The Bishop of Orvietto lingered last, to confer with Rienzi, who awaited
him in the recesses of the Lateran. Raimond had the penetration not
to be seduced into believing that the late scene could effect any
reformation amongst the nobles, heal their divisions, or lead them
actively against the infestors of the Campagna. But, as he detailed to
Rienzi all that had occurred subsequent to the departure of that hero of
the scene, he concluded with saying:--
“You will perceive from this, one good result will be produced: the
first armed dissension--the first fray among the nobles--will seem like
a breach of promise; and, to the people and to the Pope, a reasonable
excuse for despairing of all amendment amongst the Barons,--an excuse
which will sanction the efforts of the first, and the approval of the
last.”
“For such a fray we shall not long wait,” answered Rienzi.
“I believe the prophecy,” answered Raimond, smiling; “at present all
runs well. Go you with us homeward?”
“Nay, I think it better to tarry here till the crowd is entirely
dispersed; for if they were to see me, in their present excitement, they
might insist on some rash and hasty enterprise. Besides, my Lord,” added
Rienzi, “with an ignorant people, however honest and enthusiastic, this
rule must be rigidly observed--stale not your presence by custom. Never
may men like me, who have no external rank, appear amongst the crowd,
save on those occasions when the mind is itself a rank.”
“That is true, as you have no train,” answered Raimond, thinking of his
own well-liveried menials. “Adieu, then! we shall meet soon.”
“Ay, at Philippi, my Lord. Reverend Father, your blessing!”
It was some time subsequent to this conference that Rienzi quitted the
sacred edifice. As he stood on the steps of the church--now silent and
deserted--the hour that precedes the brief twilight of the South lent
its magic to the view. There he beheld the sweeping arches of the mighty
Aqueduct extending far along the scene, and backed by the distant and
purpled hills. Before--to the right--rose the gate which took its
Roman name from the Coelian Mount, at whose declivity it yet stands.
Beyond--from the height of the steps--he saw the villages scattered
through the grey Campagna, whitening in the sloped sun; and in the
furthest distance the mountain shadows began to darken over the roofs
of the ancient Tusculum, and the second Alban (The first Alba--the Alba
Longa--whose origin Fable ascribes to Ascanius, was destroyed by Tullus
Hostilius. The second Alba, or modern Albano, was erected on the plain
below the ancient town, a little before the time of Nero.) city, which
yet rises, in desolate neglect, above the vanished palaces of Pompey and
Domitian.
The Roman stood absorbed and motionless for some moments, gazing on the
scene, and inhaling the sweet balm of the mellow air. It was the soft
springtime--the season of flowers, and green leaves, and whispering
winds--the pastoral May of Italia’s poets: but hushed was the voice of
song on the banks of the Tiber--the reeds gave music no more. From the
sacred Mount in which Saturn held his home, the Dryad and the Nymph, and
Italy’s native Sylvan, were gone for ever. Rienzi’s original nature--its
enthusiasm--its veneration for the past--its love of the beautiful and
the great--that very attachment to the graces and pomp which give so
florid a character to the harsh realities of life, and which power
afterwards too luxuriantly developed; the exuberance of thoughts
and fancies, which poured itself from his lips in so brilliant and
inexhaustible a flood--all bespoke those intellectual and imaginative
biasses, which, in calmer times, might have raised him in literature to
a more indisputable eminence than that to which action can ever lead;
and something of such consciousness crossed his spirit at that moment.
“Happier had it been for me,” thought he, “had I never looked out from
my own heart upon the world. I had all within me that makes contentment
of the present, because I had that which can make me forget the present.
I had the power to re-people--to create: the legends and dreams of
old--the divine faculty of verse, in which the beautiful superfluities
of the heart can pour themselves--these were mine! Petrarch chose
wisely for himself! To address the world, but from without the world;
to persuade--to excite--to command,--for these are the aim and glory
of ambition;--but to shun its tumult, and its toil! His the quiet cell
which he fills with the shapes of beauty--the solitude, from which he
can banish the evil times whereon we are fallen, but in which he can
dream back the great hearts and the glorious epochs of the past.
For me--to what cares I am wedded! to what labours I am bound! what
instruments I must use! what disguises I must assume! to tricks and
artifice I must bow my pride! base are my enemies--uncertain my friends!
and verily, in this struggle with blinded and mean men, the soul itself
becomes warped and dwarfish. Patient and darkling, the Means creep
through caves and the soiling mire, to gain at last the light which is
the End.”
