 | The True Tragedy of Rienzi Tribune of Rome |  |
ACT I.
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.
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.
Scene III.
—A Room in Rienzi's House.Enter Rienzi.
Rien.
Crescentius ruled in Rome three months; they say
This was his house—the Emperor murdered him.
And Arnold ruled ten years—the Emperor
And Pope, in bloody compact, murdered him.
And now I come—
Enter Francesca.
Cecca! What wouldst thou?
Fran.
Nothing—
Let me but—
Rien.
I am busy.
Always busy!
Alas! thou knowest no rest. Thy very bed,
When not left cold, is but a market-place
Where thou art baited with uneasy thoughts.
Rien.
Am I lean? Am I pale? I am hale and hearty.
Fran.
Thy life is squandered all on public things,
Cheating thy flesh and blood. Rome is thy wife,
Its rabble more thy children than thine own.
Rien.
What wouldst thou have of me? What ails my children?
Do they lack bread? There's money for thee—go!
Fran.
Speak not so furiously.
Rien.
O woman, woman!
Stay, let me look at thee. Nay, my poor girl,
'Tis thou art pale. Where are those flashing eyes
That made thy face the splendidest in Rome?
Fran.
Tears are poor beauty-washes.
Rien.
Tears? why tears?
Fran.
O Cola, thou wilt break my heart with fear!
Where will this end? Where can these hidden ways
Lead, but to ruin? Thou hast hid thy soul
From me, thy wife, and yet I know too well
Ye purpose something fearful.
Rien.
Heaven forefend!
Dry up these foolish tears. Be beautiful—
Bloom like a cherished rose. I need thy beauty,
As serpents need the sun when they come forth
From winter caves to taste the air of spring.
Go, buy thyself a gown—let it be rich—
I'll throne thee high; the proudest dames in Rome
Shall wait on thee; princes shall bear thy train.
Fran.
These would be dreadful honours.
Rien.
Dreadful? Pooh!
But some one seeks me. Go! be sure to keep
Thy blithest cheer.
[Exit Francesca.
Enter Servant.
What now?
Servant.
Signor Pandolfo
Di Guido waits for you.
Rien.
Admit him straight.
Enter Pandolfo.
[Exit Servant.
Now, my best friend, what news?
Pan.
All's happily sped.
A hundred of the best in Rome are sworn
To meet us on the Aventine to-night,
Worth each a hundred names—all solid men.
Rien.
Bravissimo! I too have done some work
Since last we met. The Vicar's ours.
Pand.
This crowns us.
Rien.
But I have stumbled on a snake to-day.
Pand.
A snake?
Rein.
Fra Moreale's here in Rome.
Pand.
Fra Moreale!
Rien.
Sought me out but now,
Proffering his sword unto the Good Estate.
Pand.
And what said you?
What should Rienzi say?
That the good swords which guard the Good Estate
Should flash on robbers' necks, not in their hands.
Pand.
That were scarce politic.
Rien.
So spoke my heart;
But not my lips. No, I have made a pact
With that most brave and noble Cavalier,
Gualtier de Montréal, Knight of St. John,
To furnish me some stout five thousand spears
By this day fortnight.
Pand.
How?
Rien.
The cost's a mite—
Half a year's revenue. Like you my bargain?
Pand.
Faith, not at all. You play a perilous game.
Rien.
Danger's man's native air—the alert, bold mind
Must tame at birth each moment's dragon brood
To plough life's prosperous furrows. Mind rules all,
When, grappling change with nimbleness, it grasps
The old Proteus Circumstance. Look you, I've played
This cunning fencer with a simple feint,
And he disarms himself, whose treacherous thrust
Had been most deadly.
Pand.
But, a fortnight hence?
Rien.
But three days hence, and this hot brain is cold,
Or Rome is free, and may defy the world.
Pand.
Three days! That's brief.
Rien.
At Pentecost, my trump
The Spirit of God makes every nerve of me
Stuff of the elements—a bodiless power
I ride the air, whose fiery steeds I'd spur
To the tempest's pace. But no more words—each hour
'Twixt this and Pentecost must glow red-hot
With action. Come; upon the Aventine
We must keep punctual tryst.
[Exeunt.
Scene IV.
—Before the Portico of Octavia, as in Scene I.Enter Rambault.
Ramb.
Now morning breaks o'er Rome. There Pentecost
With golden fire floods all the orient sky,
In its full-throbbing life so beautiful
It might renew these ruins.
Enter Montréal.
Welcome! What news from fair Perugia?
Mont.
My squadron will keep contract to an hour.
Ramb.
So you will win your trick?
Mont.
My hand is strong.
[Rienzi's trumpet heard.
Whose clarion's that? It hath an eerie sound.
All's quiet here?
Ramb.
As ocean, in the pause
'Twixt storm and storm.
Rienzi promised so.
[Trumpet again, nearer.
I know the Barons' brass; but this grave note
Rings clear and silvery.
Ramb.
'Tis a silver trump,
And yon strange herald blows it—he draws nigh.
Mont.
He durst not, in mere prudence, play me false.
Ramb.
Rienzi?
Mont.
Ay; but these Italian brains
Are subtler than the snake that tempted Eve.
I'll bide in Rome, and watch this fortnight by,
While he matures his rising.
