 | The True Tragedy of Rienzi Tribune of Rome |  |
Scene I.
—Rome. Before the Portico of Octavia. In the centre, an arch, through which is seen the entrance to Sant' Angelo in Pescheria—a picture painted on the side of the arch. Citizens gradually collect at the back of the stage, curiously examining the picture.Enter Gualtier de Montréal, with his brother Rambault.
Ramb.
And this is Rome! The grim she-wolf grows old.
Mont.
And gaunter every day.
Ramb.
Yet her lean dugs,
Which nursed the whelps of greatness, ne'er run dry
Of milk that feeds ambition.
Mont.
One might be
Late foster-brother, then, of Romulus?
And grow to something mightier than the time
Brings feebly forth.
Mont.
Dreams, Rambault, scholar's dreams—
Thou hast snuft up Cæsar's dust, and that breeds dreams.
What's Rome to unschooled soldiers, such as I,
More than the quarry to the hawk?
Ramb.
The crown
Of a great warrior's fair ambition.
Mont.
Pshaw!
A word, a dream, a fancy—what's ambition?
Ramb.
The love of power.
Mont.
I have it. When the time
Turns like the wheel of Fortune, Fortune's soldier
Is Fortune's deputy, and turns the wheel
On which kings rise and fall.
Ramb.
The love of place,
Name, worship, fame.
Mont.
I have them, lad, I have them.
Fra Moreale's name shines bright enough
To read without a candle—What is here
To set these idlers staring?
1st Cit.
Broke thy counter, sayest thou? And for
what?
2nd Cit.
Ay, ay, they broke my counter, flung my
loaves into the street, and would have broke my head
as well, but that, like a rabbit that dreads the weazel,
I have a back-door to my burrow. And all for
what? Because my cart was seen some twice or
or thrice!
1st Cit.
But who did this?
2nd Cit.
Who, man? Who eats our flesh, drinks
our blood, treads upon our necks, and pays us not a
brown soldo to buy sticking-plaster to patch together
our picked bones? Who but Colonna's cursed Germans?
1st Cit.
Comfort thyself with the thought that Orsino's
would have done worse, for the good of the
people. Let us thank God we have heads to be broke,
houses to be sacked, wives to be carried off, by the
people's guardians, for the good of the people.
Enter Cecco del Vecchio, pushing through the crowd.
Cecco.
Where is this picture?
3rd Cit.
Yonder.
Cecco.
On the very arch! 'Twas not there yesterday?
A Fishwife.
All the fishmarket was blind, if so.
Cecco.
Rienzi's doing—eh?
1st Cit.
Rienzi's or the Devil's. When the Barons
cut a throat or two, Rienzi paints a picture.
Cecco.
He makes the very stones of Rome to speak—
better things, signor, than most mouths have breath for.
2nd Cit.
Per Bacco! they speak in parables.
1st Cit.
No marvel they speak dark things by daylight,
when night finds them tongues.
Fishwife.
He sleeps, God bless him, no more than
an eel, painting pictures all night, and making speeches
for the widow and the fatherless.
Cecco.
Rienzi is the tongue of Rome—the people's
tongue.
Ramb.
(aside to Mont.).
Who may Rienzi be?
Mont.
(aside to Ramb.).
The last new name
Blown on the popular breath. Let us hear more.
3rd Cit.
Here comes Gianni the Barber, his fat
paunch as full of news as a pedlar's wallet.
Enter Gianni Rosso.
Gianni R.
Save you, sirs! Have you heard the
news?
Cecco.
What news?
Gianni R.
Baccio di Pietro's shop—the goldsmith's—
2nd Cit.
Gutted, like mine?
Gianni R.
Worse, per Bacco! worse!
Cecco.
Out with it, man; what worse?
Gianni R.
Broken into last night, and his fair wife
forced from him. 'Tis true as I stand in my skin.
1st Cit.
That's no great news in this year of
grace 1347. Which of our worshipful lords has done
this?
Gianni R.
Messer Martino di Porto. Tuesday
next he marries a fair widow, and rich withal—
Madonna Masia degli Alberteschi—and to show her
his youth, he must needs be raking.
Fisherman.
This widow will be a better haul for
him than the galley he wrecked the other day.