In these reflections there was a truth, the whole gloom and sadness of
which the Roman had not yet experienced. However august be the object
we propose to ourselves, every less worthy path we take to insure it
distorts the mental sight of our ambition; and the means, by degrees,
abase the end to their own standard. This is the true misfortune of a
man nobler than his age--that the instruments he must use soil himself:
half he reforms his times; but half, too, the times will corrupt the
reformer. His own craft undermines his safety;--the people, whom he
himself accustoms to a false excitement, perpetually crave it; and when
their ruler ceases to seduce their fancy, he falls their victim. The
reform he makes by these means is hollow and momentary--it is swept away
with himself: it was but the trick--the show--the wasted genius of a
conjuror: the curtain falls--the magic is over--the cup and balls are
kicked aside. Better one slow step in enlightenment,--which being made
by the reason of a whole people, cannot recede,--than these sudden
flashes in the depth of the general night, which the darkness, by
contrast doubly dark, swallows up everlastingly again!
As, slowly and musingly, Rienzi turned to quit the church, he felt a
light touch upon his shoulder.
“Fair evening to you, Sir Scholar,” said a frank voice.
“To you, I return the courtesy,” answered Rienzi, gazing upon the person
who thus suddenly accosted him, and in whose white cross and martial
bearing the reader recognises the Knight of St. John.
“You know me not, I think?” said Montreal; “but that matters little,
we may easily commence our acquaintance: for me, indeed, I am fortunate
enough to have made myself already acquainted with you.”
“Possibly we have met elsewhere, at the house of one of those nobles to
whose rank you seem to belong?”
“Belong! no, not exactly!” returned Montreal, proudly. “Highborn and
great as your magnates deem themselves, I would not, while the mountains
can yield one free spot for my footstep, change my place in the world’s
many grades for theirs. To the brave, there is but one sort of plebeian,
and that is the coward. But you, sage Rienzi,” continued the Knight, in
a gayer tone, “I have seen in more stirring scenes than the hall of a
Roman Baron.”
Rienzi glanced keenly at Montreal, who met his eye with an open brow.
“Yes!” resumed the Knight--“but let us walk on; suffer me for a few
moments to be your companion. Yes! I have listened to you--the other
eve, when you addressed the populace, and today, when you rebuked the
nobles; and at midnight, too, not long since, when (your ear, fair
Sir!--lower, it is a secret!)--at midnight, too, when you administered
the oath of brotherhood to the bold conspirators, on the ruined
Aventine!”
As he concluded, the Knight drew himself aside to watch, upon Rienzi’s
countenance, the effect which his words might produce.
A slight tremor passed over the frame of the conspirator--for so, unless
the conspiracy succeed, would Rienzi be termed, by others than Montreal:
he turned abruptly round to confront the Knight, and placed his hand
involuntarily on his sword, but presently relinquished the grasp.
“Ha!” said the Roman, slowly, “if this be true, fall Rome! There is
treason even among the free!”
“No treason, brave Sir!” answered Montreal; “I possess thy secret--but
none have betrayed it to me.”
“And is it as friend or foe that thou hast learned it?”
“That as it may be,” returned Montreal, carelessly. “Enough, at present,
that I could send thee to the gibbet, if I said but the word,--to show
my power to be thy foe; enough, that I have not done it, to prove my
disposition to be thy friend.”
“Thou mistakest, stranger! that man does not live who could shed my
blood in the streets of Rome! The gibbet! Little dost thou know of the
power which surrounds Rienzi.”
These words were said with some scorn and bitterness; but, after a
moment’s pause, Rienzi resumed, more calmly:--
“By the cross on thy mantle, thou belongest to one of the proudest
orders of knighthood: thou art a foreigner, and a cavalier. What
generous sympathies can convert thee into a friend of the Roman people?”
