There is this difference between the Drama of Shakspeare, and that
of almost every other master of the same art; that in the first, the
catastrophe is rarely produced by one single cause--one simple and
continuous chain of events. Various and complicated agencies work out
the final end. Unfettered by the rules of time and place, each time,
each place depicted, presents us with its appropriate change of action,
or of actors. Sometimes the interest seems to halt, to turn aside, to
bring us unawares upon objects hitherto unnoticed, or upon qualities of
the characters hitherto hinted at, not developed. But, in reality, the
pause in the action is but to collect, to gather up, and to grasp, all
the varieties of circumstance that conduce to the Great Result: and the
art of fiction is only deserted for the fidelity of history. Whoever
seeks to place before the world the true representation of a man’s
life and times, and, enlarging the Dramatic into the Epic, extends
his narrative over the vicissitudes of years, will find himself
unconsciously, in this, the imitator of Shakspeare. New characters, each
conducive to the end--new scenes, each leading to the last, rise before
him as he proceeds, sometimes seeming to the reader to delay, even while
they advance, the dread catastrophe. The sacrificial procession sweeps
along, swelled by new comers, losing many that first joined it; before,
at last, the same as a whole, but differing in its components, the crowd
reach the fated bourn of the Altar and the Victim!
It is five years after the date of the events I have recorded, and my
story conveys us to the Papal Court at Avignon--that tranquil seat of
power, to which the successors of St. Peter had transplanted the luxury,
the pomp, and the vices, of the Imperial City. Secure from the fraud or
violence of a powerful and barbarous nobility, the courtiers of the See
surrendered themselves to a holyday of delight--their repose was devoted
to enjoyment, and Avignon presented, at that day, perhaps the gayest
and most voluptuous society of Europe. The elegance of Clement VI. had
diffused an air of literary refinement over the grosser pleasures of
the place, and the spirit of Petrarch still continued to work its way
through the councils of faction and the orgies of debauch.
Innocent VI. had lately succeeded Clement, and whatever his own claims
to learning, (Matteo Villani (lib. iii. cap. 44) says, that Innocent VI.
had not much pretension to learning. He is reported, however, by other
authorities, cited by Zefirino Re, to have been “eccellente canonista.”
He had been a professor in the University of Toulouse.) he, at least,
appreciated knowledge and intellect in others; so that the graceful
pedantry of the time continued to mix itself with the pursuit of
pleasure. The corruption which reigned through the whole place was too
confirmed to yield to the example of Innocent, himself a man of simple
habits and exemplary life. Though, like his predecessor, obedient to the
policy of France, Innocent possessed a hard and an extended ambition.
Deeply concerned for the interests of the Church, he formed the project
of confirming and re-establishing her shaken dominion in Italy; and he
regarded the tyrants of the various states as the principal obstacles
to his ecclesiastical ambition. Nor was this the policy of Innocent
VI. alone. With such exceptions as peculiar circumstances necessarily
occasioned, the Papal See was, upon the whole, friendly to the political
liberties of Italy. The Republics of the Middle Ages grew up under the
shadow of the Church; and there, as elsewhere, it was found, contrary
to a vulgar opinion, that Religion, however prostituted and perverted,
served for the general protection of civil freedom,--raised the lowly,
and resisted the oppressor.
At this period there appeared at Avignon a lady of singular and
matchless beauty. She had come with a slender but well appointed retinue
from Florence, but declared herself of Neapolitan birth; the widow of
a noble of the brilliant court of the unfortunate Jane. Her name was
Cesarini. Arrived at a place where, even in the citadel of Christianity,
Venus retained her ancient empire, where Love made the prime business of
life, and to be beautiful was to be of power; the Signora Cesarini had
scarcely appeared in public before she saw at her feet half the rank and
gallantry of Avignon. Her female attendants were beset with bribes
and billets; and nightly, beneath her lattice, was heard the plaintive
serenade. She entered largely into the gay dissipation of the town, and
her charms shared the celebrity of the hour with the verse of Petrarch.
But though she frowned on none, none could claim the monopoly of her
smiles. Her fair fame was as yet unblemished; but if any might presume
beyond the rest, she seemed to have selected rather from ambition than
love, and Giles, the warlike Cardinal d’Albornoz, all powerful at the
sacred court, already foreboded the hour of his triumph.
It was late noon, and in the ante-chamber of the fair Signora waited
two of that fraternity of pages, fair and richly clad, who, at that day,
furnished the favourite attendants to rank of either sex.
“By my troth,” cried one of these young servitors, pushing from him the
dice with which himself and his companion had sought to beguile their
leisure, “this is but dull work! and the best part of the day is gone.
Our lady is late.”
“And I have donned my new velvet mantle,” replied the other,
compassionately eyeing his finery.
“Chut, Giacomo,” said his comrade, yawning; “a truce with thy
conceit.--What news abroad, I wonder? Has his Holiness come to his
senses yet?”
“His senses! what, is he mad then?” quoth Giacomo, in a serious and
astonished whisper.
