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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“Signor,” said he, with a profound inclination of his head, but with a slight emphasis of tone, “you will not fail us this evening.”
“Tribune—” began the Colonna.
“We receive no excuse,” interrupted the Tribune, hastily, and passed on.
He halted for a few moments before a small group of men plainly attired, who were watching him with intense interest; for they, too, were scholars, and in Rienzi’s rise they saw another evidence of that wonderful and sudden power which intellect had begun to assume over brute force. With these, as if abruptly mingled with congenial spirits, the Tribune relaxed all the gravity of his brow. Happier, perhaps, his living career—more unequivocal his posthumous renown—had his objects as his tastes been theirs!
“Ah, carissime!” said he to one, whose arm he drew within his own,—“and how proceeds thy interpretation of the old marbles?—half unravelled? I rejoice to hear it! Confer with me as of old, I pray thee. Tomorrow—no, nor the day after, but next week—we will have a tranquil evening. Dear poet, your ode transported me to the days of Horace; yet, methinks, we do wrong to reject the vernacular for the Latin. You shake your head? Well, Petrarch thinks with you: his great epic moves with the stride of a giant—so I hear from his friend and envoy,—and here he is. My Laeluis, is that not your name with Petrarch? How shall I express my delight at his comforting, his inspiring letter? Alas! he overrates not my intentions, but my power. Of this hereafter.”
A slight shade darkened the Tribune’s brow at these words: but moving on, a long line of nobles and princes on either side, he regained his self-possession, and the dignity he had dropped with his former equals. Thus he passed through the crowd, and gradually disappeared.
“He bears him bravely,” said one, as the revellers reseated themselves. “Noticed you the ‘we’—the style royal?”
“But it must be owned that he lords it well,” said the ambassador of the Visconti: “less pride would be cringing to his haughty court.”
“Why,” said a professor of Bologna, “why is the Tribune called proud? I see no pride in him.”
“Nor I,” said a wealthy jeweller.
While these, and yet more contradictory, comments followed the exit of the Tribune, he passed into the saloon, where Nina presided; and here his fair person and silver tongue (“Suavis colorataeque sententiae,” according to the description of Petrarch) won him a more general favour with the matrons than he experienced with their lords, and not a little contrasted the formal and nervous compliments of the good Bishop, who served him on such occasions with an excellent foil.
But as soon as these ceremonies were done, and Rienzi mounted his horse, his manner changed at once into a stern and ominous severity.
“Vicar,” said he, abruptly, to the Bishop, “we might well need your presence. Learn that at the Capitol now sits the Council in judgment upon an assassin. Last night, but for Heaven’s mercy, I should have fallen a victim to a hireling’s dagger, Knew you aught of this?”
And he turned so sharply on the Bishop, that the poor canonist nearly dropped from his horse in surprise and terror.
“I,—” said he.
Rienzi smiled—“No, good my Lord Bishop! I see you are of no murtherer’s mould. But to continue:—that I might not appear to act in mine own cause, I ordered the prisoner to be tried in my absence. In his trial (you marked the letter brought me at our banquet?)—”
“Ay, and you changed colour.”
“Well I might: in his trial, I say, he has confessed that nine of the loftiest lords of Rome were his instigators. They sup with me tonight!—Vicar, forwards!”
BOOK V. THE CRISIS. “Questo ha acceso ‘i fuoco e la fiamma laquale non la par spotegnere.”—“Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. i. cap. 29. “He has kindled fire and flames which he will not be able to extinguish.”—“Life of Cola di Rienzi”.
Chapter 5.I. The Judgment of the Tribune.
The brief words of the Tribune to Stephen Colonna, though they sharpened the rage of the proud old noble, were such as he did not on reflection deem it prudent to disobey. Accordingly, at the appointed hour, he found himself in one of the halls of the Capitol, with a gallant party of his peers. Rienzi received them with more than his usual graciousness.
They sate down to the splendid board in secret uneasiness and alarm, as they saw that, with the exception of Stephen Colonna, none, save the conspirators, had been invited to the banquet. Rienzi, regardless of their silence and abstraction, was more than usually gay—the old Colonna more than usually sullen.
“We fear we have but ill pleased you, my Lord Colonna, by our summons. Once, methinks, we might more easily provoke you to a smile.”
“Situations are changed, Tribune, since you were my guest.”
“Why, scarcely so. I have risen, but you have not fallen. Ye walk the streets day and night in security and peace; your lives are safe from the robber, and your palaces no longer need bars and battlements to shield you from your fellow-citizens. I have risen, but we all have risen—from barbarous disorder into civilized life! My Lord Gianni Colonna, whom we have made Captain over Campagna, you will not refuse a cup to the Buono Stato;—nor think we mistrust your valour, when we say, that we rejoice Rome hath no enemies to attest your generalship.”
“Methinks,” quoth the old Colonna, bluntly, “we shall have enemies enough from Bohemia and Bavaria, ere the next harvest be green.”
“And, if so,” replied the Tribune, calmly, “foreign foes are better than civil strife.”
“Ay, if we have money in the treasury; which is but little likely, if we have many more such holydays.”
“You are ungracious, my Lord,” said the Tribune; “and, besides, you are more uncomplimentary to Rome than to ourselves. What citizen would not part with gold to buy fame and liberty?”
“I know
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