The thread of my story transports us back to Rome. It was in a small
chamber, in a ruinous mansion by the base of Mount Aventine, that a
young boy sate, one evening, with a woman of a tall and stately form,
but somewhat bowed both by infirmity and years. The boy was of a fair
and comely presence; and there was that in his bold, frank, undaunted
carriage, which made him appear older than he was.
The old woman, seated in the recess of the deep window, was apparently
occupied with a Bible that lay open on her knees; but ever and anon she
lifted her eyes, and gazed on her young companion with a sad and anxious
expression.
“Dame,” said the boy, who was busily employed in hewing out a sword of
wood, “I would you had seen the show today. Why, every day is a show
at Rome now! It is show enough to see the Tribune himself on his white
steed--(oh, it is so beautiful!)--with his white robes all studded with
jewels. But today, as I have just been telling you, the Lady Nina took
notice of me, as I stood on the stairs of the Capitol: you know, dame, I
had donned my best blue velvet doublet.”
“And she called you a fair boy, and asked if you would be her little
page; and this has turned thy brain, silly urchin that thou art--”
“But the words are the least: if you saw the Lady Nina, you would own
that a smile from her might turn the wisest head in Italy. Oh, how I
should like to serve the Tribune! All the lads of my age are mad for
him. How they will stare, and envy me at school tomorrow! You know too,
dame, that though I was not always brought up at Rome, I am Roman. Every
Roman loves Rienzi.”
“Ay, for the hour: the cry will soon change. This vanity of thine,
Angelo, vexes my old heart. I would thou wert humbler.”
“Bastards have their own name to win,” said the boy, colouring deeply.
“They twit me in the teeth, because I cannot say who my father and
mother were.”
“They need not,” returned the dame, hastily. “Thou comest of noble blood
and long descent, though, as I have told thee often, I know not the
exact names of thy parents. But what art thou shaping that tough sapling
of oak into?”
“A sword, dame, to assist the Tribune against the robbers.”
“Alas! I fear me, like all those who seek power in Italy, he is more
likely to enlist robbers than to assail them.”
“Why, la you there, you live so shut up, that you know and hear nothing,
or you would have learned that even that fiercest of all the robbers,
Fra Moreale, has at length yielded to the Tribune, and fled from his
castle, like a rat from a falling house.”
“How, how!” cried the dame; “what say you? Has this plebeian, whom you
call the Tribune--has he boldly thrown the gage to that dread warrior?
and has Montreal left the Roman territory?”
“Ay, it is the talk of the town. But Fra Moreale seems as much a bugbear
to you as to e’er a mother in Rome. Did he ever wrong you, dame?”
“Yes!” exclaimed the old woman, with so abrupt a fierceness, that even
that hardy boy was startled.
“I wish I could meet him, then,” said he, after a pause, as he
flourished his mimic weapon.
“Now Heaven forbid! He is a man ever to be shunned by thee, whether for
peace or war. Say again this good Tribune holds no terms with the Free
Lances.”
“Say it again--why all Rome knows it.”
“He is pious, too, I have heard; and they do bruit it that he sees
visions, and is comforted from above,” said the woman, speaking to
herself. Then turning to Angelo, she continued,--“Thou wouldst like
greatly to accept the Lady Nina’s proffer?”
“Ah, that I should, dame, if you could spare me.”
“Child,” replied the matron, solemnly, “my sand is nearly run, and my
wish is to see thee placed with one who will nurture thy young years,
and save thee from a life of licence. That done, I may fulfil my vow,
and devote the desolate remnant of my years to God. I will think more
of this, my child. Not under such a plebeian’s roof shouldst thou have
lodged, nor from a stranger’s board been fed: but at Rome, my last
relative worthy of the trust is dead;--and at the worst, obscure honesty
is better than gaudy crime. Thy spirit troubles me already. Back, my
child; I must to my closet, and watch and pray.”
Thus saying, the old woman, repelling the advance, and silencing the
muttered and confused words, of the boy--half affectionate as they were,
yet half tetchy and wayward--glided from the chamber.
