Our Own.--the Straws Thrown Upward,--Do They Portend A Storm.
It was later that day than usual, when Rienzi returned from his tribunal
to the apartments of the palace. As he traversed the reception hall, his
countenance was much flushed; his teeth were set firmly, like a man who
has taken a strong resolution from which he will not be moved; and his
brow was dark with that settled and fearful frown which the
describers of his personal appearance have not failed to notice as the
characteristic of an anger the more deadly because invariably just.
Close as his heels followed the Bishop of Orvietto and the aged Stephen
Colonna. “I tell you, my Lords,” said Rienzi, “that ye plead in vain.
Rome knows no distinction between ranks. The law is blind to the
agent--lynx-eyed to the deed.”
“Yet,” said Raimond, hesitatingly, “bethink thee, Tribune; the nephew of
two cardinals, and himself once a senator.”
Rienzi halted abruptly, and faced his companions. “My Lord Bishop,” said
he, “does not this make the crime more inexcusable? Look you, thus it
reads:--A vessel from Avignon to Naples, charged with the revenues of
Provence to Queen Joanna, on whose cause, mark you, we now hold solemn
council, is wrecked at the mouth of the Tiber; with that, Martino
di Porto--a noble, as you say--the holder of that fortress whence
he derives his title,--doubly bound by gentle blood and by immediate
neighbourhood to succour the oppressed--falls upon the vessel with his
troops (what hath the rebel with armed troops?)--and pillages the
vessel like a common robber. He is apprehended--brought to my
tribunal--receives fair trial--is condemned to die. Such is the
law;--what more would ye have?”
“Mercy,” said the Colonna.
Rienzi folded his arms, and laughed disdainfully. “I never heard my Lord
Colonna plead for mercy when a peasant had stolen the bread that was to
feed his famishing children.”
“Between a peasant and a prince, Tribune, I, for one, recognise a
distinction:--the bright blood of an Orsini is not to be shed like that
of a base plebeian--”
“Which, I remember me,” said Rienzi, in a low voice, “you deemed small
matter enough when my boy-brother fell beneath the wanton spear of your
proud son. Wake not that memory, I warn you; let it sleep.--For shame,
old Colonna--for shame; so near the grave, where the worm levels
all flesh, and preaching, with those gray hairs, the uncharitable
distinction between man and man. Is there not distinction enough at the
best? Does not one wear purple, and the other rags? Hath not one ease,
and the other toil? Doth not the one banquet while the other starves?
Do I nourish any mad scheme to level the ranks which society renders
a necessary evil? No. I war no more with Dives than with Lazarus. But
before Man’s judgment-seat, as before God’s, Lazarus and Dives are made
equal. No more.”
Colonna drew his robe round him with great haughtiness, and bit his lip
in silence. Raimond interposed.
“All this is true, Tribune. But,” and he drew Rienzi aside, “you know
we must be politic as well as just. Nephew to two Cardinals, what enmity
will not this provoke at Avignon?”
“Vex not yourself, holy Raimond, I will answer it to the Pontiff.” While
they spoke the bell tolled heavily and loudly.
Colonna started.
“Great Tribune,” said he, with a slight sneer, “deign to pause ere it be
too late. I know not that I ever before bent to you a suppliant; and I
ask you now to spare mine own foe. Stephen Colonna prays Cola di Rienzi
to spare the life of an Orsini.”
“I understand thy taunt, old Lord,” said Rienzi, calmly, “but I resent
it not. You are foe to the Orsini, yet you plead for him--it sounds
generous; but hark you,--you are more a friend to your order than a foe
to your rival. You cannot bear that one, great enough to have contended
with you, should perish like a thief. I give full praise to such noble
forgiveness; but I am no noble, and I do not sympathize with it. One
word more;--if this were the sole act of fraud and violence that this
bandit baron had committed, your prayers should plead for him; but is
not his life notorious? Has he not been from boyhood the terror and
disgrace of Rome? How many matrons violated, merchants pillaged,
peaceful men stilettoed in the daylight, rise in dark witness against
the prisoner? And for such a man do I live to hear an aged prince and a
pope’s vicar plead for mercy?--Fie, fie! But I will be even with ye.
