Rewards of Ambition.
The indignation of Rienzi may readily be conceived, on the return of his
herald mutilated and dishonoured. His temper, so naturally stern, was
rendered yet more hard by the remembrance of his wrongs and trials; and
the result which attended his overtures of conciliation to Stefanello
Colonna stung him to the soul.
The bell of the Capitol tolled to arms within ten minutes after the
return of the herald. The great gonfalon of Rome was unfurled on the
highest tower; and the very evening after Adrian’s arrest, the forces of
the Senator, headed by Rienzi in person, were on the road to Palestrina.
The troopers of the Barons had, however, made incursions as far as
Tivoli with the supposed connivance of the inhabitants, and Rienzi
halted at that beautiful spot to raise recruits, and receive the
allegiance of the suspected, while his soldiers, with Arimbaldo and
Brettone at their head, went in search of the marauders. The brothers of
Montreal returned late at night with the intelligence, that the troopers
of the Barons had secured themselves amidst the recesses of the wood of
Pantano.
The red spot mounted to Rienzi’s brow. He gazed hard at Brettone, who
stated the news to him, and a natural suspicion shot across his mind.
“How!--escaped!” he said. “Is it possible? Enough of such idle
skirmishes with these lordly robbers. Will the hour ever come when I
shall meet them hand to hand? Brettone,” and the brother of Montreal
felt the dark eye of Rienzi pierce to his very heart; “Brettone!” said
he, with an abrupt change of voice, “are your men to be trusted? Is
there no connivance with the Barons?”
“How!” said Brettone, sullenly, but somewhat confused.
“How me no hows!” quoth the Tribune-Senator, fiercely. “I know that thou
art a valiant Captain of valiant men. Thou and thy brother Arimbaldo
have served me well, and I have rewarded ye well! Have I not? Speak!”
“Senator,” answered Arimbaldo, taking up the word, “you have kept your
word to us. You have raised us to the highest rank your power could
bestow, and this has amply atoned our humble services.”
“I am glad ye allow thus much,” said the Tribune.
Arimbaldo proceeded, somewhat more loftily, “I trust, my Lord, you do
not doubt us?”
“Arimbaldo,” replied Rienzi, in a voice of deep, but half-suppressed
emotion; “you are a lettered man, and you have seemed to share my
projects for the regeneration of our common kind. You ought not to
betray me. There is something in unison between us. But, chide me not, I
am surrounded by treason, and the very air I breathe seems poison to my
lips.”
There was a pathos mingled with Rienzi’s words which touched the milder
brother of Montreal. He bowed in silence. Rienzi surveyed him wistfully,
and sighed. Then, changing the conversation, he spoke of their intended
siege of Palestrina, and shortly afterwards retired to rest.
Left alone, the brothers regarded each other for some moments in
silence. “Brettone,” said Arimbaldo at length, in a whispered voice, “my
heart misgives me. I like not Walter’s ambitious schemes. With our
own countrymen we are frank and loyal, why play the traitor with this
high-souled Roman?” (The anonymous biographer of Rienzi makes the
following just remark: “Sono li tedeschi, come discendon de la Alemagna,
semplici, puri, senza fraude, come si allocano tra’ taliani, diventano
mastri coduti, viziosi, che sentono ogni malizia.”--“Vita di Cola di
Rienzi”, lib. ii. cap. 16.)
“Tush!” said Brettone. “Our brother’s hand of iron alone can sway this
turbulent people; and if Rienzi be betrayed, so also are his enemies,
the Barons. No more of this! I have tidings from Montreal; he will be in
Rome in a few days.”
“And then?”
“Rienzi, weakened by the Barons (for he must not conquer)--the Barons,
weakened by Rienzi--our Northmen seize the Capitol, and the soldiery,
now scattered throughout Italy, will fly to the standard of the Great
Captain. Montreal must be first Podesta, then King, of Rome.”
Arimbaldo moved restlessly in his seat, and the brethren conferred no
more on their projects.