The boy looked abstractedly at the closing door, and then said to
himself--“The dame is always talking riddles: I wonder if she know more
of me than she tells, or if she is any way akin to me. I hope not, for
I don’t love her much; nor, for that matter, anything else. I wish she
would place me with the Tribune’s lady, and then we’ll see who among the
lads will call Angelo Villani bastard.”
With that the boy fell to work again at his sword with redoubled vigour.
In fact, the cold manner of this female, his sole nurse, companion,
substitute for parent, had repelled his affections without subduing his
temper; and though not originally of evil disposition, Angelo Villani
was already insolent, cunning, and revengeful; but not, on the other
hand, without a quick susceptibility to kindness as to affront, a
natural acuteness of understanding, and a great indifference to fear.
Brought up in quiet affluence rather than luxury, and living much with
his protector, whom he knew but by the name of Ursula, his bearing was
graceful, and his air that of the well-born. And it was his carriage,
perhaps, rather than his countenance, which, though handsome, was more
distinguished for intelligence than beauty, which had attracted the
notice of the Tribune’s bride. His education was that of one reared for
some scholastic profession. He was not only taught to read and write,
but had been even instructed in the rudiments of Latin. He did not,
however, incline to these studies half so fondly as to the games of his
companions, or the shows or riots in the street, into all of which
he managed to thrust himself, and from which he had always the happy
dexterity to return safe and unscathed.
The next morning Ursula entered the young Angelo’s chamber. “Wear again
thy blue doublet today,” said she; “I would have thee look thy best.
Thou shalt go with me to the palace.”
“What, today?” cried the boy joyfully, half leaping from his bed.
“Dear dame Ursula, shall I really then belong to the train of the great
Tribune’s lady?”
“Yes; and leave the old woman to die alone! Your joy becomes you,--but
ingratitude is in your blood. Ingratitude! Oh, it has burned my heart
into ashes--and yours, boy, can no longer find a fuel in the dry
crumbling cinders.”
“Dear dame, you are always so biting. You know you said you wished to
retire into a convent, and I was too troublesome a charge for you. But
you delight in rebuking me, justly or unjustly.”
“My task is over,” said Ursula, with a deep-drawn sigh.
The boy answered not; and the old woman retired with a heavy step,
and, it may be, a heavier heart. When he joined her in their common
apartment, he observed what his joy had previously blinded him to--that
Ursula did not wear her usual plain and sober dress. The gold chain,
rarely assumed then by women not of noble birth--though, in the
other sex, affected also by public functionaries and wealthy
merchants--glittered upon a robe of the rich flowered stuffs of Venice,
and the clasps that confined the vest at the throat and waist were
adorned with jewels of no common price.
Angelo’s eye was struck by the change, but he felt a more manly pride in
remarking that the old lady became it well. Her air and mien were indeed
those of one to whom such garments were habitual; and they seemed that
day more than usually austere and stately.
She smoothed the boy’s ringlets, drew his short mantle more gracefully
over his shoulder, and then placed in his belt a poniard whose handle
was richly studded, and a purse well filled with florins.
“Learn to use both discreetly,” said she; “and, whether I live or die,
you will never require to wield the poniard to procure the gold.”
“This, then,” cried Angelo, enchanted, “is a real poniard to fight the
robbers with! Ah, with this I should not fear Fra Moreale, who wronged
thee so. I trust I may yet avenge thee, though thou didst rate me so
just now for ingratitude.”
“I am avenged. Nourish not such thoughts, my son, they are sinful;
at least I fear so. Draw to the board and eat; we will go betimes, as
petitioners should do.”
Angelo had soon finished his morning meal, and sallying with Ursula to
the porch, he saw, to his surprise, four of those servitors who then
usually attended persons of distinction, and who were to be hired in
every city, for the convenience of strangers or the holyday ostentation
of the gayer citizens.
“How grand we are today!” said he, clapping his hands with an eagerness
which Ursula failed not to reprove.
“It is not for vain show,” she added, “which true nobility can well
dispense with, but that we may the more readily gain admittance to the
palace. These princes of yesterday are not easy of audience to the over
humble.”
“Oh! but you are wrong this time,” said the boy. “The Tribune gives
audience to all men, the poorest as the richest. Nay, there is not a
ragged boor, or a bare-footed friar, who does not win access to him
sooner than the proudest baron. That’s why the people love him so.
