The next morning the Senator of Rome held high Court in the Capitol.
From Florence, from Padua, from Pisa, even from Milan, (the dominion of
the Visconti,) from Genoa, from Naples,--came Ambassadors to welcome his
return, or to thank him for having freed Italy from the freebooter De
Montreal. Venice alone, who held in her pay the Grand Company, stood
aloof. Never had Rienzi seemed more prosperous and more powerful, and
never had he exhibited a more easy and cheerful majesty of demeanour.
Scarce was the audience over, when a messenger arrived from Palestrina.
The town had surrendered, the Colonna had departed, and the standard
of the Senator waved from the walls of the last hold of the rebellious
Barons. Rome might now at length consider herself free, and not a foe
seemed left to menace the repose of Rienzi.
The Court dissolved. The Senator, elated and joyous, repaired
towards his private apartments, previous to the banquet given to the
Ambassadors. Villani met him with his wonted sombre aspect.
“No sadness today, my Angelo,” said the Senator, gaily; “Palestrina is
ours!”
“I am glad to hear such news, and to see my Lord of so fair a mien,”
answered Angelo. “Does he not now desire life?”
“Till Roman virtue revives, perhaps--yes! But thus are we fools of
Fortune;--today glad--tomorrow dejected!”
“Tomorrow,” repeated Villani, mechanically: “Ay--tomorrow perhaps
dejected.”
“Thou playest with my words, boy,” said Rienzi, half angrily, as he
turned away.
But Villani heeded not the displeasure of his Lord.
The banquet was thronged and brilliant; and Rienzi that day, without an
effort, played the courteous host.
Milanese, Paduan, Pisan, Neapolitan, vied with each other in
attracting the smiles of the potent Senator. Prodigal were their
compliments--lavish their promises of support. No monarch in Italy
seemed more securely throned.
The banquet was over (as usual on state occasions) at an early hour;
and Rienzi, somewhat heated with wine, strolled forth alone from the
Capitol. Bending his solitary steps towards the Palatine, he saw the
pale and veil-like mists that succeed the sunset, gather over the wild
grass which waves above the Palace of the Caesars. On a mound of ruins
(column and arch overthrown) he stood, with folded arms, musing and
intent. In the distance lay the melancholy tombs of the Campagna, and
the circling hills, crested with the purple hues soon to melt beneath
the starlight. Not a breeze stirred the dark cypress and unwaving pine.
There was something awful in the stillness of the skies, hushing the
desolate grandeur of the earth below. Many and mingled were the thoughts
that swept over Rienzi’s breast: memory was busy at his heart. How
often, in his youth, had he trodden the same spot!--what visions had
he nursed!--what hopes conceived! In the turbulence of his later life,
Memory had long slept; but at that hour, she re-asserted her shadowy
reign with a despotism that seemed prophetic. He was wandering--a boy,
with his young brother, hand in hand, by the riverside at eve: anon he
saw a pale face and gory side, and once more uttered his imprecations of
revenge! His first successes, his virgin triumphs, his secret love, his
fame, his power, his reverses, the hermitage of Maiella, the dungeon of
Avignon, the triumphal return to Rome,--all swept across his breast with
a distinctness as if he were living those scenes again!--and now!--he
shrunk from the present, and descended the hill. The moon, already
risen, shed her light over the Forum, as he passed through its mingled
ruins. By the Temple of Jupiter, two figures suddenly emerged; the
moonlight fell upon their faces, and Rienzi recognised Cecco del
Vecchio and Angelo Villani. They saw him not; but, eagerly conversing,
disappeared by the Arch of Trajan.
“Villani! ever active in my service!” thought the Senator; “methinks
this morning I spoke to him harshly--it was churlish in me!”
He re-entered the Place of the Capitol--he stood by the staircase of
the Lion; there was a red stain upon the pavement, unobliterated since
Montreal’s execution, and the Senator drew himself aside with an inward
shudder. Was it the ghastly and spectral light of the Moon, or did the
face of that old Egyptian Monster wear an aspect that was as of life?
The stony eyeballs seemed bent upon him with a malignant scowl; and as
he passed on, and looked behind, they appeared almost preternaturally
to follow his steps. A chill, he knew not why, sunk into his heart. He
hastened to regain his palace. The sentinels made way for him.
“Senator,” said one of them, doubtingly, “Messere Angelo Villani is our
new captain--we are to obey his orders?”
“Assuredly,” returned the Senator, passing on. The man lingered
uneasily, as if he would have spoken, but Rienzi observed it not.
Seeking his chamber, he found Nina and Irene waiting for him. His heart
yearned to his wife. Care and toil had of late driven her from his
thoughts, and he felt it remorsefully, as he gazed upon her noble face,
softened by the solicitude of untiring and anxious love.
“Sweetest,” said he, winding his arms around her tenderly; “thy lips
never chide me, but thine eyes sometimes do! We have been apart too
long. Brighter days dawn upon us, when I shall have leisure to thank
thee for all thy care. And you, my fair sister, you smile on me!--ah,
you have heard that your lover, ere this, is released by the cession of
Palestrina, and tomorrow’s sun will see him at your feet. Despite all
the cares of the day, I remembered thee, my Irene, and sent a messenger
to bring back the blush to that pale cheek. Come, come, we shall be
happy again!” And with that domestic fondness common to him, when
harsher thoughts permitted, he sate himself beside the two persons
dearest to his hearth and heart.
“So happy--if we could have many hours like this!” murmured Nina,
sinking on his breast. “Yet sometimes I wish--”
“And I too,” interrupted Rienzi; “for I read thy woman’s thought--I too
sometimes wish that fate had placed us in the lowlier valleys of
life! But it may come yet! Irene wedded to Adrian--Rome married to
Liberty--and then, Nina, methinks you and I would find some quiet
hermitage, and talk over old gauds and triumphs, as of a summer’s dream.
Beautiful, kiss me! Couldst thou resign these pomps?”
“For a desert with thee, Cola!”
“Let me reflect,” resumed Rienzi; “is not today the seventh of October?
Yes! on the seventh, be it noted, my foes yielded to my power! Seven! my
fated number, whether ominous of good or evil! Seven months did I reign
as Tribune--seven (There was the lapse of one year between the release
of Rienzi from Avignon, and his triumphal return to Rome: a year chiefly
spent in the campaign of Albornoz.) years was I absent as an exile;
tomorrow, that sees me without an enemy, completes my seventh week of
return!”
“And seven was the number of the crowns the Roman Convents and the Roman
Council awarded thee, after the ceremony which gave thee the knighthood
of the Santo Spirito!” (This superstition had an excuse in strange
historical coincidences; and the number seven was indeed to Rienzi what
the 3rd of September was to Cromwell. The ceremony of the seven
crowns which he received after his knighthood, on the nature of which
ridiculous ignorance has been shown by many recent writers, was, in
fact, principally a religious and typical donation, (symbolical of the
gifts of the Holy Spirit,) conferred by the heads of convents--and that
part of the ceremony which was political, was republican, not regal.)
said Nina, adding, with woman’s tender wit, “the brightest association
of all!”