All's fish that comes to his net. Fra
Moreale himself is no greater robber.
Ramb.
(aside to Mont.).
Do you hear that, brother?
How smells this flower of your fame?
Mont.
(aside to Ramb.).
This must be the galley
with the treasure of the Queen of Naples, in which we
sailed from Marseilles. We, too, owe this Baron a
grudge.
Fishwife.
May the Holy Fishermen keep us from
the nets of all ribalds like him! But what a fair gentlewoman
can see in a gluttonous fat swine! Well, God
made us all.
4th Cit.
Curses on him! This is not the first home
he has harried.
Gianni R.
He is but young, too, to be so dissolute.
But, as they tell me, in his Holiness's Court at
Avignon such things are counted but gallantries.
Cecco.
'Tis not yet so in Rome, and may God keep
us from such manners?
All.
Amen!
Gianni R.
I hold his confessor, Fra Pippo of
Santa Anastasia, for the worser man.
Fishwife.
Well, God made us all. Young nobles
must needs have hot blood. But for rape and murder
and the debauching of convents, if the devil does not
roast some of them for it, he is not worth his keep—
and there's good religion for that.
Cecco.
And does Rienzi know all this?
Gianni R.
You should have seen him rage when I
told him. I gave him my mind on the Barons'
politics.
And what says he?
Gianni R.
That the time draws near when such
wrongs shall be righted.
All.
God bless Rienzi! Our only hope is in him.
Ramb.
(aside to Mont.).
Rienzi's name again!
Mont.
This dangerous hive
Is ripe for swarming. I'll know more of this.
(To Gianni R.)
Pardon me, good sir, can you tell
me aught of this Rienzi, whose name every wind of
Rome blows in one's face?
Gianni R.
Of Rienzi sir? That I can, sir—no one
better. Yes, sir, simple man as I stand here, I am
uncle to the great Rienzi, who is indeed in some sort
my disciple or pupil. I have fed his infant lips, sir,
with the milk of eloquence.
Cecco
(aside).
Hark to this pie!
Mont.
Indeed—and you, sir?
Gianni R.
Me, sir? I am a poor philosopher, at
your worship's service.
Cecco
(aside).
Ouf! a liar! a liar!
Mont.
By the shears at thy belt, and the comb at
thy ear, I should have taken thee for a barber.
Gianni R.
The barber's mystery is, indeed, my
quality or modality. I am barber per accidens; but
my vera essentia is philosopher. I'll trim your beard
in the way of trade, and discourse of the beauties of
Tully for the love of eloquence. I'll breathe you a
vein secundem artem, or cast your nativity according to
the method of Alpharamus or Ajax the Sabæan.
Mont.
Truly a wise barber.
Study, sir, study. I have always loved
study. Will you be blooded, sir? Many of our
nobles do greatly affect to be blooded in this month
of May, against hot humours.
(To Ramb.)
. Or you,
sir?
Mont.
It is not our habit. For myself, my blood
has oftener taken the air on the sword of a soldier
than the lancet of a barber.
Gianni R.
Our habits of action, sir, as I have noted,
hang much upon the habit of our bodies. Now the
sanguineous humour—
Mont.
Be that as Heaven wills, friend. I asked
thee of Rienzi, not of the sanguineous humour.
Gianni R.
I crave your worship's pardon. I have
cast Rienzi's nativity. He mounts, sir, he mounts;
and higher yet must he go. A few years ago a poor
scholar; then Notary Public, with the Pandects on
the tip of his tongue; then ambassador to Pope
Clement in the matter of the Jubilee; then back from
Avignon with his Holiness's favourable answer in his
satchell—lauded by the Pope, protected by Cardinal
Colonna, the friend of Petrarca—
Cecco.
The friend of the Roman people—that's
more to the point.
Gianni R.
Apostolic Notary of the Roman Chamber,
with a salary of five golden florins a day—
Cecco.
And not a bribe withal; no oppressor of the
poor.
Fishwife.
The feeder of the widow and the orphan,
God bless him!
The withstander of tyrants—the doer of
evenhanded justice.
Gianni R.
Give me leave, give me leave! This
honest fellow, sir—
Cecco.
Honest fellow, indeed! I'll honest fellow
thee, thou pot-bellied prater, thou sponger-up of
Rienzi's bounties! I am no honest fellow, but a
Roman Citizen.