“Cola di Rienzi,” returned Montreal, “the sympathies that unite us are
those which unite all men who, by their own efforts, rise above the
herd. True, I was born noble--but powerless and poor: at my beck now
move, from city to city, the armed instruments of authority: my breath
is the law of thousands. This empire I have not inherited; I won it by a
cool brain and a fearless arm. Know me for Walter de Montreal; is it
not a name that speaks a spirit kindred to thine own? Is not ambition
a common sentiment between us? I do not marshal soldiers for gain only,
though men have termed me avaricious--nor butcher peasants for the
love of blood, though men have called me cruel. Arms and wealth are
the sinews of power; it is power that I desire;--thou, bold Rienzi,
strugglest thou not for the same? Is it the rank breath of the
garlic-chewing mob--is it the whispered envy of schoolmen--is it the
hollow mouthing of boys who call thee patriot and freeman, words to
trick the ear--that will content thee? These are but thy instruments to
power. Have I spoken truly?”
Whatever distaste Rienzi might conceive at this speech he masked
effectually. “Certes,” said he, “it would be in vain, renowned Captain,
to deny that I seek but that power of which thou speakest. But what
union can there be between the ambition of a Roman citizen and the
leader of paid armies that take their cause only according to their
hire--today, fight for liberty in Florence--tomorrow, for tyranny in
Bologna? Pardon my frankness; for in this age that is deemed no disgrace
which I impute to thy armies. Valour and generalship are held to
consecrate any cause they distinguish; and he who is the master of
princes, may be well honoured by them as their equal.”
“We are entering into a less deserted quarter of the town,” said the
Knight; “is there no secret place--no Aventine--in this direction, where
we can confer?”
“Hush!” replied Rienzi, cautiously looking round. “I thank thee, noble
Montreal, for the hint; nor may it be well for us to be seen together.
Wilt thou deign to follow me to my home, by the Palatine Bridge? (The
picturesque ruins shown at this day as having once been the habitation
of the celebrated Cola di Rienzi, were long asserted by the antiquarians
to have belonged to another Cola or Nicola. I believe, however, that the
dispute has been lately decided: and, indeed, no one but an antiquary,
and that a Roman one, could suppose that there were two Colas to
whom the inscription on the house would apply.) there we can converse
undisturbed and secure.”
“Be it so,” said Montreal, falling back.
With a quick and hurried step, Rienzi passed through the town, in which,
wherever he was discovered, the scattered citizens saluted him with
marked respect; and, turning through a labyrinth of dark alleys, as
if to shun the more public thoroughfares, arrived at length at a broad
space near the river. The first stars of night shone down on the
ancient temple of Fortuna Virilis, which the chances of Time had
already converted into the Church of St. Mary of Egypt; and facing the
twice-hallowed edifice stood the house of Rienzi.
“It is a fair omen to have my mansion facing the ancient Temple of
Fortune,” said Rienzi, smiling, as Montreal followed the Roman into the
chamber I have already described.
“Yet Valour need never pray to Fortune,” said the Knight; “the first
commands the last.”
Long was the conference between these two men, the most enterprising of
their age. Meanwhile, let me make the reader somewhat better acquainted
with the character and designs of Montreal, than the hurry of events has
yet permitted him to become.
Walter de Montreal, generally known in the chronicles of Italy by the
designation of Fra Moreale, had passed into Italy--a bold adventurer,
worthy to become a successor of those roving Normans (from one of the
most eminent of whom, by the mother’s side, he claimed descent) who
had formerly played so strange a part in the chivalric errantry of
Europe,--realizing the fables of Amadis and Palmerin--(each knight,
in himself a host), winning territories and oversetting thrones;
acknowledging no laws save those of knighthood; never confounding
themselves with the tribe amongst which they settled; incapable of
becoming citizens, and scarcely contented with aspiring to be kings.
At that time, Italy was the India of all those well-born and penniless
adventurers who, like Montreal, had inflamed their imagination by the
ballads and legends of the Roberts and the Godfreys of old; who had
trained themselves from youth to manage the barb, and bear, through the
heats of summer, the weight of arms; and who, passing into am effeminate
and distracted land, had only to exhibit bravery in order to command
wealth. It was considered no disgrace for some powerful chieftain to
collect together a band of these hardy aliens,--to subsist amidst the
mountains on booty and pillage,--to make war upon tyrant or republic, as
interest suggested, and to sell, at enormous stipends, the immunities
of peace. Sometimes they hired themselves to one state to protect it
against the other; and the next year beheld them in the field against
their former employers. These bands of Northern stipendiaries assumed,
therefore, a civil, as well as a military, importance; they were as
indispensable to the safety of one state as they were destructive to the
security of all. But five years before the present date, the Florentine
Republic had hired the services of a celebrated leader of these
foreign soldiers,--Gualtier, duke of Athens. By acclamation, the people
themselves had elected that warrior to the state of prince, or tyrant,
of their state; before the year was completed, they revolted against his
cruelties, or rather against his exactions,--for, despite all the boasts
of their historians, they felt an attack on their purses more deeply
than an assault on their liberties,--they had chased him from their
city, and once more proclaimed themselves a Republic. The bravest, and
most favoured of the soldiers of the Duke of Athens had been Walter de
Montreal; he had shared the rise and the downfall of his chief. Amongst
popular commotions, the acute and observant mind of the Knight of St.
