Rienzi

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Rienzi


"Yet many of the nobles fear that same Rienzi," said Adrian, gravely.

"Ah! let them, let them!--they have not our experience--our knowledge
of the world, Adrian. Tut, man,--when did declamation ever overthrow
castles, and conquer soldiery? I like Rienzi to harangue the mob about
old Rome, and such stuff; it gives them something to think of and prate
about, and so all their fierceness evaporates in words; they might burn
a house if they did not hear a speech. But, now I am on that score, I
must own the pedant has grown impudent in his new office; here, here,--I
received this paper ere I rose today. I hear a similar insolence has
been shown to all the nobles. Read it, will you," and the Colonna put a
scroll into his kinsman's hand.

"I have received the like," said Adrian, glancing at it. "It is a
request of Rienzi's to attend at the Church of St. John of Lateran, to
hear explained the inscription on a Table just discovered. It bears, he
saith, the most intimate connexion with the welfare and state of Rome."

"Very entertaining, I dare to say, to professors and bookmen. Pardon me,
kinsman; I forgot your taste for these things; and my son, Gianni, too,
shares your fantasy. Well, well! it is innocent enough! Go--the man
talks well."

"Will you not attend, too?"

"I--my dear boy--I!" said the old Colonna, opening his eyes in such
astonishment that Adrian could not help laughing at the simplicity of
his own question.



Chapter 2.II. The Interview, and the Doubt.

As Adrian turned from the palace of his guardian, and bent his way in
the direction of the Forum, he came somewhat unexpectedly upon Raimond,
bishop of Orvietto, who, mounted upon a low palfrey, and accompanied
by some three or four of his waiting-men, halted abruptly when he
recognised the young noble.

"Ah, my son! it is seldom that I see thee: how fares it with
thee?--well? So, so! I rejoice to hear it. Alas! what a state of society
is ours, when compared to the tranquil pleasures of Avignon! There,
all men who, like us, are fond of the same pursuits, the same studies,
deliciae musarum, hum! hum! (the Bishop was proud of an occasional
quotation, right or wrong), are brought easily and naturally together.
But here we scarcely dare stir out of our houses, save upon great
occasions. But, talking of great occasions, and the Muses, reminds me of
our good Rienzi's invitation to the Lateran: of course you will attend;
'tis a mighty knotty piece of Latin he proposes to solve--so I hear, at
least; very interesting to us, my son,--very!"

"It is tomorrow," answered Adrian. "Yes, assuredly; I will be there."

"And, harkye, my son," said the Bishop, resting his hand affectionately
on Adrian's shoulder, "I have reason to hope that he will remind our
poor citizens of the Jubilee for the year Fifty, and stir them towards
clearing the road of the brigands: a necessary injunction, and one to be
heeded timeously; for who will come here for absolution when he stands
a chance of rushing unannealed upon purgatory by the way? You have heard
Rienzi,--ay? quite a Cicero--quite! Well, Heaven bless you, my son! You
will not fail?"

"Nay, not I."

"Yet, stay--a word with you: just suggest to all whom you may meet
the advisability of a full meeting; it looks well for the city to show
respect to letters."

"To say nothing of the Jubilee," added Adrian, smiling.

"Ah, to say nothing of the Jubilee--very good! Adieu for the present!"
And the Bishop, resettling himself on his saddle, ambled solemnly on to
visit his various friends, and press them to the meeting.

Meanwhile, Adrian continued his course till he had passed the Capitol,
the Arch of Severus, the crumbling columns of the fane of Jupiter,
and found himself amidst the long grass, the whispering reeds, and the
neglected vines, that wave over the now-vanished pomp of the Golden
House of Nero. Seating himself on a fallen pillar--by that spot where
the traveller descends to the (so called) Baths of Livia--he looked
impatiently to the sun, as to blame it for the slowness of its march.

Not long, however, had he to wait before a light step was heard crushing
the fragrant grass; and presently through the arching vines gleamed a
face that might well have seemed the nymph, the goddess of the scene.

"My beautiful! my Irene!--how shall I thank thee!"

It was long before the delighted lover suffered himself to observe upon
Irene's face a sadness that did not usually cloud it in his presence.
Her voice, too, trembled; her words seemed constrained and cold.

"Have I offended thee?" he asked; "or what less misfortune hath
occurred?"

Irene raised her eyes to her lover's, and said, looking at him
earnestly, "Tell me, my Lord, in sober and simple truth, tell me, would
it grieve thee much were this to be our last meeting?"