Mont.
Good master Roman Citizen, let us converse
without rudeness.
Cecco.
Chatter who chooses. I care not to talk
with them I know not.
(Aside.)
One of these foreign
locusts that eat up the land!
Enter Cia.
Cia.
Gianni! Gianni Rosso, I say! Where is that
husband of mine?
Gianni R.
What means this outcry, woman?
Cia.
Ay, at thy old work, chattering like a swallow
in a bell-tower; and two of Colonna's night-watch with
broken heads waiting to be salved and blooded.
Gianni R.
O woman, woman! Wilt thou never learn
to respect the claims that politics make upon every
good citizen?
Cia.
Ay, politics, politics. Every idle rogue that
loves to hear the clack of his own tongue is a politician;
every knave, every spendthrift, a politician.
Much good hast thou got from Cola di Renzo, with
his trumpery scriptures and pictures, and the Good
Estate! What good estate can come to strollers and
come; leave prating, and lose not thy customers.
Gianni R.
Patience, good wife! You may see,
gentlemen, what fame I have in my mystery, the
trumpet of it being so shrill; and, indeed, I am now
somewhat full of affairs. Will it please you step this
way? My poor shop is close by. You shall hear a
sonnet sent by Rienzi to a lady of quality in his Holiness's
Court at Avignon, the Countess of Turenne.
Some mad wags will have it that she sits as close to
Pope Clement's ear as the white dove to St. Gregory's.
It made Petrarch himself jealous. This way, sir!
[Exeunt Mont., Ramb., Gianni R., and Cia.
5th Cit.
There goes the Barber, led by his pole.
3rd Cit.
I back the pole for the better man of
the two.
5th Cit.
And for the longer tongue?
3rd Cit.
Nay, there they are well matched. But
here comes an Orsino whom I love as a Jew, pork.
When he comes up I vanish.
[Exit.
Enter Giordano Orsino, attended.
Giord. O.
What coil is here? More of Rienzi's work?
The knave grows more seditious every day.
Ha! dares he daub our very scutcheons out,
To set his crazy fancies on yon arch?
Halberds, disperse these gaping fools. Off, rascals!
Out of the way!
Herald.
Way for the Vicar of his Holiness!
Giord. O.
Way for this lamb come swaggering among wolves!
I'll make no way—on, fools!
Bp. of O.
What means this rudeness?
My Lord Orsino, you are somewhat bold,
You flout the Pope's self in thus flouting me.
Will you forego your Guelfic name, belie
The pledge your banner, blazoned with the keys,
Makes to protect, not scorn, his Holiness?
Giord. O.
Then let his Holiness, the absentee,
Come spend his Peter's pence in person. You,
His vicar, herd with Ghibellines, while we,
His honest Guelfs, his Romans, are put off
With empty promises.
Bp. of O.
Your jealous heart,
My lord, sets jaundiced colours in your eyes.
I come to heal these feuds.
Giord. O.
Then pack from Rome;
For here you lose your time. Go help the Pope
To eat our revenues in Avignon,
With Frenchmen, bookworms, ladies, Lord knows what!
On, fellows; if his lordship take the wall,
Give him the wall.
[The Bishop is thrust rudely against the wall.
Bp. of O.
O mad and violent man!
Help ho!
Help! help! The Bishop's slain by the Orsini!
[Tumult.
Enter Gianni Colonna, attended.
Gianni C.
Back, dogs! What, will you murder priests by daylight?
For shame, Orsino!
Giord. O.
Comes Colonna thus,
Into our bounds, merely to mend our manners;
Or grow the Ghibellines so to love the Church
Its quarrels are their own?
Gianni C.
The streets of Rome
Are free to all to walk in, and who lets
With ruffian rudeness peaceful traffickers
May light on chastisement. Colonna's sword
Can guard Colonna's guest. Back, back, I say!
Giord. O.
Chastisement! Now, by all the saints in heaven,
You tempt my spleen too far! Out of our bounds,
Or draw your potent sword.
Gianni C.
Have at you, then!
Blows, and not words, for bandits.
[They fight.
Tumultuous cries.
A Colonna! An Orsino!
