 | The True Tragedy of Rienzi Tribune of Rome |  |
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ACT V.
Scene I.
—The Camp before Palestrina.—Rienzi's Pavilion.Enter Rienzi and Rambault.
Rien.
I do not like the siege's disposition—
You have thrown away advantages, and made
A brief assault a leaguer. You have spread
Your force to weakness, gazing upon rocks,
When you should batter walls, or mole beneath them.
What means this farce of war?
Ramb.
Nay, you should ask
My brother Berthon, as the better soldier.
Rien.
Sir, I ask you; I shall grow angry soon—
What does this child's play mean?
Ramb.
The art of war
Prescribes these cautious tactics—Berthon says.
We have burnt all their country, stopped supplies—
Rien.
While they are victualled for a year, and drive
Their cattle through our lines.
Ramb.
I have not heard so.
Rien.
I have. Good Doctor, may I crave to know
Why ye have so departed from my plans?
Ramb.
You left us some discretion, and in truth
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If brief, would have been bloody.
Rien.
Mutiny!
These mercenary dogs! By heaven above me,
The rogues are paid to fight, and fight they shall!
Ramb.
When they are paid.
Rien.
They have my note of hand.
Nay, this is worse than mutiny; 'tis sloth
Upon their leaders' parts—or treachery.
Ramb.
Their leaders! Treachery?
Rien.
Your brother is a knave, and you a fool—
I think, no worse—that is, in warfare, Doctor.
You'll back with me to Rome. You have my love,
Though not my confidence. Berthon comes too,
Under arrest; and in his place Riccardo
Degli Annibaldi shall conduct the siege.
You are my prisoner, Doctor, on parole.
Ramb.
Oh! I was tugged asunder by two minds—
Do not esteem me false!
Rien.
You are an egg,
Smacking of its rank neighbours—nothing worse.
But get you to your tent and wait me there.
Send, as you pass, my Captain of the Guard.
[Exit Rambault.
That stroke is played; and now swift back to Rome,
For I must be ubiquitous as air,
To keep my cause alive. On salt and wine
I must impose the tax to pay these knaves;
Most dangerous, but most necessary. Well,
If this be borne, I shall make firm my root.
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You have arrested him, and quietly?
Capt.
As sleep, my lord. He dropped into our toils
Like a ripe pear into a maiden's lap.
Rien.
Good. And this woman that you told me of?
Capt.
She waits without, my lord.
Rien.
See her disarmed,
And let her enter straight.
Capt.
She's searched, my lord.
Rien.
Be sure she has no secret knife about her;
Though not a Roman, she may stab at Rome.
[Exit Captain.
Enter Woman.
Your business, dame, and briefly.
Woman.
Senator,
I seek a just revenge on one, methinks,
Should be to you as hateful as the plague.
Rien.
Who's he?
Woman.
Fra Moreale, as they call him.
Rien.
He! And what power have I to right your wrong?
Woman.
I was his faithful servant, Senator,
Till he debauched my daughter. Now I'd be
His hangman, if you please.
Rien.
How, if I please?
Woman.
He is in Rome, my lord.
Rien.
What, he in Rome?
Now? Not alone?
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In Rome, my lord, alone,
And in disguise, to bring his plots against you
To quiet ripeness. You may take him now
With proofs against his life.
Rien.
(aside).
There's no report
Of this upon my papers. Have my spies
Turned bats in daylight? (Aloud.)
Make this promise true,
And name your own reward.
Woman.
His soul to hell!
Come back to Rome, and let me choose my time;
I'll bring you plump upon his tampering
With your most trusted friends.
Rien.
Come, night or day,
You'll find me prompt.
Woman.
Farewell, then, Senator.
Do you your work as well as I'll do mine.
Rien.
Trust me for that—farewell!
[Exit Woman.
This creature speaks the truth—eye, accent, all
Proclaim her honest. This is heaven's design
To punish bandits, and to rescue Rome.
Now Montréal, or devil, which you will,
The blood-writ bond is forfeit in a sense
Which dupes your devilship. Strike off his head,
I strike the head from the cold snake whose coils
Are strangling Italy—she breathes once more!
[Exit.
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Scene II.
—Rome.—A Room in Pandolfo di Guido's House.Enter Pandolfo, Montréal, and Citizens.
Mont.
I take it that I owe your gracious welcome
To this—that being men who breathe the air
Of the great world, not of dim scholars' cells,
Men of to-day, not men of yesterday,
This dreamer stales with you.