Paler than the marble at his feet grew the dark cheek of Adrian. It was
some moments ere he could reply, and he did so then with a forced smile
and a quivering lip.

"Jest not so, Irene! Last!--that is not a word for us!"

"But hear me, my Lord--"

"Why so cold?--call me Adrian!--friend!--lover! or be dumb!"

"Well, then, my soul's soul! my all of hope! my life's life!" exclaimed
Irene, passionately, "hear me! I fear that we stand at this moment upon
some gulf whose depth I see not, but which may divide us for ever! Thou
knowest the real nature of my brother, and dost not misread him as many
do. Long has he planned, and schemed, and communed with himself, and,
feeling his way amidst the people, prepared the path to some great
design. But now--(thou wilt not betray--thou wilt not injure him?--he is
thy friend!)"

"And thy brother! I would give my life for his! Say on!"

"But now, then," resumed Irene, "the time for that enterprise, whatever
it be, is coming fast. I know not of its exact nature, but I know that
it is against the nobles--against thy order--against thy house itself!
If it succeed--oh, Adrian! thou thyself mayst not be free from danger;
and my name, at least, will be coupled with the name of thy foes. If it
fail,--my brother, my bold brother, is swept away! He will fall a victim
to revenge or justice, call it as you will. Your kinsman may be his
judge--his executioner; and I--even if I should yet live to mourn over
the boast and glory of my humble line--could I permit myself to love,
to see, one in whose veins flowed the blood of his destroyer? Oh! I am
wretched--wretched! these thoughts make me well-nigh mad!" and, wringing
her hands bitterly, Irene sobbed aloud.

Adrian himself was struck forcibly by the picture thus presented to
him, although the alternative it embraced had often before forced itself
dimly on his mind. It was true, however, that, not seeing the schemes of
Rienzi backed by any physical power, and never yet having witnessed the
mighty force of a moral revolution, he did not conceive that any rise
to which he might instigate the people could be permanently successful:
and, as for his punishment, in that city, where all justice was the
slave of interest, Adrian knew himself powerful enough to obtain
forgiveness even for the greatest of all crimes--armed insurrection
against the nobles. As these thoughts recurred to him, he gained the
courage to console and cheer Irene. But his efforts were only partially
successful. Awakened by her fears to that consideration of the future
which hitherto she had forgotten, Irene, for the first time, seemed deaf
to the charmer's voice.

"Alas!" said she, sadly, "even at the best, what can this love, that we
have so blindly encouraged--what can it end in? Thou must not wed with
one like me; and I! how foolish I have been!"

"Recall thy senses then, Irene," said Adrian, proudly, partly perhaps
in anger, partly in his experience of the sex. "Love another, and more
wisely, if thou wilt; cancel thy vows with me, and continue to think it
a crime to love, and a folly to be true!"

"Cruel!" said Irene, falteringly, and in her turn alarmed. "Dost thou
speak in earnest?"

"Tell me, ere I answer you, tell me this: come death, come anguish, come
a whole life of sorrow, as the end of this love, wouldst thou yet repent
that thou hast loved? If so, thou knowest not the love that I feel for
thee."

"Never! never can I repent!" said Irene, falling upon Adrian's neck;
"forgive me!"

"But is there, in truth," said Adrian, a little while after this
lover-like quarrel and reconciliation, "is there, in truth, so marked
a difference between thy brother's past and his present bearing? How
knowest thou that the time for action is so near?"

"Because now he sits closeted whole nights with all ranks of men; he
shuts up his books,--he reads no more,--but, when alone, walks to and
fro his chamber, muttering to himself. Sometimes he pauses before the
calendar, which of late he has fixed with his own hand against the wall,
and passes his finger over the letters, till he comes to some chosen
date, and then he plays with his sword and smiles. But two nights since,
arms, too, in great number were brought to the house; and I heard the
chief of the men who brought them, a grim giant, known well amongst the
people, say, as he wiped his brow,--'These will see work soon!'"

"Arms! Are you sure of that?" said Adrian, anxiously. "Nay, then, there
is more in these schemes than I imagined! But (observing Irene's gaze
bent fearfully on him as his voice changed, he added, more gaily)--but
come what may, believe me--my beautiful! my adored! that while I live,
thy brother shall not suffer from the wrath he may provoke,--nor I,
though he forget our ancient friendship, cease to love thee less."

"Signora! Signora! child! it is time! we must go!" said the shrill voice
of Benedetta, now peering through the foliage. "The working men pass
home this way; I see them approaching."