And he devotes one day of the week to receiving the widows and the
orphans;--and you know, dame, I am an orphan.”
Ursula, already occupied with her own thoughts, did not answer, and
scarcely heard, the boy; but leaning on his young arm, and preceded by
the footmen to clear the way, passed slowly towards the palace of the
Capitol.
A wonderful thing would it have been to a more observant eye, to note
the change which two or three short months of the stern but salutary
and wise rule of the Tribune had effected in the streets of Rome. You
no longer beheld the gaunt and mail-clad forms of foreign mercenaries
stalking through the vistas, or grouped in lazy insolence before
the embattled porches of some gloomy palace. The shops, that in many
quarters had been closed for years, were again open, glittering with
wares and bustling with trade. The thoroughfares, formerly either silent
as death, or crossed by some affrighted and solitary passenger with
quick steps, and eyes that searched every corner,--or resounding with
the roar of a pauper rabble, or the open feuds of savage nobles, now
exhibited the regular, and wholesome, and mingled streams of civilized
life, whether bound to pleasure or to commerce. Carts and waggons laden
with goods which had passed in safety by the dismantled holds of the
robbers of the Campagna, rattled cheerfully over the pathways. “Never,
perhaps,”--to use the translation adapted from the Italian authorities,
by a modern and by no means a partial historian (Gibbon.)--“Never,
perhaps, has the energy and effect of a single mind been more remarkably
felt than in the sudden reformation of Rome by the Tribune Rienzi. A
den of robbers was converted to the discipline of a camp or convent. ‘In
this time,’ says the historian, (“Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. i. c.
9.) ‘did the woods begin to rejoice that they were no longer infested
with robbers; the oxen began to plough; the pilgrims visited the
sanctuaries; (Gibbon: the words in the original are “li pellegrini
cominciaro a fere la cerca per la santuaria.”) the roads and inns
were replenished with travellers: trade, plenty, and good faith, were
restored in the markets; and a purse of gold might be exposed without
danger in the midst of the highways.’”
Amidst all these evidences of comfort and security to the people--some
dark and discontented countenances might be seen mingled in the crowd,
and whenever one who wore the livery of the Colonna or the Orsini felt
himself jostled by the throng, a fierce hand moved involuntarily to the
sword-belt, and a half-suppressed oath was ended with an indignant
sigh. Here and there too,--contrasting the redecorated, refurnished, and
smiling shops--heaps of rubbish before the gate of some haughty mansion
testified the abasement of fortifications which the owner impotently
resented as a sacrilege. Through such streets and such throngs did the
party we accompany wend their way, till they found themselves amidst
crowds assembled before the entrance of the Capitol. The officers there
stationed kept, however, so discreet and dexterous an order, that they
were not long detained; and now in the broad place or court of that
memorable building, they saw the open doors of the great justice-hall,
guarded but by a single sentinel, and in which, for six hours daily,
did the Tribune hold his court, for “patient to hear, swift to redress,
inexorable to punish, his tribunal was always accessible to the poor and
stranger.” (Gibbon.)
Not, however, to that hall did the party bend its way, but to the
entrance which admitted to the private apartments of the palace. And
here the pomp, the gaud, the more than regal magnificence, of the
residence of the Tribune, strongly contrasted the patriarchal simplicity
which marked his justice court.
Even Ursula, not unaccustomed, of yore, to the luxurious state of
Italian and French principalities, seemed roused into surprise at the
hall crowded with retainers in costly liveries, the marble and gilded
columns wreathed with flowers, and the gorgeous banners wrought with the
blended arms of the Republican City and the Pontifical See, which blazed
aloft and around.
Scarce knowing whom to address in such an assemblage, Ursula was
relieved from her perplexity by an officer attired in a suit of crimson
and gold, who, with a grave and formal decorum, which indeed reigned
throughout the whole retinue, demanded, respectfully, whom she sought?
“The Signora Nina!” replied Ursula, drawing up her stately person, with
a natural, though somewhat antiquated, dignity. There was something
foreign in the accent, which influenced the officer’s answer.