The next poor man whom the law sentences to death, for your sake will I
pardon.”
Raimond again drew aside the Tribune, while Colonna struggled to
suppress his rage.
“My friend,” said the Bishop, “the nobles will feel this as an insult to
their whole order; the very pleading of Orsini’s worst foe must convince
thee of this. Martino’s blood will seal their reconciliation with each
other, and they will be as one man against thee.”
“Be it so: with God and the People on my side, I will dare, though
a Roman, to be just. The bell ceases--you are already too late.” So
saying, Rienzi threw open the casement; and by the staircase of the Lion
rose a gibbet from which swung with a creaking sound, arrayed in his
patrician robes, the yet palpitating corpse of Martino di Porto.
“Behold!” said the Tribune, sternly, “thus die all robbers. For
traitors, the same law has the axe and the scaffold!”
Raimond drew back and turned pale. Not so the veteran noble. Tears
of wounded pride started from his eyes; he approached, leaning on his
staff, to Rienzi, touched him on his shoulder, and said,--
“Tribune, a judge has lived to envy his victim!”
Rienzi turned with an equal pride to the Baron.
“We forgive idle words in the aged. My Lord, have you done with us?--we
would be alone.”
“Give me thy arm, Raimond,” said Stephen. “Tribune--farewell. Forget
that the Colonna sued thee,--an easy task, methinks; for, wise as you
are, you forget what every one else can remember.”
“Ay, my Lord, what?”
“Birth, Tribune, birth--that’s all!”
“The Signor Colonna has taken up my old calling, and turned a wit,”
returned Rienzi, with an indifferent and easy tone.
Then following Raimond and Stephen with his eyes, till the door closed
upon them, he muttered, “Insolent! were it not for Adrian, thy grey
beard should not bear thee harmless. Birth! what Colonna would not boast
himself, if he could, the grandson of an emperor?--Old man, there is
danger in thee which must be watched.” With that he turned musingly
towards the casement, and again that griesly spectacle of death met his
eye. The people below, assembled in large concourse, rejoiced at the
execution of one whose whole life had been infamy and rapine--but who
had seemed beyond justice--with all the fierce clamour that marks the
exultation of the rabble over a crushed foe. And where Rienzi stood,
he heard heir shouts of “Long live the Tribune, the just judge, Rome’s
liberator!” But at that time other thoughts deafened his senses to the
popular enthusiasm.
“My poor brother!” he said, with tears in his eyes, “it was owing to
this man’s crimes--and to a crime almost similar to that for which he
has now suffered--that thou wert entrained to the slaughter; and they
who had no pity for the lamb, clamour for compassion to the wolf! Ah,
wert thou living now, how these proud heads would bend to thee; though
dead, thou wert not worthy of a thought. God rest thy gentle soul, and
keep my ambition pure as it was when we walked at twilight, side by side
together!”
The Tribune shut the casement, and turning away, sought the chamber of
Nina. On hearing his step without, she had already risen from the couch,
her eyes sparkling, her bosom heaving; and as he entered, she threw
herself on his neck, and murmured as she nestled to his breast,--“Ah,
the hours since we parted!”
It was a singular thing to see that proud lady, proud of her beauty, her
station, her new honours;--whose gorgeous vanity was already the talk
of Rome, and the reproach to Rienzi,--how suddenly and miraculously she
seemed changed in his presence! Blushing and timid, all pride in herself
seemed merged in her proud love for him. No woman ever loved to the full
extent of the passion, who did not venerate where she loved, and who
did not feel humbled (delighted in that humility) by her exaggerated and
overweening estimate of the superiority of the object of her worship.
And it might be the consciousness of this distinction between himself
and all other created things, which continued to increase the love of
the Tribune to his bride, to blind him to her failings towards others,
and to indulge her in a magnificence of parade, which, though to a
certain point politic to assume, was carried to an extent which if it
did not conspire to produce his downfall, has served the Romans with
an excuse for their own cowardice and desertion, and historians with
a plausible explanation of causes they had not the industry to fathom.
