Affections.
Since that fearful hour in which Adrian Colonna had gazed upon the
lifeless form of his adored Irene, the young Roman had undergone the
usual vicissitudes of a wandering and adventurous life in those exciting
times. His country seemed no longer dear to him. His very rank precluded
him from the post he once aspired to take in restoring the liberties of
Rome; and he felt that if ever such a revolution could be consummated,
it was reserved for one in whose birth and habits the people could
feel sympathy and kindred, and who could lift his hand in their behalf
without becoming the apostate of his order and the judge of his own
House. He had travelled through various courts, and served with renown
in various fields. Beloved and honoured wheresoever he fixed a temporary
home, no change of scene had removed his melancholy--no new ties had
chased away the memory of the Lost. In that era of passionate and
poetical romance, which Petrarch represented rather than created, Love
had already begun to assume a more tender and sacred character than it
had hitherto known, it had gradually imbibed the divine spirit which
it derives from Christianity, and which associates its sorrows on
earth with the visions and hopes of heaven. To him who relies upon
immortality, fidelity to the dead is easy; because death cannot
extinguish hope, and the soul of the mourner is already half in the
world to come. It is an age that desponds of a future life--representing
death as an eternal separation--in which, if men grieve awhile for the
dead, they hasten to reconcile themselves to the living. For true is the
old aphorism, that love exists not without hope. And all that romantic
worship which the Hermit of Vaucluse felt, or feigned, for Laura, found
its temple in the desolate heart of Adrian Colonna. He was emphatically
the Lover of his time! Often as, in his pilgrimage from land to land,
he passed the walls of some quiet and lonely convent, he seriously
meditated the solemn vows, and internally resolved that the cloister
should receive his maturer age. The absence of years had, however,
in some degree restored the dimmed and shattered affection for his
fatherland, and he desired once more to visit the city in which he had
first beheld Irene. “Perhaps,” he thought, “time may have wrought some
unlooked-for change; and I may yet assist to restore my country.”
But with this lingering patriotism no ambition was mingled. In that
heated stage of action, in which the desire of power seemed to stir
through every breast, and Italy had become the El Dorado of wealth, or
the Utopia of empire, to thousands of valiant arms and plotting minds,
there was at least one breast that felt the true philosophy of the
Hermit. Adrian’s nature, though gallant and masculine, was singularly
imbued with that elegance of temperament which recoils from rude
contact, and to which a lettered and cultivated indolence is the
supremest luxury. His education, his experience, and his intellect, had
placed him far in advance of his age, and he looked with a high contempt
on the coarse villanies and base tricks by which Italian ambition
sought its road to power. The rise and fall of Rienzi, who, whatever his
failings, was at least the purest and most honourable of the self-raised
princes of the age, had conspired to make him despond of the success of
noble, as he recoiled from that of selfish aspirations. And the dreamy
melancholy which resulted from his ill-starred love, yet more tended
to wean him from the stale and hackneyed pursuits of the world. His
character was full of beauty and of poetry--not the less so in that it
found not a vent for its emotions in the actual occupation of the poet!
Pent within, those emotions diffused themselves over all his thoughts
and coloured his whole soul. Sometimes, in the blessed abstraction of
his visions, he pictured to himself the lot he might have chosen had
Irene lived, and fate united them--far from the turbulent and vulgar
roar of Rome--but amidst some yet unpolluted solitude of the bright
Italian soil. Before his eye there rose the lovely landscape--the palace
by the borders of the waveless lake--the vineyards in the valley--the
dark forests waving from the hill--and that home, the resort and refuge
of all the minstrelsy and love of Italy, brightened by the “Lampeggiar
dell’ angelico riso,” that makes a paradise in the face we love. Often,
seduced by such dreams to complete oblivion of his loss, the young
wanderer started from the ideal bliss, to behold around him the solitary
waste of way--or the moonlit tents of war--or, worse than all, the
crowds and revels of a foreign court.