“Today, madam, I fear that the Signora receives only the Roman ladies.
Tomorrow is that appointed for all foreign dames of distinction.”
Ursula, with a slight impatience of tone, replied--“My business is of
that nature which is welcome on any day, at palaces. I come, Signor, to
lay certain presents at the Signora’s feet, which I trust she will deign
to accept.”
“And say, Signor,” added the boy, abruptly, “that Angelo Villani, whom
the Lady Nina honoured yesterday with her notice, is no stranger but a
Roman; and comes, as she bade him, to proffer to the Signora his homage
and devotion.”
The grave officer could not refrain a smile at the pert, yet not
ungraceful, boldness of the boy.
“I remember me, Master Angelo Villani,” he replied, “that the Lady
Nina spoke to you by the great staircase. Madam, I will do your errand.
Please to follow me to an apartment more fitting your sex and seeming.”
With that the officer led the way across the hall to a broad staircase
of white marble, along the centre of which were laid those rich Eastern
carpets which at that day, when rushes strewed the chambers of an
English monarch, were already common to the greater luxury of Italian
palaces. Opening a door at the first flight, he ushered Ursula and
her young charge into a lofty ante-chamber, hung with arras of wrought
velvets; while over the opposite door, through which the officer now
vanished, were blazoned the armorial bearings which the Tribune so
constantly introduced in all his pomp, not more from the love of show,
than from his politic desire to mingle with the keys of the Pontiff the
heraldic insignia of the Republic.
“Philip of Valois is not housed like this man!” muttered Ursula. “If
this last, I shall have done better for my charge than I recked of.”
The officer soon returned, and led them across an apartment of vast
extent, which was indeed the great reception chamber of the palace.
Four-and-twenty columns of the Oriental alabaster which had attested the
spoils of the later emperors, and had been disinterred from forgotten
ruins, to grace the palace of the Reviver of the old Republic, supported
the light roof, which, half Gothic, half classic, in its architecture,
was inlaid with gilded and purple mosaics. The tesselated floor was
covered in the centre with cloth of gold, the walls were clothed, at
intervals, with the same gorgeous hangings, relieved by panels freshly
painted in the most glowing colours, with mystic and symbolical designs.
At the upper end of this royal chamber, two steps ascended to the place
of the Tribune’s throne, above which was the canopy wrought with the
eternal armorial bearings of the Pontiff and the City.
Traversing this apartment, the officer opened the door at its extremity,
which admitted to a small chamber, crowded with pages in rich dresses of
silver and blue velvet. There were few amongst them elder than Angelo;
and, from their general beauty, they seemed the very flower and blossom
of the city.
Short time had Angelo to gaze on his comrades that were to be:--another
minute, and he and his protectress were in the presence of the Tribune’s
bride.
The chamber was not large--but it was large enough to prove that the
beautiful daughter of Raselli had realised her visions of vanity and
splendour.
It was an apartment that mocked description--it seemed a cabinet for the
gems of the world. The daylight, shaded by high and deep-set casements
of stained glass, streamed in a purple and mellow hue over all that the
art of that day boasted most precious, or regal luxury held most dear.
The candelabras of the silver workmanship of Florence; the carpets and
stuffs of the East; the draperies of Venice and Genoa; paintings like
the illuminated missals, wrought in gold, and those lost colours of blue
and crimson; antique marbles, which spoke of the bright days of Athens;
tables of disinterred mosaics, their freshness preserved as by magic;
censers of gold that steamed with the odours of Araby, yet so subdued
as not to deaden the healthier scent of flowers, which blushed in every
corner from their marble and alabaster vases; a small and spirit-like
fountain, which seemed to gush from among wreaths of roses, diffusing
in its diamond and fairy spray, a scarce felt coolness to the air;--all
these, and such as these, which it were vain work to detail, congregated
in the richest luxuriance, harmonised with the most exquisite taste,
uniting the ancient arts with the modern, amazed and intoxicated the
sense of the beholder. It was not so much the cost, nor the luxury, that
made the character of the chamber; it was a certain gorgeous and almost
sublime phantasy,--so that it seemed rather the fabled retreat of
an enchantress, at whose word genii ransacked the earth, and fairies
arranged the produce, than the grosser splendour of an earthly queen.