“I think he is; if, being Pope, he does not discover that he may at
length lay aside mask and hood. ‘Continent Cardinal--lewd Pope,’ is the
old motto, you know; something must be the matter with the good man’s
brain if he continue to live like a hermit.”
“Oh, I have you! but faith, his Holiness has proxies eno’. The bishops
take care to prevent women, Heaven bless them! going out of fashion; and
Albornoz does not maintain your proverb, touching the Cardinals.”
“True, but Giles is a warrior,--a cardinal in the church, but a soldier
in the city.”
“Will he carry the fort here, think you, Angelo?”
“Why, fort is female, but--”
“But what?”
“The Signora’s brow is made for power, rather than love, fair as it is.
She sees in Albornoz the prince, and not the lover. With what a step she
sweeps the floor! it disdains even the cloth of gold!”
“Hark!” cried Giacomo, hastening to the lattice, “hear you the hoofs
below? Ah, a gallant company!”
“Returned from hawking,” answered Angelo, regarding wistfully the
cavalcade, as it swept the narrow street. “Plumes waving, steeds
curvetting--see how yon handsome cavalier presses close to that dame!”
“His mantle is the colour of mine,” sighed Giacomo.
As the gay procession paced slowly on, till hidden by the winding
street, and as the sound of laughter and the tramp of horses was yet
faintly heard, there frowned right before the straining gaze of the
pages, a dark massive tower of the mighty masonry of the eleventh
century: the sun gleamed sadly on its vast and dismal surface, which was
only here and there relieved by loopholes and narrow slits, rather
than casements. It was a striking contrast to the gaiety around, the
glittering shops, and the gaudy train that had just filled the space
below. This contrast the young men seemed involuntarily to feel; they
drew back, and looked at each other.
“I know your thoughts, Giacomo,” said Angelo, the handsomer and elder of
the two. “You think yon tower affords but a gloomy lodgment?”
“And I thank my stars that made me not high enough to require so grand a
cage,” rejoined Giacomo.
“Yet,” observed Angelo, “it holds one, who in birth was not our
superior.”
“Do tell me something of that strange man,” said Giacomo, regaining his
seat; “you are Roman and should know.”
“Yes!” answered Angelo, haughtily drawing himself up, “I am Roman! and I
should be unworthy my birth, if I had not already learned what honour is
due to the name of Cola di Rienzi.”
“Yet your fellow-Romans merely stoned him, I fancy,” muttered Giacomo.
“Honour seems to lie more in kicks than money. Can you tell me,”
continued the page in a louder key, “can you tell me if it be true, that
Rienzi appeared at Prague before the Emperor, and prophesied that the
late Pope and all the Cardinals should be murdered, and a new Italian
Pope elected, who should endue the Emperor with a golden crown, as
Sovereign of Sicilia, Calabria, and Apulia, (An absurd fable, adopted
by certain historians.) and himself with a crown of silver, as King of
Rome, and all Italy? And--”
“Hush!” interrupted Angelo, impatiently. “Listen to me, and you shall
know the exact story. On last leaving Rome (thou knowest that, after
his fall, he was present at the Jubilee in disguise) the Tribune--” here
Angelo, pausing, looked round, and then with a flushed cheek and raised
voice resumed, “Yes, the Tribune, that was and shall be--travelled in
disguise, as a pilgrim, over mountain and forest, night and day, exposed
to rain and storm, no shelter but the cave,--he who had been, they
say, the very spoilt one of Luxury. Arrived at length in Bohemia,
he disclosed himself to a Florentine in Prague, and through his aid
obtained audience of the Emperor Charles.”
“A prudent man, the Emperor!” said Giacomo, “close-fisted as a miser. He
makes conquests by bargain, and goes to market for laurels,--as I have
heard my brother say, who was under him.”
“True; but I have also heard that he likes bookmen and scholars--is
wise and temperate, and much is yet hoped from him in Italy! Before the
Emperor, I say, came Rienzi. ‘Know, great Prince,’ said he, ‘that I am
that Rienzi to whom God gave to govern Rome, in peace, with justice, and
to freedom. I curbed the nobles, I purged corruption, I amended law. The
powerful persecuted me--pride and envy have chased me from my dominions.
Great as you are, fallen as I am, I too have wielded the sceptre and
might have worn a crown. Know, too, that I am illegitimately of
your lineage; my father the son of Henry VII.; (Uncle to the Emperor
Charles.) the blood of the Teuton rolls in my veins; mean as were my
earlier fortunes and humble my earlier name! From you, O King, I seek
protection, and I demand justice.” (See, for this speech, “the Anonymous
Biographer,” lib. ii. cap. 12.)
“A bold speech, and one from equal to equal,” said Giacomo; “surely you
swell us out the words.”
“Not a whit; they were written down by the Emperor’s scribe, and every
Roman who has once heard knows them by heart: once every Roman was the
equal to a king, and Rienzi maintained our dignity in asserting his
own.”
Giacomo, who discreetly avoided quarrels, knew the weak side of
his friend; and though in his heart he thought the Romans as
good-for-nothing a set of turbulent dastards as all Italy might furnish,
he merely picked a straw from his mantle, and said, in rather an
impatient tone, “Humph! proceed! did the Emperor dismiss him?”
