Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best ebook reader for ubuntu .txt) 📕

(His Italian contemporary delights in representing this remarkable man as another Crichton. “Disputava,” he says of him when at Prague, “disputava con Mastri di teologia; molto diceva, parlava cose meravigliose...abbair fea ogni persona.”—“He disputed with Masters of theology—he spoke much, he discoursed things wonderful—he astonished every one.”)

“But if so honoured at Prague, how comes he a prisoner at Avignon?”

“Giacomo,” said Angelo, thoughtfully, “there are some men whom we, of another mind and mould, can rarely comprehend, and never fathom. And of such men I have observed that a supreme confidence in their own fortunes or their own souls, is the most common feature. Thus impressed, and thus buoyed, they rush into danger with a seeming madness, and from danger soar to greatness, or sink to death. So with Rienzi; dissatisfied with empty courtesies and weary of playing the pedant, since once he had played the prince;—some say of his own accord, (though others relate that he was surrendered to the Pope’s legate by Charles,) he left the Emperor’s court, and without arms, without money, betook himself at once to Avignon!”

“Madness indeed!”

“Yet, perhaps his only course, under all circumstances,” resumed the elder page. “Once before his fall, and once during his absence from Rome, he had been excommunicated by the Pope’s legate. He was accused of heresy—the ban was still on him. It was necessary that he should clear himself. How was the poor exile to do so? No powerful friend stood up for the friend of the people. No courtier vindicated one who had trampled on the neck of the nobles. His own genius was his only friend; on that only could he rely. He sought Avignon, to free himself from the accusations against him; and, doubtless, he hoped that there was but one step from his acquittal to his restoration. Besides, it is certain that the Emperor had been applied to, formally to surrender Rienzi. He had the choice before him; for to that sooner or later it must come—to go free, or to go in bonds—as a criminal, or as a Roman. He chose the latter. Wherever he passed along, the people rose in every town, in every hamlet. The name of the great Tribune was honoured throughout all Italy. They besought him not to rush into the very den of peril—they implored him to save himself for that country which he had sought to raise. ‘I go to vindicate myself, and to triumph,’ was the Tribune’s answer. Solemn honours were paid him in the cities through which he passed; (“Per tutto la via li furo fatti solenni onori,” &c.—“Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. ii. cap. 13.) and I am told that never ambassador, prince, or baron, entered Avignon with so long a train as that which followed into these very walls the steps of Cola di Rienzi.”

“And on his arrival?”

“He demanded an audience, that he might refute the charges against him. He flung down the gage to the proud cardinals who had excommunicated him. He besought a trial.”

“And what said the Pope?”

“Nothing—by word. Yon tower was his answer!”

“A rough one!”

“But there have been longer roads than that from the prison to the palace, and God made not men like Rienzi for the dungeon and the chain.”

As Angelo said this with a loud voice, and with all the enthusiasm with which the fame of the fallen Tribune had inspired the youth of Rome, he heard a sigh behind him. He turned in some confusion, and at the door which admitted to the chamber occupied by the Signora Cesarini, stood a female of noble presence. Attired in the richest garments, gold and gems were dull to the lustre of her dark eyes, and as she now stood, erect and commanding, never seemed brow more made for the regal crown—never did human beauty more fully consummate the ideal of a heroine and a queen.

“Pardon me, Signora,” said Angelo, hesitatingly; “I spoke loud, I disturbed you; but I am Roman, and my theme was—”

“Rienzi!” said the lady, approaching; “a fit one to stir a Roman heart. Nay—no excuses: they would sound ill on thy generous lips. Ah, if—” the Signora paused suddenly, and sighed again; then in an altered and graver tone she resumed—“If fate restore Rienzi to his proper fortunes, he shall know what thou deemest of him.”

“If you, lady, who are of Naples,” said Angelo, with meaning emphasis, “speak thus of a fallen exile, what must I have felt who acknowledge a sovereign?”

“Rienzi is not of Rome alone—he is of Italy—of the world,” returned the Signora. “And you, Angelo, who have had the boldness to speak thus of one fallen, have proved with what loyalty you can serve those who have the fortune to own you.”

As she spoke, the Signora looked at the page’s downcast and blushing face long and wistfully, with the gaze of one accustomed to read the soul in the countenance.

“Men are often deceived,” said she sadly, yet with a half smile; “but women rarely,—save in love. Would that Rome were filled with such as you! Enough! Hark! Is that the sound of hoofs in the court below?”

“Madam,” said Giacomo, bringing his mantle gallantly over his shoulder, “I see the servitors of Monsignore the Cardinal d’Albornoz.—It is the Cardinal himself.”

“It is well!” said the Signora, with a brightening eye; “I await him!” With these words she withdrew by the door through which she had surprised the Roman page.