John had learned no mean civil experience; he had learned to sound a
people--to know how far they would endure--to construe the signs of
revolution--to be a reader of the times. After the downfall of the Duke
of Athens, as a Free Companion, in other words a Freebooter, Montreal
had augmented under the fierce Werner his riches and his renown. At
present without employment worthy his spirit of enterprise and intrigue,
the disordered and chiefless state of Rome had attracted him thither. In
the league he had proposed to Colonna--in the suggestions he had made
to the vanity of that Signor--his own object was to render his services
indispensable--to constitute himself the head of the soldiery whom his
proposed designs would render necessary to the ambition of the Colonna,
could it be excited--and, in the vastness of his hardy genius for
enterprise, he probably foresaw that the command of such a force would
be, in reality, the command of Rome;--a counter-revolution might
easily unseat the Colonna and elect himself to the principality. It
had sometimes been the custom of Roman, as of other Italian, States, to
prefer for a chief magistrate, under the title of Podesta, a foreigner
to a native. And Montreal hoped that he might possibly become to Rome
what the Duke of Athens had been to Florence--an ambition he knew well
enough to be above the gentleman of Provence, but not above the leader
of an army. But, as we have already seen, his sagacity perceived at once
that he could not move the aged head of the patricians to those hardy
and perilous measures which were necessary to the attainment of supreme
power. Contented with his present station, and taught moderation by his
age and his past reverses, Stephen Colonna was not the man to risk a
scaffold from the hope to gain a throne. The contempt which the old
patrician professed for the people, and their idol, also taught the
deep-thinking Montreal that, if the Colonna possessed not the ambition,
neither did he possess the policy, requisite for empire. The Knight
found his caution against Rienzi in vain, and he turned to Rienzi
himself. Little cared the Knight of St. John which party were
uppermost--prince or people--so that his own objects were attained; in
fact, he had studied the humours of a people, not in order to serve, but
to rule them; and, believing all men actuated by a similar ambition, he
imagined that, whether a demagogue or a patrician reigned, the people
were equally to be victims, and that the cry of “Order” on the one hand,
or of “Liberty” on the other, was but the mere pretext by which the
energy of one man sought to justify his ambition over the herd. Deeming
himself one of the most honourable spirits of his age, he believed in
no honour which he was unable to feel; and, sceptic in virtue, was
therefore credulous of vice.
But the boldness of his own nature inclined him, perhaps, rather to
the adventurous Rienzi than to the self-complacent Colonna; and he
considered that to the safety of the first he and his armed minions
might be even more necessary than to that of the last. At present
his main object was to learn from Rienzi the exact strength which he
possessed, and how far he was prepared for any actual revolt.
The acute Roman took care, on the one hand, how he betrayed to the
Knight more than he yet knew, or he disgusted him by apparent reserve on
the other. Crafty as Montreal was, he possessed not that wonderful art
of mastering others which was so preeminently the gift of the eloquent
and profound Rienzi, and the difference between the grades of their
intellect was visible in their present conference.
“I see,” said Rienzi, “that amidst all the events which have lately
smiled upon my ambition, none is so favourable as that which assures
me of your countenance and friendship. In truth, I require some
armed alliance. Would you believe it, our friends, so bold in private
meetings, yet shrink from a public explosion. They fear not the
patricians, but the soldiery of the patricians; for it is the remarkable
feature in the Italian courage, that they have no terror for each other,
but the casque and sword of a foreign hireling make them quail like
deer.”
