The rapid and busy march of state events has led us long away from
the sister of the Tribune and the betrothed of Adrian. And the sweet
thoughts and gentle day-dreams of that fair and enamoured girl, however
full to her of an interest beyond all the storms and perils of ambition,
are not so readily adapted to narration:--their soft monotony a few
words can paint. They knew but one image, they tended to but one
prospect. Shrinking from the glare of her brother’s court, and eclipsed,
when she forced herself to appear, by the more matured and dazzling
beauty, and all-commanding presence, of Nina,--to her the pomp and
crowd seemed an unreal pageant, from which she retired to the truth of
life,--the hopes and musings of her own heart. Poor girl! with all the
soft and tender nature of her dead brother, and none of the stern genius
and the prodigal ambition,--the eye-fatiguing ostentation and fervour of
the living--she was but ill-fitted for the unquiet but splendid region
to which she was thus suddenly transferred.
With all her affection for Rienzi, she could not conquer a certain fear
which, conjoined with the difference of sex and age, forbade her to be
communicative with him upon the subject most upon her heart.
As the absence of Adrian at the Neapolitan Court passed the anticipated
date, (for at no Court then, with a throne fiercely disputed, did
the Tribune require a nobler or more intelligent representative,--and
intrigues and counter-intrigues delayed his departure from week to
week), she grew uneasy and alarmed. Like many, themselves unseen,
inactive, the spectators of the scene, she saw involuntarily further
into the time than the deeper intellect either of the Tribune or Nina;
and the dangerous discontent of the nobles was visible and audible to
her in looks and whispers, which reached not acuter or more suspected
ears and eyes. Anxiously, restlessly, did she long for the return
of Adrian, not from selfish motives alone, but from well-founded
apprehensions for her brother. With Adrian di Castello, alike a noble
and a patriot, each party had found a mediator, and his presence grew
daily more needed, till at length the conspiracy of the Barons had
broken out. From that hour she scarcely dared to hope; her calm sense,
unblinded by the high-wrought genius which, as too often happens, made
the Tribune see harsh realities through a false and brilliant light,
perceived that the Rubicon was passed; and through all the events
that followed she could behold but two images--danger to her brother,
separation from her betrothed.
With Nina alone could her full heart confer; for Nina, with all the
differences of character, was a woman who loved. And this united them.
In the earlier power of Rienzi, many of their happiest hours had been
passed together, remote from the gaudy crowd, alone and unrestrained,
in the summer nights, on the moonlit balconies, in that interchange
of thought, sympathy, and consolation, which to two impassioned and
guileless women makes the most interesting occupation and the most
effectual solace. But of late, this intercourse had been much marred.
From the morning in which the Barons had received their pardon, to that
on which they had marched on Rome, had been one succession of fierce
excitements. Every face Irene saw was clouded and overcast--all gaiety
was suspended--bustling and anxious councillors, or armed soldiers, had
for days been the only visitors of the palace. Rienzi had been seen but
for short moments: his brow wrapt in care. Nina had been more fond, more
caressing than ever, but in those caresses there seemed a mournful and
ominous compassion. The attempts at comfort and hope were succeeded by
a sickly smile and broken words; and Irene was prepared, by the
presentiments of her own heart, for the stroke that fell--victory was to
her brother--his foe was crushed--Rome was free--but the lofty house
of the Colonnas had lost its stateliest props, and Adrian was gone for
ever!--She did not blame him; she could not blame her brother; each
had acted as became his several station. She was the poor sacrifice of
events and fate--the Iphigenia to the Winds which were to bear the bark
of Rome to the haven, or, it might be, to whelm it in the abyss. She was
stunned by the blow; she did not even weep or complain; she bowed to the
storm that swept over her, and it passed. For two days she neither took
food nor rest; she shut herself up; she asked only the boon of solitude:
but on the third morning she recovered as by a miracle, for on the third
morning, the following letter was left at the palace:--
