 | The True Tragedy of Rienzi Tribune of Rome |  |
Scene II.
—Rome.—A Terrace in the Colonna Gardens.Enter Vittoria Colonna.
Vitt. C.
The Vicar in this house, to sup with Gianni!
How will the old lord brook that? 'Tis Gianni's sport
To bring the earth's poles together; first Rienzi
He makes his grandsire's gossip, now he brings
The Pope's own delegated lamb, to beard
The Ghibelline lion in his very den.
But here, I see, they come.
[Exit.
Enter Stefano and Gianni Colonna, with Rienzi, Bishop of Orvieto, Frangipani, Savello, and others, as guests.
Stef. C.
My grandson's guests are mine. My Lord
of Orvieto, I trust you will find our Ghibelline welcome
God-speed.
Bp. of O.
My lord, I thank you heartily for this
friendship. I thought to have brought healing for the
sores of Rome; but alas! they bleed afresh, and I am,
in some sort, the innocent cause.
Stef. C.
Ay, truly—a dove whose olive sets all the ark
by the ears. Please all, please none. What loss
hadst thou, Gianni?
Gianni C.
A trifle—some few with flesh wounds.
Stef. C.
None slain outright?
Gianni C.
Mere cits, my lord, whose blood costs us
nothing. Your salaried soldier values his life too
highly to cast it away in a street brawl.
Stef. C.
So—I am glad thou hast squandered none
of our stout Germans.
(To Rienzi.)
All hail, great
Emperor! What news from dreamland?
Rien.
That the world, which stood upon its head,
comes at last right side up.
Stef. C.
And thou wouldst stand upon its tail?
Rien.
Nay, I'll wag its tail, and then ware flesh-flies.
Gianni C.
Ay, if the tail grew out of the tongue.
But come, as we give thee the Fool's license, let us
have some of thy Fool's wisdom. Rail, rail upon us!
This fallen capital shall be thy throne, and thence
thou shalt judge the world.
Rien.
This fallen capital is the seat of fools already,
for you Barons reign in it. But when I sit on the
throne of my ancestors—
Stef. C.
What throne is that?
The taverner's joint-stool. His father took
the tribute of many a fair vineyard.
Rien.
Those that laugh now shall weep, and those
that weep shall laugh.
Gianni C.
A most probable forecast—more, more!
Rien.
Robbers shall be no longer Barons, nor
Barons robbers; the laws shall be law, the roads
highways; and even Churchmen shall have God's
grace.
Frang.
Why, what have they now?
Rien.
The Devil's blessing.
[They laugh.
Gianni C.
How wilt thou judge us Barons?
Rien.
As robbers—the greatest as the greatest, and
the smallest as not small ones.
(To Stefano.)
Your
head, my lord, I'll have, for treason to the State.
Stef. C.
How treason?
Rien.
For that, being a Ghibelline, you have conspired
with the Guelfs against the State of Rome.
Frang.
And what shall my fate be?
Rien.
The gallows, faith; for you have—O you
are a great Baron!
(They laugh.)
You, sweet prince
(to Gianni)
, shall be my hostage for the good behaviour
of your House.
Gianni C.
Better hang us all, in earnest of the Good
Estate. But wilt thou string up our reverend cousin
here, the Provost of Marseilles? Wilt thou have no
remorse upon the clergy?
Rien.
Your good cousin is scarcely yet hanging-ripe;
but a rich, mellow Churchman—
Gianni C.
Well?
Would become the gallows very well.
[They laugh immoderately.
Stef. C.
Enough of this fooling. You know I must
go hence to-night. My son Stefano attends me. Our
horses are saddled, and our militia waits. Good Signor
Emperor, take this jewel in token of my homage
(gives Rienzi a ring)
, and may we all many times
laugh with thee before our weeping comes.
Rien.
My lord, I thank you for your homage, and
will remember it when I come into my kingdom.
Stef. C.
My Lord Vicar, I commend you to the
entertainment of my grandson, and must ask your
pardon for this hasty farewell.
Bp. of O.
A pleasant journey to your lordship.
God be with you!
[Exit Stefano.
Gianni C.
Shall we see them to their saddles?
[Exeunt Gianni and Guests.
Rien.
My lord, a word with you.
Bp. of O.
You are too bold—
It were scarce prudent here.
Rien.
Oh, my good lord,
Treason is safest spoken in a palace,
Under the King's nose.
Bp. of O.
Nay, your talk to-night
Gave me the ague for you.