1st Cit.
His credit wanes
2nd Cit.
Our trade lies gasping like a wounded man.
Mont.
He is too weak to rule—there lies the fault.
Pand.
We loved the patriot in the Tribune—now
We hate, though with what sorrow in our hate,
The tyrant in the Senator. He rides,
Like furious troopers o'er a civil crowd,
Over our council, and makes war or peace,
Dooms death, and levies taxes, at his will.
Mont.
A taint of weakness! Like the bitter speck
In fruit o'er-ripe, these tricks of tyranny
In popular chiefs are preludes of decay.
Pand.
His temper is much altered for the worse,
With sudden gusts of anger, heats of scorn;
He'll laugh at trifles, and as soon will weep
In such immoderate fashion as makes dread
He may turn lunatic.
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Flaws of tired brains.
Ah! when such patriots (bowing to Pandolfo)
, for a final flight,
From where in happier times they made their nest,
Gather like swallows, winter nips indeed!
Pand.
With deep regret for our unhappy state,
Which, like a drowner with a rotten bough
Snapt in his hand, grasps eagerly once more
At one whose girt gives promise of more hold,
We are prepared to hear you.
Mont.
Fairly said.
So then, I trust, though, an unbidden guest,
I have passed your gates, ye are agreed to find me
No enemy to Rome?
Pand.
Our need desires
To find in you a friend.
Mont.
You know, I think, that to my enemies
I can be terrible; and—to be blunt,
In soldier's fashion—I might come to you
With threats of war, not overtures of peace.
Your dam against my power, Rienzi, gapes
A sluice to let me through, and ye yourselves
Make breaches in him; take me, then, at flood,
And find an opulent sea whose friendly waves
Roll riches on your coast. My hand alone
Can hold in leash the furious powers that waste you—
The Barons are tamed falcons on my wrist;
The Cardinal Legate, to the neck in plots
Ripe for Rienzi's marring, winks on me;
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A Podestà, make me your Podestà
For but one year—give me of your free will
Less than I might, if covetous, take by force,
And I'll engage, upon my part, to guard
The freedom of your state.
[Bell of the Capitol tolls.
What means that bell?
1st Cit.
The death-bell: some poor devil dies to-night—
A robber, as I hear.
Mont.
A robber? Ha!
I will engage that for my year of power
My army shall not mulct you in the tax
Of one poor soldo. It can keep itself.
Cits.
Viva Fra Moreale!
Mont.
Think it o'er.
[Pand. and Cits converse apart.
(Aside.)
Now let me in, to bide my hatching-time,
And, like the cuckoo, these unfeathered fools
I'll shoulder from the nest. Still that curst bell!
I do not like the sound—it clanged before
On my outwitting. (Aloud.)
Come, good gentlemen,
Our treaty must be brief, our march to power
Sudden and sure, or we shall show like owls
Caught by the sun. (Knocking heard.)
What's this?
Pand.
Belated friends—some we have spoken with.
[Door is forced open.
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Rien.
(to Pand.).
Giotto paints Judas with a fox's face;
Thou hast a visage most austere and grave.
Thy forfeit head, with its white reverend hairs,
Would, with an aureole round it, from the wall
Shine in men's eyes a saint's. A face like thine
Makes trust mere dotage.
[Pand. sinks into a seat.
Mont.
Noble Senator,
What means this violent seizure of my person?
Rien.
O sir, it means the game is in my hands;
You have lost your stake.
Mont.
I do confess myself
Worsted, as ne'er before by mortal man;
But 'tis my pride to think a giant dwarfs me—
Your acts are winged thoughts. Name but my ransom,
It shall be paid.
Rien.
You heard that bell?
Mont.
I did;
What of the bell?
Rien.
It knelled a robber's death—
Think that it knelled your own.
Mont.
Talk you of death?
Rien.
Ay, death.
Mont.
Upon what charge? I owe you not
Allegiance
Rien.
No; but to the hangman's noose
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For merely tickling these small traitors here
To be your masked assassins of the State;
But for a life of rapine, whose each hour
Was a new crime.
Mont.
My life has been a soldier's,
My honour proud as yours.
Rien.
Honour lies dead,
When war becomes a trade, and patriot swords
The hireling's slaughter-tools. No, Montréal,
Your life has been a robber's; and your deeds
Mate you with panders, bravoes, prostitutes,
Slave-dealers, kidnappers—
Mont.