Rienzi returned his wife’s caresses with an equal affection, and bending
down to her beautiful face, the sight was sufficient to chase from his
brow the emotions, whether severe or sad, which had lately darkened its
broad expanse.
“Thou has not been abroad this morning, Nina!”
“No, the heat was oppressive. But nevertheless, Cola, I have not lacked
company--half the matronage of Rome has crowded the palace.”
“Ah, I warrant it.--But yon boy, is he not a new face?”
“Hush, Cola, speak to him kindly, I entreat: of his story anon. Angelo,
approach. You see your new master, the Tribune of Rome.”
Angelo approached with a timidity not his wont, for an air of majesty
was at all times natural to Rienzi, and since his power it had naturally
taken a graver and austerer aspect, which impressed those who approached
him, even the ambassadors of princes, with a certain involuntary awe.
The Tribune smiled at the effect he saw he had produced, and being by
temper fond of children, and affable to all but the great, he hastened
to dispel it. He took the child affectionately in his arms, kissed him,
and bade him welcome.
“May we have a son as fair!” he whispered to Nina, who blushed, and
turned away.
“Thy name, my little friend?”
“Angelo Villani.”
“A Tuscan name. There is a man of letters at Florence, doubtless writing
our annals from hearsay at this moment, called Villani. Perhaps akin to
thee?”
“I have no kin,” said the boy, bluntly; “and therefore I shall the
better love the Signora and honour you, if you will let me. I am
Roman--all the Roman boys honour Rienzi.”
“Do they, my brave lad?” said the Tribune, colouring with pleasure;
“that is a good omen of my continued prosperity.” He put down the boy,
and threw himself on the cushions, while Nina placed herself on a kind
of low stool beside him.
“Let us be alone,” said he; and Nina motioned to the attendant maidens
to withdraw.
“Take my new page with you,” said she; “he is yet, perhaps, too fresh
from home to enjoy the company of his giddy brethren.”
When they were alone, Nina proceeded to narrate to Rienzi the adventure
of the morning; but though he seemed outwardly to listen, his gaze
was on vacancy, and he was evidently abstracted and self-absorbed. At
length, as she concluded, he said, “Well, Nina, you have acted as ever,
kindly and nobly. Let us to other themes. I am in danger.”
“Danger!” echoed Nina, turning pale.
“Why, the word must not appal you--you have a spirit like mine, that
scorns fear; and, for that reason, Nina, in all Rome you are my only
confidant. It was not only to glad me with thy beauty, but to cheer me
with thy counsel, to support me with thy valour, that Heaven gave me
thee as a helpmate.”
“Now, our Lady bless thee for those words!” said Nina, kissing the hand
that hung over her shoulder; “and if I started at the word danger, it
was but the woman’s thought of thee,--an unworthy thought, my Cola, for
glory and danger go together. And I am as ready to share the last as the
first. If the hour of trial ever come, none of thy friends shall be so
faithful to thy side as this weak form but undaunted heart.”
“I know it, my own Nina; I know it,” said Rienzi, rising, and pacing the
chamber with large and rapid strides. “Now listen to me. Thou knowest
that to govern in safety, it is my policy as my pride to govern justly.
To govern justly is an awful thing, when mighty barons are the culprits.
Nina, for an open and audacious robbery, our court has sentenced Martin
of the Orsini, the Lord of Porto, to death. His corpse swings now on the
Staircase of the Lion.”
“A dreadful doom!” said Nina, shuddering.
“True; but by his death thousands of poor and honest men may live in
peace. It is not that which troubles me: the Barons resent the deed, as
an insult to them that law should touch a noble. They will rise--they
will rebel. I foresee the storm--not the spell to allay it.”
Nina paused a moment,--“They have taken,” she then said, “a solemn oath
on the Eucharist not to bear arms against thee.”
“Perjury is a light addition to theft and murder,” answered Rienzi, with
his sarcastic smile.
“But the people are faithful.”