Whether or not such fancies now, for a moment, allured his meditations,
conjured up, perhaps, by the name of Irene’s brother, which never
sounded in his ears but to awaken ten thousand associations, the Colonna
remained thoughtful and absorbed, until he was disturbed by his own
squire, who, accompanied by Montreal’s servitors, ushered in
his solitary but ample repast. Flasks of the richest Florentine
wines--viands prepared with all the art which, alas, Italy has now
lost!--goblets and salvers of gold and silver, prodigally wrought with
barbaric gems--attested the princely luxury which reigned in the camp
of the Grand Company. But Adrian saw in all only the spoliation of his
degraded country, and felt the splendour almost as an insult. His lonely
meal soon concluded, he became impatient of the monotony of his tent;
and, tempted by the cool air of the descending eve, sauntered carelessly
forth. He bent his steps by the side of the brooklet that curved,
snakelike and sparkling, by Montreal’s tent; and finding a spot somewhat
solitary and apart from the warlike tenements around, flung himself by
the margin of the stream.
The last rays of the sun quivered on the wave that danced musically over
its stony bed; and amidst a little copse on the opposite bank broke the
brief and momentary song of such of the bolder habitants of that purple
air as the din of the camp had not scared from their green retreat. The
clouds lay motionless to the west, in that sky so darkly and intensely
blue, never seen but over the landscapes that a Claude or a Rosa loved
to paint; and dim and delicious rose-hues gathered over the grey peaks
of the distant Apennines. From afar floated the hum of the camp, broken
by the neigh of returning steeds; the blast of an occasional bugle; and,
at regular intervals, by the armed tramp of the neighbouring sentry.
And opposite to the left of the copse--upon a rising ground, matted
with reeds, moss, and waving shrubs--were the ruins of some old Etruscan
building, whose name had perished, whose very uses were unknown.
The scene was so calm and lovely, as Adrian gazed upon it, that it was
scarcely possible to imagine it at that very hour the haunt of fierce
and banded robbers, among most of whom the very soul of man was
embruted, and to all of whom murder or rapine made the habitual
occupation of life.
Still buried in his reveries, and carelessly dropping stones into the
noisy rivulet, Adrian was aroused by the sound of steps.
“A fair spot to listen to the lute and the ballads of Provence,” said
the voice of Montreal, as the Knight of St. John threw himself on the
turf beside the young Colonna.
“You retain, then, your ancient love of your national melodies,” said
Adrian.
“Ay, I have not yet survived all my youth,” answered Montreal, with a
slight sigh. “But somehow or other, the strains that once pleased
my fancy now go too directly to my heart. So, though I still welcome
jongleur and minstrel, I bid them sing their newest conceits. I cannot
wish ever again to hear the poetry I heard when I was young!”
“Pardon me,” said Adrian, with great interest, “but fain would I have
dared, though a secret apprehension prevented me hitherto,--fain would
I have dared to question you of that lovely lady, with whom, seven
years ago, we gazed at moonlight upon the odorous orange-groves and rosy
waters of Terracina.”
Montreal turned away his face; he laid his hand on Adrian’s arm, and
murmured, in a deep and hoarse tone, “I am alone now!”
Adrian pressed his hand in silence. He felt no light shock at thus
learning the death of one so gentle, so lovely, and so ill-fated.
“The vows of my knighthood,” continued Montreal, “which precluded
Adeline the rights of wedlock--the shame of her house--the angry
grief of her mother--the wild vicissitudes of my life, so exposed to
peril--the loss of her son--all preyed silently on her frame. She did
not die (die is too harsh a word!), but she drooped away, and glided
into heaven. Even as on a summer’s morn some soft dream fleets across
us, growing less and less distinct, until it fades, as it were, into
light, and we awaken--so faded Adeline’s parting spirit, till the
daylight of God broke upon it.”
Montreal paused a moment, and then resumed: “These thoughts make the
boldest of us weak sometimes, and we Provencals are foolish in these
matters!--God wot, she was very dear to me!”