“Irene,--Ere this you have learned my deep cause of grief; you feel
that to a Colonna Rome can no longer be a home, nor Rome’s Tribune be
a brother. While I write these words honour but feebly supports me: all
the hopes I had formed, all the prospects I had pictured, all the love
I bore and bear thee, rush upon my heart, and I can only feel that I am
wretched. Irene, Irene, your sweet face rises before me, and in those
beloved eyes I read that I am forgiven,--I am understood; and dearly as
I know thou lovest me, thou wouldst rather I were lost to thee, rather I
were in the grave with my kinsmen, than know I lived the reproach of my
order, the recreant of my name. Ah! why was I a Colonna? why did Fortune
make me noble, and nature and circumstance attach me to the people? I am
barred alike from love and from revenge; all my revenge falls upon
thee and me. Adored! we are perhaps separated for ever; but, by all
the happiness I have known by thy side--by all the rapture of which I
dreamed--by that delicious hour which first gave thee to my gaze, when
I watched the soft soul returning to thine eyes and lip--by thy first
blushing confession of love--by our first kiss--by our last farewell--I
swear to be faithful to thee to the last. None other shall ever chase
thine image from my heart. And now, when Hope seems over, Faith becomes
doubly sacred; and thou, my beautiful, wilt thou not remember me? wilt
thou not feel as if we were the betrothed of Heaven? In the legends of
the North we are told of the knight who, returning from the Holy Land,
found his mistress (believing his death) the bride of Heaven, and he
built a hermitage by the convent where she dwelt; and, though they never
saw each other more, their souls were faithful unto death. Even so,
Irene, be we to each other--dead to all else--betrothed in memory--to
be wedded above! And yet, yet ere I close, one hope dawns upon me. Thy
brother’s career, bright and lofty, may be but as a falling star;
should darkness swallow it, should his power cease, should his throne be
broken, and Rome know no more her Tribune; shouldst thou no longer
have a brother in the judge and destroyer of my house; shouldst thou be
stricken from pomp and state; shouldst thou be friendless, kindredless,
alone--then, without a stain on mine honour, without the shame and odium
of receiving power and happiness from hands yet red with the blood of
my race, I may claim thee as my own. Honour ceases to command when thou
ceasest to be great. I dare not too fondly indulge this dream, perchance
it is a sin in both. But it must be whispered, that thou mayest know
all thy Adrian, all his weakness and his strength. My own loved, my
ever loved, loved more fondly now when loved despairingly, farewell! May
angels heal thy sorrow, and guard me from sin, that hereafter at least
we may meet again!”
“He loves me--he loves me still!” said the maiden, weeping at last; “and
I am blest once more!”
With that letter pressed to her heart she recovered outwardly from the
depth of her affliction; she met her brother with a smile, and Nina
with embraces; and if still she pined and sorrowed, it was in that
“concealment” which is the “worm i’ the bud.”
Meanwhile, after the first flush of victory, lamentation succeeded to
joy in Rome; so great had been the slaughter that the private grief was
large enough to swallow up all public triumph; and many of the mourners
blamed even their defender for the swords of the assailant, “Roma fu
terribilmente vedovata.” (“Rome was terribly widowed.”) The numerous
funerals deeply affected the Tribune; and, in proportion to his sympathy
with his people, grew his stern indignation against the Barons. Like all
men whose religion is intense, passionate, and zealous, the Tribune had
little toleration for those crimes which went to the root of religion.
Perjury was to him the most base and inexpiable of offences, and the
slain Barons had been twice perjured: in the bitterness of his wrath he
forbade their families for some days to lament over their remains;
and it was only in private and in secret that he permitted them to be
interred in their ancestral vaults: an excess of vengeance which
sullied his laurels, but which was scarcely inconsistent with the stern
patriotism of his character. Impatient to finish what he had begun,
anxious to march at once to Marino, where the insurgents collected their
shattered force, he summoned his Council, and represented the certainty
of victory, and its result in the complete restoration of peace. But
pay was due to the soldiery; they already murmured; the treasury was
emptied, it was necessary to fill it by raising a new tax.