“Yes, but in a civil war (which the saints forefend!) those combatants
are the stanchest who have no home but their armour, no calling but the
sword. The trader will not leave his trade at the toll of a bell every
day; but the Barons’ soldiery are ready at all hours.”
“To be strong,” said Nina,--who, summoned to the councils of her lord,
shewed an intellect not unworthy of the honour,--“to be strong in
dangerous times, authority must seem strong. By shewing no fear, you may
prevent the cause of fear.”
“My own thought!” returned Rienzi, quickly. “You know that half my power
with these Barons is drawn from the homage rendered to me by foreign
states. When from every city in Italy the ambassadors of crowned princes
seek the alliance of the Tribune, they must veil their resentment at the
rise of the Plebeian. On the other hand, to be strong abroad I must seem
strong at home: the vast design I have planned, and, as by a miracle,
begun to execute, will fail at once if it seem abroad to be intrusted
to an unsteady and fluctuating power. That design (continued Rienzi,
pausing, and placing his hand on a marble bust of the young Augustus)
is greater than his, whose profound yet icy soul united Italy in
subjection,--for it would unite Italy in freedom;--yes! could we but
form one great federative league of all the States of Italy, each
governed by its own laws, but united for mutual and common protection
against the Attilas of the North, with Rome for their Metropolis and
their Mother, this age and this brain would have wrought an enterprise
which men should quote till the sound of the last trump!”
“I know thy divine scheme,” said Nina, catching his enthusiasm; “and
what if there be danger in attaining it? Have we not mastered the
greatest danger in the first step?”
“Right, Nina, right! Heaven (and the Tribune, who ever recognised,
in his own fortunes, the agency of the hand above, crossed himself
reverently) will preserve him to whom it hath vouchsafed such lofty
visions of the future redemption of the Land of the true Church, and the
liberty and advancement of its children! This I trust: already many of
the cities of Tuscany have entered into treaties for the formation
of this league; nor from a single tyrant, save John di Vico, have I
received aught but fair words and flattering promises. The time seems
ripe for the grand stroke of all.”
“And what is that?” demanded Nina, wonderingly.
“Defiance to all foreign interference. By what right does a synod of
stranger princes give Rome a king in some Teuton Emperor? Rome’s people
alone should choose Rome’s governor;--and shall we cross the Alps to
render the title of our master to the descendants of the Goth?”
Nina was silent: the custom of choosing the sovereign by a diet beyond
the Rhine, reserving only the ceremony of his subsequent coronation for
the mock assent of the Romans, however degrading to that people, and
however hostile to all nations of substantial independence, was so
unquestioned at that time, that Rienzi’s daring suggestion left her
amazed and breathless, prepared as she was for any scheme, however
extravagantly bold.
“How!” said she, after a long pause; “do I understand aright? Can you
mean defiance to the Emperor?”
“Why, listen: at this moment there are two pretenders to the throne
of Rome--to the imperial crown of Italy--a Bohemian and a Bavarian. To
their election our assent--Rome’s assent--is not requisite--not asked.
Can we be called free--can we boast ourselves republican--when a
stranger and a barbarian is thus thrust upon our necks? No, we will be
free in reality as in name. Besides, (continued the Tribune, in a
calmer tone,) this seems to me politic as well as daring. The people
incessantly demand wonders from me: how can I more nobly dazzle, more
virtuously win them, than by asserting their inalienable right to
choose their own rulers? The daring will awe the Barons, and foreigners
themselves; it will give a startling example to all Italy; it will be
the first brand of an universal blaze. It shall be done, and with a pomp
that befits the deed!”
“Cola,” said Nina, hesitatingly, “your eagle spirit often ascends where
mine flags to follow; yet be not over bold.”
“Nay, did you not, a moment since, preach a different doctrine? To be
strong, was I not to seem strong?”
“May fate preserve you!” said Nina, with a foreboding sigh.
“Fate!” cried Rienzi; “there is no fate! Between the thought and the
success, God is the only agent; and (he added with a voice of deep
solemnity) I shall not be deserted. Visions by night, even while thine
arms are around me; omens and impulses, stirring and divine, by day,
even in the midst of the living crowd--encourage my path, and point my
goal. Now, even now, a voice seems to whisper in my ear--‘Pause not;
tremble not; waver not;--for the eye of the All-Seeing is upon thee, and
the hand of the All-Powerful shall protect!”