Enough of this—
Masks off, for God's sake! You have dipt your hand
Into my dish already, dip once more;
But prate not now of crime. I played for power,
Just as you do, and meant to mount on you,
As now you mount on me. You win my gains,
And profit so by what you call my crimes.
Let's be at one. I am your broken colt,
Now ride me, in your service, where you will:
Make me your Captain, and I'll make you all
Ambition dreams—a greater Charlemagne.
Rien.
Your devil's arrows are ill-aimed. You must
Prepare to die.
Mont.
To die? You are mad, you are mad!
Rien.
It was the hidden bias of our birth
That one of us should fall—the world's broad highway
Is not so wide we two can drive abreast.
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Let me drive after, then; but slay me not.
I—I alone, have power to do for you
What captive demons did for Solomon.
Destroy me, and your Rome upon your head
Comes crashing down.
Rien.
Nurse not your agony
Clutching at twigs; but make with heaven your peace.
Mont.
Shed you my blood, you make my brothers bloodhounds
To track you to your death—'twill be brief hunting.
Rien.
Your brothers are my prisoners.
Mont.
Saints in heaven,
We are all betrayed! O cursed hypocrite,
This is your gratitude! But your ill fame
Will sound abroad for this—it will be said
That you have murdered me to seize my treasure.
I succoured you in need, your empty name
Filled from my fulness, and for thanks get this.
Rien.
I have undermined your mines. Let fame report
My story as she may, you die to-night,
Though I should die to-morrow. With what face
Could I approach the awful judgment-seat,
Where glozing fame durst never look, and say
I left such bandits as thyself unhung?
Mont.
Unhung! I am a noble—Cavalier
Of the most holy Order of St. John.
Shall I be haltered like a dog?
Rien.
If so,
Thou hadst but thy deserts. Abashless block!
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Thou canst not see thyself? Art thou a noble?
A noble should act nobly. Shall men's sins
Be cloaked with titles that should make each fault
Look tenfold black amid their honour's blaze;
And crimes for which some hunger-tempted knave,
Who holds no trust, has ta'en no knighthood's vows,
Goes to the rack unpitied, be the jest
Of great folks' wanton hours? Out on such justice!
But, while I live, this shall not be in Rome.
By heaven! if I had seen some titled thief
Steal but a cherry from a poor man's tree,
And he had flashed his rank before mine eyes,
He had been pilloried for it. Away with them!
Mont.
Must I die then, and by your hangman's hand?
See! By this cross upon my breast, I warn you,
Dishonour not my Order.
Rien.
You have dragged
Your Order thro' foul mire; but for its sake,
And mine own Order's sake, your doom's the axe,
And not the halter.
Mont.
One last prayer. I ask
My brother's lives—they cannot harm you now.
Rien.
Their lives are spared—I swear it. Now begone!
And true repentance salve you at the block.
Mont.
To the most blessed Virgin, and St. John,
Whom I have ever loved with all my heart,
I do commend my soul. O Romans, Romans!
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For you I die, because your State is poor,
And I was rich. For you, proud Senator,
Whose haughty virtue frowns so stern upon
Our work-day smutches, look to your own soul;
For your death hour is near—your end may prove
Viler than mine.
Rien.
Take them away!
[Exeunt Pand. and Mont., guarded.
(To Cits.)
And now,
Ye poor small fry of treachery, get you gone—
I have my eye upon you. To your homes,
And see ye stir not, on your lives, abroad.
[Exeunt Cits. driven out by Guards.
The dying oft are prophets—it may be
My end is near. So my great work were done
I cared not when it came; but end more vilely
Than he? That's false; the manner of our death
Makes not its baseness, or the cross would be
Vile as the gibbet. But, till death, on, on!
[Exit
Scene III.
—Rome.—A Public Square.Enter Gianni Rosso, with Town Crier and Guards. Cecco del Vecchio and Citizens following them.
Gianni R.
Ring thy bell, crier.
(Crier rings his
bell; a crowd gradually assembles.)
(Aside.)
Who tells
me that the trade of a politician is a bad trade? I
have, indeed, been out in the cold long enough; but
now I shall warm my nest. I begin to be known over
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usury, and to be reverenced, withal, as a public functionary.
(Aloud.)
Ring thy bell, crier. (Crier rings again.)
(Aside.)