“Follies seem these thoughts to others, and to philosophy, in truth, they
are so,” said Rienzi; “but all my life long, omen and type and shadow
have linked themselves to action and event: and the atmosphere of other
men hath not been mine. Life itself a riddle, why should riddles amaze
us? The Future!--what mystery in the very word! Had we lived all through
the Past, since Time was, our profoundest experience of a thousand ages
could not give us a guess of the events that wait the very moment we are
about to enter! Thus deserted by Reason, what wonder that we recur to
the Imagination, on which, by dream and symbol, God sometimes paints
the likeness of things to come? Who can endure to leave the Future all
unguessed, and sit tamely down to groan under the fardel of the Present?
No, no! that which the foolish-wise call Fanaticism, belongs to the same
part of us as Hope. Each but carries us onward--from a barren strand to
a glorious, if unbounded sea. Each is the yearning for the GREAT BEYOND,
which attests our immortality. Each has its visions and chimeras--some
false, but some true! Verily, a man who becomes great is often but made
so by a kind of sorcery in his own soul--a Pythia which prophesies that
he shall be great--and so renders the life one effort to fulfil the
warning! Is this folly?--it were so, if all things stopped at the grave!
But perhaps the very sharpening, and exercising, and elevating the
faculties here--though but for a bootless end on earth--may be designed
to fit the soul, thus quickened and ennobled, to some high destiny
beyond the earth! Who can tell? not I!--Let us pray!”
While the Senator was thus employed, Rome in her various quarters
presented less holy and quiet scenes.
In the fortress of the Orsini lights flitted to and fro, through the
gratings of the great court. Angelo Villani might be seen stealing from
the postern-gate. Another hour, and the Moon was high in heaven; toward
the ruins of the Colosseum, men, whose dress bespoke them of the lowest
rank, were seen creeping from lanes and alleys, two by two; from these
ruins glided again the form of the son of Montreal. Later yet--the Moon
is sinking--a grey light breaking in the East--and the gates of Rome, by
St. John of Lateran, are open! Villani is conversing with the sentries!
The Moon has set--the mountains are dim with a mournful and chilling
haze--Villani is before the palace of the Capitol--the only soldier
there! Where are the Roman legions that were to guard alike the freedom
and the deliverer of Rome?
Chapter The Last. The Close of the Chase.
It was the morning of the 8th of October, 1354. Rienzi, who rose
betimes, stirred restlessly in his bed. “It is yet early,” he said to
Nina, whose soft arm was round his neck; “none of my people seem to be
astir. Howbeit, my day begins before theirs.”
“Rest yet, my Cola; you want sleep.”
“No; I feel feverish, and this old pain in the side torments me. I have
letters to write.”
“Let me be your secretary, dearest,” said Nina.
Rienzi smiled affectionately as he rose; he repaired to his closet
adjoining his sleeping apartment, and used the bath, as was his wont.
Then dressing himself, he returned to Nina, who, already loosely robed,
sate by the writing-table, ready for her office of love.
“How still are all things!” said Rienzi. “What a cool and delicious
prelude, in these early hours, to the toilsome day.”
Leaning over his wife, he then dictated different letters, interrupting
the task at times by such observations as crossed his mind.
“So, now to Annibaldi! By the way, young Adrian should join us today;
how I rejoice for Irene’s sake!”
“Dear sister--yes! she loves,--if any, Cola, can so love,--as we do.”
“Well, but to your task, my fair scribe. Ha! what noise is that? I hear
an armed step--the stairs creak--some one shouts my name.”
Rienzi flew to his sword! the door was thrown rudely open, and a figure
in complete armour appeared within the chamber.
“How! what means this?” said Rienzi, standing before Nina, with his
drawn sword.
The intruder lifted his visor--it was Adrian Colonna.
“Fly, Rienzi!--hasten, Signora! Thank Heaven, I can save ye yet! Myself
and train released by the capture of Palestrina, the pain of my wound
detained me last night at Tivoli. The town was filled with armed
men--not thine, Senator. I heard rumours that alarmed me. I resolved to
proceed onward--I reached Rome, the gates of the city were wide open!”
“How!”
“Your guard gone. Presently I came upon a band of the retainers of the
Savelli. My insignia, as a Colonna, misled them. I learned that this
very hour some of your enemies are within the city, the rest are on
their march--the people themselves arm against you. In the obscurer
streets I passed through, the mob were already forming. They took me
for thy foe, and shouted. I came hither--thy sentries have vanished. The
private door below is unbarred and open. Not a soul seems left in thy
palace. Haste--fly--save thyself!--Where is Irene?”
“The Capitol deserted!--impossible!” cried Rienzi. He strode across the
chambers to the ante-room, where his night-guard usually waited--it was
empty! He passed hastily to Villani’s room--it was untenanted! He would
have passed farther, but the doors were secured without. It was evident
that all egress had been cut off, save by the private door below,--and
that had been left open to admit his murtherers!
He returned to his room--Nina had already gone to rouse and prepare
Irene, whose chamber was on the other side, within one of their own.
“Quick, Senator!” said Adrian. “Methinks there is yet time. We must make
across to the Tiber. I have stationed my faithful squires and Northmen
there. A boat waits us.”
“Hark!” interrupted Rienzi, whose senses had of late been
preternaturally quickened. “I hear a distant shout--a familiar shout,
‘Viva ‘l Popolo!’ Why, so say I! These must be friends.”
“Deceive not thyself; thou hast scarce a friend at Rome.”
“Hist!” said Rienzi, in a whisper; “save Nina--save Irene. I cannot
accompany thee.”
“Art thou mad?”
“No! but fearless. Besides, did I accompany, I might but destroy you
all. Were I found with you, you would be massacred with me. Without me
ye are safe. Yes, even the Senator’s wife and sister have provoked no
revenge. Save them, noble Colonna! Cola di Rienzi puts his trust in God
alone!”
By this time Nina had returned; Irene with her. Afar was heard the
tramp--steady--slow--gathering--of the fatal multitude.
“Now, Cola,” said Nina, with a bold and cheerful air, and she took her
husband’s arm, while Adrian had already found his charge in Irene.
“Yes, now, Nina!” said Rienzi; “at length we part! If this is my last
hour--in my last hour I pray God to bless and shield thee! for verily,
thou hast been my exceeding solace--provident as a parent, tender as a
child, the smile of my hearth, the--the--”
Rienzi was almost unmanned. Emotions, deep, conflicting, unspeakably
fond and grateful, literally choked his speech.
“What!” cried Nina, clinging to his breast, and parting her hair from
her eyes, as she sought his averted face. “Part!--never! This is my
place--all Rome shall not tear me from it!”
Adrian, in despair, seized her hand, and attempted to drag her thence.
“Touch me not, sir!” said Nina, waving her arm with angry majesty, while
her eyes sparkled as a lioness, whom the huntsmen would sever from her
young. “I am the wife of Cola di Rienzi, the Great Senator of Rome, and
by his side will I live and die!”
“Take her hence: quick!--quick! I hear the crowd advancing.”
Irene tore herself from Adrian, and fell at the feet of Rienzi--she
clasped his knees.
“Come, my brother, come! Why lose these precious moments? Rome forbids
you to cast away a life in which her very self is bound up.”
“Right, Irene; Rome is bound up with me, and we will rise or fall
together!--no more!”