Among the councillors were some whose families had suffered grievously
in the battle--they lent a lukewarm attention to propositions
of continued strife. Others, among whom was Pandulfo, timid but
well-meaning, aware that grief and terror even of their own triumph
had produced reaction amongst the people, declared that they would not
venture to propose a new tax. A third party, headed by Baroncelli--a
demagogue whose ambition was without principle--but who, by pandering
to the worst passions of the populace, by a sturdy coarseness of nature
with which they sympathised--and by that affectation of advancing what
we now term the “movement,” which often gives to the fiercest fool an
advantage over the most prudent statesman, had quietly acquired a great
influence with the lower ranks--offered a more bold opposition. They
dared even to blame the proud Tribune for the gorgeous extravagance they
had themselves been the first to recommend--and half insinuated
sinister and treacherous motives in his acquittal of the Barons from
the accusation of Rodolf. In the very Parliament which the Tribune
had revived and remodelled for the support of freedom--freedom was
abandoned. His fiery eloquence met with a gloomy silence, and finally,
the votes were against his propositions for the new tax and the march
to Marino. Rienzi broke up the Council in haste and disorder. As he left
the hall, a letter was put into his hands; he read it, and remained for
some moments as one thunderstruck. He then summoned the Captain of his
Guards, and ordered a band of fifty horsemen to be prepared for his
commands; he repaired to Nina’s apartment, he found her alone, and
stood for some moments gazing upon her so intently that she was awed and
chilled from all attempt at speech. At length he said, abruptly--
“We must part.”
“Part!”
“Yes, Nina--your guard is preparing; you have relations, I have friends,
at Florence. Florence must be your home.”
“Cola,--”
“Look not on me thus.--in power, in state, in safety--you were my
ornament and counsellor. Now you but embarrass me. And--”
“Oh, Cola, speak not thus! What hath chanced? Be not so cold--frown
not--turn not away! Am I not something more to thee, than the partner
of joyous hours--the minion of love? Am I not thy wife, Cola--not thy
leman?”
“Too dear--too dear to me,” muttered the Tribune; “with thee by my side
I shall be but half a Roman. Nina, the base slaves whom I myself made
free desert me.--Now, in the very hour in which I might sweep away for
ever all obstacles to the regeneration of Rome--now, when one conquest
points the path to complete success--now when the land is visible, my
fortune suddenly leaves me in the midst of the seas! There is greater
danger now than in the rage of the Barons--the Barons are fled; it is
the People who are becoming traitors to Rome and to me.”
“And wouldst thou have me traitor also! No, Cola; in death itself Nina
shall be beside thee. Life and honour are reflected but from thee, and
the stroke that slays the substance, shall destroy the humble shadow. I
will not part from thee.”
“Nina,” said the Tribune, contending with strong and convulsive
emotion--“it may be literally of death that you speak.--Go! leave one
who can no longer protect you or Rome!”
“Never--Never.”
“You are resolved?”
“I am.”
“Be it so,” said the Tribune, with deep sadness in his tone. “Arm
thyself for the worst.”
“There is no worst with thee, Cola!”
“Come to my arms, brave woman; thy words rebuke my weakness. But my
sister!--if I fall, you, Nina, will not survive--your beauty a prey to
the most lustful heart and the strongest hand. We will have the same
tomb on the wrecks of Roman liberty. But Irene is of weaker mould; poor
child, I have robbed her of a lover, and now--”
“You are right; let Irene go. And in truth we may well disguise from
her the real cause of her departure. Change of scene were best for her
grief; and under all circumstances would seem decorum to the curious. I
will see and prepare her.”
“Do so, sweetheart. I would gladly be a moment alone with thought. But
remember, she must part today--our sands run low.”
As the door closed on Nina, the Tribune took out the letter and again
read it deliberately. “So the Pope’s Legate left Sienna:--prayed that
Republic to withdraw its auxiliary troops from Rome--proclaimed me a
rebel and a heretic;--thence repaired to Marino;--now in council with
the Barons. Why, have my dreams belied me, then--false as the waking
things that flatter and betray by day? In such peril will the people
forsake me and themselves? Army of saints and martyrs, shades of heroes
and patriots, have ye abandoned for ever your ancient home? No, no, I
was not raised to perish thus; I will defeat them yet--and leave my name
a legacy to Rome; a warning to the oppressor--an example to the free!”