Rienzi

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Rienzi


"We must part."

"Part!"

"Yes, Nina--your guard is preparing; you have relations, I have friends,
at Florence. Florence must be your home."

"Cola,--"

"Look not on me thus.--in power, in state, in safety--you were my
ornament and counsellor. Now you but embarrass me. And--"

"Oh, Cola, speak not thus! What hath chanced? Be not so cold--frown
not--turn not away! Am I not something more to thee, than the partner
of joyous hours--the minion of love? Am I not thy wife, Cola--not thy
leman?"

"Too dear--too dear to me," muttered the Tribune; "with thee by my side
I shall be but half a Roman. Nina, the base slaves whom I myself made
free desert me.--Now, in the very hour in which I might sweep away for
ever all obstacles to the regeneration of Rome--now, when one conquest
points the path to complete success--now when the land is visible, my
fortune suddenly leaves me in the midst of the seas! There is greater
danger now than in the rage of the Barons--the Barons are fled; it is
the People who are becoming traitors to Rome and to me."

"And wouldst thou have me traitor also! No, Cola; in death itself Nina
shall be beside thee. Life and honour are reflected but from thee, and
the stroke that slays the substance, shall destroy the humble shadow. I
will not part from thee."

"Nina," said the Tribune, contending with strong and convulsive
emotion--"it may be literally of death that you speak.--Go! leave one
who can no longer protect you or Rome!"

"Never--Never."

"You are resolved?"

"I am."

"Be it so," said the Tribune, with deep sadness in his tone. "Arm
thyself for the worst."

"There is no worst with thee, Cola!"

"Come to my arms, brave woman; thy words rebuke my weakness. But my
sister!--if I fall, you, Nina, will not survive--your beauty a prey to
the most lustful heart and the strongest hand. We will have the same
tomb on the wrecks of Roman liberty. But Irene is of weaker mould; poor
child, I have robbed her of a lover, and now--"

"You are right; let Irene go. And in truth we may well disguise from
her the real cause of her departure. Change of scene were best for her
grief; and under all circumstances would seem decorum to the curious. I
will see and prepare her."

"Do so, sweetheart. I would gladly be a moment alone with thought. But
remember, she must part today--our sands run low."

As the door closed on Nina, the Tribune took out the letter and again
read it deliberately. "So the Pope's Legate left Sienna:--prayed that
Republic to withdraw its auxiliary troops from Rome--proclaimed me a
rebel and a heretic;--thence repaired to Marino;--now in council with
the Barons. Why, have my dreams belied me, then--false as the waking
things that flatter and betray by day? In such peril will the people
forsake me and themselves? Army of saints and martyrs, shades of heroes
and patriots, have ye abandoned for ever your ancient home? No, no, I
was not raised to perish thus; I will defeat them yet--and leave my name
a legacy to Rome; a warning to the oppressor--an example to the free!"



Chapter 5.V. The Rottenness of the Edifice.

The kindly skill of Nina induced Irene to believe that it was but the
tender consideration of her brother to change a scene embittered by her
own thoughts, and in which the notoriety of her engagement with Adrian
exposed her to all that could mortify and embarrass, that led to the
proposition of her visit to Florence. Its suddenness was ascribed to the
occasion of an unexpected mission to Florence, (for a loan of arms and
money,) which thus gave her a safe and honoured escort.--Passively she
submitted to what she herself deemed a relief; and it was agreed that
she should for a while be the guest of a relation of Nina's, who was the
abbess of one of the wealthiest of the Florentine convents: the idea of
monastic seclusion was welcome to the bruised heart and wearied spirit.

But though not apprised of the immediate peril of Rienzi, it was with
deep sadness and gloomy forebodings that she returned his embrace and
parting blessing; and when at length alone in her litter, and beyond the
gates of Rome, she repented a departure to which the chance of danger
gave the appearance of desertion.

Meanwhile, as the declining day closed around the litter and its troop,
more turbulent actors in the drama demand our audience. The traders
and artisans of Rome at that time, and especially during the popular
government of Rienzi, held weekly meetings in each of the thirteen
quarters of the city. And in the most democratic of these, Cecco del
Vecchio was an oracle and leader. It was at that assembly, over which
the smith presided, that the murmurs that preceded the earthquake were
heard.

"So," cried one of the company--Luigi, the goodly butcher,--"they say
he wanted to put a new tax on us; and that is the reason he broke up the
Council today, because, good men, they were honest, and had bowels for
the people: it is a shame and a sin that the treasury should be empty."

"I told him," said the smith, "to beware how he taxed the people. Poor
men won't be taxed. But as he does not follow my advice, he must take
the consequence--the horse runs from one hand, the halter remains in the
other."