“You destroy us all!” said Adrian, with generous and impatient warmth.
“A few minutes more, and we are lost. Rash man! it is not to fall by an
infuriate mob that you have been preserved from so many dangers.”
“I believe it,” said the Senator, as his tall form seemed to dilate as
with the greatness of his own soul. “I shall triumph yet! Never shall
mine enemies--never shall posterity say that a second time Rienzi
abandoned Rome! Hark! ‘Viva ‘l Popolo!’ still the cry of ‘THE PEOPLE.’
That cry scares none but tyrants! I shall triumph and survive!”
“And I with thee!” said Nina, firmly. Rienzi paused a moment, gazed on
his wife, passionately clasped her to his heart, kissed her again and
again, and then said, “Nina, I command thee,--Go!”
“Never!”
He paused. Irene’s face, drowned in tears, met his eyes.
“We will all perish with you,” said his sister; “you only, Adrian, you
leave us!”
“Be it so,” said the Knight, sadly; “we will all remain,” and he
desisted at once from further effort.
There was a dead but short pause, broken but by a convulsive sob from
Irene. The tramp of the raging thousands sounded fearfully distinct.
Rienzi seemed lost in thought--then lifting his head, he said, calmly,
“ye have triumphed--I join ye--I but collect these papers, and follow
you. Quick, Adrian--save them!” and he pointed meaningly to Nina.
Waiting no other hint, the young Colonna seized Nina in his strong
grasp--with his left hand he supported Irene, who with terror and
excitement was almost insensible. Rienzi relieved him of the lighter
load--he took his sister in his arms, and descended the winding stairs.
Nina remained passive--she heard her husband’s step behind, it was
enough for her--she but turned once to thank him with her eyes. A tall
Northman clad in armour stood at the open door. Rienzi placed Irene, now
perfectly lifeless, in the soldier’s arms, and kissed her pale cheek in
silence.
“Quick, my Lord,” said the Northman, “on all sides they come!” So
saying, he bounded down the descent with his burthen. Adrian followed
with Nina; the Senator paused one moment, turned back, and was in his
room ere Adrian was aware that he had vanished.
Hastily he drew the coverlid from his bed, fastened it to the casement
bars, and by its aid dropped (at a distance of several feet) into the
balcony below. “I will not die like a rat,” said he, “in the trap they
have set for me! The whole crowd shall, at least, see and hear me.”
This was the work of a moment.
Meanwhile, Nina had scarcely proceeded six paces, before she discovered
that she was alone with Adrian.
“Ha! Cola!” she cried, “where is he? he has gone!”
“Take heart, Lady, he has returned but for some secret papers he has
forgotten. He will follow us anon.”
“Let us wait, then.”
“Lady,” said Adrian, grinding his teeth, “hear you not the crowd?--on,
on!” and he flew with a swifter step. Nina struggled in his grasp--Love
gave her the strength of despair. With a wild laugh she broke from him.
She flew back--the door was closed--but unbarred--her trembling hands
lingered a moment round the spring. She opened it, drew the heavy bolt
across the panels, and frustrated all attempt from Adrian to regain her.
She was on the stairs,--she was in the room. Rienzi was gone! She fled,
shrieking his name, through the State Chambers--all was desolate. She
found the doors opening on the various passages that admitted to the
rooms below barred without. Breathless and gasping, she returned to the
chamber. She hurried to the casement--she perceived the method by
which he had descended below--her brave heart told her of his brave
design;--she saw they were separated,--“But the same roof holds us,” she
cried, joyously, “and our fate shall be the same!” With that thought she
sank in mute patience on the floor.
Forming the generous resolve not to abandon the faithful and devoted
pair without another effort, Adrian had followed Nina, but too late--the
door was closed against his efforts. The crowd marched on--he heard
their cry change on a sudden--it was no longer “LIVE THE PEOPLE!” but
“DEATH TO THE TRAITOR!” His attendant had already disappeared, and
waking now only to the danger of Irene, the Colonna in bitter grief
turned away, lightly sped down the descent, and hastened to the
riverside, where the boat and his band awaited him.
The balcony on which Rienzi had alighted was that from which he had been
accustomed to address the people--it communicated with a vast hall used
on solemn occasions for State festivals--and on either side were square
projecting towers, whose grated casements looked into the balcony.
One of these towers was devoted to the armory, the other contained the
prison of Brettone, the brother of Montreal. Beyond the latter tower was
the general prison of the Capitol. For then the prison and the palace
were in awful neighbourhood!
The windows of the Hall were yet open--and Rienzi passed into it from
the balcony--the witness of the yesterday’s banquet was still there--the
wine, yet undried, crimsoned the floor, and goblets of gold and silver
shone from the recesses. He proceeded at once to the armory, and
selected from the various suits that which he himself had worn when,
nearly eight years ago, he had chased the Barons from the gates of Rome.
He arrayed himself in the mail, leaving only his head uncovered; and
then taking, in his right hand, from the wall, the great Gonfalon of
Rome, returned once more to the hall. Not a man encountered him. In that
vast building, save the prisoners, and the faithful Nina, whose presence
he knew not of--the Senator was alone.
On they came, no longer in measured order, as stream after stream--from
lane, from alley, from palace and from hovel--the raging sea
received new additions. On they came--their passions excited by their
numbers--women and men, children and malignant age--in all the awful
array of aroused, released, unresisted physical strength and brutal
wrath; “Death to the traitor--death to the tyrant--death to him who has
taxed the people!”--“Mora l’ traditore che ha fatta la gabella!--Mora!”
Such was the cry of the people--such the crime of the Senator! They
broke over the low palisades of the Capitol--they filled with one sudden
rush the vast space;--a moment before so desolate,--now swarming with
human beings athirst for blood!
Suddenly came a dead silence, and on the balcony above stood Rienzi--his
head was bared and the morning sun shone over that lordly brow, and
the hair grown grey before its time, in the service of that maddening
multitude. Pale and erect he stood--neither fear, nor anger, nor
menace--but deep grief and high resolve--upon his features! A momentary
shame--a momentary awe seized the crowd.
He pointed to the Gonfalon, wrought with the Republican motto and arms
of Rome, and thus he began:--
“I too am a Roman and a Citizen; hear me!”
“Hear him not! hear him not! his false tongue can charm away our
senses!” cried a voice louder than his own; and Rienzi recognised Cecco
del Vecchio.
“Hear him not! down with the tyrant!” cried a more shrill and youthful
tone; and by the side of the artisan stood Angelo Villani.
“Hear him not! death to the death-giver!” cried a voice close at hand,
and from the grating of the neighbouring prison glared near upon him, as
the eye of a tiger, the vengeful gaze of the brother of Montreal.
Then from Earth to Heaven rose the roar--“Down with the tyrant--down
with him who taxed the people!”
A shower of stones rattled on the mail of the Senator,--still he stirred
not. No changing muscle betokened fear. His persuasion of his own
wonderful powers of eloquence, if he could but be heard, inspired him
yet with hope; he stood collected in his own indignant, but determined
thoughts;--but the knowledge of that very eloquence was now his
deadliest foe. The leaders of the multitude trembled lest he should be
heard; “and doubtless,” says the contemporaneous biographer, “had he but
spoken he would have changed them all, and the work been marred.”
