Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон - Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes

But to return to the things and thoughts of earth. Those considerations, and those links of circumstance, which, in a similar situation have changed so many honest and courageous minds, changed also the mind of Adrian. He felt in a false position. His reason and conscience shared in the schemes of Rienzi, and his natural hardihood and love of enterprise would have led him actively to share the danger of their execution. But this, all his associations, his friendships, his private and household ties, loudly forbade. Against his order, against his house, against the companions of his youth, how could he plot secretly, or act sternly? By the goal to which he was impelled by patriotism, stood hypocrisy and ingratitude. Who would believe him the honest champion of his country who was a traitor to his friends? Thus, indeed,

And he who should have been by nature a leader of the time became only its spectator. Yet Adrian endeavoured to console himself for his present passiveness in a conviction of the policy of his conduct. He who takes no share in the commencement of civil revolutions, can often become, with the most effect, a mediator between the passions and the parties subsequently formed. Perhaps, under Adrian’s circumstances, delay was really the part of a prudent statesman; the very position which cripples at the first, often gives authority before the end. Clear from the excesses, and saved from the jealousies, of rival factions, all men are willing to look with complaisance and respect to a new actor in a turbulent drama; his moderation may make him trusted by the people; his rank enable him to be a fitting mediator with the nobles; and thus the qualities that would have rendered him a martyr at one period of the Revolution, raise him perhaps into a saviour at another.

Silent, therefore, and passive, Adrian waited the progress of events. If the projects of Rienzi failed, he might, by that in activity, the better preserve the people from new chains, and their champion from death. If those projects succeeded, he might equally save his house from the popular wrath—and, advocating liberty, check disorder. Such, at least, were his hopes; and thus did the Italian sagacity and caution of his character control and pacify the enthusiasm of youth and courage.

The sun shone, calm and cloudless, upon the vast concourse gathered before the broad space that surrounds the Church of St. John of Lateran. Partly by curiosity—partly by the desire of the Bishop of Orvietto—partly because it was an occasion in which they could display the pomp of their retinues—many of the principal Barons of Rome had gathered to this spot.

On one of the steps ascending to the church, with his mantle folded round him, stood Walter de Montreal, gazing on the various parties that, one after another, swept through the lane which the soldiers of the Church preserved unimpeded, in the middle of the crowd, for the access of the principal nobles. He watched with interest, though with his usual carelessness of air and roving glance, the different marks and looks of welcome given by the populace to the different personages of note. Banners and penons preceded each Signor, and, as they waved aloft, the witticisms or nicknames—the brief words of praise or censure, that imply so much—which passed to and fro among that lively crowd, were treasured carefully in his recollection.

“Make way, there!—way for my Lord Martino Orsini—Baron di Porto!”

“Peace, minion!—draw back! way for the Signor Adrian Colonna, Baron di Castello, and Knight of the Empire.”

And at those two rival shouts, you saw waving on high the golden bear of the Orsini, with the motto—“Beware my embrace!” and the solitary column on an azure ground, of the Colonna, with Adrian’s especial device—“Sad, but strong.” The train of Martino Orsini was much more numerous than that of Adrian, which last consisted but of ten servitors. But Adrian’s men attracted far greater admiration amongst the crowd, and pleased more the experienced eye of the warlike Knight of St. John. Their arms were polished like mirrors; their height was to an inch the same; their march was regular and sedate; their mien erect; they looked neither to the right nor left; they betrayed that ineffable discipline—that harmony of order—which Adrian had learned to impart to his men during his own apprenticeship of arms. But the disorderly train of the Lord of Porto was composed of men of all heights. Their arms were ill-polished and ill-fashioned, and they pressed confusedly on each other; they laughed and spoke aloud; and in their mien and bearing expressed all the insolence of men who despised alike the master they served and the people they awed. The two bands coming unexpectedly on each other through this narrow defile, the jealousy of the two houses presently declared itself. Each pressed forward for the precedence; and, as the quiet regularity of Adrian’s train, and even its compact paucity of numbers, enabled it to pass before the servitors of his rival, the populace set up a loud shout—“A Colonna for ever!”—“Let the Bear dance after the Column!”

“On, ye knaves!” said Orsini aloud to his men. “How have ye suffered this affront?” And passing himself to the head of his men, he would have advanced through the midst of his rival’s train, had not a tall guard, in the Pope’s livery, placed his baton in the way.

“Pardon, my Lord! we have the Vicar’s express commands to suffer no struggling of the different trains one with another.”

“Knave! dost thou bandy words with me?” said the fierce Orsini; and with his sword he clove the baton in two.

“In the Vicar’s name, I command you to fall back!” said the sturdy guard, now placing his huge bulk in the very front of the noble’s path.

“It is Cecco del Vecchio!” cried those of the populace, who were near enough to perceive the interruption and its cause.

“Ay,” said one, “the good Vicar has put many of the stoutest fellows in the Pope’s livery, in order the better to keep peace. He could have chosen none better than Cecco.”

“But he must not fall!” cried another, as Orsini, glaring on the smith, drew back his sword as if to plunge it through his bosom.

“Shame—shame! shall the Pope be thus insulted in his own city?” cried several voices. “Down with the sacrilegious—down!” And, as if by a preconcerted plan, a whole body of the mob broke at once through the lane, and swept like a torrent over Orsini and his jostled and ill-assorted train. Orsini himself was thrown on the ground with violence, and trampled upon by a hundred footsteps; his men, huddled and struggling as much against themselves as against the mob, were scattered and overset; and when, by a great effort of the guards, headed by the smith himself, order was again restored, and the line reformed, Orsini, well nigh choked with his rage and humiliation, and greatly bruised by the rude assaults he had received, could scarcely stir from the ground. The officers of the Pope raised him, and, when he was on his legs, he looked wildly around for his sword, which, falling from his hand, had been kicked amongst the crowd, and seeing it not, he said, between his ground teeth, to Cecco del Vecchio—

“Fellow, thy neck shall answer this outrage, or may God desert me!” and passed along through the space; while a half-suppressed and exultant hoot from the bystanders followed his path.

“Way there!” cried the smith, “for the Lord Martino di Porto, and may all the people know that he has threatened to take my life for the discharge of my duty in obedience to the Pope’s Vicar!”

“He dare not!” shouted out a thousand voices; “the people can protect their own!”