An officer of the revenue is no poor
barber, at every man's beck and call; but a man in
authority, and to be capped to and courted. Well, a
few years more and I shall retire upon my gains, to
enjoy the ripe remnants of my youth in scholar's
leisure. (Aloud.)
Now, crier, the proclamation.
(Aside.)
I'll note how they take it, and report to my
nephew, the Senator.
Crier
(reads).
Oyez! Oyez! Niccola di Rienzi,
Senator of Rome, to the loyal citizens of the Roman
Commonwealth greeting—
Cecco.
Leave vain flourishes, man, and to the point.
Crier.
Whereas it hath been in the wisdom of the
Roman Council determined
(Hooting)
to carry on the
most just war against certain notorious bandits and
wasters of the Commonwealth, to wit, Stefanello Colonna,
calling himself a Roman Baron—
A Voice.
Viva Stefanello Colonna!
[Renewed hooting.
Crier.
And divers others, with him mischievously
and seditiously conjoined—
Cecco.
They are not the only wasters of Rome.
Crier.
And whereas it hath become necessary to
raise a special fund for the defence in the field of the
iberties of Rome—
[Violent hooting.
A Voice.
Where is Fra Moreale's treasure?
A Soldier.
The soldiers have got none of it, anyhow.
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Now this is to proclaim that on and after
this, the 8th day of October, in the year of grace one
thousand three hundred and fifty-four, the ancient
duty on salt and wine, known as the gabella—
Tumultuous Cries.
Down with the gabella! Down
with all taxes! Death to the tyrant who has taxed
us!
Gianni R.
Peace, good Romans! Peace, worthy
citizens!
Cecco.
Death to all traitors and tax-gatherers!
[He draws a dagger.
Gianni R.
O blessed saints, here's murder abroad!
Guards, I say, guards, guards!
Cecco.
Kill them all, kill them!
[The mob assault the Guards, who fling down their halberds and run. Exit Gianni Rosso and Crier, pursued by Cecco and others. Continued Tumult.
Re-enter Cecco, etc.
Cecco.
The tyrant's knaves are dead, now for the
tyrant himself. With this blood upon us, we must go
on and make all sure, and that quickly.
Voices.
To the Capitol! To the Capitol!
[Exeunt.
Scene IV.
—A Room in the Capitol.Enter Rienzi.
Rien.
I am still the fool of dreams—I dreamed last night
That I was Sisyphus in hell; I wake
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Rome is my rolling stone, that once with me
Outsoared Jove's bird! What then? Rebels turned rulers
Must blench not when the powers that set them high
Come armed against them. Kings oft bear the blame
Of Adam's ousting, and the flaw of the world;
And mean show workers' deeds by gazers' dreams,
Who plan short cuts to the clouds! This is the day
When I proclaim the tax on salt and wine.
If this be borne— (Distant shouting.)
What! answers this my thought?
Ay, there must be some tumult, Rome being Rome.
Secretary
(entering hastily).
Fly, fly, my lord!
Rien.
What means this outcry, friend?
Sec.
O fly, my lord, all Rome comes raging here!
They rise, street after street, like handbreadth clouds
That on the mountains, round a traveller's feet
Gather for sudden tempest.
[Shouting nearer.
Rien.
I'll not fly.
How often have I faced these human waves,
And stilled their roaring! I must stand this siege.
Where are my guards?
Sec.
All gone, all false, all traitors!
The captain of the watch has been suborned—
Pandolfo's son talked with him yesterday:
They were sworn friends.
Rien.
O this is nightmare! Go,
Fetch me my standard—quick!
[Exit Secretary.
O blunderer! Heaven
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While our bold sins it winks at.
Re-enter Secretay, with Standard.
Give it me!
And now, seek your own safety. Hence, begone!
The postern to the Forum take, farewell!
Sec.
Alas! my lord—
[Shouting nearer.
Rien.
Away! (Exit Secretary.)
They bay me close.
All foes subdued but one, and that the worst—
The household foe whose hatred chills the sun,
And leaves the world mere ruin. I have let loose
The winds, to puff me back from Ithaca,
The land in view, or in the harbour wreck me.
Shouts without.
Long live the Roman People!
Death to the traitor who has taxed us! Death to the
tyrant!
Rien.
Have patience, friends, awhile—I am not yet
Dressed for my part. If die for you I must,
Let me die decently—my armour, so!
[Putting on his armour.