The soldiers of the Barons had already mixed themselves with the
throng--more deadly weapons than stones aided the wrath of the
multitude--darts and arrows darkened the air; and now a voice was heard
shrieking, “Way for the torches!” And red in the sunlight the torches
tossed and waved, and danced to and fro, above the heads of the crowd,
as if the fiends were let loose amongst the mob! And what place in
hell hath fiends like those a mad mob can furnish? Straw, and wood, and
litter, were piled hastily round the great doors of the Capitol, and the
smoke curled suddenly up, beating back the rush of the assailants.
Rienzi was no longer visible, an arrow had pierced his hand--the right
hand that supported the flag of Rome--the right hand that had given
a constitution to the Republic. He retired from the storm into the
desolate hall.
He sat down;--and tears, springing from no weak and woman source, but
tears from the loftiest fountain of emotion--tears that befit a warrior
when his own troops desert him--a patriot when his countrymen rush
to their own doom--a father when his children rebel against his
love,--tears such as these forced themselves from his eyes and
relieved,--but they changed, his heart!
“Enough, enough!” he said, presently rising and dashing the drops
scornfully away; “I have risked, dared, toiled enough for this dastard
and degenerate race. I will yet baffle their malice--I renounce the
thought of which they are so little worthy!--Let Rome perish!--I feel,
at last, that I am nobler than my country!--she deserves not so high a
sacrifice!”
With that feeling, Death lost all the nobleness of aspect it had before
presented to him; and he resolved, in very scorn of his ungrateful foes,
in very defeat of their inhuman wrath, to make one effort for his life!
He divested himself of his glittering arms; his address, his dexterity,
his craft, returned to him. His active mind ran over the chances of
disguise--of escape;--he left the hall--passed through the humbler
rooms, devoted to the servitors and menials--found in one of them a
coarse working garb--indued himself with it--placed upon his head some
of the draperies and furniture of the palace, as if escaping with
them; and said, with his old “fantastico riso” (“Fantastic smile or
laugh.”)--“When all other friends desert me, I may well forsake myself!”
With that he awaited his occasion.
Meanwhile the flames burnt fierce and fast; the outer door below was
already consumed; from the apartment he had deserted the fire burst out
in volleys of smoke--the wood crackled--the lead melted--with a crash
fell the severed gates--the dreadful entrance was opened to all the
multitude--the proud Capitol of the Caesars was already tottering to its
fall!--Now was the time!--he passed the flaming door--the smouldering
threshold;--he passed the outer gate unscathed--he was in the middle of
the crowd. “Plenty of pillage within,” he said to the bystanders, in
the Roman patois, his face concealed by his load--“Suso, suso a gliu
traditore!” (Down, down with the traitor.) The mob rushed past him--he
went on--he gained the last stair descending into the open streets--he
was at the last gate--liberty and life were before him.
A soldier (one of his own) seized him. “Pass not--whither goest thou?”
“Beware, lest the Senator escape disguised!” cried a voice behind--it
was Villani’s. The concealing load was torn from his head--Rienzi stood
revealed!
“I am the Senator!” he said in a loud voice. “Who dare touch the
Representative of the People?”
The multitude were round him in an instant. Not led, but rather hurried
and whirled along, the Senator was borne to the Place of the Lion. With
the intense glare of the bursting flames, the grey image reflected a
lurid light, and glowed--(that grim and solemn monument!)--as if itself
of fire!
There arrived, the crowd gave way, terrified by the greatness of their
victim. Silent he stood, and turned his face around; nor could the
squalor of his garb, nor the terror of the hour, nor the proud grief of
detection, abate the majesty of his mien, or reassure the courage of the
thousands who gathered, gazing, round him. The whole Capitol wrapped
in fire, lighted with ghastly pomp the immense multitude. Down the long
vista of the streets extended the fiery light and the serried throng,
till the crowd closed with the gleaming standards of the Colonna--the
Orsini--the Savelli! Her true tyrants were marching into Rome! As the
sound of their approaching horns and trumpets broke upon the burning
air, the mob seemed to regain their courage. Rienzi prepared to speak;
his first word was as the signal of his own death.
“Die, tyrant!” cried Cecco del Vecchio: and he plunged his dagger in the
Senator’s breast.
“Die, executioner of Montreal!” muttered Villani: “thus the trust is
fulfilled!” and his was the second stroke. Then as he drew back, and saw
the artisan in all the drunken fury of his brute passion, tossing up his
cap, shouting aloud, and spurning the fallen lion,--the young man gazed
upon him with a look of withering and bitter scorn, and said, while he
sheathed his blade, and slowly turned to quit the crowd,
“Fool, miserable fool! thou and these at least had no blood of kindred
to avenge!”
They heeded not his words--they saw him not depart; for as Rienzi,
without a word, without a groan, fell to the earth,--as the roaring
waves of the multitude closed over him,--a voice, shrill, sharp, and
wild, was heard above all the clamour. At the casement of the Palace,
(the casement of her bridal chamber,) Nina stood!--through the flames
that burst below and around, her face and outstretched arms alone
visible! Ere yet the sound of that thrilling cry passed from the air,
down with a mighty crash thundered that whole wing of the Capitol,--a
blackened and smouldering mass.
At that hour, a solitary boat was gliding swiftly along the Tiber. Rome
was at a distance, but the lurid blow of the conflagration cast its
reflection upon the placid and glassy stream: fair beyond description
was the landscape; soft beyond all art of Painter and of Poet, the
sunlight quivering over the autumnal herbage, and hushing into tender
calm the waves of the golden River!
Adrian’s eyes were strained towards the towers of the
Capitol, distinguished by the flames from the spires and domes
around;--senseless, and clasped to his guardian breast, Irene was
happily unconscious of the horrors of the time.
“They dare not--they dare not,” said the brave Colonna, “touch a hair of
that sacred head!--if Rienzi fall, the liberties of Rome fall for ever!
As those towers that surmount the flames, the pride and monument
of Rome, he shall rise above the dangers of the hour. Behold, still
unscathed amidst the raging element, the Capitol itself is his emblem!”
Scarce had he spoken, when a vast volume of smoke obscured the fires
afar off, a dull crash (deadened by the distance) travelled to his ear,
and the next moment, the towers on which he gazed had vanished from
the scene, and one intense and sullen glare seemed to settle over the
atmosphere,--making all Rome itself the funeral pyre of THE LAST OF THE
ROMAN TRIBUNES!
The End
Appendix I. Some Remarks on the Life and Character of Rienzi.
The principal authority from which historians have taken their account
of the life and times of Rienzi is a very curious biography, by some
unknown contemporary; and this, which is in the Roman patois of the
time, has been rendered not quite unfamiliar to the French and English
reader by the work of Pere du Cerceau, called “Conjuration de Nicolas
Gabrini, dit de Rienzi,” (See for a specimen of the singular blunders
of the Frenchman’s work, Appendix II.) which has at once pillaged and
deformed the Roman biographer. The biography I refer to was published
(and the errors of the former editions revised) by Muratori in his great
collection; and has lately been reprinted separately in an improved
text, accompanied by notes of much discrimination and scholastic taste,
and a comment upon that celebrated poem of Petrarch, “Spirito Gentil,”
which the majority of Italian critics have concurred in considering
addressed to Rienzi, in spite of the ingenious arguments to the contrary
by the Abbe de Sade.