"Take your advice, Cecco! I warrant me his stomach is too high for that
now. Why he is grown as proud as a pope."

"For all that, he is a great man," said one of the party. "He gave us
laws--he rid the Campagna of robbers--filled the streets with merchants,
and the shops with wares--defeated the boldest lords and fiercest
soldiery of Italy--"

"And now wants to tax the people!--that's all the thanks we get for
helping him," said the grumbling Cecco. "What would he have been without
us?--we that make, can unmake."

"But," continued the advocate, seeing that he had his supporters--"but
then he taxes us for our own liberties."

"Who strikes at them now?" asked the butcher.

"Why the Barons are daily mustering new strength at Marino."

"Marino is not Rome," said Luigi, the butcher. "Let's wait till they
come to our gates again--we know how to receive them. Though, for
the matter of that, I think we have had enough fighting--my two poor
brothers had each a stab too much for them. Why won't the Tribune, if he
be a great man, let us have peace? All we want now is quiet."

"Ah!" said a seller of horse-harness. "Let him make it up with the
Barons. They were good customers after all."

"For my part," said a merry-looking fellow, who had been a gravedigger
in bad times, and had now opened a stall of wares for the living, "I
could forgive him all, but bathing in the holy vase of porphyry."

"Ah, that was a bad job," said several, shaking their heads.

"And the knighthood was but a silly show, an' it were not for the wine
from the horse's nostrils--that had some sense in it."

"My masters," said Cecco, "the folly was in not beheading the Barons
when he had them all in the net; and so Messere Baroncelli says. (Ah,
Baroncelli is an honest man, and follows no half measures!) It was a
sort of treason to the people not to do so. Why, but for that, we should
never have lost so many tall fellows by the gate of San Lorenzo."

"True, true, it was a shame; some say the Barons bought him."

"And then," said another, "those poor Lords Colonna--boy and man--they
were the best of the family, save the Castello. I vow I pitied them."

"But to the point," said one of the crowd, the richest of the set; "the
tax is the thing.--The ingratitude to tax us.--Let him dare to do it!"

"Oh, he will not dare, for I hear that the Pope's bristles are up at
last; so he will only have us to depend upon!"

The door was thrown open--a man rushed in open-mouthed--

"Masters, masters, the Pope's legate has arrived at Rome, and sent for
the Tribune, who has just left his presence."

Ere his auditors had recovered their surprise, the sound of trumpets
made them rush forth; they saw Rienzi sweep by with his usual cavalcade,
and in his proud array. The twilight was advancing, and torch-bearers
preceded his way. Upon his countenance was deep calm but it was not the
calm of contentment. He passed on, and the street was again desolate.
Meanwhile Rienzi reached the Capitol in silence, and mounted to the
apartments of the palace, where Nina, pale and breathless, awaited his
return.

"Well, well, thou smilest! No--it is that dread smile, worse than
frowns. Speak, beloved, speak! What said the Cardinal?"

"Little thou wilt love to hear. He spoke at first high and solemnly,
about the crime of declaring the Romans free; next about the treason of
asserting that the election of the King of Rome was in the hands of the
Romans."

"Well--thy answer."

"That which became Rome's Tribune: I re-asserted each right, and proved
it. The Cardinal passed to other charges."

"What?"

"The blood of the Barons by San Lorenzo--blood only shed in our own
defence against perjured assailants; this is in reality the main crime.
The Colonna have the Pope's ear. Furthermore, the sacrilege--yes, the
sacrilege (come laugh, Nina, laugh!) of bathing in a vase of porphyry
used by Constantine while yet a heathen."

"Can it be! What saidst thou?"

"I laughed. 'Cardinal,' quoth I, 'what was not too good for a heathen
is not too good for a Christian Catholic!' And verily the sour Frenchman
looked as if I had smote him on the hip. When he had done, I asked him,
in my turn, 'Is it alleged against me that I have wronged one man in my
judgment-court?'--Silence. 'Is it said that I have broken one law of
the state?'--Silence. 'Is it even whispered that trade does not
flourish--that life is not safe--that abroad or at home the Roman
name is not honoured, to that point which no former rule can
parallel?'--Silence. 'Then,' said I, 'Lord Cardinal, I demand thy
thanks, not thy censure.' The Frenchman looked, and looked, and
trembled, and shrunk, and then out he spake. 'I have but one mission to
fulfil, on the part of the Pontiff--resign at once thy Tribuneship, or
the Church inflicts upon thee its solemn curse.'"

"How--how?" said Nina, turning very pale; "what is it that awaits thee?"