The lovers parted; for the first time the serpent had penetrated into
their Eden,--they had conversed, they had thought, of other things than
Love.



Chapter 2.III. The Situation of a Popular Patrician in Times of Popular
Discontent.--Scene of the Lateran.

The situation of a Patrician who honestly loves the people is, in those
evil times, when power oppresses and freedom struggles,--when the two
divisions of men are wrestling against each other,--the most irksome and
perplexing that destiny can possibly contrive. Shall he take part with
the nobles?--he betrays his conscience! With the people?--he deserts
his friends! But that consequence of the last alternative is not the
sole--nor, perhaps, to a strong mind, the most severe. All men are
swayed and chained by public opinion--it is the public judge; but public
opinion is not the same for all ranks. The public opinion that excites
or deters the plebeian, is the opinion of the plebeians,--of those
whom he sees, and meets, and knows; of those with whom he is brought
in contact,--those with whom he has mixed from childhood,--those whose
praises are daily heard,--whose censure frowns upon him with every
hour. (It is the same in still smaller divisions. The public opinion for
lawyers is that of lawyers; of soldiers, that of the army; of scholars,
it is that of men of literature and science. And to the susceptible
amongst the latter, the hostile criticism of learning has been more
stinging than the severest moral censures of the vulgar. Many a man has
done a great act, or composed a great work, solely to please the two
or three persons constantly present to him. Their voice was his public
opinion. The public opinion that operated on Bishop, the murderer, was
the opinion of the Burkers, his comrades. Did that condemn him? No! He
knew no other public opinion till he came to be hanged, and caught the
loathing eyes, and heard the hissing execrations of the crowd below his
gibbet.) So, also, the public opinion of the great is the opinion of
their equals,--of those whom birth and accident cast for ever in their
way. This distinction is full of important practical deductions; it
is one which, more than most maxims, should never be forgotten by a
politician who desires to be profound. It is, then, an ordeal terrible
to pass--which few plebeians ever pass, which it is therefore unjust to
expect patricians to cross unfaulteringly--the ordeal of opposing the
public opinion which exists for them. They cannot help doubting their
own judgment,--they cannot help thinking the voice of wisdom or of
virtue speaks in those sounds which have been deemed oracles from
their cradle. In the tribunal of Sectarian Prejudice they imagine
they recognise the court of the Universal Conscience. Another powerful
antidote to the activity of a patrician so placed, is in the certainty
that to the last the motives of such activity will be alike misconstrued
by the aristocracy he deserts and the people he joins. It seems so
unnatural in a man to fly in the face of his own order, that the world
is willing to suppose any clue to the mystery save that of honest
conviction or lofty patriotism. "Ambition!" says one. "Disappointment!"
cries another. "Some private grudge!" hints a third. "Mob-courting
vanity!" sneers a fourth. The people admire at first, but suspect
afterwards. The moment he thwarts a popular wish, there is no redemption
for him: he is accused of having acted the hypocrite,--of having worn
the sheep's fleece: and now, say they,--"See! the wolf's teeth
peep out!" Is he familiar with the people?--it is cajolery! Is he
distant?--it is pride! What, then, sustains a man in such a situation,
following his own conscience, with his eyes opened to all the perils
of the path? Away with the cant of public opinion,--away with the poor
delusion of posthumous justice; he will offend the first, he will never
obtain the last. What sustains him? HIS OWN SOUL! A man thoroughly great
has a certain contempt for his kind while he aids them: their weal or
woe are all; their applause--their blame--are nothing to him. He walks
forth from the circle of birth and habit; he is deaf to the little
motives of little men. High, through the widest space his orbit may
describe, he holds on his course to guide or to enlighten; but the
noises below reach him not! Until the wheel is broken,--until the dark
void swallow up the star,--it makes melody, night and day, to its own
ear: thirsting for no sound from the earth it illumines, anxious for no
companionship in the path through which it rolls, conscious of its own
glory, and contented, therefore, to be alone!

But minds of this order are rare. All ages cannot produce them. They
are exceptions to the ordinary and human virtue, which is influenced
and regulated by external circumstance. At a time when even to be merely
susceptible to the voice of fame was a great pre-eminence in moral
energies over the rest of mankind, it would be impossible that any
one should ever have formed the conception of that more refined and
metaphysical sentiment, that purer excitement to high deeds--that glory
in one's own heart, which is so immeasurably above the desire of a
renown that lackeys the heels of others. In fact, before we can
dispense with the world, we must, by a long and severe novitiate--by the
probation of much thought, and much sorrow--by deep and sad conviction
of the vanity of all that the world can give us, have raised our
selves--not in the fervour of an hour, but habitually--above the world:
an abstraction--an idealism--which, in our wiser age, how few even of
the wisest, can attain! Yet, till we are thus fortunate, we know not
the true divinity of contemplation, nor the all-sufficing mightiness of
conscience; nor can we retreat with solemn footsteps into that Holy of
Holies in our own souls, wherein we know, and feel, how much our nature
is capable of the self-existence of a God!