This biography has been generally lauded for its rare impartiality. And
the author does, indeed, praise and blame alike with a most singular
appearance of stolid candour. The work, in truth, is one of those not
uncommon proofs, of which Boswell’s “Johnson” is the most striking, that
a very valuable book may be written by a very silly man. The biographer
of Rienzi appears more like the historian of Rienzi’s clothes, so minute
is he on all details of their colour and quality--so silent is he upon
everything that could throw light upon the motives of their wearer.
In fact, granting the writer every desire to be impartial, he is too
foolish to be so. It requires some cleverness to judge accurately of
a very clever man in very difficult circumstances; and the worthy
biographer is utterly incapable of giving us any clue to the actions
of Rienzi--utterly unable to explain the conduct of the man by the
circumstances of the time. The weakness of his vision causes him,
therefore, often to squint. We must add to his want of wisdom a want
of truth, which the Herodotus-like simplicity of his style frequently
conceals. He describes things which had no witness as precisely and
distinctly as those which he himself had seen. For instance, before
the death of Rienzi, in those awful moments when the Senator was alone,
unheard, unseen, he coolly informs us of each motion, and each thought
of Rienzi’s, with as much detail as if Rienzi had returned from the
grave to assist his narration. These obvious inventions have been
adopted by Gibbon and others with more good faith than the laws of
evidence would warrant. Still, however, to a patient and cautious reader
the biography may furnish a much better notion of Rienzi’s character,
than we can glean from the historians who have borrowed from it
piecemeal. Such a reader will discard all the writer’s reasonings,
will think little of his praise or blame, and regard only the facts he
narrates, judging them true or doubtful, according as the writer had the
opportunities of being himself the observer. Thus examining, the reader
will find evidence sufficient of Rienzi’s genius and Rienzi’s failings:
Carefully distinguishing between the period of his power as Tribune, and
that of his power as Senator, he will find the Tribune vain, haughty,
fond of display; but, despite the reasonings of the biographer, he will
not recognise those faults in the Senator. On the other hand, he will
notice the difference between youth and maturity--hope and experience;
he will notice in the Tribune vast ambition, great schemes, enterprising
activity--which sober into less gorgeous and more quiet colours in
the portrait of the Senator. He will find that in neither instance did
Rienzi fall from his own faults--he will find that the vulgar moral
of ambition, blasted by its own excesses, is not the true moral of the
Roman’s life; he will find that, both in his abdication as Tribune,
and his death as Senator, Rienzi fell from the vices of the People. The
Tribune was a victim to ignorant cowardice--the Senator, a victim to
ferocious avarice. It is this which modern historians have failed to
represent. Gibbon records rightly, that the Count of Minorbino entered
Rome with one hundred and fifty soldiers, and barricadoed the quarter of
the Colonna--that the bell of the Capitol sounded--that Rienzi addressed
the People--that they were silent and inactive--and that Rienzi then
abdicated the government. But for this he calls Rienzi “pusillanimous.”
Is not that epithet to be applied to the People? Rienzi invoked them to
move against the Robber--the People refused to obey. Rienzi wished to
fight--the People refused to stir. It was not the cause of Rienzi alone
which demanded their exertions--it was the cause of the People--theirs,
not his, the shame, if one hundred and fifty foreign soldiers mastered
Rome, overthrew their liberties, and restored their tyrants! Whatever
Rienzi’s sins, whatever his unpopularity, their freedom, their laws,
their republic, were at stake; and these they surrendered to one hundred
and fifty hirelings! This is the fact that damns them! But Rienzi was
not unpopular when he addressed and conjured them: they found no fault
with him. “The sighs and the groans of the People,” says Sismondi,
justly, “replied to his,”--they could weep, but they would not fight.
This strange apathy the modern historians have not accounted for, yet
the principal cause was obvious--Rienzi was excommunicated! (And this
curse I apprehend to have been the more effective in the instance of
Rienzi, from a fact that it would be interesting and easy to establish:
viz., that he owed his rise as much to religious as to civil causes. He
aimed evidently to be a religious Reformer. All his devices, ceremonies,
and watchwords, were of a religious character. The monks took part with
his enterprise, and joined in the revolution. His letters are full of
mystical fanaticism. His references to ancient heroes of Rome are always
mingled with invocations to her Christian Saints. The Bible, at that
time little read by the public civilians of Italy, is constantly in
his hands, and his addresses studded with texts. His very garments were
adorned with sacred and mysterious emblems. No doubt, the ceremony of
his Knighthood, which Gibbon ridicules as an act of mere vanity, was but
another of his religious extravagances; for he peculiarly dedicated his
Knighthood to the service of the Santo Spirito; and his bathing in the
vase of Constantine was quite of a piece, not with the vanity of the
Tribune, but with the extravagance of the Fanatic. In fact, they tried
hard to prove him a heretic; but he escaped a charge under the mild
Innocent, which a century or two before, or a century or two afterwards,
would have sufficed to have sent a dozen Rienzis to the stake. I have
dwelt the more upon this point, because, if it be shown that religious
causes operated with those of liberty, we throw a new light upon the
whole of that most extraordinary revolution, and its suddenness is
infinitely less striking. The deep impression Rienzi produced upon that
populace was thus stamped with the spirit of the religious enthusiast
more than that of the classical demagogue. And, as in the time of
Cromwell, the desire for temporal liberty was warmed and coloured by
the presence of a holier and more spiritual fervour:--“The Good Estate”
(Buono Stato) of Rienzi reminds us a little of the Good Cause of General
Cromwell.) In stating the fact, these writers have seemed to think
that excommunication in Rome, in the fourteenth century, produced no
effect!--the effect it did produce I have endeavoured in these pages to
convey.
The causes of the second fall and final murder of Rienzi are equally
misstated by modern narrators. It was from no fault of his--no
injustice, no cruelty, no extravagance--it was not from the execution of
Montreal, nor that of Pandulfo di Guido---it was from a gabelle on
wine and salt that he fell. To preserve Rome from the tyrants it
was necessary to maintain an armed force; to pay the force a tax was
necessary; the tax was imposed--and the multitude joined with the
tyrants, and their cry was, “Perish the traitor who has made the
gabelle!” This was their only charge--this the only crime that their
passions and their fury could cite against him.
The faults of Rienzi are sufficiently visible, and I have not
unsparingly shewn them; but we must judge men, not according as they
approach perfection, but according as their good or bad qualities
preponderate--their talents or their weaknesses--the benefits they
effected, the evil they wrought. For a man who rose to so great a power,
Rienzi’s faults were singularly few--crimes he committed none. He is
almost the only man who ever rose from the rank of a citizen to a power
equal to that of monarchs without a single act of violence or treachery.