Rien.
What, for me?
Rienzi is the safest man in Rome,
And nowhere more than here. Boldness, my lord,
Skims the thin ice of danger, when pale fear
Goes shuddering to the death it shunned. You marvel
From seeing what they dread, I choose to play,
Like sailors with the blind and bellowing waves,
Over whose haughty crests they sail to port.
I tell them truth in jest, and in dull jest
They pay me with a bauble. Now, my lord,
You know my purpose, may I know your mind?
Bp. of O.
My mind? I would the Pope could hear you speak,
Or I were nearer him. I needs must own
That those weak hopes I built upon the Barons
Are somewhat rudely shaken.
Rien.
Ay, the Orsini,
Who threaten you in the street; or old Colonna,
Who scorns to flout you—openly; or Gianni,
Who loves you, as he loves myself, to grace
His wit and his fine scholarship: well, yes,
They are but weak foundations for your hopes.
Bp. of O.
I have been much insulted, and the Pope
In me; yet—
Rien.
Oh, my lord, give me but leave
To set you where all insult shall rebound
On the insulter's head! Build not your hopes
Upon the shifting sand of Barons' favours,
But on the rock of a great people's love.
Bp. of O.
A rock? The fickle mob, rash, yet not bold?
Alas! they are most like a treacherous sea,
Still blown about by gusts of rage and fear.
To shun the sands and build upon the waves
Were but a futile task.
I'll build an ark,
Shall float upon the waves—not on the mob,
But on the people, steadfast as the waves,
And tidal to the moon of liberty.
See you this roll of names? Men whose whole life
Is to live safely. Think you such a one
As this, or this, would back a losing cause?
No; but, like prudent merchants, they'll take risks,
Wise risks, for mighty gains. Will, then, the Church,
Whose gain were mightiest, and whose risk but small,
Hold only off? I have a hundred names
Of Churchmen, who but wait upon your word
To join me, heart and hand.
Bp. of O.
The Church's gain,
Should you succeed, would certainly be great.
Rien.
Give me your name, and my success is sure.
And, for the Church, three years, and all the earth,
In Jubilee, will pour its wealth on Rome,
As freely as the manna rained from heaven.
Bp. of O.
The ways, I fear, are most unsafe for pilgrims.
Rien.
Speak but one word, and I will clear the ways,
And feed this multitude, whose hunger else,
We are so lean, must eat our very stones,
And leave us citiless. No man alive
But I can do it, as the Pope knows well.
My dear Lord Vicar, I have trusted you
Early and much, trust me a little, late:
I know you have a letter from the Pope.
'Tis true, I have a letter from the Pope.
Rien.
And I can guess its tenour. Says he not:
If all the Barons fail you, join Rienzi?
Bp. of O.
Your bolt strikes near the truth.
Rien.
Enough, enough!
I see I have won the Pope; I'll win him Rome,
If you, my lord, will use that liberty,
His wisdom leaves to you, with that good wisdom
Your over prudent fears would cheat you of.
Bp. of O.
What would you have?
Rien.
The sanction of your name
For what I do; the Pope's authority
To turn his revenues to his own use.
Bp. of O.
His revenues?
Rien.
Ay, of this Roman Chamber,
Which I administer. This schedule here
Shows you the taxes, net receipts, and moneys
Now in my hands—but one poor thirty thousand
Florins of gold, which, but for sundry rats
Which gnaw his Holiness's treasury-chests,
Should sum three hundred thousand.
Bp. of O.
You would seize
These moneys?
Rien.
I would crave, if I succeed,
Your leave to use these moneys.
Bp. of O.
Oh, succeed,
And all shall meet your wish! But I much dread
These furious Barons and their mercenaries.
Rien.
Their hirelings love them not, and they themselves
The plundered city to go rob the fields.
Colonna goes to-night, the last Orsino
Brawled himself off to-day; and for the rest
They scatter up and down.
Bp. of O.
Might you not win
Some noble to your party?
Rien.
There is one,
Or I'm no judge of men, who is mine already.
A man of weight in your own see, my lord.
Bp. of O.
Who's he?
Rien.
A Guelf still Guelf, and—marvel more—
A Baron with a mind, a man who dreams
Of a more stable State.
Bp. of O.
Who is this phœnix?
Rien.
Cola Orsino, of Sant' Angelo.
Bp. of O.
Ha! a good name.
Rien.
The best in Rome are mine.
Bp. of O.