But to return to the things and thoughts of earth. Those considerations,
and those links of circumstance, which, in a similar situation have
changed so many honest and courageous minds, changed also the mind of
Adrian. He felt in a false position. His reason and conscience shared in
the schemes of Rienzi, and his natural hardihood and love of enterprise
would have led him actively to share the danger of their execution. But
this, all his associations, his friendships, his private and household
ties, loudly forbade. Against his order, against his house, against the
companions of his youth, how could he plot secretly, or act sternly?
By the goal to which he was impelled by patriotism, stood hypocrisy and
ingratitude. Who would believe him the honest champion of his country
who was a traitor to his friends? Thus, indeed,

"The native hue of resolution
Was sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought!"

And he who should have been by nature a leader of the time became only
its spectator. Yet Adrian endeavoured to console himself for his present
passiveness in a conviction of the policy of his conduct. He who takes
no share in the commencement of civil revolutions, can often become,
with the most effect, a mediator between the passions and the parties
subsequently formed. Perhaps, under Adrian's circumstances, delay was
really the part of a prudent statesman; the very position which cripples
at the first, often gives authority before the end. Clear from the
excesses, and saved from the jealousies, of rival factions, all men
are willing to look with complaisance and respect to a new actor in a
turbulent drama; his moderation may make him trusted by the people; his
rank enable him to be a fitting mediator with the nobles; and thus the
qualities that would have rendered him a martyr at one period of the
Revolution, raise him perhaps into a saviour at another.

Silent, therefore, and passive, Adrian waited the progress of events. If
the projects of Rienzi failed, he might, by that in activity, the better
preserve the people from new chains, and their champion from death.
If those projects succeeded, he might equally save his house from the
popular wrath--and, advocating liberty, check disorder. Such, at least,
were his hopes; and thus did the Italian sagacity and caution of his
character control and pacify the enthusiasm of youth and courage.

The sun shone, calm and cloudless, upon the vast concourse gathered
before the broad space that surrounds the Church of St. John of
Lateran. Partly by curiosity--partly by the desire of the Bishop of
Orvietto--partly because it was an occasion in which they could display
the pomp of their retinues--many of the principal Barons of Rome had
gathered to this spot.

On one of the steps ascending to the church, with his mantle folded
round him, stood Walter de Montreal, gazing on the various parties that,
one after another, swept through the lane which the soldiers of the
Church preserved unimpeded, in the middle of the crowd, for the access
of the principal nobles. He watched with interest, though with his usual
carelessness of air and roving glance, the different marks and looks
of welcome given by the populace to the different personages of note.
Banners and penons preceded each Signor, and, as they waved aloft, the
witticisms or nicknames--the brief words of praise or censure, that
imply so much--which passed to and fro among that lively crowd, were
treasured carefully in his recollection.

"Make way, there!--way for my Lord Martino Orsini--Baron di Porto!"

"Peace, minion!--draw back! way for the Signor Adrian Colonna, Baron di
Castello, and Knight of the Empire."

And at those two rival shouts, you saw waving on high the golden bear of
the Orsini, with the motto--"Beware my embrace!" and the solitary column
on an azure ground, of the Colonna, with Adrian's especial device--"Sad,
but strong." The train of Martino Orsini was much more numerous than
that of Adrian, which last consisted but of ten servitors. But Adrian's
men attracted far greater admiration amongst the crowd, and pleased more
the experienced eye of the warlike Knight of St. John. Their arms were
polished like mirrors; their height was to an inch the same; their march
was regular and sedate; their mien erect; they looked neither to the
right nor left; they betrayed that ineffable discipline--that harmony
of order--which Adrian had learned to impart to his men during his own
apprenticeship of arms. But the disorderly train of the Lord of Porto
was composed of men of all heights. Their arms were ill-polished and
ill-fashioned, and they pressed confusedly on each other; they laughed
and spoke aloud; and in their mien and bearing expressed all the
insolence of men who despised alike the master they served and the
people they awed. The two bands coming unexpectedly on each other
through this narrow defile, the jealousy of the two houses presently
declared itself. Each pressed forward for the precedence; and, as the
quiet regularity of Adrian's train, and even its compact paucity of
numbers, enabled it to pass before the servitors of his rival, the
populace set up a loud shout--"A Colonna for ever!"--"Let the Bear dance
after the Column!"