When in power, he was vain, ostentatious, and imprudent,--always an
enthusiast--often a fanatic; but his very faults had greatness of soul,
and his very fanaticism at once supported his enthusiastic daring, and
proved his earnest honesty. It is evident that no heinous charge could
be brought against him even by his enemies, for all the accusations to
which he was subjected, when excommunicated, exiled, fallen, were for
two offences which Petrarch rightly deemed the proofs of his virtue
and his glory: first, for declaring Rome to be free; secondly, for
pretending that the Romans had a right of choice in the election of
the Roman Emperor. (The charge of heresy was dropped.) Stern, just, and
inflexible, as he was when Tribune, his fault was never that of wanton
cruelty. The accusation against him, made by the gentle Petrarch,
indeed, was that he was not determined enough--that he did not
consummate the revolution by exterminating the patrician tyrants. When
Senator, he was, without sufficient ground, accused of avarice in
the otherwise just and necessary execution of Montreal. (Gibbon, in
mentioning the execution of Montreal, omits to state that Montreal was
more than suspected of conspiracy and treason to restore the Colonna.
Matthew Villani records it as a common belief that such truly was the
offence of the Provencal. The biographer of Rienzi gives additional
evidence of the fact. Gibbon’s knowledge of this time was superficial.
As one instance of this, he strangely enough represents Montreal as the
head of the first Free Company that desolated Italy: he took that error
from the Pere du Cerceau.) It was natural enough that his enemies and
the vulgar should suppose that he executed a creditor to get rid of a
debt; but it was inexcusable in later, and wiser, and fairer writers
to repeat so grave a calumny, without at least adding the obvious
suggestion, that the avarice of Rienzi could have been much better
gratified by sparing than by destroying the life of one of the richest
subjects in Europe. Montreal, we may be quite sure, would have purchased
his life at an immeasurably higher price than the paltry sum lent to
Rienzi by his brothers. And this is not a probable hypothesis, but a
certain fact, for we are expressly told that Montreal, “knowing the
Tribune was in want of money, offered Rienzi, that if he would let
him go, he, Montreal, would furnish him not only with twenty thousand
florins, (four times the amount of Rienzi’s debt to him,) but with as
many soldiers and as much money as he pleased.” This offer Rienzi did
not attend to. Would he have rejected it had avarice been his motive?
And what culpable injustice, to mention the vague calumny without citing
the practical contradiction! When Gibbon tells us, also, that “the most
virtuous citizen of Rome,” meaning Pandulfo, or Pandolficcio di Guido,
(Matthew Villani speaks of him as a wise and good citizen, of great
repute among the People--and this, it seems, he really was.) was
sacrificed to his jealousy, he a little exaggerates the expression
bestowed upon Pandulfo, which is that of “virtuoso assai;” and
that expression, too, used by a man who styles the robber Montreal,
“eccellente uomo--di quale fama suono per tutta la Italia di virtude”
(“An excellent man whose fame for valour resounded throughout all
Italy.”)--(so good a moral critic was the writer!) but he also
altogether waves all mention of the probabilities that are sufficiently
apparent, of the scheming of Pandulfo to supplant Rienzi, and to obtain
the “Signoria del Popolo.” Still, however, if the death of Pandulfo may
be considered a blot on the memory of Rienzi, it does not appear that it
was this which led to his own fate. The cry of the mob surrounding his
palace was not, “Perish him who executed Pandulfo,” it was--and this
again and again must be carefully noted--it was nothing more nor less
than, “Perish him who has made the gabelle!”
Gibbon sneers at the military skill and courage of Rienzi. For this
sneer there is no cause. His first attempts, his first rise, attested
sufficiently his daring and brave spirit; in every danger he was
present--never shrinking from a foe so long as he was supported by
the People. He distinguished himself at Viterbo when in the camp of
Albornoz, in several feats of arms, (“Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. ii.
cap. 14.) and his end was that of a hero. So much for his courage; as to
his military skill; it would be excusable enough if Rienzi--the eloquent
and gifted student, called from the closet and the rostrum to assume the
command of an army--should have been deficient in the art of war; yet,
somehow or other, upon the whole, his arms prospered. He defeated the
chivalry of Rome at her gates; and if he did not, after his victory,
march to Marino, for which his biographer (In this the anonymous writer
compares him gravely to Hannibal, who knew how to conquer, but not how
to use his conquest.) and Gibbon blame him, the reason is sufficiently
clear--“Volea pecunia per soldati”--he wanted money for the soldiers!
On his return as Senator, it must be remembered that he had to besiege
Palestrina, which was considered even by the ancient Romans almost
impregnable by position; but during the few weeks he was in power,
Palestrina yielded--all his open enemies were defeated--the tyrants
expelled--Rome free; and this without support from any party, Papal
or Popular, or, as Gibbon well expresses it, “suspected by the
People--abandoned by the Prince.”
On regarding what Rienzi did, we must look to his means, to the
difficulties that surrounded him, to the scantiness of his resources. We
see a man without rank, wealth, or friends, raising himself to the head
of a popular government in the metropolis of the Church--in the City
of the Empire. We see him reject any title save that of a popular
magistrate--establish at one stroke a free constitution--a new code of
law. We see him first expel, then subdue, the fiercest aristocracy in
Europe--conquer the most stubborn banditti, rule impartially the most
turbulent people, embruted by the violence, and sunk in the corruption
of centuries. We see him restore trade--establish order--create
civilization as by a miracle--receive from crowned heads homage and
congratulation--outwit, conciliate, or awe, the wiliest priesthood of
the Papal Diplomacy--and raise his native city at once to sudden yet
acknowledged eminence over every other state, its superior in arts,
wealth, and civilization;--we ask what errors we are to weigh in the
opposite balance, and we find an unnecessary ostentation, a fanatical
extravagance, and a certain insolent sternness. But what are such
offences--what the splendour of a banquet, or the ceremony of
Knighthood, or a few arrogant words, compared with the vices of
almost every prince who was his contemporary? This is the way to judge
character: we must compare men with men, and not with ideals of what
men should be. We look to the amazing benefits Rienzi conferred upon his
country. We ask his means, and see but his own abilities. His treasury
becomes impoverished--his enemies revolt--the Church takes advantage of
his weakness--he is excommunicated--the soldiers refuse to fight--the
People refuse to assist--the Barons ravage the country--the ways are
closed, the provisions are cut off from Rome. (“Allora le strade furo
chiuse, li massari de la terre non portavano grano, ogni die nasceva
nuovo rumore.”--“Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. i. cap. 37.) A handful
of banditti enter the city--Rienzi proposes to resist them--the People
desert--he abdicates. Rapine, Famine, Massacre, ensue--they who deserted
regret, repent--yet he is still unassisted, alone--now an exile, now a
prisoner, his own genius saves him from every peril, and restores him
to greatness. He returns, the Pope’s Legate refuses him arms--the People
refuse him money. He re-establishes law and order, expels the tyrants,
renounces his former faults (this, the second period of his power, has
been represented by Gibbon and others as that of his principal faults,
and he is evidently at this time no favourite with his contemporaneous
biographer; but looking to what he did, we find amazing dexterity,
prudence, and energy in the most difficult crisis, and none of his
earlier faults. It is true, that he does not shew the same brilliant
extravagance which, I suspect, dazzled his contemporaries, more than his
sounder qualities; but we find that in a few weeks he had conquered
all his powerful enemies--that his eloquence was as great as ever--his
promptitude greater--his diligence indefatigable--his foresight
unslumbering. “He alone,” says the biographer, “carried on the affairs
of Rome, but his officials were slothful and cold.” This too, tortured
by a painful disease--already--though yet young--broken and infirm. The
only charges against him, as Senator, were the deaths of Montreal and
Pandulfo di Guido, the imposition of the gabelle, and the renunciation
of his former habits of rigid abstinence, for indulgence in wine and
feasting. Of the first charges, the reader has already been enabled to
form a judgment. To the last, alas! the reader must extend indulgence,
and for it he may find excuse. We must compassionate even more than
condemn the man to whom excitement has become nature, and who resorts
to the physical stimulus or the momentary Lethe, when the mental
exhilarations of hope, youth, and glory, begin to desert him. His
alleged intemperance, however, which the Romans (a peculiarly sober
people) might perhaps exaggerate, and for which he gave the excuse of
a thirst produced by disease contracted in the dungeon of
Avignon--evidently and confessedly did not in the least diminish his
attention to business, which, according to his biographer, was at that
time greater than ever.)--is prudent, wary, provident--reigns a few
weeks--taxes the People, in support of the People, and is torn to
pieces! One day of the rule that followed is sufficient to vindicate his
reign and avenge his memory--and for centuries afterwards, whenever that
wretched and degenerate populace dreamed of glory or sighed for justice,
they recalled the bright vision of their own victim, and deplored the
fate of Cola di Rienzi. That he was not a tyrant is clear in this--when
he was dead, he was bitterly regretted. The People never regret a
tyrant! From the unpopularity that springs from other faults there is
often a re-action; but there is no re-action in the populace towards
their betrayor or oppressor. A thousand biographies cannot decide upon
the faults or merits of a ruler like the one fact, whether he is beloved
or hated ten years after he is dead. But if the ruler has been murdered
by the People, and is then regretted by them, their repentance is his
acquittal.