The situation of Rienzi was precisely that which tends the most to
sour and to harden the fairest nature. With an intellect capable of the
grandest designs, a heart that beat with the loftiest emotions, elevated
to the sunny pinnacle of power and surrounded by loud-tongued adulators,
he knew not among men a single breast in which he could confide. He was
as one on a steep ascent, whose footing crumbles, while every bough at
which he grasps seems to rot at his touch. He found the people more
than ever eloquent in his favour, but while they shouted raptures as he
passed, not a man was capable of making a sacrifice for him! The
liberty of a state is never achieved by a single individual; if not the
people--if not the greater number--a zealous and fervent minority, at
least must go hand in hand with him. Rome demanded sacrifices in all who
sought the Roman regeneration--sacrifices of time, ease, and money. The
crowd followed the procession of the Senator, but not a single Roman
devoted his life, unpaid, to his standard; not a single coin was
subscribed in the defence of freedom. Against him were arrayed the most
powerful and the most ferocious Barons of Italy; each of whom could
maintain, at his own cost, a little army of practised warriors. With
Rienzi were traders and artificers, who were willing to enjoy the fruits
of liberty, but not to labour at the soil; who demanded, in return for
empty shouts, peace and riches; and who expected that one man was to
effect in a day what would be cheaply purchased by the struggle of a
generation. All their dark and rude notion of a reformed state was to
live unbutchered by the Barons and untaxed by their governors. Rome, I
say, gave to her Senator not a free arm, nor a voluntary florin. (This
plain fact is thoroughly borne out by every authority.) Well aware of
the danger which surrounds the ruler who defends his state by foreign
swords, the fondest wish, and the most visionary dream of Rienzi, was to
revive amongst the Romans, in their first enthusiasm at his return, an
organised and voluntary force, who, in protecting him, would protect
themselves:--not, as before, in his first power, a nominal force of
twenty thousand men, who at any hour might yield (as they did yield) to
one hundred and fifty; but a regular, well disciplined, and trusty body,
numerous enough to resist aggression, not numerous enough to become
themselves the aggressors.
Hitherto all his private endeavours, his public exhortations, had
failed; the crowd listened--shouted--saw him quit the city to meet their
tyrants, and returned to their shops, saying to each other, “What a
great man!”
The character of Rienzi has chiefly received for its judges men of the
closet, who speculate upon human beings as if they were machines; who
gauge the great, not by their merit, but their success; and who have
censured or sneered at the Tribune, where they should have condemned the
People! Had but one-half the spirit been found in Rome which ran
through a single vein of Cola di Rienzi, the august Republic, if not
the majestic empire, of Rome, might be existing now! Turning from the
people, the Senator saw his rude and savage troops, accustomed to the
licence of a tyrant’s camp, and under commanders in whom it was ruin
really to confide--whom it was equal ruin openly to distrust. Hemmed
in on every side by dangers, his character daily grew more restless,
vigilant, and stern; and still, with all the aims of the patriot, he
felt all the curses of the tyrant. Without the rough and hardening
career which, through a life of warfare, had brought Cromwell to a
similar power--with more of grace and intellectual softness in his
composition, he resembled that yet greater man in some points of
character--in his religious enthusiasm; his rigid justice, often
forced by circumstance into severity, but never wantonly cruel or
blood-thirsty; in his singular pride of country; and his mysterious
command over the minds of others. But he resembled the giant Englishman
far more in circumstance than original nature, and that circumstance
assimilated their characters at the close of their several careers.
Like Cromwell, beset by secret or open foes, the assassin’s dagger ever
gleamed before his eyes; and his stout heart, unawed by real, trembled
at imagined, terrors. The countenance changing suddenly from red to
white--the bloodshot, restless eye, belying the composed majesty of
mien--the muttering lips--the broken slumber--the secret corselet; these
to both were the rewards of Power!
