Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (distant reading .txt) 📖
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“And its revenues and its empire will become the appanage of the hardy soldier and the intriguing demagogue!” cried Montreal, with a laugh.
“Sir Knight, the division shall be equal.”
“Agreed!”
“And now, noble Montreal, a flask of our best vintage!” said Rienzi, changing his tone.
“You know the Provencals,” answered Montreal, gaily.
The wine was brought, the conversation became free and familiar, and Montreal, whose craft was acquired, and whose frankness was natural, unwittingly committed his secret projects and ambition more nakedly to Rienzi than he had designed to do. They parted apparently the best of friends.
“By the way,” said Rienzi, as they drained the last goblet. “Stephen Colonna betakes him to Corneto, with a convoy of corn, on the 19th. Will it not be as well if you join him? You can take that opportunity to whisper discontent to the mercenaries that accompany him on his mission, and induce them to our plan.”
“I thought of that before,” returned Montreal; “it shall be done. For the present, farewell!”
“‘His barb, and his sword, And his lady, the peerless, Are all that are prized By Orlando the fearless. “‘Success to the Norman, The darling of story; His glory is pleasure— His pleasure is glory.’”Chanting this rude ditty as he resumed his mantle, the Knight waved his hand to Rienzi, and departed.
Rienzi watched the receding form of his guest with an expression of hate and fear upon his countenance. “Give that man the power,” he muttered, “and he may be a second Totila. (Innocent VI., some years afterwards, proclaimed Montreal to be worse than Totila.) Methinks I see, in his griping and ferocious nature,—through all the gloss of its gaiety and knightly grace,—the very personification of our old Gothic foes. I trust I have lulled him! Verily, two suns could no more blaze in one hemisphere, than Walter de Montreal and Cola di Rienzi live in the same city. The star-seers tell us that we feel a secret and uncontrollable antipathy to those whose astral influences destine them to work us evil; such antipathy do I feel for yon fair-faced homicide. Cross not my path, Montreal!—cross not my path!”
With this soliloquy Rienzi turned within, and, retiring to his apartment, was seen no more that night.
Chapter 2.V. The Procession of the Barons.—The Beginning of the End.
It was the morning of the 19th of May, the air was brisk and clear, and the sun, which had just risen, shone cheerily upon the glittering casques and spears of a gallant procession of armed horsemen, sweeping through the long and principal street of Rome. The neighing of the horses, the ringing of the hoofs, the dazzle of the armour, and the tossing to and fro of the standards, adorned with the proud insignia of the Colonna, presented one of the gay and brilliant spectacles peculiar to the middle ages.
At the head of the troop, on a stout palfrey, rode Stephen Colonna. At his right was the Knight of Provence, curbing, with an easy hand, a slight, but fiery steed of the Arab race: behind him followed two squires, the one leading his war-horse, the other bearing his lance and helmet. At the left of Stephen Colonna rode Adrian, grave and silent, and replying only by monosyllables to the gay bavardage of the Knight of Provence. A considerable number of the flower of the Roman nobles followed the old Baron; and the train was closed by a serried troop of foreign horsemen, completely armed.
There was no crowd in the street,—the citizens looked with seeming apathy at the procession from their half-closed shops.
“Have these Romans no passion for shows?” asked Montreal; “if they could be more easily amused they would be more easily governed.”
“Oh, Rienzi, and such buffoons, amuse them. We do better,—we terrify!” replied Stephen.
“What sings the troubadour, Lord Adrian?” said Montreal.
“‘Smiles, false smiles, should form the school For those who rise, and those who rule: The brave they trick, and fair subdue, Kings deceive, the States undo. Smiles, false smiles! “‘Frowns, true frowns, ourselves betray, The brave arouse, the fair dismay, Sting the pride, which blood must heal, Mix the bowl, and point the steel. Frowns, true frowns!’“The lay is of France, Signor; yet methinks it brings its wisdom from Italy;—for the serpent smile is your countrymen’s proper distinction, and the frown ill becomes them.”
“Sir Knight,” replied Adrian, sharply, and incensed at the taunt, “you Foreigners have taught us how to frown:—a virtue sometimes.”
“But not wisdom, unless the hand could maintain what the brow menaced,” returned Montreal, with haughtiness; for he had much of the Franc vivacity which often overcame his prudence; and he had conceived a secret pique against Adrian since their interview at Stephen’s palace.
“Sir Knight,” answered Adrian, colouring, “our conversation may lead to warmer words than I would desire to have with one who has rendered me so gallant a service.”
“Nay, then, let us go back to the troubadours,” said Montreal, indifferently. “Forgive me if I do not think highly, in general, of Italian honour, or Italian valour; your valour I acknowledge, for I have witnessed it, and valour and honour go together,—let that suffice!”
As Adrian was about to answer, his eye fell suddenly on the burly form of Cecco del Vecchio, who was leaning his bare and brawny arms over his anvil, and gazing, with a smile, upon the group. There was something in that smile which turned the current of Adrian’s thoughts, and which he could not contemplate without an unaccountable misgiving.
“A strong villain, that,” said Montreal, also eyeing the smith. “I should like to enlist him. Fellow!” cried he, aloud, “you have an arm that were as fit to wield the sword as to fashion it. Desert your anvil, and follow the fortunes of Fra Moreale!”
The smith nodded his head. “Signor Cavalier,” said he, gravely, “we poor men have no passion for war; we want not to kill others—we desire only ourselves to live,—if you will let us!”
“By the Holy Mother, a slavish answer! But you Romans—”
“Are slaves!” interrupted the smith, turning away to the interior of his forge.
“The dog is mutinous!” said the old Colonna. And as the band swept on, the rude foreigners, encouraged by their leaders, had each some taunt or jest, uttered in a barbarous
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