A CORSICAN CHANT.
If one could rise in the air like a bird and look down upon the island
of Corsica, he might think that he saw before him the petrified skeleton
of some great marine monster. From north to south, through the centre of
the island, runs a ridge of mountains resembling a spinal column, while
upon either side of this central ridge branch a number of shorter
parallel ridges bearing a close resemblance to the ribs of such an
animal. In each of these valleys, near the central ridge, are the
sources of small rivers which run east or west, as the case may be, into
the Mediterranean Sea. The banks are composed of alluvial soil, and, for
that reason, near the sea the rivers widen out, covering large areas of
land which become marshes, full, at certain seasons of the year, of
pestilential vapours, the cause of disease and death among the
inhabitants. The sides of the mountains and the borders of the adjacent
ravines are covered by dense masses of shrubbery and groves or forests
of trees. In Australia, the outlaw, fleeing from justice, takes refuge
in “the bush,” from which circumstance he has derived the characteristic
name of “bushranger.” On the other hand, the Corsican outlaws or
banditti take refuge, when pursued by the officers of the law, in the
_maquis_, which, in the Corsican vernacular, has the same meaning as the
Australian “bush.”
In one of the deepest of the ravines on the western side of the central
ridge of mountains which traverses the island of Corsica, a band of some
twenty men was assembled. They were nondescript in appearance, each
being dressed after a fashion of his own, although there was one point
of resemblance between them, for each was armed with a rifle, had a pair
of pistols in his belt, and a closer examination would have revealed a
stiletto hidden away beneath the folds of his shirt or jacket. They were
what they appeared to be--Corsican banditti or, in other words,
outlaws--men wanted by the police--chiefly for murder.
And yet they were different from the usual banditti which infest
Corsica, as a closer acquaintance with their leader will soon determine.
He was a man of gigantic stature and the possessor of great physical
strength. He was seated apart from the members of his band in company
with his lieutenant, a man much smaller in size, but muscular and agile,
as a natural result of a continual outdoor life.
The leader was called Cromillian. No one of his band supposed that this
was his real name, but he offered no explanation and none was asked. He
had suddenly appeared in Corsica, gathered a band of trusted followers,
and for a year had carried on a peculiar system of brigandage. As the
plan followed by him supplied his adherents with the means of
subsistence, they ventured no criticism of his peculiar manner of doing
business, although they often wondered among themselves as to what the
final outcome of it would be.
The lieutenant’s name was Paoli, and, although next in command to
Cromillian, he had no clearer idea of his leader’s ultimate object than
had the other members of the band. The wild, roving life suited him and
he was content to remain where he was, for he had long ago forfeited his
rights as a law-abiding citizen and was a marked man in the eyes of the
emissaries of the law.
It is a natural characteristic of some people, when they have nothing
else to do, to think of the present or to look forward to the future;
but a Corsican, when he has time for contemplation, always reverts to
the past. When he recalls it, he does not dwell upon its pleasant
features, but, if possible, fastens his thoughts upon some real or
imaginary wrong which he fancies his ancestors or his friends have
suffered.
An American Indian, when contemplating an attack upon his enemies,
precedes active hostilities by singing a war song, and the Corsican
unconsciously resembles him by singing, or rather chanting, a recital of
past wrongs or injuries, followed by a unique vocal declaration of his
intention to secure reparation or execute vengeance for such acts.
The Corsicans are strong partisans. They not only take part in the feuds
with which their own families are connected, but embrace the causes of
other families to which they are not related, but to which, for some
reason or other, they become attached.
Paoli sat upon a log, his hands tightly clasped together, gazing up at
the sky through a rift in the branches of the trees. There was a wild
look in his eye, such as might be seen in those of some religious
devotee. Suddenly, as though under the influence of some magic power or
spell, he found voice. The words of his chant, or _vocero_, as it is
called by the Corsicans, certainly boded no good fortune to a person
named Vandemar, who was referred to therein:
“Place on the wall before my bed my cross of honour well gained. To my
sons, my sons in a far country, convey my cross and bloody vest. He, my
first-born, will see the rents--for each rent, a rent in another shirt,
a wound in another’s heart! Vengeance! The hour of vengeance is nigh!
Make ready his bed in the valley of skulls. He comes, the last of his
race, but he comes to his couch with a stain on his shroud, only to die.
The vendetta, the spirit of vendetta is awake; it has slept too long.
Blood for blood! The noble house of Batistelli no longer shall bear the
dread reproach of _rimbeccare_. The stain shall now be washed away in
blood. Vandemar Della Coscia must die!”