[They fight on both sides. Colonna's party, guarding the Bishop, are driven back. Exeunt fighting.
Cecco.
Now, would to God the Bear would buffet
the Column, or the Column cudgel the Bear, till both
were past all prayers! We should thus be rid of the
two worst plagues of Rome. May you tear more than
each others' coats!
God keep you, sir! Have you heard the news to-day?
Pand.
The news? Alas! what news does every
day bring, save what is old? Oppression, rapine,
murder, is no news; injustice no news; lechery,
cruelty, sacrilege, no news. Why, it might well seem
that the angels of the Last Day stood over us, pouring
out the vials of the wrath of God upon our heads.
Cecco.
Faith, you say right, sir. You have heard
what Messer Martino di Porto did last night?
Pand.
And what these Barons do to-day. Some
two or three lie bleeding in the streets already. Yes,
I know all—all.
Cecco.
That's nothing new in Rome, as you say, sir;
but here's a piece of news in Rienzi's hand, that we
would fain have you read for us.
Pand.
This picture?
Cecco.
Ay, sir; we know your worship is deep in
Rienzi's counsels.
Pand.
Give me leave, then. Here, look you, under
the figure of a sorrowful matron, burning in flames,
stands Rome; and to her flies this fair bird of God,
Messer St. Michael, the archangel—the sword of
God's justice in his hand—while the holy saints, St.
Peter and St. Paul, cry after him out of heaven (You
see the scroll come from their mouths):—
Praise our good names, and lodge our hallowed bones!”
Is that much clear?
All clear, sir!
Pand.
Now, lower down, in the midst of the sky
below the archangel, you see this little bird, which
drives into the flames a great rout of falcons?
Cits.
Ay, surely.
Pand.
And here he is figured again, receiving a
crown of myrtle from the Holy Dove; while here,
once more, he places the crown upon the head of
Rome. Is all this plain to your eyes?
Cecco.
All plain, sir.
Pand.
Then let the sense be as plain to your minds.
Rienzi is the little bird—the Barons, the falcons.
Cits.
Bravo! bravo!
Pand.
In this scroll is the gist of all:
“The time of God's great justice see:
That time draws nigh, be ready ye!”
But here comes Rienzi himself—question him, if ye
would know more.
Enter Rienzi, in meditation, a stone in his hand. He is followed by a great concourse of people, among them respectable burgesses in the costume of their guilds, and artizans with the implements of their trade in their hands, as if they had suddenly left their booths.
2nd Cit.
What hast thou there, Rienzi?
Rien.
What I have long looked for—a man.
1st. Cit.
How a man? It looks more like a stone.
Rien.
A man, I say, a man. 'Tis ye are stones,
And these sad stones are Romans.
How are we stones? Nay, we are no stones.
Rien.
No stones, indeed—clods rather, trampled down
To woful mire beneath these Barons' feet.
O Rome, where is thy greatness? It lies dead,
And these cold marbles grave it.
[He kisses the stone.
Cecco.
Why dost thou kiss that stone?
Rien.
I kiss the face
Of Rome's dead glory, kissing it. Look here—
This was a fragment of great Scipio's tomb,
Who made the earth your proud inheritance;
Which ye have flung away, as I fling this,
To rest upon some dunghill. O base Guelfs,
Toad-hearted Ghibellines—fond slaves of spite,
Who might be Romans, and the world's dread lords,
Could I but put a tongue in these old stones,
I should arouse such sacred rage in you,
That ye would shake your cloddish natures off,
And turn to stones indeed, to build Rome's wall!
Cits.
What shall we do, Rienzi?
Rien.
Do? not this:
Bark at the moon of peace, like hungry hounds,
And yelp when ye are whipt; or snarl awhile,
And after fawn upon the hand that smote you;
Or tear each others' throats when, for their sport,
Your tyrants set you on.
Re-enter Gianni Rosso, with Mont. and Ramb.
Gianni R.
That is Rienzi.
Ramb.
In the broidered gown?
He looks fantastical.
Gianni R.
Hark you, he speaks!
He's wonderful at words.
Rien.
O ye fallen Romans!
Knowing both what ye were and what ye are,
How have I wept, what rivers of hot tears,
To see you still beguiled, like foolish fish,
With gaudy nothings, empty paltry names,
Which feed your starvèd longings with mere death!