“Not so: Charles was struck with his bearing and his spirit, received
him graciously, and entertained him hospitably. He remained some time
at Prague, and astonished all the learned with his knowledge and
eloquence.” (His Italian contemporary delights in representing this
remarkable man as another Crichton. “Disputava,” he says of him when at
Prague, “disputava con Mastri di teologia; molto diceva, parlava cose
meravigliose...abbair fea ogni persona.”--“He disputed with Masters of
theology--he spoke much, he discoursed things wonderful--he astonished
every one.”)
“But if so honoured at Prague, how comes he a prisoner at Avignon?”
“Giacomo,” said Angelo, thoughtfully, “there are some men whom we, of
another mind and mould, can rarely comprehend, and never fathom. And of
such men I have observed that a supreme confidence in their own fortunes
or their own souls, is the most common feature. Thus impressed, and thus
buoyed, they rush into danger with a seeming madness, and from danger
soar to greatness, or sink to death. So with Rienzi; dissatisfied with
empty courtesies and weary of playing the pedant, since once he had
played the prince;--some say of his own accord, (though others relate
that he was surrendered to the Pope’s legate by Charles,) he left the
Emperor’s court, and without arms, without money, betook himself at once
to Avignon!”
“Madness indeed!”
“Yet, perhaps his only course, under all circumstances,” resumed the
elder page. “Once before his fall, and once during his absence from
Rome, he had been excommunicated by the Pope’s legate. He was accused of
heresy--the ban was still on him. It was necessary that he should clear
himself. How was the poor exile to do so? No powerful friend stood
up for the friend of the people. No courtier vindicated one who had
trampled on the neck of the nobles. His own genius was his only friend;
on that only could he rely. He sought Avignon, to free himself from the
accusations against him; and, doubtless, he hoped that there was but one
step from his acquittal to his restoration. Besides, it is certain that
the Emperor had been applied to, formally to surrender Rienzi. He had
the choice before him; for to that sooner or later it must come--to
go free, or to go in bonds--as a criminal, or as a Roman. He chose the
latter. Wherever he passed along, the people rose in every town, in
every hamlet. The name of the great Tribune was honoured throughout all
Italy. They besought him not to rush into the very den of peril--they
implored him to save himself for that country which he had sought to
raise. ‘I go to vindicate myself, and to triumph,’ was the Tribune’s
answer. Solemn honours were paid him in the cities through which he
passed; (“Per tutto la via li furo fatti solenni onori,” &c.--“Vita di
Cola di Rienzi”, lib. ii. cap. 13.) and I am told that never ambassador,
prince, or baron, entered Avignon with so long a train as that which
followed into these very walls the steps of Cola di Rienzi.”
“And on his arrival?”
“He demanded an audience, that he might refute the charges against him.
He flung down the gage to the proud cardinals who had excommunicated
him. He besought a trial.”
“And what said the Pope?”
“Nothing--by word. Yon tower was his answer!”
“A rough one!”
“But there have been longer roads than that from the prison to the
palace, and God made not men like Rienzi for the dungeon and the chain.”
As Angelo said this with a loud voice, and with all the enthusiasm with
which the fame of the fallen Tribune had inspired the youth of Rome, he
heard a sigh behind him. He turned in some confusion, and at the door
which admitted to the chamber occupied by the Signora Cesarini, stood a
female of noble presence. Attired in the richest garments, gold and gems
were dull to the lustre of her dark eyes, and as she now stood, erect
and commanding, never seemed brow more made for the regal crown--never
did human beauty more fully consummate the ideal of a heroine and a
queen.
“Pardon me, Signora,” said Angelo, hesitatingly; “I spoke loud, I
disturbed you; but I am Roman, and my theme was--”
“Rienzi!” said the lady, approaching; “a fit one to stir a Roman heart.
Nay--no excuses: they would sound ill on thy generous lips. Ah, if--”
the Signora paused suddenly, and sighed again; then in an altered and
graver tone she resumed--“If fate restore Rienzi to his proper fortunes,
he shall know what thou deemest of him.”
“If you, lady, who are of Naples,” said Angelo, with meaning emphasis,
“speak thus of a fallen exile, what must I have felt who acknowledge a
sovereign?”
“Rienzi is not of Rome alone--he is of Italy--of the world,” returned
the Signora. “And you, Angelo, who have had the boldness to speak thus
of one fallen, have proved with what loyalty you can serve those who
have the fortune to own you.”
As she spoke, the Signora looked at the page’s downcast and blushing
face long and wistfully, with the gaze of one accustomed to read the
soul in the countenance.
“Men are often deceived,” said she sadly, yet with a half smile; “but
women rarely,--save in love. Would that Rome were filled with such as
you! Enough! Hark! Is that the sound of hoofs in the court below?”
“Madam,” said Giacomo, bringing his mantle gallantly over his shoulder,
“I see the servitors of Monsignore the Cardinal d’Albornoz.--It is the
Cardinal himself.”
“It is well!” said the Signora, with a brightening eye; “I await
him!” With these words she withdrew by the door through which she had
surprised the Roman page.