Chapter 1.IX. "When the People Saw this Picture, Every One Marvelled."
Before the market-place, and at the foot of the Capitol, an immense crowd
was assembled. Each man sought to push before his neighbour; each
struggled to gain access to one particular spot, round which the crowd was
wedged think and dense.
"Corpo di Dio!" said a man of huge stature, pressing onward, like some
bulky ship, casting the noisy waves right and left from its prow, "this is
hot work; but for what, in the holy Mother's name, do ye crowd so? See you
not, Sir Ribald, that my right arm is disabled, swathed, and bandaged, so
that I cannot help myself better than a baby? And yet you push against me
as if I were an old wall!"
"Ah, Cecco del Vecchio! - what, man! we must make way for you - you are too
small and tender to bustle through a crowd! Come, I will protect you!"
said a dwarf of some four feet high, glancing up at the giant.
"Faith," said the grim smith, looking round on the mob, who laughed loud at
the dwarf's proffer, "we all do want protection, big and small. What do
you laugh for, ye apes? - ay, you don't understand parables."
"And yet it is a parable we are come to gaze upon," said one of the mob,
with a slight sneer.
"Pleasant day to you, Signor Baroncelli," answered Cecco del Vecchio; "you
are a good man, and love the people; it makes one's heart smile to see you.
What's all this pother for?"
"Why the Pope's Notary hath set up a great picture in the marketplace, and
the gapers say it relates to Rome; so they are melting their brains out,
this hot day, to guess at the riddle."
"Ho! ho!" said the smith, pushing on so vigorously that he left the speaker
suddenly in the rear; "if Cola di Rienzi hath aught in the matter, I would
break through stone rocks to get to it."
"Much good will a dead daub do us," said Baroncelli, sourly, and turning to
his neighbours; but no man listened to him, and he, a would-be demagogue,
gnawed his lip in envy.
Amidst half-awed groans and curses from the men whom he jostled aside, and
open objurgations and shrill cries from the women, to whose robes and
headgear he showed as little respect, the sturdy smith won his way to a
space fenced round by chains, in the centre of which was placed a huge
picture.
"How came it hither?" cried one; "I was first at the market."
"We found it here at daybreak," said a vender of fruit: "no one was by."
"But why do you fancy Rienzi had a hand in it?"
"Why, who else could?" answered twenty voices.
"True! Who else?" echoed the gaunt smith. "I dare be sworn the good man
spent the whole night in painting it himself. Blood of St. Peter! but it
is mighty fine! What is it about?"
"That's the riddle," said a meditative fish-woman; "if I could make it out,
I should die happy."
"It is something about liberty and taxes, no doubt," said Luigi, the
butcher, leaning over the chains. "Ah, if Rienzi were minded, every poor
man would have his bit of meat in his pot."
"And as much bread as he could eat," added a pale baker.
"Chut! bread and meat - everybody has that now! - but what wine the poor
folks drink! One has no encouragement to take pains with one's vineyard,"
said a vine-dresser.
"Ho, hollo! - long life to Pandulfo di Guido! Make way for master
Pandulfo; he is a learned man; he is a friend of the great Notary's; he
will tell us all about the picture; make way, there - make way!"
Slowly and modestly, Pandulfo di Guido, a quiet, wealthy, and honest man of
letters, whom nought save the violence of the times could have roused from
his tranquil home, or his studious closet, passed to the chains. He looked
long and hard at the picture, which was bright with new, and yet moist
colours, and exhibited somewhat of the reviving art, which, though hard and
harsh in its features, was about that time visible, and, carried to a far
higher degree, we yet gaze upon in the paintings of Perugino, who
flourished during the succeeding generation. The people pressed round the
learned man, with open mouths; now turning their eyes to the picture, now
to Pandulfo.
"Know you not," at length said Pandulfo, "the easy and palpable meaning of
this design? Behold how the painter has presented to you a vast and stormy
sea - mark how its waves - "
"Speak louder - louder!" shouted the impatient crowd.
"Hush!" cried those in the immediate vicinity of Pandulfo, "the worthy
Signor is perfectly audible!"
Meanwhile, some of the more witty, pushing towards a stall in the
marketplace, bore from it a rough table, from which they besought Pandulfo
to address the people. The pale citizen, with some pain and shame, for he
was no practised spokesman, was obliged to assent; but when he cast his
eyes over the vast and breathless crowd, his own deep sympathy with their
cause inspired and emboldened him. A light broke from his eyes; his voice
swelled into power; and his head, usually buried in his breast, became
erect and commanding in its air.
"You see before you in the picture" (he began again) "a mighty and
tempestuous sea: upon its waves you behold five ships; four of them are
already wrecks, - their masts are broken, the waves are dashing through the
rent planks, they are past all aid and hope: on each of these ships lies
the corpse of a woman. See you not, in the wan face and livid limbs, how
faithfully the limner hath painted the hues and loathsomeness of death?
Below each of these ships is a word that applies the metaphor to truth.
Yonder, you see the name of Carthage; the other three are Troy, Jerusalem,
and Babylon. To these four is one common inscription. 'To exhaustion were
we brought by injustice!' Turn now your eyes to the middle of the sea, -
there you behold the fifth ship, tossed amidst the waves, her mast broken,
her rudder gone, her sails shivered, but not yet a wreck like the rest,
though she soon may be. On her deck kneels a female, clothed in mourning;
mark the wo upon her countenance, - how cunningly the artist has conveyed
its depth and desolation; she stretches out her arms in prayer, she
implores your and Heaven's assistance. Mark now the superscription - 'This
is Rome!' - Yes, it is your country that addresses you in this emblem!"
The crowd waved to and fro, and a deep murmur crept gathering over the
silence which they had hitherto kept.
"Now," continued Pandulfo, "turn your gaze to the right of the picture, and
you will behold the cause of the tempest, - you will see why the fifth
vessel is thus perilled, and her sisters are thus wrecked. Mark, four
different kinds of animals, who, from their horrid jaws, send forth the
winds and storms which torture and rack the sea. The first are the lions,
the wolves, the bears. These, the inscription tells you, are the lawless
and savage signors of the state. The next are the dogs and swine, - these
are the evil counsellors and parasites. Thirdly, you behold the dragons
and the foxes, - and these are false judges and notaries, and they who sell
justice. Fourthly, in the hares, the goats, the apes, that assist in
creating the storm, you perceive, by the inscription, the emblems of the
popular thieves and homicides, ravishers and spoliators. Are ye bewildered
still, O Romans! or have ye mastered the riddle of the picture?"
Far in their massive palaces the Savelli and Orsini heard the echo of the
shouts that answered the question of Pandulfo.
"Are ye, then, without hope!" resumed the scholar, as the shout ceased, and
hushing, with the first sound of his voice, the ejaculations and speeches
which each man had turned to utter to his neighbour. "Are ye without hope?
Doth the picture, which shows your tribulation, promise you no redemption?
Behold, above that angry sea, the heavens open, and the majesty of God
descends gloriously, as to judgment: and, from the rays that surround the
Spirit of God extend two flaming swords, and on those swords stand, in
wrath, but in deliverance, the two patron saints - the two mighty guardians
of your city! People of Rome, farewell! The parable is finished." (M.
Sismondi attributes to Rienzi a fine oration at the showing of the picture,
in which he thundered against the vices of the patricians. The
contemporary biographer of Rienzi says nothing of this harangue. But,
apparently (since history has its liberties as well as fiction), M.
Sismondi has thought it convenient to confound two occasions very distinct
in themselves.