Your tyrants cry, Colonna! and ye die;
Orsino! and ye die; Guelf! Ghibelline!
And ye run mad to fling away your lives,
Like the poor slaves, who, for your fathers' sport,
With their dull blood made fat the earless field
Of yonder mouldering circus. Will ye die
Deaths which are shame, for such unworthy cause,
And dare ye not stir in such noble risk
As makes death martyrdom? Feel ye this shame,
And dare you yet be Romans? Answer me!
Cits.
We dare, Rienzi.
Cecco.
Faith, you have hammered us hot,
Now you may forge us as you will.
Rien.
'Tis well:
Would I could forge you to the fiery sword
Which sacred justice wields! O Romans, Romans!
How have I loved you, served you, humbled me
To weep before your feet, that I might so
Persuade you love yourselves, and love each other,
And the great name of Rome—that sacred name,
Which all her wrongs, which all your wrongs and mine,
Letter by letter—ye may read it there;
For, like the pelican, I rend myself
To pasture you upon its naked wounds.
O fellow-bondmen, would that ye loved me
With but a tithe of the vast love which here
Bleeds at my breast for you!
Cits.
We do, Rienzi!
We love thee, we do love thee!
Rien.
Ye do well;
For, loving me, ye love the light of heaven
Which makes men, men—that sacred liberty
Which visits you but in dreams. If, then, ye love me,
And love yourselves, and love the Good Estate,
What will ye do for me? The hour draws near
When hope and death shall play like wanton twins,
Each in the other's shape; the rosiest hopes
Smile at us with the dreadful eyes of death;
Who dares stand with me then?
Cecco.
I dare!
Cits.
And I!
Others.
And I! and I!
Rien.
Oh, now ye make me strong,
A Roman among Romans; now ye build,
With living stones, the citadel of Rome.
Dare ye join hands, and swear to me this day
That, for the love ye bear the Good Estate,
You'll hear me when I call, obey my voice—
Cits.
As sheep the shepherd.
Cast your lots with me;
Stand by me to the death?
Cits.
Ay, to the death!
Rien.
Stop: I must test in you the walls of Rome,
Whose strong cement is love, whose sturdiest arch
Will split and crumble into ugly dust
Without the keystone, faithful comradeship.
Some of you have been Guelfs—Lappo, come here;
Some Ghibellines—step forward, Maso. Ay,
Ye bear each other's scars, I think. But now
Ye meet as Romans: take each others' hands:
Embrace; forget your brawls.
1st Cit.
I'm sick of brawls;
There, frankly, is my hand.
2nd Cit.
And mine as frankly.
Cits.
O bravo! bravo!
Rien.
That was nobly done.
Renzo di Pietro, and you, Gianni Nero,
Stand forward. You are somewhile enemies
About a legacy; feed the lean ears
Of scandal with ill words, the hungry paws
Of lawyers with good crowns. Will you consent
To leave your case to my arbitrament,
Each choosing out some worthy citizen,
To join with me; and take each other's hands,
In sign of peace and gentle amity?
4th Cit.
That is too hard. I stand upon my rights,
And on the law.
5th Cit.
And so do I.
Rien.
Alas!
Sapped and brought low. Ye stand upon the law,
And on your rights? Ye trample on the law,
And all men's rights. Farewell then, wretched Rome,
Thy heart I held for sound is so corrupt,
That it prefers hate, envy, clamour, strife,
Lust, murder, blasphemy, continual fear,
Continual poverty, wars, famines, plagues,
Tyranny, anarchy, to peace and joy.
I thought ye loved your wives—and felt perhaps
Some little ghost of manhood stir your souls
When they were made the playthings, the despised
And miserable playthings, of the lust
Of ruffians without ruth; I thought ye loved
Your children—and perhaps felt something rise
Like sickness in your throats, when your young boys
Were stabbed for sport, your little girls defiled
With horrible debauchment; when—O God,
My thoughts choke me! Believe me, citizens
Left citiless, that there will come a day
When ye will call upon Rienzi's name,
And weep when none shall answer. Fare ye well!
Fishwife.
Fie upon you, with your rights and your
wrongs! Will you not patch up and be friends, when
Rienzi speaks such lovely words to you? There's good
religion for that.