The elasticity of youth had left the Tribune! His frame, which had
endured so many shocks, had contracted a painful disease in the dungeon
at Avignon (“Dicea che ne la prigione era stato ascarmato.” “Vita di
Cola di Rienzi”, lib. ii. cap. 18.)--his high soul still supported him,
but the nerves gave way. Tears came readily into his eyes, and often,
like Cromwell, he was thought to weep from hypocrisy, when in truth
it was the hysteric of over-wrought and irritable emotion. In all his
former life singularly temperate, (“Solea prima esser sobrio, temperato,
astinente, or a e diventato distemperatissimo bevitore,” &c.--Ibid.) he
now fled from his goading thoughts to the beguiling excitement of wine.
He drank deep, though its effects were never visible upon him except
in a freer and wilder mood, and the indulgence of that racy humour,
half-mirthful, half-bitter, for which his younger day had been
distinguished. Now the mirth had more loudness, but the bitterness more
gall.
Such were the characteristics of Rienzi at his return to power--made
more apparent with every day. Nina he still loved with the same
tenderness, and, if possible, she adored him more than ever: but, the
zest and freshness of triumphant ambition gone, somehow or other,
their intercourse together had not its old charm. Formerly they talked
constantly of the future--of the bright days in store for them. Now,
with a sharp and uneasy pang, Rienzi turned from all thought of that
“gay tomorrow.” There was no “gay tomorrow” for him! Dark and thorny
as was the present hour, all beyond seemed yet less cheering and
more ominous. Still he had some moments, brief but brilliant, when,
forgetting the iron race amongst whom he was thrown, he plunged into
scholastic reveries of the worshipped Past, and half-fancied that he
was of a People worthy of his genius and his devotion. Like most men who
have been preserved through great dangers, he continued with increasing
fondness to nourish a credulous belief in the grandeur of his own
destiny. He could not imagine that he had been so delivered, and for no
end! He was the Elected, and therefore the Instrument, of Heaven.
And thus, that Bible which in his loneliness, his wanderings, and his
prison, had been his solace and support, was more than ever needed in
his greatness.
It was another cause of sorrow and chagrin to one who, amidst such
circumstances of public danger, required so peculiarly the support and
sympathy of private friends,--that he found he had incurred amongst his
old coadjutors the common penalty of absence. A few were dead; others,
wearied with the storms of public life, and chilled in their ardour
by the turbulent revolutions to which, in every effort for her
amelioration, Rome had been subjected, had retired,--some altogether
from the city, some from all participation in political affairs. In his
halls, the Tribune-Senator was surrounded by unfamiliar faces, and a new
generation. Of the heads of the popular party, most were animated by a
stern dislike to the Pontifical domination, and looked with suspicion
and repugnance upon one who, if he governed for the People, had been
trusted and honoured by the Pope. Rienzi was not a man to forget former
friends, however lowly, and had already found time to seek an interview
with Cecco del Vecchio. But that stern Republican had received him with
coldness. His foreign mercenaries, and his title of Senator, were things
that the artisan could not digest. With his usual bluntness, he had said
so to Rienzi.
“As for the last,” answered the Tribune, affably, “names do not alter
natures. When I forget that to be delegate to the Pontiff is to be the
guardian of his flock, forsake me. As for the first, let me but see five
hundred Romans sworn to stand armed day and night for the defence of
Rome, and I dismiss the Northmen.”
Cecco del Vecchio was unsoftened; honest, but uneducated--impracticable,
and by nature a malcontent, he felt as if he were no longer necessary
to the Senator, and this offended his pride. Strange as it may seem, the
sullen artisan bore, too, a secret grudge against Rienzi, for not
having seen and selected him from a crowd of thousands on the day of his
triumphal entry. Such are the small offences which produce deep danger
to the great!
The artisans still held their meetings, and Cecco del Vecchio’s voice
was heard loud in grumbling forebodings. But what wounded Rienzi yet
more than the alienation of the rest, was the confused and altered
manner of his old friend and familiar, Pandulfo di Guido. Missing
that popular citizen among those who daily offered their homage at the
Capitol, he had sent for him, and sought in vain to revive their ancient
intimacy. Pandulfo affected great respect, but not all the condescension
of the Senator could conquer his distance and his restraint. In fact,
Pandulfo had learned to form ambitious projects of his own; and but for
the return of Rienzi, Pandulfo di Guido felt that he might now, with
greater safety, and indeed with some connivance from the Barons, have
been the Tribune of the People. The facility to rise into popular
eminence which a disordered and corrupt state, unblest by a regular
constitution, offers to ambition, breeds the jealousy and the rivalship
which destroy union, and rot away the ties of party.