The Knight bent down and crossed himself devoutly, his lips muttered a
prayer. Strange as it may seem to our more enlightened age, so martial
a garb did morality then wear, that this man, at whose word towns had
blazed and torrents of blood had flowed, neither adjudged himself, nor
was adjudged by the majority of his contemporaries, a criminal. His
order, half monastic, half warlike, was emblematic of himself.
He trampled upon man, yet humbled himself to God; nor had all his
acquaintance with the refining scepticism of Italy shaken the sturdy and
simple faith of the bold Provencal. So far from recognising any want
of harmony between his calling and his creed, he held that man no true
chevalier who was not as devout to the Cross as relentless with the
sword.
“And you have no child save the one you lost?” asked Adrian, when he
observed the wonted composure of Montreal once more returning.
“None!” said Montreal, as his brow again darkened. “No love-begotten
heir of mine will succeed to the fortunes I trust yet to build. Never
on earth shall I see upon the face of her child the likeness of Adeline!
Yet, at Avignon, I saw a boy I would have claimed; for methought she
must have looked her soul into his eyes, they were so like hers! Well,
well! The Provence tree hath other branches; and some unborn nephew must
be--what? The stars have not yet decided! But ambition is now the only
thing in the world left me to love.”
“So differently operates the same misfortune upon different characters,”
thought the Colonna. “To me, crowns became valueless when I could no
longer dream of placing them on Irene’s brow!”
The similarity of their fates, however, attracted Adrian strongly
towards his host; and the two Knights conversed together with more
friendship and unreserve than they had hitherto done. At length Montreal
said, “By the way, I have not inquired your destination.”
“I am bound to Rome,” said Adrian; “and the intelligence I have learned
from you incites me thitherward yet more eagerly. If Rienzi return, I
may mediate successfully, perchance, between the Tribune-Senator and the
nobles; and if I find my cousin, young Stefanello, now the head of
our house, more tractable than his sires, I shall not despair of
conciliating the less powerful Barons. Rome wants repose; and whoever
governs, if he govern but with justice, ought to be supported both by
prince and plebeian!”
Montreal listened with great attention, and then muttered to himself,
“No, it cannot be!” He mused a little while, shading his brow with his
hand, before he said aloud, “To Rome you are bound. Well, we shall meet
soon amidst its ruins. Know, by the way, that my object here is already
won: these Florentine merchants have acceded to my terms; they have
purchased a two years’ peace; tomorrow the camp breaks up, and the
Grand Company march to Lombardy. There, if my schemes prosper, and
the Venetians pay my price, I league the rascals (under Landau, my
Lieutenant) with the Sea-City, in defiance of the Visconti, and shall
pass my autumn in peace amidst the pomps of Rome.”
“Sir Walter de Montreal,” said Adrian, “your frankness perhaps makes
me presumptuous; but when I hear you talk, like a huxtering trader, of
selling alike your friendship and your forbearance, I ask myself, ‘Is
this the great Knight of St. John; and have men spoken of him fairly,
when they assert the sole stain on his laurels to be his avarice?”
Montreal bit his lip; nevertheless, he answered calmly, “My frankness
has brought its own penance, Lord Adrian. However, I cannot wholly leave
so honoured a guest under an impression which I feel to be plausible,
but not just. No, brave Colonna; report wrongs me. I value Gold,
for Gold is the Architect of Power! It fills the camp--it storms the
city--it buys the marketplace--it raises the palace--it founds the
throne. I value Gold,--it is the means necessary to my end!”
“And that end--”
“Is--no matter what,” said the Knight coldly. “Let us to our tents, the
dews fall heavily, and the malaria floats over these houseless wastes.”
The pair rose;--yet, fascinated by the beauty of the hour, they lingered
for a moment by the brook. The earliest stars shone over its crisping
wavelets, and a delicious breeze murmured gently amidst the glossy
herbage.
“Thus gazing,” said Montreal, softly, “we reverse the old Medusan fable
the poets tell us of, and look and muse ourselves out of stone. A little
while, and it was the sunlight that gilded the wave--it now shines as
brightly and glides as gaily beneath the stars; even so rolls the stream
of time: one luminary succeeds the other equally welcomed--equally
illumining--equally evanescent!--You see, the poetry of Provence still
lives beneath my mail!”