Tumultuous cries.
Shame! shame! Obey the just
Rienzi! the good Rienzi! Stay, Rienzi!
Gianni R.
(to Mont.)
Aha! you mark how he comes
tickle these trouts delicately. But there my wife
beckons me away, like death's spectre, from the banquet
of life. God be with you, gentlemen!
Mont.
Good-day to you.
[Exit Gianni Rosso.
Rien.
Here, then, I kneel before your scornful feet,
And pray you love—not me, but your own selves,
Loving the Good Estate. O raise me up,
And raise up Rome; make me to smile once more,
And make the angels smile, beholding you
Thus barter hellish hate for heavenly love.
Thou yieldest, Gianni; Renzo, take his hand.
4th Cit.
I ask but justice. I will trust thy word
That I shall have it.
5th Cit.
Well, I'll fee no more lawyers.
Cits.
Bravo! O bravo!
Rien.
This is such a joy
As feel the flocks of heaven when wandering sheep
Come back into the fold. Signor Pandolfo
Di Guido, and you, Signor Giacomo
Degli Orefici, there's blood between you—
A river of dark woe, which sunders long
Two loving hearts—your son, dear friend, and your
Most cherished daughter.
6th Cit.
Ha!
Rien.
Let me entreat you,
By what ye both do love, the sacred name
Of Rome, by justice, by that Good Estate,
To put away this hatred from your hearts,
This woe from out your houses, and this shame
From your much-shamèd country. Clasp your hands
In sign of that ungrudging amnesty
A dearer bond, I hope, shall seal.
Pand.
Si'or Giacomo,
Our fathers were close friends—well, that's a text
Too old to preach on now.—Had other lips—
Had other lips than these, which seem to-day
To speak with heaven's own voice—bid me do this,
I should have laughed; but now some holy touch,
Laid on the deepest fountains of my life,
Makes bitter waters sweet. There is my hand.
6th Cit.
Signor Pandolfo, I have hated you
With an old hatred, which, like stored-up wine,
I have been proud to quaff before my friends,
Or sip in secret; till to-day, methinks,
It taste; like vinegar. But, sour or sweet,
I'll make libation of it all to Rome,
And, as a brother Roman's, take your hand.
Rien.
O glorious earnest of the Good Estate,
Which stands before our gates, in lowly guise,
Waiting our invitation to come in!
O foretaste of heaven's kingdom! Blessed minds
In which the snakes of hatred and revenge
Die in the sun of love! Be this a pledge
That we, a band of brothers linked with brothers,
Of just men, joined with just men, shall arise,
Not to avenge our wrongs, but right our wrongs,
I charge you to be ready.
Cits.
We are ready.
Rien.
Swear to me then by the most holy saints
Who guard these walls, St. Peter and St. Paul,
And by their blessed bones, that when ye hear,
By night or day, my trumpet, three times blown,
Summon the streets of Rome—by night or day—
Ye will assemble here; will meet me here,
To welcome to your homes the Good Estate.
Swear it!
Cits.
We swear!
Rien.
By those most blessed bones,
Which make our city sacred as the gates
Of new Jerusalem.
Cits.
By those blessed bones!
Rien.
Then wait upon the hour; which even now,
I pledge my life, comes flying like the dove
In yon last picture that I mean to paint,
And brings as fair a myrtle. When ye hear
My trumpet in Rome's streets, hear in your hearts
God's judgment-angels blow the trump of doom
To tyranny; and hear them summon you,
The Roman people, from the loathsome grave.
Cits.
Viva! Evviva!
Long live Rienzi, and the Good Estate!
Rien.
And meet me here unarmed—save terribly
In the strong mail of justice—all unarmed.
Cits.
We will, Rienzi.
Peacefully go home,
And wait upon the hour—so fare ye well!
[Exit.
Cits.
Long live Rienzi, and the Good Estate!
[Exeunt Pandolfo, Cecco, and Citizens.
Ramb.
Here is no petty garboil.
Mont.
By my soul,
If Rome and empire lie upon the stakes,
Here is a man worth playing with!
Ramb.
What game?
Mont.
The game of brains before the game of swords.
I'll see Rienzi.
[Exeunt.
| The True Tragedy of Rienzi Tribune of Rome | |