As Rienzi thus spoke, his face grew pale, his hair seemed to bristle,
his tall and proud form trembled visibly, and presently he sunk down on
a seat, and covered his face with his hands.
An awe crept over Nina, though not unaccustomed to such strange and
preternatural emotions, which appeared yet the more singular in one who
in common life was so calm, stately, and self-possessed. But with every
increase of prosperity and power, those emotions seemed to increase
in their fervour, as if in such increase the devout and overwrought
superstition of the Tribune recognised additional proof of a mysterious
guardianship mightier than the valour or art of man.
She approached fearfully, and threw her arms around him, but without
speaking.
Ere yet the Tribune had well recovered himself, a slight tap at the door
was heard, and the sound seemed at once to recall his self-possession.
“Enter,” he said, lifting his face, to which the wonted colour slowly
returned.
An officer, half-opening the door, announced that the person he had sent
for waited his leisure.
“I come!--Core of my heart,” (he whispered to Nina,) “we will sup alone
tonight, and will converse more on these matters:” so saying, with
somewhat less than his usual loftiness of mien, he left the room,
and sought his cabinet, which lay at the other side of the reception
chamber. Here he found Cecco del Vecchio.
“How, my bold fellow,” said the Tribune, assuming with wonderful ease
that air of friendly equality which he always adopted with those of the
lower class, and which made a striking contrast with the majesty, no
less natural, which marked his manner to the great. “How now, my Cecco!
Thou bearest thyself bravely, I see, during these sickly heats; we
labourers--for both of us labour, Cecco--are too busy to fall ill as the
idle do, in the summer, or the autumn, of Roman skies. I sent for thee,
Cecco, because I would know how thy fellow-craftsmen are like to take
the Orsini’s execution.”
“Oh! Tribune,” replied the artificer, who, now familiarized with Rienzi,
had lost much of his earlier awe of him, and who regarded the Tribune’s
power as partly his own creation; “they are already out of their honest
wits, at your courage in punishing the great men as you would the
small.”
“So;--I am repaid! But hark you, Cecco, it will bring, perhaps, hot work
upon us. Every Baron will dread lest it be his turn next, and dread will
make them bold, like rats in despair. We may have to fight for the Good
Estate.”
“With all my heart, Tribune,” answered Cecco, gruffly. “I, for one, am
no craven.”
“Then keep the same spirit in all your meetings with the artificers. I
fight for the people. The people at a pinch must fight with me.”
“They will,” replied Cecco; “they will!”
“Cecco, this city is under the spiritual dominion of the Pontiff--so
be it--it is an honour, not a burthen. But the temporal dominion, my
friend, should be with Romans only. Is it not a disgrace to Republican
Rome, that while we now speak, certain barbarians, whom we never heard
of, should be deciding beyond the Alps on the merits of two sovereigns,
whom we never saw? Is not this a thing to be resisted? An Italian
city,--what hath it to do with a Bohemian Emperor?”
“Little eno’, St. Paul knows!” said Cecco.
“Should it not be a claim questioned?”
“I think so!” replied the smith.
“And if found an outrage on our ancient laws, should it not be a claim
resisted?”
“Not a doubt of it.”
“Well, go to! The archives assure me that never was Emperor lawfully
crowned but by the free votes of the people. We never chose Bohemian or
Bavarian.”
“But, on the contrary, whenever these Northmen come hither to be
crowned, we try to drive them away with stones and curses,--for we are a
people, Tribune, that love our liberties.”
“Go back to your friends--see--address them, say that your Tribune will
demand of these pretenders to Rome the right to her throne. Let them not
be mazed or startled, but support me when the occasion comes.”
“I am glad of this,” quoth the huge smith; “for our friends have grown a
little unruly of late, and say--”
“What do they say?”
“That it is true you have expelled the banditti, and curb the Barons,
and administer justice fairly;--”
“Is not that miracle enough for the space of some two or three short
months?”