Behind the piled cushions upon which Nina half reclined, stood four
girls, beautiful as nymphs, with fans of the rarest feathers, and at
her feet lay one older than the rest, whose lute, though now silent,
attested her legitimate occupation.
But, had the room in itself seemed somewhat too fantastic and
overcharged in its prodigal ornaments, the form and face of Nina would
at once have rendered all appropriate; so completely did she seem the
natural Spirit of the Place; so wonderfully did her beauty, elated as it
now was with contented love, gratified vanity, exultant hope, body forth
the brightest vision that ever floated before the eyes of Tasso, when
he wrought into one immortal shape the glory of the Enchantress with the
allurements of the Woman.
Nina half rose as she saw Ursula, whose sedate and mournful features
involuntarily testified her surprise and admiration at a loveliness
so rare and striking, but who, undazzled by the splendour around, soon
recovered her wonted self-composure, and seated herself on the cushion
to which Nina pointed, while the young visitor remained standing, and
spell-bound by childish wonder, in the centre of the apartment. Nina
recognised him with a smile.
“Ah, my pretty boy, whose quick eye and bold air caught my fancy
yesterday! Have you come to accept my offer? Is it you, madam, who claim
this fair child?”
“Lady,” replied Ursula, “my business here is brief: by a train of
events, needless to weary you with narrating, this boy from his infancy
fell to my charge--a weighty and anxious trust to one whose thoughts
are beyond the barrier of life. I have reared him as became a youth of
gentle blood; for on both sides, lady, he is noble, though an orphan,
motherless and sireless.”
“Poor child!” said Nina, compassionately.
“Growing now,” continued Ursula, “oppressed by years, and desirous only
to make my peace with Heaven, I journeyed hither some months since, in
the design to place the boy with a relation of mine; and, that trust
fulfilled, to take the vows in the City of the Apostle. Alas! I found my
kinsman dead, and a baron of wild and dissolute character was his heir.
Here remaining, perplexed and anxious, it seemed to me the voice of
Providence when, yester-evening, the child told me you had been pleased
to honour him with your notice. Like the rest of Rome, he has already
learned enthusiasm for the Tribune--devotion to the Tribune’s bride.
Will you, in truth, admit him of your household? He will not dishonour
your protection by his blood, nor, I trust, by his bearing.”
“I would take his face for his guarantee, madam, even without so
distinguished a recommendation as your own. Is he Roman? His name then
must be known to me.”
“Pardon me, lady,” replied Ursula: “He bears the name of Angelo
Villani--not that of his sire or mother. The honour of a noble house for
ever condemns his parentage to rest unknown. He is the offspring of a
love unsanctioned by the church.”
“He is the more to be loved, then, and to be pitied--victim of sin not
his own!” answered Nina, with moistened eyes, as she saw the deep and
burning blush that covered the boy’s cheeks. “With the Tribune’s reign
commences a new era of nobility, when rank and knighthood shall be won
by a man’s own merit--not that of his ancestors. Fear not, madam: in my
house he shall know no slight.”
Ursula was moved from her pride by the kindness of Nina: she approached
with involuntary reverence, and kissed the Signora’s hand--
“May our Lady reward your noble heart!” said she: “and now my mission is
ended, and my earthly goal is won. Add only, lady, to your inestimable
favours one more. These jewels”--and Ursula drew from her robe a casket,
touched the spring, and the lid flying back, discovered jewels of great
size and the most brilliant water,--“these jewels,” she continued,
laying the casket at Nina’s feet, “once belonging to the princely house
of Thoulouse, are valueless to me and mine. Suffer me to think that they
are transferred to one whose queenly brow will give them a lustre it
cannot borrow.”
“How!” said Nina, colouring very deeply; “think you, madam, my kindness
can be bought? What woman’s kindness ever was? Nay, nay--take back the
gifts, or I shall pray you to take back your boy.”
