Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (distant reading .txt) 📖

An awe crept over Nina, though not unaccustomed to such strange and preternatural emotions, which appeared yet the more singular in one who in common life was so calm, stately, and self-possessed. But with every increase of prosperity and power, those emotions seemed to increase in their fervour, as if in such increase the devout and overwrought superstition of the Tribune recognised additional proof of a mysterious guardianship mightier than the valour or art of man.

She approached fearfully, and threw her arms around him, but without speaking.

Ere yet the Tribune had well recovered himself, a slight tap at the door was heard, and the sound seemed at once to recall his self-possession.

“Enter,” he said, lifting his face, to which the wonted colour slowly returned.

An officer, half-opening the door, announced that the person he had sent for waited his leisure.

“I come!—Core of my heart,” (he whispered to Nina,) “we will sup alone tonight, and will converse more on these matters:” so saying, with somewhat less than his usual loftiness of mien, he left the room, and sought his cabinet, which lay at the other side of the reception chamber. Here he found Cecco del Vecchio.

“How, my bold fellow,” said the Tribune, assuming with wonderful ease that air of friendly equality which he always adopted with those of the lower class, and which made a striking contrast with the majesty, no less natural, which marked his manner to the great. “How now, my Cecco! Thou bearest thyself bravely, I see, during these sickly heats; we labourers—for both of us labour, Cecco—are too busy to fall ill as the idle do, in the summer, or the autumn, of Roman skies. I sent for thee, Cecco, because I would know how thy fellow-craftsmen are like to take the Orsini’s execution.”

“Oh! Tribune,” replied the artificer, who, now familiarized with Rienzi, had lost much of his earlier awe of him, and who regarded the Tribune’s power as partly his own creation; “they are already out of their honest wits, at your courage in punishing the great men as you would the small.”

“So;—I am repaid! But hark you, Cecco, it will bring, perhaps, hot work upon us. Every Baron will dread lest it be his turn next, and dread will make them bold, like rats in despair. We may have to fight for the Good Estate.”

“With all my heart, Tribune,” answered Cecco, gruffly. “I, for one, am no craven.”

“Then keep the same spirit in all your meetings with the artificers. I fight for the people. The people at a pinch must fight with me.”

“They will,” replied Cecco; “they will!”

“Cecco, this city is under the spiritual dominion of the Pontiff—so be it—it is an honour, not a burthen. But the temporal dominion, my friend, should be with Romans only. Is it not a disgrace to Republican Rome, that while we now speak, certain barbarians, whom we never heard of, should be deciding beyond the Alps on the merits of two sovereigns, whom we never saw? Is not this a thing to be resisted? An Italian city,—what hath it to do with a Bohemian Emperor?”

“Little eno’, St. Paul knows!” said Cecco.

“Should it not be a claim questioned?”

“I think so!” replied the smith.

“And if found an outrage on our ancient laws, should it not be a claim resisted?”

“Not a doubt of it.”

“Well, go to! The archives assure me that never was Emperor lawfully crowned but by the free votes of the people. We never chose Bohemian or Bavarian.”

“But, on the contrary, whenever these Northmen come hither to be crowned, we try to drive them away with stones and curses,—for we are a people, Tribune, that love our liberties.”

“Go back to your friends—see—address them, say that your Tribune will demand of these pretenders to Rome the right to her throne. Let them not be mazed or startled, but support me when the occasion comes.”

“I am glad of this,” quoth the huge smith; “for our friends have grown a little unruly of late, and say—”

“What do they say?”

“That it is true you have expelled the banditti, and curb the Barons, and administer justice fairly;—”

“Is not that miracle enough for the space of some two or three short months?”

“Why, they say it would have been more than enough in a noble; but you, being raised from the people, and having such gifts and so forth, might do yet more. It is now three weeks since they have had any new thing to talk about; but Orsini’s execution today will cheer them a bit.”

“Well, Cecco, well,” said the Tribune, rising, “they shall have more anon to feed their mouths with. So you think they love me not quite so well as they did some three weeks back?”

“I say not so,” answered Cecco. “But we Romans are an impatient people.”

“Alas, yes!”

“However, they will no doubt stick close enough to you; provided, Tribune, you don’t put any new tax upon them.”

“Ha! But if, in order to be free, it be necessary to fight—if to fight, it be necessary to have soldiers, why then the soldiers must be paid:—won’t the people contribute something to their own liberties;—to just laws, and safe lives?”

“I don’t know,” returned the smith, scratching his head as if a little puzzled; “but I know that poor men won’t be overtaxed. They say they are better off with you than with the Barons before, and therefore they love you. But men in business, Tribune, poor men with families, must look to their bellies. Only one man in ten goes to law—only one man in twenty is butchered by a Baron’s brigand; but every man eats, and drinks, and feels a tax.”

“This cannot be your reasoning, Cecco!” said Rienzi, gravely.

“Why, Tribune, I am an honest man, but I have a large family to rear.”

“Enough; enough!” said the Tribune quickly; and then he added abstractedly as to himself, but aloud,—“Methinks we have been too lavish; these shows and spectacles should cease.”

“What!” cried Cecco; “what, Tribune!—would you deny the poor fellows a holiday. They work hard enough, and their only pleasure is seeing your fine shows and processions; and then they go home and say,—‘See, our man beats all the Barons! what state he keeps!’”

“Ah! they blame not my splendour, then!”

“Blame it; no! Without it they would be ashamed of you, and think the Buono Stato but a shabby concern.”

“You speak bluntly, Cecco, but perhaps wisely. The saints keep you! Fail not to remember what I told you!”