Cromillian’s attention had been attracted by the first words of the
chant and he listened intently to the _improvisatore_. When Paoli
ceased, he turned and approached him:
“Thy heart rebukes thee whilst thou singest. There are whispers of other
orgies than those thou hast sung. I, too, can improvise. Now listen,
Paoli, and remember that I never chant the ancient gabble of old women
and silly girls. I will make my own songs and, better still, I will make
them come true, every word true. Listen, and be sure that you do not
forget.
“The noble young Vandemar returns, returns to his native mountains, to
the home of his childhood, to the friends who have waited so long to
embrace him. But no sooner do his feet touch the shores, the green banks
of his early home, than the hungry vultures are on his track eager to
drink the red blood in his veins. But the eagle will turn to defend his
life. He will not die. The death song will resound for his enemies, the
vengeful tribe of the Batistellis. Even this clown, this fool Paoli,
will change the tone of his song, ere long! Ere long!!”
Paoli took his chief’s words pleasantly. “Hold on!” he cried. “Don’t you
know that they have an adage among the French: ‘Never hit a man when he
is down’?” As he said this, he arose:
“I am, as you well know, a descendant of the great Paoli, at whose name
all Corsica thrilled, a just man, and the most distinguished general in
the world.”
“It is a great pity,” said Cromillian, sarcastically, “that he is not
living, and here to give advice to his kinsman. I know not whether it is
an adage, but it is a well-known fact that the sons and grandsons of
great men seldom resemble them.”
“Your wits are too much for me,” said Paoli, “but please have the grace
to hear me out. It was a maxim of my illustrious ancestor that every
citizen should constitute himself a soldier and defend his rights by
force of arms. Not to avenge wrongs committed against one’s own blood or
that of his friends, has always been deemed by the Corsicans to denote a
coward. I am a true son of Corsica and, for that, you call me a clown, a
fool. If you and I were not sworn friends, there might be cause for a
coolness between us. Heed this now, and say whether I was right or
wrong.
“My dearest friend, Antonio Marcelli, had a beautiful sister, Vinetta. A
man from Bastia, named Ossa d’Oria, came to Ajaccio. He was young and
handsome, and reputed to be a single man. Young Vinetta was misled by
him and, to conceal her shame, committed suicide. I wrote to Antonio,
but he was down sick with a fever and unable to return to Corsica. I
made my friend’s cause my own and went to Bastia. I found that I was to
be deprived of a sweet revenge, for the scoundrel had been drowned while
bathing. His father was dead and he had no brothers or near relatives.
But he had a wife. What was I to do?”
“That was embarrassing,” Cromillian remarked. “What did you do?”
“This was one of the cases,” answered Paoli, “where the flint of your
gun must serve you. I put a ball through the head of the wife. That is
what I call good old Corsican justice. Then I took to the mountains, and
here I am, a jolly bandit like yourself.”
Cromillian turned upon him, savagely: “You call that justice? I call it
murder! Cold-blooded murder!! This savage custom of vengeance executed
upon relatives for wrongs committed by an ancestor, the lives of sons
sacrificed for fancied wrongs alleged against fathers, has been the
curse and blight of Corsica for the last five hundred years. The
vendetta, that hydra-headed monster, strikes its fangs deep into the
heart of every Corsican child before it is able to lisp its own name.
Mothers lull their babies to sleep crooning the death song, nurses
inflame their young imaginations with frightful stories of blood,
revenge, and death. It has grown with their growth, strengthened with
their strength, until to-day we stand before the world distinguished
only as being the most savage, the most barbarous people upon the face
of this fair earth.”
“Do they say that of us?” asked Paoli.
“Listen!” said Cromillian, “I read in an old newspaper when I was in
France that if the island of Corsica could vomit forth all the blood
which has been poured out upon its soil, in the course of time, in the
vendetta and on the field of battle, it would overwhelm its cities and
villages, drown its people, and crimson the sea from its shores to
Genoa. Six hundred and sixty-six thousand slain by the hand of the
assassin alone! Dost like the picture?”
“Well,” said Paoli, “what are we going to do about it? We take up life
where our fathers left it.”
“There is going to be a change, a reformation!” cried Cromillian. “I,
with my single arm, with the help of God, will commence the work. There
will, necessarily, be much bloodshed at first--there always has been in
every case where great evils were to be overcome. My life will be
sacrificed, but it will be in a good and merciful cause, and when I
shall have done my work, some other man will take it up just where I
leave it, and so it will go on until your children’s children and mine
may be able to look a civilised man in the face.”
“Are you in earnest?” asked Paoli. “Do you mean it?”
“Mean it!” cried Cromillian. “Why did I leave a comfortable home in
England, where I lived like a gentleman, to come here and turn bandit?