I have said that the moral of the Tribune’s life, and of this fiction,
is not the stale and unprofitable moral that warns the ambition of
an individual:--More vast, more solemn, and more useful, it addresses
itself to nations. If I judge not erringly, it proclaims that, to
be great and free, a People must trust not to individuals but
themselves--that there is no sudden leap from servitude to liberty--that
it is to institutions, not to men, for they must look for reforms that
last beyond the hour--that their own passions are the real despots they
should subdue, their own reason the true regenerator of abuses. With a
calm and a noble people, the individual ambition of a citizen can
never effect evil:--to be impatient of chains, is not to be worthy of
freedom--to murder a magistrate is not to ameliorate the laws. (Rienzi
was murdered because the Romans had been in the habit of murdering
whenever they were displeased. They had, very shortly before, stoned one
magistrate, and torn to pieces another. By the same causes and the same
career a People may be made to resemble the bravo whose hand wanders to
his knife at the smallest affront, and if today he poniards the enemy
who assaults him, tomorrow he strikes the friend who would restrain.)
The People write their own condemnation whenever they use characters
of blood; and theirs alone the madness and the crime, if they crown a
tyrant or butcher a victim.
Appendix II. A Word Upon the Work by Pere du Cerceau and Pere Brumoy,
Entitled “Conjuration de Nicolas Gabrini, Dit de Rienzi, Tyran de Rome.”
Shortly after the Romance of “Rienzi” first appeared, a translation
of the biography compiled by Cerceau and Brumoy was published by Mr.
Whittaker. The translator, in a short and courteous advertisement,
observes, “That it has always been considered as a work of authority;
and even Gibbon appears to have relied on it without further research:
(Here, however, he does injustice to Gibbon.)...that, “as a record of
facts, therefore, the work will, it is presumed, be acceptable to the
public.” The translator has fulfilled his duty with accuracy, elegance,
and spirit,--and he must forgive me, if, in justice to History and
Rienzi, I point out a very few from amongst a great many reasons, why
the joint labour of the two worthy Jesuits cannot be considered either a
work of authority, or a record of facts. The translator observes in his
preface, “that the general outline (of Du Cerceau’s work) was probably
furnished by an Italian life written by a contemporary of Rienzi.” The
fact, however, is, that Du Cerceau’s book is little more than a wretched
paraphrase of that very Italian life mentioned by the translator,--full
of blunders, from ignorance of the peculiar and antiquated dialect in
which the original is written, and of assumptions by the Jesuit himself,
which rest upon no authority whatever. I will first shew, in support
of this assertion, what the Italians themselves think of the work of
Fathers Brumoy and Du Cerceau. The Signor Zefirino Re, who had proved
himself singularly and minutely acquainted with the history of that
time, and whose notes to the “Life of Rienzi” are characterized by
acknowledged acuteness and research, thus describes the manner in which
the two Jesuits compounded this valuable “record of facts.”
“Father Du Cerceau for his work made use of a French translation of the
life by the Italian contemporary printed in Bracciano, 1624, executed
by Father Sanadon, another Jesuit, from whom he received the MS.
This proves that Du Cerceau knew little of our ‘volgar lingua’ of the
fourteenth century. But the errors into which he has run shew, that even
that little was unknown to his guide, and still less to Father Brumoy,
(however learned and reputed the latter might be in French literature,)
who, after the death of Du Cerceau, supplied the deficiencies in the
first pages of the author’s MS., which were, I know not how, lost; and
in this part are found the more striking errors in the work, which
shall be noticed in the proper place; in the meantime, one specimen will
suffice. In the third chapter, book i., Cola, addressing the Romans,
says, ‘Che lo giubileo si approssima, che se la gente, la quale verra
al giubileo, li trova sproveduti di annona, le pietre (per metatesi sta
scritto le preite) ne porteranno da Roma per rabbia di fame, e le pietre
non basteranno a tanta moltitudine. Il francese traduce. Le
jubile approche, et vous n’avez ni provisions, ni vivres; les
etrangers...trouvent votre ville denue de tout. Ne comptez point sur les
secours des gens d’Eglise; ils sortiront de la ville, s’ils n’y trouvent
de quoi subsister: et d’ailleurs pourroient-ils suffire a la multitude
innombrable, que se trouvera dans vos murs?’” (The English translator
could not fail to adopt the Frenchman’s ludicrous mistake.) “Buon Dio!”
exclaims the learned Zefirino, “Buon Dio! le pietre prese per tanta
gente di chiesa!” (See Preface to Zefirino Re’s edition of the “Life of
Rienzi,” page 9, note on Du Cerceau.)
Another blunder little less extraordinary occurs in Chapter vi., in
which the ordinances of Rienzi’s Buono Stato are recited.
It is set forth as the third ordinance:--“Che nulla case di Roma sia
data per terra per alcuna cagione, ma vada in commune;” which simply
means, that the houses of delinquents should in no instance be razed,
but added to the community or confiscated. This law being intended
partly to meet the barbarous violences with which the excesses and
quarrels of the Barons had half dismantled Rome, and principally to
repeal some old penal laws by which the houses of a certain class of
offenders might be destroyed; but the French translator construes it,
“Que nulle maison de Rome ne saroit donnee en propre, pour quelque
raison que ce put etre; mais que les revenus en appartiendroient au
public!” (The English translator makes this law unintelligible:--“That
no family of Rome shall appropriate to their own use what they think
fit, but that the revenues shall appertain to the public”!!!--the
revenues of what?)