"On, ye knaves!" said Orsini aloud to his men. "How have ye suffered
this affront?" And passing himself to the head of his men, he would have
advanced through the midst of his rival's train, had not a tall guard,
in the Pope's livery, placed his baton in the way.

"Pardon, my Lord! we have the Vicar's express commands to suffer no
struggling of the different trains one with another."

"Knave! dost thou bandy words with me?" said the fierce Orsini; and with
his sword he clove the baton in two.

"In the Vicar's name, I command you to fall back!" said the sturdy
guard, now placing his huge bulk in the very front of the noble's path.

"It is Cecco del Vecchio!" cried those of the populace, who were near
enough to perceive the interruption and its cause.

"Ay," said one, "the good Vicar has put many of the stoutest fellows
in the Pope's livery, in order the better to keep peace. He could have
chosen none better than Cecco."

"But he must not fall!" cried another, as Orsini, glaring on the smith,
drew back his sword as if to plunge it through his bosom.

"Shame--shame! shall the Pope be thus insulted in his own city?" cried
several voices. "Down with the sacrilegious--down!" And, as if by a
preconcerted plan, a whole body of the mob broke at once through
the lane, and swept like a torrent over Orsini and his jostled and
ill-assorted train. Orsini himself was thrown on the ground with
violence, and trampled upon by a hundred footsteps; his men, huddled and
struggling as much against themselves as against the mob, were scattered
and overset; and when, by a great effort of the guards, headed by the
smith himself, order was again restored, and the line reformed, Orsini,
well nigh choked with his rage and humiliation, and greatly bruised by
the rude assaults he had received, could scarcely stir from the ground.
The officers of the Pope raised him, and, when he was on his legs, he
looked wildly around for his sword, which, falling from his hand, had
been kicked amongst the crowd, and seeing it not, he said, between his
ground teeth, to Cecco del Vecchio--

"Fellow, thy neck shall answer this outrage, or may God desert me!" and
passed along through the space; while a half-suppressed and exultant
hoot from the bystanders followed his path.

"Way there!" cried the smith, "for the Lord Martino di Porto, and may
all the people know that he has threatened to take my life for the
discharge of my duty in obedience to the Pope's Vicar!"

"He dare not!" shouted out a thousand voices; "the people can protect
their own!"

This scene had not been lost on the Provencal, who well knew how to
construe the wind by the direction of straws, and saw at once, by the
boldness of the populace, that they themselves were conscious of a
coming tempest. "Par Dieu," said he, as he saluted Adrian, who, gravely,
and without looking behind, had now won the steps of the church, "yon
tall fellow has a brave heart, and many friends, too. What think you,"
he added, in a low whisper, "is not this scene a proof that the nobles
are less safe than they wot of?"

"The beast begins to kick against the spur, Sir Knight," answered
Adrian, "a wise horseman should, in such a case, take care how he
pull the rein too tight, lest the beast should rear, and he be
overthrown--yet that is the policy thou wouldst recommend."

"You mistake," returned Montreal, "my wish was to give Rome one
sovereign instead of many tyrants,--but hark! what means that bell?"

"The ceremony is about to begin," answered Adrian. "Shall we enter the
church together?"

Seldom had a temple consecrated to God witnessed so singular a spectacle
as that which now animated the solemn space of the Lateran.

In the centre of the church, seats were raised in an amphitheatre, at
the far end of which was a scaffolding, a little higher than the rest;
below this spot, but high enough to be in sight of all the concourse,
was placed a vast table of iron, on which was graven an ancient
inscription, and bearing in its centre a clear and prominent device,
presently to be explained.

The seats were covered with cloth and rich tapestry. In the rear of
the church was drawn a purple curtain. Around the amphitheatre were the
officers of the Church, in the party-coloured liveries of the Pope. To
the right of the scaffold sate Raimond, Bishop of Orvietto, in his robes
of state. On the benches round him you saw all the marked personages of
Rome--the judges, the men of letters, the nobles, from the lofty rank
of the Savelli to the inferior grade of a Raselli. The space beyond the
amphitheatre was filled with the people, who now poured fast in, stream
after stream: all the while rang, clear and loud, the great bell of the
church.