"Excommunication!"

This awful sentence, by which the spiritual arm had so often stricken
down the fiercest foe, came to Nina's ear as a knell. She covered her
face with her hands. Rienzi paced the room with rapid strides. "The
curse!" he muttered; "the Church's curse--for me--for ME!"

"Oh, Cola! didst thou not seek to pacify this stern--"

"Pacify! Death and dishonour! Pacify! 'Cardinal,' I said, and I felt his
soul shrivel at my gaze, 'my power I received from the people--to the
people alone I render it. For my soul, man's word cannot scathe it.
Thou, haughty priest, thou thyself art the accursed, if, puppet and tool
of low cabals and exiled tyrants, thou breathest but a breath in the
name of the Lord of Justice, for the cause of the oppressor, and against
the rights of the oppressed.' With that I left him, and now--"

"Ay, now--now what will happen? Excommunication! In the metropolis of
the Church, too--the superstition of the people! Oh, Cola!"

"If," muttered Rienzi, "my conscience condemned me of one crime--if I
had stained my hands in one just man's blood--if I had broken one law
I myself had framed--if I had taken bribes, or wronged the poor, or
scorned the orphan, or shut my heart to the widow--then, then--but no!
Lord, thou wilt not desert me!"

"But man may!" thought Nina mournfully, as she perceived that one of
Rienzi's dark fits of fanatical and mystical revery was growing over
him--fits which he suffered no living eye, not even Nina's, to witness
when they gathered to their height. And now, indeed, after a short
interval of muttered soliloquy, in which his face worked so that the
veins on his temples swelled like cords, he abruptly left the room, and
sought the private oratory connected with his closet. Over the emotions
there indulged let us draw the veil. Who shall describe those awful and
mysterious moments, when man, with all his fiery passions, turbulent
thoughts, wild hopes, and despondent fears, demands the solitary
audience of his Maker?

It was long after this conference with Nina, and the midnight bell had
long tolled, when Rienzi stood alone, upon one of the balconies of the
palace, to cool, in the starry air, the fever that yet lingered on his
exhausted frame. The night was exceedingly calm, the air clear, but
chill, for it was now December. He gazed intently upon those solemn orbs
to which our wild credulity has referred the prophecies of our doom.

"Vain science!" thought the Tribune, "and gloomy fantasy, that man's
fate is pre-ordained--irrevocable--unchangeable, from the moment of his
birth! Yet, were the dream not baseless, fain would I know which of
yon stately lights is my natal star,--which images--which reflects--my
career in life, and the memory I shall leave in death." As this thought
crossed him, and his gaze was still fixed above, he saw, as if made
suddenly more distinct than the stars around it, that rapid and fiery
comet which in the winter of 1347 dismayed the superstitions of those
who recognised in the stranger of the heavens the omen of disaster and
of woe. He recoiled as it met his eye, and muttered to himself, "Is such
indeed my type! or, if the legendary lore speak true, and these strange
fires portend nations ruined and rulers overthrown, does it foretell my
fate? I will think no more." (Alas! if by the Romans associated with the
fall of Rienzi, that comet was by the rest of Europe connected with the
more dire calamity of the Great Plague that so soon afterwards ensued.)
As his eyes fell, they rested upon the colossal Lion of Basalt in the
place below, the starlight investing its grey and towering form with a
more ghostly whiteness; and then it was, that he perceived two figures
in black robes lingering by the pedestal which supported the statue, and
apparently engaged in some occupation which he could not guess. A fear
shot through his veins, for he had never been able to divest himself
of the vague idea that there was some solemn and appointed connexion
between his fate and that old Lion of Basalt. Somewhat relieved, he
heard his sentry challenge the intruders; and as they came forward to
the light, he perceived that they wore the garments of monks.

"Molest us not, son," said one of them to the sentry. "By order of the
Legate of the Holy Father we affix to this public monument of justice
and of wrath, the bull of excommunication against a heretic and rebel.
WOE TO THE ACCURSED OF THE CHURCH!"



Chapter 5.VI. The Fall of the Temple.

It was as a thunderbolt in a serene day--the reverse of the Tribune in
the zenith of his power, in the abasement of his foe; when, with but a
handful of brave Romans, determined to be free, he might have crushed
for ever the antagonist power to the Roman liberties--have secured the
rights of his country, and filled up the measure of his own renown. Such
a reverse was the very mockery of Fate, who bore him through disaster,
to abandon him in the sunniest noon of his prosperity.