Such was the situation of Rienzi, and yet, wonderful to say, he seemed
to be adored by the multitude; and law and liberty, life and death, were
in his hands!
Of all those who attended his person, Angelo Villani was the most
favoured; that youth who had accompanied Rienzi in his long exile,
had also, at the wish of Nina, attended him from Avignon, through his
sojourn in the camp of Albornoz. His zeal, intelligence, and frank and
evident affection, blinded the Senator to the faults of his character,
and established him more and more in the gratitude of Rienzi. He loved
to feel that one faithful heart beat near him, and the page, raised to
the rank of his chamberlain, always attended his person, and slept in
his ante-chamber.
Retiring that night at Tivoli, to the apartment prepared for him, the
Senator sat down by the open casement, through which were seen, waving
in the starlight, the dark pines that crowned the hills, while the
stillness of the hour gave to his ear the dash of the waterfalls heard
above the regular and measured tread of the sentinels below. Leaning his
cheek upon his hand, Rienzi long surrendered himself to gloomy thought,
and, when he looked up, he saw the bright blue eye of Villani fixed in
anxious sympathy on his countenance.
“Is my Lord unwell?” asked the young chamberlain, hesitating.
“Not so, my Angelo; but somewhat sick at heart. Methinks, for a
September night, the air is chill!”
“Angelo,” resumed Rienzi, who had already acquired that uneasy curiosity
which belongs to an uncertain power,--“Angelo, bring me hither yon
writing implements; hast thou heard aught what the men say of our
probable success against Palestrina?”
“Would my Lord wish to learn all their gossip, whether it please or
not?” answered Villani.
“If I studied only to hear what pleased me, Angelo, I should never have
returned to Rome.”
“Why, then, I heard a constable of the Northmen say, meaningly, that the
place will not be carried.”
“Humph! And what said the captains of my Roman Legion?”
“My Lord, I have heard it whispered that they fear defeat less than they
do the revenge of the Barons, if they are successful.”
“And with such tools the living race of Europe and misjudging posterity
will deem that the workman is to shape out the Ideal and the Perfect!
Bring me yon Bible.”
As Angelo reverently brought to Rienzi the sacred book, he said,
“Just before I left my companions below, there was a rumour that the
Lord Adrian Colonna had been imprisoned by his kinsman.”
“I too heard, and I believe, as much,” returned Rienzi: “these Barons
would gibbet their own children in irons, if there were any chance of
the shackles growing rusty for want of prey. But the wicked shall be
brought low, and their strong places shall be made desolate.”
“I would, my Lord,” said Villani, “that our Northmen had other captains
than these Provencals.”
“Why?” asked Rienzi, abruptly.
“Have the creatures of the Captain of the Grand Company ever held faith
with any man whom it suited the avarice or the ambition of Montreal to
betray? Was he not, a few months ago, the right arm of John di Vico,
and did he not sell his services to John di Vico’s enemy, the Cardinal
Albornoz? These warriors barter men as cattle.”
“Thou describest Montreal rightly: a dangerous and an awful man. But
methinks his brothers are of a duller and meaner kind; they dare not
the crimes of the Robber Captain. Howbeit, Angelo, thou hast touched a
string that will make discord with sleep tonight. Fair youth, thy young
eyes have need of slumber; withdraw, and when thou hearest men envy
Rienzi, think that--”
“God never made Genius to be envied!” interrupted Villani, with an
energy that overcame his respect. “We envy not the sun, but rather the
valleys that ripen beneath his beams.”
“Verily, if I be the sun,” said Rienzi, with a bitter and melancholy
smile, “I long for night,--and come it will, to the human as to the
celestial Pilgrim!--Thank Heaven, at least, that our ambition cannot
make us immortal!”