Adrian early sought his couch; but his own thoughts and the sounds of
loud mirth that broke from Montreal’s tent, where the chief feasted the
captains of his band, a revel from which he had the delicacy to excuse
the Roman noble, kept the Colonna long awake; and he had scarcely fallen
into an unquiet slumber, when yet more discordant sounds again invaded
his repose. At the earliest dawn the wide armament was astir--the
creaking of cordage--the tramp of men--loud orders and louder oaths--the
slow rolling of baggage-wains--and the clank of the armourers, announced
the removal of the camp, and the approaching departure of the Grand
Company.
Ere Adrian was yet attired, Montreal entered his tent.
“I have appointed,” he said, “five score lances under a trusty leader,
to accompany you, noble Adrian, to the borders of Romagna; they wait
your leisure. In another hour I depart; the on-guard are already in
motion.”
Adrian would fain have declined the proffered escort; but he saw that
it would only offend the pride of the chief, who soon retired. Hastily
Adrian endued his arms--the air of the fresh morning, and the glad
sun rising gorgeously from the hills, revived his wearied spirit. He
repaired to Montreal’s tent, and found him alone, with the implements of
writing before him, and a triumphant smile upon his countenance.
“Fortune showers new favours on me!” he said, gaily. “Yesterday the
Florentines spared me the trouble of a siege: and today (even since I
last saw you--a few minutes since) puts your new Senator of Rome into my
power.”
“How! Have your bands then arrested Rienzi?”
“Not so--better still! The Tribune changed his plan, and repaired to
Perugia, where my brothers now abide--sought them--they have supplied
him with money and soldiers enough to brave the perils of the way, and
to defy the swords of the Barons. So writes my good brother Arimbaldo, a
man of letters, whom the Tribune thinks rightly he has decoyed with old
tales of Roman greatness, and mighty promises of grateful advancement.
You find me hastily expressing my content at the arrangement. My
brothers themselves will accompany the Senator-Tribune to the walls of
the Capitol.”
“Still, I see not how this places Rienzi in your power.”
“No! His soldiers are my creatures--his comrades my brothers--his
creditor myself! Let him rule Rome then--the time soon comes when the
Vice-Regent must yield to--”
“The Chief of the Grand Company,” interrupted Adrian, with a shudder,
which the bold Montreal was too engrossed with the unconcealed
excitement of his own thoughts to notice. “No, Knight of Provence,
basely have we succumbed to domestic tyrants: but never, I trust, will
Romans be so vile as to wear the yoke of a foreign usurper.”
Montreal looked hard at Adrian, and smiled sternly.
“You mistake me,” said he; “and it will be time enough for you to play
the Brutus when I assume the Caesar. Meanwhile we are but host and
guest. Let us change the theme.”
Nevertheless this, their latter conference, threw a chill over both
during the short time the Knights remained together, and they parted
with a formality which was ill-suited to their friendly intercourse of
the night before. Montreal felt he had in cautiously revealed himself,
but caution was no part of his character, whenever he found himself
at the head of an army, and at the full tide of fortune; and at that
moment, so confident was he of the success of his wildest schemes, that
he recked little whom he offended, or whom alarmed.
Slowly, with his strange and ferocious escort, Adrian renewed his way.
Winding up a steep ascent that led from the plain,--when he reached
the summit, the curve in the road shewed him the whole army on its
march;--the gonfalons waving--the armour flashing in the sun, line after
line, like a river of steel, and the whole plain bristling with the
array of that moving war;--while the solemn tread of the armed thousands
fell subdued and stifled at times by martial and exulting music. As they
swept on, Adrian descried at length the stately and towering form of
Montreal upon a black charger, distinguished even at that distance from
the rest, not more by his gorgeous armour than his lofty stature. So
swept he on in the pride of his array--in the flush of his hopes--the
head of a mighty armament--the terror of Italy--the hero that was--the
monarch that might be!