The next morning not a soul was to be seen in the streets; the shops
were shut--the churches closed; the city was as under an interdict. The
awful curse of the papal excommunication upon the chief magistrate of
the Pontifical City, seemed to freeze up all the arteries of life. The
Legate himself, affecting fear of his life, had fled to Monte Fiascone,
where he was joined by the Barons immediately after the publication of
the edict. The curse worked best in the absence of the execrator.

Towards evening a few persons might be seen traversing the broad space
of the Capitol, crossing themselves, as the bull, placarded on the Lion,
met their eyes, and disappearing within the doors of the great palace.
By and by, a few anxious groups collected in the streets, but they
soon dispersed. It was a paralysis of all intercourse and commune. That
spiritual and unarmed authority, which, like the invisible hand of God,
desolated the market-place, and humbled the crowned head, no physical
force could rally against or resist. Yet, through the universal awe, one
conviction touched the multitude--it was for them that their Tribune
was thus blasted in the midst of his glories! The words of the
Brand recorded against him on wall and column detailed his
offences:--rebellion in asserting the liberties of Rome--heresy in
purifying ecclesiastical abuses;--and, to serve for a miserable covert
to the rest, it was sacrilege for bathing in the porphyry vase of
Constantine! They felt the conviction; they sighed--they shuddered--and,
in his vast palace, save a few attached and devoted hearts, the Tribune
was alone!

The staunchest of his Tuscan soldiery were gone with Irene. The rest
of his force, save a few remaining guards, was the paid Roman militia,
composed of citizens; who, long discontented by the delay of their
stipends, now seized on the excuse of the excommunication to remain
passive, but grumbling, in their homes.

On the third day, a new incident broke upon the death-like lethargy of
the city; a hundred and fifty mercenaries, with Pepin of Minorbino, a
Neapolitan, half noble, half bandit, (a creature of Montreal's) at their
head, entered the city, seized upon the fortresses of the Colonna, and
sent a herald through the city, proclaiming in the name of the Cardinal
Legate, the reward of ten thousand florins for the head of Cola di
Rienzi.

Then, swelled on high, shrill but not inspiring as of old, the great
bell of the Capitol--the people, listless, disheartened, awed by the
spiritual fear of the papal authority, (yet greater, in such events,
since the removal of the see,) came unarmed to the Capitol; and there,
by the Place of the Lion, stood the Tribune. His squires, below the
step, held his war-horse, his helm, and the same battle-axe which had
blazed in the van of victorious war.

Beside him were a few of his guard, his attendants, and two or three of
the principal citizens.

He stood bareheaded and erect, gazing upon the abashed and unarmed crowd
with a look of bitter scorn, mingled with deep compassion; and, as the
bell ceased its toll, and the throng remained hushed and listening, he
thus spoke:--

"Ye come, then, once again! Come ye as slaves or freemen? A handful
of armed men are in your walls: will ye who chased from your gates the
haughtiest knights--the most practised battle-men of Rome, succumb now
to one hundred and fifty hirelings and strangers? Will ye arm for
your Tribune? You are silent!--be it so. Will you arm for your own
liberties--your own Rome? Silent still! By the saints that reign on the
thrones of the heathen gods! are ye thus fallen from your birthright?
Have you no arms for your own defence? Romans, hear me! Have I wronged
you?--if so, by your hands let me die: and then, with knives yet reeking
with my blood, go forward against the robber who is but the herald of
your slavery; and I die honoured, grateful, and avenged. You weep! Great
God! you weep! Ay, and I could weep, too--that I should live to speak
of liberty in vain to Romans--Weep! is this an hour for tears? Weep
now, and your tears shall ripen harvests of crime, and licence, and
despotism, to come! Romans, arm! follow me at once to the Place of the
Colonna: expel this ruffian--expel your enemy (no matter what afterwards
you do to me):" he paused; no ardour was kindled by his words--"or," he
continued, "I abandon you to your fate." There was a long, low, general
murmur; at length it became shaped into speech, and many voices cried
simultaneously: "The Pope's bull!--Thou art a man accursed!"

"What!" cried the Tribune; "and is it ye who forsake me, ye for whose
cause alone man dares to hurl against me the thunders of his God? Is it
not for you that I am declared heretic and rebel! What are my imputed
crimes? That I have made Rome and asserted Italy to be free; that I
have subdued the proud Magnates, who were the scourge both of Pope and
People. And you--you upbraid me with what I have dared and done for you!
Men, with you I would have fought, for you I would have perished. You
forsake yourselves in forsaking me, and since I no longer rule over
brave men, I resign my power to the tyrant you prefer. Seven months
I have ruled over you, prosperous in commerce, stainless in
justice--victorious in the field:--I have shown you what Rome could be;
and, since I abdicate the government ye gave me, when I am gone, strike
for your own freedom! It matters nothing who is the chief of a brave
and great people. Prove that Rome hath many a Rienzi, but of brighter
fortunes."

