is--it certainly is La Lalli--the prima donna, who hasbeen singing at the theatre this Carnival."
She pointed as she spoke to a bagarino that had just passed the westernfront of the church, and was now moving along the bit of road visiblefrom the high window at which the monk and Paolina were standing.
The tone in which she spoke caused the friar to look at her first,before turning his glance in the direction to which she pointed. She waspale, and evidently much moved, after a fashion that, taken togetherwith the nature of the objects to which she drew his attention, and thefact that it was the Marchese Ludovico who had come to St. Apollinare tomake the arrangements needed for the artist's work there, left butlittle doubt in the old man's mind as to the nature of her emotion.
He looked shrewdly and earnestly into her face for a moment; and thenturning his eyes to the stretch of road below, answered her:
"Certainly, my daughter, that is the Marchese Ludovico. The lady I neversaw before as far as I am aware. They are going towards Cervia."
"No! See, father! They are turning off from the road to the left. Wheredoes that turning to the left go?"
"Only into the forest, daughter,--or to that little farm-house you seethere just at the edge of it. You may get as far as the sea-shorethrough the Pineta; but the road is very bad for a carriage."
"To the sea-shorn!" said Paolina, dreamily.
"Yes, by keeping the track due east. The shore is not above a couple ofmiles away. But there is no port, or even landing-place there. And thereare many tracks through the forest. You may get to Cervia, too, thatway. But it is hardly likely that any one would leave the road to find alonger way by worse ways through the forest. More likely the object ofthe Signor Marchese is only to show the lady the famous Pineta."
Paolina, while the monk was thus speaking, had kept her eyes fixed uponthe little carriage, which was making its way along a by-roadconstructed on the top of a dike by the side of one of the numerousstreams that intersect all the district; and she continued to watch ittill she saw it stop at the entrance to the yard of the littlefarmhouse, to which the monk had called her attention. She then sawLudovico and his companion descend from the carriage, and leave itapparently in the charge of a man, who came out from the farm-yard. Andthey then left the spot where they had alighted on foot, and in anotherminute were no longer visible from the window at which Paolina and themonk stood.
"How long a walk is it, father, from here into the wood?" asked Paolina,musingly.
"It is a very short distance, daughter. There is a footpath practicablein dry weather like this, a good deal nearer than the road we saw thebagarino follow. You might get to the edge of the Pineta in that way inless than ten minutes."
"And would it be possible to return to the city that way, instead ofcoming back to the road?" enquired Paolina.
"Yes; for a part of the way there is a path along the border of thewood. Then you must fall back into the road. The way lies by the gate ofthe farm-house."
"I think I will go back to the city now, father. This scaffold is justwhere it will suit me. And to-morrow, a little later perhaps than this, Ihope to come and begin my work. I shall have to come in a carriage, atall events, the first time, because of bringing my things. I am so muchobliged to you, father, for your kindness. And I am so glad that you area Venetian. I little thought to find a fellow-countryman here."
"Or I to see this morning a Venetian--much less--but we will speak moreof that another time--if you will permit an old man sometimes to speakto you when you are at your work?"
"Ma come--I can talk while I work. It will be a real pleasure to me tohear the dear home tongue. I will go down the ladder first. I am not theleast afraid."
So Paolina left the church, and the monk stood at the yawning ever-openwestern door, looking after her as she took the path he had indicated toher towards the forest.
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