Was it to plunder, to rob, to execute vengeance? Answer me, Paoli. Why
am I a voluntary outlaw, destined to know no other home on earth but
that which the clefts in the rocks and mountains or the _maquis_ afford
me? Say, is it to rob, think you?”
“No, no, not that, surely!” cried Paoli. “I have been with you for a
year and I know that you have only taken from the rich in order to give
to the poor. I know you have so frightened several who had declared the
vendetta and were on the tracks of their would-be victims that they have
given up the pursuit. I have seen what you have done, although I could
not understand your method. But what is to be our next work, if it is
not an impertinent question?”
Cromillian eyed his interrogator closely: “Well,” he said finally, “you
have, undoubtedly, heard the rumour that Vandemar Della Coscia is to
visit his native land, which he has not seen since he was a child.”
“Yes, I know that,” said Paoli, “and I know that the Batistellis will
declare the vendetta against him if he dares to come. Now, my father was
a friend of Conrad Batistelli, and I am a friend of the brothers, Pascal
and Julien. I gave my word to my father on his death-bed that I would be
true to the Batistellis, and their cause is my cause. If Pascal and
Julien declare that Vandemar must die, I shall aid them. If I do not, I
shall be false to the oath given to my father.”
“You can do as you please,” replied Cromillian, “but, from what I have
told you, you know that I shall consider it my duty to protect Vandemar
from the Batistellis, and from you. Besides, how do you know that Manuel
Della Coscia killed Conrad Batistelli?”
“Why, there can be no doubt of it!” cried Paoli. “Was not Conrad found
in his own field, stabbed to the heart by a stiletto, upon the handle of
which were found the initials of Manuel Della Coscia? And did he not
confess his guilt by fleeing from the island, taking his little son
with him? I cannot understand why Vandemar can have the temerity to
return to Corsica when the case against his father and himself is so
strong. He simply invites the doom which surely awaits him.”
“I do not think he comes for any such reason,” said Cromillian. “I think
the result of his visit will be to show that his father was innocent of
that crime and that the Batistellis have no cause for enmity against
him.”
“He will have no time to prove that,” answered Paoli. “As soon as the
Batistelli brothers know that he is in Corsica, his death will be but a
question of a few hours.”
“But supposing they do not know him?” said Cromillian. “Supposing they
do not recognise him?”
“I am sure that I should know him,” replied Paoli. “I knew his father
well, and the sons of Corsicans too closely resemble their fathers to
render his recognition improbable.”
“I am not a rich man, as you know,” said Cromillian, “but I’ll wager ten
louis d’or, Paoli, that, if you saw Vandemar Della Coscia, you would not
know him.”
“But if I do,” cried Paoli, “and I point him out to the Batistellis, do
I get the ten louis d’or?”
“If you point him out to me first,” said Cromillian, “you will get the
ten louis d’or. If you point him out to anybody else, what you will get
will be determined hereafter. Is it a wager?” he asked.
“It is,” cried Paoli, and the men shook hands.
Paoli could not refrain from referring again to the vendetta between the
Batistellis and the Della Coscias.
“The Batistellis are rich and powerful,” he began, “and who is there so
bold as to think of contending against them?”
“I dare!” cried Cromillian. “I will shed every drop of my blood to
prevent such diabolical injustice.”
“But not with your single arm?” questioned Paoli. “None could be found
rash enough to join you in so mad a scheme.”
“Yes, one will,” answered Cromillian, “one who is trusty and true--my
Protector!”
“Your Protector?” Paoli asked, inquiringly.
“There is my Protector,” said Cromillian, pointing to his gun, “a
double-barrelled orator who preaches the gospel right into a man every
time. Of what use are the tongues of a hundred missionaries? When the
gospel is preached in Corsica to-day, it must spring from the muzzle of
a gun or the point of a stiletto; it must be forced into the people with
leaden balls or shining steel. Come to my heart, faithful guardian!” As
he spoke, he embraced his weapon with fervour: “Thou wilt be true to
poor Corsica, and to me, defender of the right, protector of the
innocent, friend of the poor, merciful to the just, who smiteth only to
bless. Dear Goddess, I love thee! Swear that thou wilt be true to me;
speak, let me hear thy voice.” Raising his weapon, he discharged both
barrels. Then he continued: “Sweeter to my ears is thy voice than the
cooing of doves.”
* * * * *
On the evening of the same day, and at about the same hour at which the
colloquy had taken place between Cromillian and his lieutenant, Countess
Mont d’Oro and Bertha had come to what was called, by the inhabitants of
Alfieri, Mont d’Oro Castle.