"I would he had not sought to tax us," said Cecco del Vecchio, who
was the very personification of the vulgar feeling: "and that he had
beheaded the Barons!"

"Ay!" cried the ex-gravedigger; "but that blessed porphyry vase!"

"And why should we get our throats cut," said Luigi, the butcher, "like
my two brothers?--Heaven rest them!"

On the face of the general multitude there was a common expression of
irresolution and shame, many wept and groaned, none (save the aforesaid
grumblers) accused; none upbraided, but none seemed disposed to arm. It
was one of those listless panics, those strange fits of indifference and
lethargy which often seize upon a people who make liberty a matter of
impulse and caprice, to whom it has become a catchword, who have not
long enjoyed all its rational, and sound, and practical, and blessed
results; who have been affrayed by the storms that herald its dawn;--a
people such as is common to the south: such as even the north has known;
such as, had Cromwell lived a year longer, even England might have seen;
and, indeed, in some measure, such a reaction from popular enthusiasm
to popular indifference England did see, when her children madly
surrendered the fruits of a bloody war, without reserve, without
foresight, to the lewd pensioner of Louis, and the royal murderer of
Sydney. To such prostration of soul, such blindness of intellect, even
the noblest people will be subjected, when liberty, which should be the
growth of ages, spreading its roots through the strata of a thousand
customs, is raised, the exotic of an hour, and (like the Tree and Dryad
of ancient fable) flourishes and withers with the single spirit that
protects it.

"Oh, Heaven, that I were a man!" exclaimed Angelo, who stood behind
Rienzi.

"Hear him, hear the boy," cried the Tribune; "out of the mouths of babes
speaketh wisdom! He wishes that he were a man, as ye are men, that
he might do as ye should do. Mark me,--I ride with these faithful few
through the quarter of the Colonna, before the fortress of your foe.
Three times before that fortress shall my trumpets sound; if at the
third blast ye come not, armed as befits ye--I say not all, but three,
but two, but one hundred of ye--I break up my wand of office, and the
world shall say one hundred and fifty robbers quelled the soul of Rome,
and crushed her magistrate and her laws!"

With those words he descended the stairs, and mounted his charger; the
populace gave way in silence, and their Tribune and his slender train
passed slowly on, and gradually vanished from the view of the increasing
crowd.

The Romans remained on the place, and after a pause, the demagogue
Baroncelli, who saw an opening to his ambition, addressed them. Though
not an eloquent nor gifted man, he had the art of uttering the most
popular commonplaces. And he knew the weak side of his audience, in
their vanity, indolence, and arrogant pride.

"Look you, my masters," said he, leaping up to the Place of the Lion;
"the Tribune talks bravely--he always did--but the monkey used the cat
for his chestnuts; he wants to thrust your paws into the fire; you will
not be so silly as to let him. The saints bless us! but the Tribune,
good man, gets a palace and has banquets, and bathes in a porphyry vase;
the more shame on him!--in which San Sylvester christened the Emperor
Constantine: all this is worth fighting for; but you, my masters, what
do you get except hard blows, and a stare at a holyday spectacle? Why,
if you beat these fellows, you will have another tax on the wine: that
will be your reward!"

"Hark!" cried Cecco, "there sounds the trumpet,--a pity he wanted to tax
us!"

"True," cried Baroncelli, "there sounds the trumpet; a silver trumpet,
by the Lord! Next week, if you help him out of the scrape, he'll have
a golden one. But go--why don't you move, my friends?--'tis but one
hundred and fifty mercenaries. True, they are devils to fight, clad in
armour from top to toe; but what then?--if they do cut some four or five
hundred throats you'll beat them at last, and the Tribune will sup the
merrier."

"There sounds the second blast," said the butcher. "If my old mother
had not lost two of us already, 'tis odds, but I'd strike a blow for the
bold Tribune."

"You had better put more quicksilver in you," continued Baroncelli, "or
you will be too late. And what a pity that will be!--If you believe the
Tribune, he is the only man that can save Rome. What, you, the finest
people in the world--you, not able to save yourselves!--you, bound up
with one man--you, not able to dictate to the Colonna and Orsini! Why,
who beat the Barons at San Lorenzo? Was it not you? Ah! you got the
buffets, and the Tribune the moneta! Tush, my friends, let the man go;
I warrant there are plenty as good as he to be bought a cheaper bargain.
And, hark! there is the third blast; it is too late now!"