He is much followed. But you say the Barons
Are leaving Rome; that means—?
Rien.
I'll strike at once.
Bp. of O.
O risk not all too rashly!
Rien.
To delay
Were to lose all, when once my plans are ripe.
Bp. of O.
Heaven prosper all your plans!
Rien.
Your blessing sits
Upon my brow, my lord, like victory.
Bp. of O.
Let us go in.
Rien.
Best singly—will you enter?
[Exit Bishop of Orvieto.
My cap and bells
I'll jingle here no more. So David left
His scrabbling on the doors, to be a king;
So Brutus felt his heart burst its dull chain,
Snatching the dagger from Lucretia's breast,
To stab to death false Tarquin's bloody power!
Enter Vittoria Colonna.
Vitt. C.
The night looks fair in promise. What, still here,
Signor Rienzi! You are sighed for now,
Within, as too soon vanished.
Rien.
Nay, Madonna,
Your poet here, among the nightingales,
Lingers, not to be sighed for, but to sigh.
Vitt. C.
More sonnets to my lap-dog? Pshaw! no more
Of these unreal toys. Something's afoot
Among the clamorous and unruly mob
Whom you have taught, for what you best can tell,
To follow at your heels, more than is good.
Rien.
What is afoot? Street-brawling? On my honour
I did not teach them that.
Vitt. C.
You have taught them worse—
Sedition, insolence, peevish discontent.
Rien.
That were a crime in me—so to mar all
The blessed lessons taught them, day by day,
By their kind masters!
You have put a tongue
Into the ghastly evils of the time
To yell for anarchy, and mere misrule.
The woes that fall as natural as the rain,
For all men's sins, upon the lives of men,
You, with the art of rabble-charming knaves,
Credit the great with; yet you talk of justice!
O pause, ere you tarre on the ignorant folk,
Who should be faithful dogs, to bay our heels
Like rancorous wolves! Rebellion, civil war—
These are the ugly names of ugly things.
Rien.
Madam, I trust I know my place too well
To sin so high. Rebellion? Civil war?
These are the crimes of nobles.
Vitt. C.
Silence, sir!
A daughter of our House, methinks, may claim,
Speaking with you, more courtesy of tone—
Such sneers become you ill.
Rien.
Ah! Signorina,
I spoke in thoughtless bitterness of spirit.
You stand so high in my soul's reverence,
That sometimes lisping courtesy forgets
Timely to bar the door on rude-tongued frankness.
You hold me, I know well, the ungrateful snake
Which stings the fostering hand.
Vitt. C.
I will not deign
To urge our House's claims to gratitude
On your distorted nature.
Rien.
Gratitude!
Like your own brother, little Stefanello—
An innocent boy, whom thoughtless venture led
Too near a brawl. One of your noble House
Slew him in wantonness. And when I cried
O'er his fair head, yet warm in the bloody dust,
For vengeance on the dastard murderer's life,
Your generous grandfather flung me a purse,
And sent me to the devil. Gratitude!
Vitt. C.
These are the dreadful accidents of war.
To nurse revenge thro' half your tale of years
For an o'erhasty blow, is savagelike.
Rien.
Yes, the sad agents of these accidents,
On whom, methinks, remorse should sit for life,
Dinning the ear of sleep, forget them soon.
Why should not I? I nurse not vain revenge,
God be my witness! But just God remembers
The innocent blood which cries to Him from the earth,
And He will terribly avenge it.
Vitt. C.
God
Will punish mad ambition. As your friend—
For such I fain would be—I say, beware!
Rouse not my father's wrath, or grandfather's.
Gianni still takes his life as carelessly
As do the birds; but they're wound-wary lions,
Whom life has taught to hate the thing they fear,
And kill the thing they hate.
Rien.
O noblest lady
Would that we could be friends, ay, more than friends!
If there should come a duel to the death,
And I should hold the fate of those you love
Some day within my hands, the thought of you
Would turn revenge, if I could harbour it,
To gentleness. Claim, then, Rienzi's friendship;
I'll earn your gratitude.
Vitt. C.
Grow you so bold?
Who are you, sir, to threat and promise thus?
Rien.
The Roman people, madam. Fare you well!
[Exit Rienzi.
Vitt. C.
Crazed, crazed with some stupendous vanity!
And yet this frightens me. I would my father
Had hearkened to my prayers, and stayed in Rome.
[Exit.
| The True Tragedy of Rienzi Tribune of Rome | |