Enter a handsome Youth, richly attired as a Herald, and carrying a silver trumpet. He ascends the steps of Sant' Angelo in Peschiera, and blows a third blast. A concourse of Citizens begins to assemble.
What means this?
Ramb.
One of Rienzi's fantasies.
Mont.
Yes, yes—
He was too frank, perhaps. He has an eye
That baffles question with its changing light.
Enter Gianni Rosso, Cecco del Vecchio, and Cits.
Ha! my old friend, what may this gaudy trumpeter
betoken?
Gianni R.
Save you, sir! Rienzi's in that church.
All night long he has heard thirty masses of the Holy
Ghost for his soul's comfort.
Is it his wont, then, to sound a trumpet
when he prays, like the Pharisees?
Gianni R.
O sir, Rienzi is a public man—writes
with a silver pen, for the dignity of his office, and
blows a silver trumpet—as, between ourselves, he would
balance a lemon on his nose in open market—to attract
a crowd. His present purpose none knows. I am as
deep in his counsels as any, and yet I know not.
[Trumpeter blows a flourish.
Mont.
What now? The doors open.
Enter from the church, Rienzi, armed—his helmet borne by a Page. He is accompanied by the Bishop of Orvieto, Pandolfo di Guido, and a hundred armed conspirators. Three banners are borne behind him: the first of Liberty—red, with the figure of Rome, seated between two lions, holding the globe in her left hand, and the palm of victory in her right; the second of Justice—white, with the figure of St. Paul, holding the sword; the third of Peace —green, with the figure of St. Peter, holding the keys of concord and peace.
Cits.
Long live Rienzi, and the Good Estate!
Mont.
What means this mummery?
Ramb.
Something out of sight.
Rien.
Romans! Dear friends! ye have kept tryst with me;
I will keep faith with you. Lift up your heads,
And shout; for ye are free! Rome, Rome is free!
Is this mere charlatanry?
Ramb.
Wait, he speaks.
Rien.
Here is plain truth for you. Ye know the Barons
Are foraging abroad, like hungry rats,
To pillage corn. Well, we have stopped their holes,
My friends and I—their castles stand at siege;
The city gates are barred; and Rome is ours,
Is yours, her own, to hold against the world.
Cits.
O great Rienzi! Evviva! Evviva!
Mont.
Oho! Tricked, Rambault, tricked! This man of books,
This tongue, this lawyer's clerk! Tricked!
Ramb.
Peace, good brother!
[The great bell of the Capitol tolls.
Cits.
What says La Paterina?
Rien.
Hark to that iron tongue! It tolls the death
Of hoary tyranny and ancient wrong.
Our friends are in the Capitol.
Cits.
Evviva!
Mont.
I'll drive my sword thro' his heart!
Ramb.
O frantic thought!
This is a man.
Mont.
The Devil, rather! Away!
[Exeunt Mont. and Ramb.
Rien.
That bell, whose soul hath slept in sullen rust
Thro' Freedom's trance, now wakens to proclaim
Her victory. Henceforth its ominous clang
Shall, like the voice of Rome's own conscience, warn
Of danger and of doom. And now I fling
To bear me where it will—content and proud
If I have earned your grace in what I do.
Cits.
Long live the great Rienzi! the good Rienzi!
Rien.
Have I your voice, to be your sentinel
To guard the Good Estate, as I have been
Its herald? May I live your proxy still?
Cits.
Long live Rienzi, the People's friend!
Rien.
God be my surety, then! His Holiness
Confirms my acts, and, doubling your great trust,
Sends me his blessing by his Vicar here.
[Kneels, and receives Bishop of Orvieto's blessing.
Bp. of O.
The Church's blessing swell the prosperous sail
Of all thy good intents, and waft thee safe.
Cits.
Viva! Evviva!
Pand.
Rienzi, thou hast freed our flock from wolves,
Be thou our shepherd, lead us now to graze
In greener pastures than we knew before.
Cits.
Bravo! bravo!
Pand.
Our liberator, be our governor,
The sceptre and the sword of new-born Rome.
Cits.
Bravo! bravo! Rienzi shall be Emperor—
the people's Emperor.
Cecco.
Nay, we'll have no more Emperors!
Voices.
No, no more Emperors!
Rien.
If ye demand an Emperor, seek elsewhere.
Degrade not me so far. But if ye seek
A sleepless watch-dog for your city's guard,
To plot your happiness and lasting peace,
Make me your Tribune.
Cecco.
Tribune, ay tribune! Long live Rienzi,
Tribune of Rome!
Cits.
Long live Rienzi, Tribune of Rome!
Rien.
That is a title I am proud to wear
Like laurel round my brow. Tribune of Rome!
It throbs thro' all my pulses with a sound,
Stern and majestic, as of Rome's best day,
When men of iron and of adamant
Were pillars of her right. But, with your leave,
I'll crave your suffrages that I may share
With this good priest, the Vicar of the Pope,
The anxious glory of so great a trust.
Do you consent, my lord?
Bp. of O.
With all my heart,
So that my hand may heal the wounds of Rome.
Rien.
And now, come with us to the Capitol,
Where we may choose a Council of the State,
From rich and poor, to ratify our powers
For Rome's defence, security, and peace.
On, to the Capitol!
[A March. Exeunt.
| The True Tragedy of Rienzi Tribune of Rome | |