“Why, they say it would have been more than enough in a noble; but you,
being raised from the people, and having such gifts and so forth, might
do yet more. It is now three weeks since they have had any new thing to
talk about; but Orsini’s execution today will cheer them a bit.”
“Well, Cecco, well,” said the Tribune, rising, “they shall have more
anon to feed their mouths with. So you think they love me not quite so
well as they did some three weeks back?”
“I say not so,” answered Cecco. “But we Romans are an impatient people.”
“Alas, yes!”
“However, they will no doubt stick close enough to you; provided,
Tribune, you don’t put any new tax upon them.”
“Ha! But if, in order to be free, it be necessary to fight--if to
fight, it be necessary to have soldiers, why then the soldiers must be
paid:--won’t the people contribute something to their own liberties;--to
just laws, and safe lives?”
“I don’t know,” returned the smith, scratching his head as if a little
puzzled; “but I know that poor men won’t be overtaxed. They say they are
better off with you than with the Barons before, and therefore they love
you. But men in business, Tribune, poor men with families, must look to
their bellies. Only one man in ten goes to law--only one man in twenty
is butchered by a Baron’s brigand; but every man eats, and drinks, and
feels a tax.”
“This cannot be your reasoning, Cecco!” said Rienzi, gravely.
“Why, Tribune, I am an honest man, but I have a large family to rear.”
“Enough; enough!” said the Tribune quickly; and then he added
abstractedly as to himself, but aloud,--“Methinks we have been too
lavish; these shows and spectacles should cease.”
“What!” cried Cecco; “what, Tribune!--would you deny the poor fellows a
holiday. They work hard enough, and their only pleasure is seeing your
fine shows and processions; and then they go home and say,--‘See, our
man beats all the Barons! what state he keeps!’”
“Ah! they blame not my splendour, then!”
“Blame it; no! Without it they would be ashamed of you, and think the
Buono Stato but a shabby concern.”
“You speak bluntly, Cecco, but perhaps wisely. The saints keep you! Fail
not to remember what I told you!”
“No, no. It is a shame to have an Emperor thrust upon us;--so it is.
Good evening, Tribune.”
Left alone, the Tribune remained for some time plunged in gloomy and
foreboding thoughts.
“I am in the midst of a magician’s spell,” said he; “if I desist, the
fiends tear me to pieces. What I have begun, that must I conclude. But
this rude man shews me too well with what tools I work. For me failure
is nothing, I have already climbed to a greatness which might render
giddy many a born prince’s brain. But with my fall--Rome, Italy, Peace,
Justice, Civilization--all fall back into the abyss of ages!”
He rose; and after once or twice pacing his apartment, in which from
many a column gleamed upon him the marble effigies of the great of old,
he opened the casement to inhale the air of the now declining day.
The Place of the Capitol was deserted save by the tread of the single
sentinel. But still, dark and fearful, hung from the tall gibbet the
clay of the robber noble; and the colossal shape of the Egyptian lion
rose hard by, sharp and dark in the breathless atmosphere.
“Dread statue!” thought Rienzi, “how many unwhispered and solemn rites
hast thou witnessed by thy native Nile, ere the Roman’s hand transferred
thee hither--the antique witness of Roman crimes! Strange! but when I
look upon thee I feel as if thou hadst some mystic influence over my own
fortunes. Beside thee was I hailed the republican Lord of Rome; beside
thee are my palace, my tribunal, the place of my justice, my triumphs,
and my pomp:--to thee my eyes turn from my bed of state: and if fated to
die in power and peace, thou mayst be the last object my eyes will mark!
Or if myself a victim--.” He paused--shrank from the thought presented
to him--turned to a recess of the chamber--drew aside a curtain, that
veiled a crucifix and a small table, on which lay a Bible and the
monastic emblems of the skull and crossbones--emblems, indeed, grave and
irresistible, of the nothingness of power, and the uncertainty of life.
Before these sacred monitors, whether to humble or to elevate, knelt
that proud and aspiring man; and when he rose, it was with a lighter
step and more cheerful mien than he had worn that day.