Ursula was astonished and confounded: to her experience such abstinence
was a novelty, and she scarcely knew how to meet it. Nina perceived her
embarrassment with a haughty and triumphant smile, and then, regaining
her former courtesy of demeanour, said, with a grave sweetness--
“The Tribune’s hands are clean,--the Tribune’s wife must not be
suspected. Rather, madam, should I press upon you some token of exchange
for the fair charge you have committed to me. Your jewels hereafter may
profit the boy in his career: reserve them for one who needs them.”
“No, lady,” said Ursula, rising and lifting her eyes to heaven;--“they
shall buy masses for his mother’s soul; for him I shall reserve a
competence when his years require it. Lady, accept the thanks of a
wretched and desolate heart. Fare you well!”
She turned to quit the room, but with so faltering and weak a step, that
Nina, touched and affected, sprung up, and with her own hand guided
the old woman across the room, whispering comfort and soothing to her;
while, as they reached the door, the boy rushed forward, and, clasping
Ursula’s robe, sobbed out--“Dear dame, not one farewell for your little
Angelo! Forgive him all he has cost you! Now, for the first time, I feel
how wayward and thankless I have been.”
The old woman caught him in her arms, and kissed him passionately; when
the boy, as if a thought suddenly struck him, drew forth the purse she
had given him and said, in a choked and scarce articulate voice,--“And
let this, dearest dame, go in masses for my poor father’s soul; for he
is dead, too, you know!”
These words seemed to freeze at once all the tenderer emotions of
Ursula. She put back the boy with the same chilling and stern severity
of aspect and manner which had so often before repressed him: and
recovering her self-possession, at once quitted the apartment without
saying another word. Nina, surprised, but still pitying her sorrow and
respecting her age, followed her steps across the pages’ ante-room and
the reception-chamber, even to the foot of the stairs,--a condescension
the haughtiest princess of Rome could not have won from her; and
returning, saddened and thoughtful, she took the boy’s hand, and
affectionately kissed his forehead.
“Poor boy!” she said, “it seems as if Providence had made me select thee
yesterday from the crowd, and thus conducted thee to thy proper refuge.
For to whom should come the friendless and the orphans of Rome, but to
the palace of Rome’s first Magistrate?” Turning then to her attendants,
she gave them instructions as to the personal comforts of her new
charge, which evinced that if power had ministered to her vanity, it had
not steeled her heart. Angelo Villani lived to repay her well!
She retained the boy in her presence, and conversing with him
familiarly, she was more and more pleased with his bold spirit and frank
manner. Their conversation was however interrupted, as the day advanced,
by the arrival of several ladies of the Roman nobility. And then it was
that Nina’s virtues receded into shade, and her faults appeared. She
could not resist the woman’s triumph over those arrogant signoras who
now cringed in homage where they had once slighted with disdain. She
affected the manner of, she demanded the respect due to, a queen. And by
many of those dexterous arts which the sex know so well, she contrived
to render her very courtesy a humiliation to her haughty guests. Her
commanding beauty and her graceful intellect saved her, indeed, from the
vulgar insolence of the upstart; but yet more keenly stung the pride, by
forbidding to those she mortified the retaliation of contempt. Hers
were the covert taunt--the smiling affront--the sarcasm in the mask of
compliment--the careless exaction of respect in trifles, which could not
outwardly be resented, but which could not inly be forgiven.
“Fair day to the Signora Colonna,” said she to the proud wife of the
proud Stephen; “we passed your palace yesterday. How fair it now seems,
relieved from those gloomy battlements which it must often have saddened
you to gaze upon. Signora, (turning to one of the Orsini), your lord
has high favour with the Tribune, who destines him to great command.
His fortunes are secured, and we rejoice at it; for no man more loyally
serves the state. Have you seen, fair Lady of Frangipani, the last
verses of Petrarch in honour of my lord?--they rest yonder. May we so
far venture as to request you to point out their beauties to the Signora
di Savelli? We rejoice, noble Lady of Malatesta, to observe that your
eyesight is so well restored. The last time we met, though we stood
next to you in the revels of the Lady Giulia, you seemed scarce to
distinguish us from the pillar by which we stood!”
“Must this insolence be endured!” whispered the Signora Frangipani to
the Signora Malatesta.
“Hush, hush; if ever it be our day again!”