Cold hands denote hot thinking—I have spoke best
When most I trembled. Now, my helm and sword—
My gown of office. It may be my last
Appearance on life's stage. Great banner, thou
And I must stand or fall together.
Shouts.
Death to the traitor! Long live the Roman
People!
Rien.
Come!
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[Showing himself on the balcony.
Long live the Roman people! so say I,
With all my heart. Behold your standard-bearer,
Who—
Shouts.
Let him not speak! Death to the tyrant!
Death to the traitor!
Rien.
O Romans! friends! good friends!
[Great tumult. Stones are flung and arrows shot at Rienzi, who is wounded in the hand. He retires.
My thoughts sting worse than wounds. They will not hear me;
Like a strong swimmer in tempestuous waves,
I stifle in the surge. (He lays down the banner.)
I have rehearsed
Such scenes in thought; but to be hooted dumb!
It angers me my mouth is gagged with noise,
Which might have changed these yells of stupid hate
To acclamation. I'll rush forth upon them,
Armed as I am, and make my sword a scourge
To write my rage on them in words of blood.
[He casts off his robe, and draws his sword.
And die like a mad dog—the guilt upon me
Of useless bloodshed? Maybe cast away
Some last dear chance of life, for empty rage,
A murderer and self-slaughtered? Let me think.
[He lays aside his sword, and sits down.
Die? must I die? (He laughs.)
It feels as Death and I
Were players in some scene—the devil, Death,
And I, at dodge with him, the Prodigal.
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I bought one span of the world, I would kiss death;
But yield the mellowing fruitage of my brain
To blank abortion—timeless rottenness,
And leave in Rome mere chaos for my heir?
I dare not—pettiest creatures love their lives,
How should I cherish mine!
[Renewed tumult.
O God! is there no way to save myself,
And my unborn great progeny of deeds
From dreadful ending? I might pass disguised
Even through their midst, jest in the popular tongue,
And then, the Camp. I'll try it. Methinks I feel
Their chance-aimed daggers groping for my heart,
Fail I upon this hazard! O be bold!
Had I as many wounds as Cæsar had,
I die but once.
[Exit.
Scene V.
—Before the Capitol.—On one side a colossal lion, at the head of a descending staircase.—Cecco del Vecchio, and a crowd of Citizens and Soldiers, with a spar of timber used as a battering-ram.Cecco.
Now, all together! Heave!
[They batter the door, which resists.
Again! (Door still resists.)
Once more!
[Door still resists.
1st Soldier.
Your ram is too weak; bring fire, and
smoke him from his hole.
Voices.
Good, good! Bring fire! Bring torches!
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And some dry hay and wood, with tar for
a noble blaze.
[Exeunt several.
Cecco.
Give him another volley, in the name of the
Roman People. Let him dare to show his nose again.
Cits.
Deaths to the tyrant!
[They fling stones.
Enter Rienzi, disguised as a labourer, a bundle on his head.
Rien.
Up, comrades, by the secret stair! Up to the
tyrant; and then to plunder, to plunder!
[Exeunt Cecco and several Citizens.
2nd Sol.
(to Rien.).
What hast thou there?
[Pulls down the bundle.
1st Cit.
Lads, lads! This is himself! These are
his bracelets—see!
[Pulls off his disguise.
Rien.
I am Rienzi, friends—your will with me?
Cits.
To the lion with him! To the lion!
Others.
Ay, ay, to the place of execution! Let him
stand where he made many a poor fellow stand before!
[They drag him to the lion.
Rien.
Alas! poor souls, ye know not what ye do.
Stand back from me!
(They fall back.)
Let me but speak one word!
Cits.
No, not a word! One word, and thou diest!
[A long pause, during which Rienzi looks round upon the crowd, who menace him at each attempt to speak.
Re-enter Cecco and Citizens.
Cecco.
He is not there!
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He is here—look, man, where he stands!
Cecco
(having gazed awhile).
'Tis time we made an
end of this. Death to the tyrant!
[Draws dagger.
Rien.
What, Cecco, is it thou?
Cecco.
Not Cecco, tyrant, but the Roman People.
Rien.
Then here falls Rome, stabbed by the Roman People.
Cecco.
Death to the tyrant!
[Stabs him.
All.
Death to the tyrant!
[They close around, stabbing him. He falls and dies.
CURTAIN.
| The True Tragedy of Rienzi Tribune of Rome | |