It is usually dispiriting to arrive late in the afternoon at a house
with which you have previously been unacquainted. The glorious morning
sun is needed to bring out local beauties and points of interest which
escape the attention when day is waning. Besides, Bertha was weary and
nervous. The passage from Marseilles to Ajaccio had been made upon a
sailing vessel, the accommodations of which were far from palatial. To
add to their discomfiture, a storm had overtaken them and the qualms of
seasickness had been added to their other troubles. Again, the ride from
Ajaccio to Altieri had been made in a tumble-down vehicle over a rough
road, and the Countess declared that every bone in her body was aching
when she reached home. To this remark Bertha silently assented, for she
said to herself that if the Countess felt any worse than she did, she
must be miserable indeed.
There being no actual head to the household during the Countess’s
absence, it was in a most disordered condition at the time of their
arrival, and considerable time passed before the energetic orders of the
mistress secured a semblance of household unity and led to the
preparation of a supper for the weary travellers.
Bertha retired early to her room. It was comfortable, even cosey, being
located upon the third floor in one of those towers which are
characteristic features of Corsican architecture. It was with a feeling
of great relief that Bertha threw herself upon the couch; but she could
not sleep. After a long period of wakefulness and tossing, she arose and
went to the latticed window. The moon was shining brightly. She opened
the lattice and looked out upon the beautiful grounds which surrounded
the castle.
Suddenly, she started back. A high hedge divided the grounds belonging
to the Mont d’Oro estate from that adjoining, but, from her elevated
position, she commanded a full view of the grounds of the neighboring
estate. The house was fully as imposing as that of Countess Mont d’Oro;
in fact, more so, for while the Mont d’Oro mansion was built of wood,
the one upon which she was now gazing was constructed of stone and
seemed, as it was, a much more substantial building.
But it was not the building which had attracted her attention, although
it presented an imposing appearance, lighted by the moon, with the
portions in shadow accentuating the sharp contrasts. No, what caught
her eye and riveted her attention was the figure of a young girl dressed
in white, who, standing in the moonlight, looked like some spirit rather
than a human being. Bertha partially closed the lattice, leaving only a
narrow space through which she could watch the strange figure, which
stood motionless. She could not see the girl’s face, for it was turned
in the opposite direction and her dark hair, which was unfastened,
shrouded even the side of her face from view.
It seemed a long time to Bertha that she sat there and watched the
motionless figure. Suddenly, the sound of a voice fell upon her ear. She
listened and, although she could not understand the words, she knew by
the melody and the manner in which the song was sung that it was a
boisterous drinking song. The voice came nearer, and soon the figure of
a man entered the grounds where the young girl stood. At sight of him,
she started forward with a glad cry which was distinctly audible to
Bertha. Had she been waiting for a lover? The figure in white approached
the man and threw her arms about his neck, but, to Bertha’s surprise,
the man repelled her advances, pushing her away from him with such
violence that she fell to the ground.
Bertha started to her feet, full of indignation. It seemed as though she
must go to the assistance of the young girl who had been so cruelly
treated. She quickly realised the impossibility of such an action on her
part and, resuming her seat, watched to see what would happen. The young
girl rose slowly to her feet and disappeared within a doorway. The man,
whoever he was, was evidently so intoxicated as to be unable to maintain
a standing position, for, after several efforts to reach the door
through which the young girl had gone, he lost his balance and fell
prone to the ground. A few minutes later, the girl emerged from the
doorway, accompanied by an old man and an old woman, and by their
combined efforts the drunken man was taken into the house, and the door
closed behind them.
The next morning, after breakfast, while sitting in the Countess’s
boudoir, Bertha could not refrain from giving an account of what she had
seen the previous night.
“Oh, that is a common occurrence,” said the Countess. “The girl whom you
saw was Vivienne Batistelli. The drunken man was her younger brother,
Julien, who is going to the bad very fast, they say. Her elder brother,
Pascal, is very correct in his habits, although of a very bitter and
revengeful disposition. Julien is a happy-go-lucky sort of fellow,
intent upon having a good time. As is often the case, the sister has no
love for her elder brother, but bestows it all upon this young
profligate. I used to do the same when my son was young.
“For a time, I thought he could do no wrong, no matter how badly he
acted, but when he showed such complete disregard for my wishes, when he
told me plainly that he intended to do as he pleased, no matter what I
said or what I wished, there came a revulsion. Although I am his mother,
I am not ashamed to say that instead of loving him, I came to hate the
sight of him, and am never happy when he is near me. He is virtually
betrothed, with the consent of her brother Pascal, to this Vivienne
Batistelli, but that would make no difference to him if he saw another
young face that pleased him. He is a consummate flirt, if no worse.
“I sincerely hope that nothing will happen to bring him here to Corsica;
but if he does come, he will find that I am mistress of this castle, and
that he cannot remain in it, unless with my permission.”