“They will welcome gladly, then, the assurance that such hirelings shall
be in their service--not against them; and as much as you desire for the
revolution, so many shall you receive.”
“But the pay and the conditions,” said Rienzi, with his dry, sarcastic
smile. “How shall we arrange the first, and what shall we hold to be the
second?”
“That is an affair easily concluded,” replied Montreal. “For me, to
tell you frankly, the glory and excitement of so great a revulsion would
alone suffice. I like to feel myself necessary to the completion of high
events. For my men it is otherwise. Your first act will be to seize the
revenues of the state. Well, whatever they amount to, the product of
the first year, great or small, shall be divided amongst us. You the one
half, I and my men the other half.”
“It is much,” said Rienzi, gravely, and as if in calculation,--“but Rome
cannot purchase her liberties too dearly. So be it then decided.”
“Amen!--and now, then, what is your force? for these eighty or a hundred
signors of the Aventine,--worthy men, doubtless,--scarce suffice for a
revolt!”
Gazing cautiously round the room, the Roman placed his hand on
Montreal’s arm--
“Between you and me, it requires time to cement it. We shall be unable
to stir these five weeks. I have too rashly anticipated the period. The
corn is indeed cut, but I must now, by private adjuration and address,
bind up the scattered sheaves.”
“Five weeks,” repeated Montreal; “that is far longer than I
anticipated.”
“What I desire,” continued Rienzi, fixing his searching eyes upon
Montreal, “is, that, in the meanwhile, we should preserve a profound
calm,--we should remove every suspicion. I shall bury myself in my
studies, and convoke no more meetings.”
“Well--”
“And for yourself, noble Knight, might I venture to dictate, I would
pray you to mix with the nobles--to profess for me and for the people
the profoundest contempt--and to contribute to rock them yet more in the
cradle of their false security. Meanwhile, you could quietly withdraw as
many of the armed mercenaries as you influence from Rome, and leave the
nobles without their only defenders. Collecting these hardy warriors in
the recesses of the mountains, a day’s march from hence, we may be able
to summon them at need, and they shall appear at our gates, and in the
midst of our rising--hailed as deliverers by the nobles, but in reality
allies with the people. In the confusion and despair of our enemies at
discovering their mistake, they will fly from the city.”
“And its revenues and its empire will become the appanage of the hardy
soldier and the intriguing demagogue!” cried Montreal, with a laugh.
“Sir Knight, the division shall be equal.”
“Agreed!”
“And now, noble Montreal, a flask of our best vintage!” said Rienzi,
changing his tone.
“You know the Provencals,” answered Montreal, gaily.
The wine was brought, the conversation became free and familiar, and
Montreal, whose craft was acquired, and whose frankness was natural,
unwittingly committed his secret projects and ambition more nakedly to
Rienzi than he had designed to do. They parted apparently the best of
friends.
“By the way,” said Rienzi, as they drained the last goblet. “Stephen
Colonna betakes him to Corneto, with a convoy of corn, on the 19th.
Will it not be as well if you join him? You can take that opportunity to
whisper discontent to the mercenaries that accompany him on his mission,
and induce them to our plan.”
“I thought of that before,” returned Montreal; “it shall be done. For
the present, farewell!”
“‘His barb, and his sword,
And his lady, the peerless,
Are all that are prized
By Orlando the fearless.
“‘Success to the Norman,
The darling of story;
His glory is pleasure--
His pleasure is glory.’”
Chanting this rude ditty as he resumed his mantle, the Knight waved his
hand to Rienzi, and departed.
Rienzi watched the receding form of his guest with an expression of hate
and fear upon his countenance. “Give that man the power,” he muttered,
“and he may be a second Totila. (Innocent VI., some years afterwards,
proclaimed Montreal to be worse than Totila.) Methinks I see, in his
griping and ferocious nature,--through all the gloss of its gaiety and
knightly grace,--the very personification of our old Gothic foes. I
trust I have lulled him! Verily, two suns could no more blaze in one
hemisphere, than Walter de Montreal and Cola di Rienzi live in the same
city. The star-seers tell us that we feel a secret and uncontrollable
antipathy to those whose astral influences destine them to work us evil;
such antipathy do I feel for yon fair-faced homicide. Cross not my path,
Montreal!--cross not my path!”
With this soliloquy Rienzi turned within, and, retiring to his
apartment, was seen no more that night.