But enough of the blunders arising from ignorance.--I must now be
permitted to set before the reader a few of the graver offences of
wilful assumption and preposterous invention.
When Rienzi condemned some of the Barons to death, the Pere thus writes;
I take the recent translation published by Mr. Whittaker:--
“The next day the Tribune, resolving more than ever to rid himself of
his prisoners, ordered tapestries of two colours, red and white, to be
laid over the place whereon he held his councils, and which he had made
choice of to be the theatre of this bloody tragedy, as the extraordinary
tapestry seemed to declare. He afterwards sent a cordelier to every
one of the prisoners to administer the sacraments, and then ordered
the Capitol bell to be tolled. At that fatal sound and the sight of
the confessors, the Lords no longer doubted of sentence of death being
passed upon them. They all confessed except the old Colonna, and many
received the communion. In the meanwhile the people, naturally prompt to
attend, when their first impetuosity had time to calm, could not without
pity behold the dismal preparations which were making. The sight of the
bloody colour in the tapestry shocked them. On this first impression
they joined in opinion in relation to so many illustrious heads now
going to be sacrificed, and lamented more their unhappy catastrophe,
as no crime had been proved upon them to render them worthy of such
barbarous treatment. Above all, the unfortunate Stephen Colonna,
whose birth, age, and affable behaviour, commanded respect, excited a
particular compassion. An universal silence and sorrow reigned among
them. Those who were nearest Rienzi discovered an alteration. They took
the opportunity of imploring his mercy towards the prisoners in terms
the most affecting and moving.”
Will it be believed, that in the original from which the Pere Du Cerceau
borrows or rather imagines this touching recital, there is not a single
syllable about the pity of the people, nor their shock at the bloody
colours of the tapestry, nor their particular compassion for the
unfortunate Stephen Colonna?--in fine, the People are not even mentioned
at all. All that is said is, “Some Roman citizens, (alcuni cittadini
Romani,) considering the judgment Rienzi was about to make, interposed
with soft and caressing words, and at last changed the opinion of the
Tribune;” all the rest is the pure fiction of the ingenious Frenchman!
Again, Du Cerceau, describing the appearance of the Barons at this fatal
moment, says, “Notwithstanding the grief and despair visible in their
countenances, they shewed a noble indignation, generally attendant on
innocence in the hour of death.” What says the authority from which
alone, except his own, the good Father could take his account? Why, not
a word about this noble indignation, or this parade of innocence! The
original says simply, that “the Barons were so frozen with terror
that they were unable to speak,” (diventaso si gelati che non poteano
favellare;) “that the greater part humbled themselves,” (e prese
penitenza e comunione;) that when Rienzi addressed them “all the Barons
(come dannati) stood in sadness.” (See “Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. i.
cap. 29.) Du Cerceau then proceeds to state, that “although he (Rienzi)
was grieved at heart to behold his victims snatched from him, he
endeavoured to make a merit of it in the eyes of the People.” There is
not a word of this in the original!
So when Rienzi, on a latter occasion, placed the Prefect John di Vico
in prison, this Jesuit says, “To put a gloss upon this action before
the eyes of the people, Rienzi gave out that the Governor, John di Vico,
keeping a correspondence with the conspirators, came with no other view
than to betray the Romans.” And if this scribbler, who pretends to have
consulted the Vatican MSS., had looked at the most ordinary authorities,
he would have seen that John di Vico did come with that view. (See for
Di Vico’s secret correspondence with the Barons, La Cron. Bologn. page
406; and La Cron. Est. page 444.)
Again, in the battle between the Barons and the Romans at the gates, Du
Cerceau thus describes the conduct of the Tribune:--“The Tribune, amidst
his troops, knew so little of what had passed, that seeing at a distance
one of his standards fall, he looked upon all as lost, and, casting up
his eyes to heaven full of despair, cried out, ‘O God, will you then
forsake me?’ But no sooner was he informed of the entire defeat of
his enemies, than his dread and cowardice even turned to boldness and
arrogance.”
Now in the original all that is said of this is, “That it is true that
the standard of the Tribune fell--the Tribune astonished, (or if you
please, dismayed, sbigottio,) stood with his eyes raised to heaven, and
could find no other words than, ‘O God hast thou betrayed me?’” This
evinced, perhaps, alarm or consternation at the fall of his standard--a
consternation natural, not to a coward, but a fanatic, at such an event.
But not a word is said about Rienzi’s cowardice in the action itself;
it is not stated when the accident happened--nothing bears out the
implication that the Tribune was remote from the contest, and knew
little of what passed. And if this ignorant Frenchman had consulted
any other contemporaneous historian whatever, he would have found it
asserted by them all, that the fight was conducted with great valour,
both by the Roman populace and their leader on the one side, and the
Barons on the other.--G. Vill. lib. xii. cap. 105; Cron. Sen. tom. xv.
Murat. page 119; Cron. Est. page 444. Yet Gibbon rests his own sarcasm
on the Tribune’s courage solely on the baseless exaggeration of this
Pere Du Cerceau.
So little, indeed, did this French pretender know of the history of the
time and place he treats of, that he imagines the Stephen Colonna who
was killed in the battle above-mentioned was the old Stephen Colonna,
and is very pathetic about his “venerable appearance,” &c. This error,
with regard to a man so eminent as Stephen Colonna the elder, is
inexcusable: for, had the priest turned over the other pages of the very
collection in which he found the biography he deforms, he would
have learned that old Stephen Colonna was alive some time after that
battle.--(Cron. Sen. Murat. tom. xv. page 121.)
Again, just before Rienzi’s expulsion from the office of Tribune, Du
Cerceau, translating in his headlong way the old biographer’s account of
the causes of Rienzi’s loss of popularity, says, “He shut himself up in
his palace, and his presence was known only by the rigorous punishments
which he caused his agents to inflict upon the innocent.” Not a word of
this in the original!
Again, after the expulsion, Du Cerceau says, that the Barons seized upon
the “immense riches” he had amassed,--the words in the original are,
“grandi ornamenti,” which are very different things from immense riches.
But the most remarkable sins of commission are in this person’s account
of the second rise and fall of Rienzi under the title of Senator. Of
this I shall give but one instance:--
“The Senator, who perceived it, became only the more cruel. His
jealousies produced only fresh murders. In the continual dread he was
in, that the general discontent would terminate in some secret attempt
upon his person, he determined to intimidate the most enterprising, by
sacrificing sometimes one, sometimes another, and chiefly those whose
riches rendered them the more guilty in his eyes. Numbers were sent
every day to the Capitol prison. Happy were those who could get off with
the confiscation of their estates.”
Of these grave charges there is not a syllable in the original! And so
much for the work of Pere Cerceau and Pere Brumoy, by virtue of which,
historians have written of the life and times of Rienzi, and upon the
figments of which, the most remarkable man in an age crowded with great
characters is judged by the general reader!
I must be pardoned for this criticism, which might not have been
necessary, had not the work to which it relates, in the English
translation quoted from, (a translation that has no faults but those
of the French original,) been actually received as an historical and
indisputable authority, and opposed with a triumphant air to some
passages in my own narrative which were literally taken from the
authentic records of the time.