University of Virginia Library

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
To find myself Rienzi, and in Rome.
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
Whips us, like schoolboys, for the slips we make,
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!
For that's our cue.
[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.
If with my blood from the brute powers of ill
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.