In the morning, we were off the coast of Sardinia, steaming rapidly
along for the Straits of Bonifacio. The night had been tranquil, and
the morning was more tranquil still; but no one who knew the
capricious Mediterranean felt confident of continued fair weather.
However, at sea the mind takes little thought for the morrow, or even
for the afternoon; and as we sat in the warm shade of the awning,
looking out to the purple horizon in the east, or to the rocky and
varied coast to the west, I felt, and if the countenance be not
treacherous, all felt that it was good even for landsmen to be moving
over waters uncrisped except by the active paddles, beneath a sky all
radiant with light. My companions were chiefly Levant merchants, or
sallow East Indians; for I was on board the French packet _Le Caire_,
on its way from Alexandria, of Egypt, to Marseille.
I had several times passed the Straits, each time with renewed
pleasure and admiration. It would be difficult to imagine a
scene more wild and peculiar. After rounding the huge rock of
Tavolara--apparently a promontory running boldly out into the sea, but
in reality an island, we are at once at the mouth of the Straits. The
mountains of Corsica, generally enveloped in clouds, rise above the
horizon ahead, and near at hand a thousand rocks and islands of
various dimensions appear to choke up the passage. The narrow southern
channel, always selected by day, is intricate, and would be dangerous
to strangers; and indeed the whole of the Straits are considered so
difficult, that the fact of Nelson, without previous experience,
having taken his fleet through, is cited even by French sailors as a
prodigy.
On one of the rocky points of the Sardinian coast, I observed the
ruins of a building, but so deceptive is distance, I could not at
first determine whether it had been a fortress or a cottage. I asked
one of the officers for his telescope; and being still in doubt,
questioned him as I returned it. He smiled and said: 'For the last
five or six years, I have never passed through the Straits by day
without having had to relate the story connected with that ruin. It
has become a habit with me to do so; and if you had not spoken, I
should have been compelled, under penalty of passing a restless night,
to have let out my narrative at dinner. You will go down to your berth
presently; for see how the smoke is weighed down by the heavy
atmosphere upon the deck, and how it rolls like a snake along the
waters! What you fancy to be merely a local head-wind blowing through
the Straits, is a mistral tormenting the whole Gulf of Lions. We shall
be tossing about presently in a manner unpleasant to landsmen; and
when you are safely housed, I will come and beguile a little time by
relating a true story of a Corsican Vendetta.'
The prophecy was correct. In less than a quarter of an hour, _Le
Caire_ was pitching through the last narrows against as violent a gale
as I ever felt. It was like a wall of moving air. The shores, rocks,
and islands were now concealed by driving mist; and as the sea widened
before us, it was covered with white-crested waves. Before I went
below, a cluster of sails ahead was pointed out as the English fleet;
and it was surmised that it would be compelled to repeat Nelson's
manoeuvre, as Sardinia and Corsica form a dangerous lee-shore.
However, the atmosphere thickened rapidly; and we soon lost sight of
all objects but the waves amidst which we rolled, and the phantom-like
shores of Corsica.
The officer joined me, and kept his promise. By constant practice, he
had acquired some skill in the art of telling at least this one story;
and I regret that I do not remember his exact words. However, the
following is the substance of his narrative:--Giustiniani and
Bartuccio were inhabitants of the little town of Santa Maddalena,
situated on the Corsican side of the Straits. They were both sons of
respectable parents, and were united from an early age in the bonds of
friendship. When they grew up, Giustiniani became clerk in a very
humble mercantile establishment; whilst Bartuccio, more fortunate,
obtained a good place in the custom-house. They continued on excellent
terms till the age of about twenty-one years, when an incident
occurred, that by making rivals of them, made them enemies.
Giustiniani had occasion to visit the city of Ajaccio, and set out in
company with a small party mounted upon mules. Bartuccio went with him
to the crest of the hill, where they parted after an affectionate
embrace. The journey was fortunately performed; in about a month
Giustiniani was on his way back, and reached without incident, just as
night set in, a desolate ravine within a few leagues of Santa
Maddalena. Here a terrific storm of wind and rain broke upon the
party, which missed the track, and finally dispersed; some seeking
shelter in the lee of the rocks, others pushing right and left in
search of the path, or of some hospitable habitation. Giustiniani
wandered for more than an hour, until he descended towards the plain,
and, attracted by a light, succeeded at length in reaching a little
cottage having a garden planted with trees. The lightning had now
begun to play, and shewed him the white walls of the cottage streaming
with rain, and the drenched foliage that surrounded it. Guided by the
rapidly succeeding gleams, he was enabled to find the garden gate,
where, there being no bell, he remained for some time shouting in
vain. The light still beamed gently through one of the upper windows,
and seemed to tell of a comfortable interior and cosy inmates.
Giustiniani exerted his utmost strength of voice, and presently there
was a movement in the lighted chamber--a form came to the window; and,
after some delay, the door of the house was opened, and a voice asked
who demanded admittance at that hour, and in such weather. Our
traveller explained, and was soon let in by a quiet-looking old
gentleman, who took him up stairs into a little library, where a good
wood-fire was blazing. A young girl of remarkable beauty rose as he
entered, and received him with cordial hospitality. Acquaintance was
soon made. Giustiniani told his little story, and learned that his
host was M. Albert Brivard, a retired medical officer, who, with his
daughter Marie, had selected this out-of-the-way place for economy's
sake.
According to my informant, Giustiniani at once fell in love with the
beautiful Marie, to such an extent that he could scarcely partake of
the supper offered him. Perhaps his abstinence arose from other
reasons--love being in reality a hungry passion in its early
stage--for next day the young man was ill of a fever, and incapable of
continuing his journey. M. Brivard and his daughter attended him
kindly; and as he seemed to become worse towards evening, sent a
messenger to Maddalena. The consequence was, that on the following
morning Bartuccio arrived in a great state of alarm and anxiety; but
fate did not permit him again to meet his friend with that whole and
undivided passion of friendship in his breast with which he had
quitted him a month before. Giustiniani was asleep when he entered the
house, and he was received by Marie. In his excited state of mind, he
was apt for new impressions, and half an hour's conversation seems not
only to have filled him with love, but to have excited the same
feeling in the breast of the gentle girl. It would have been more
romantic, perhaps, had Marie been tenderly impressed by poor
Giustiniani when he arrived at night, travel-stained and drenched with
rain, in the first fit of a fever; 'but woman,' said the sagacious
narrator, as he received a tumbler of grog from the steward, 'is a
mystery'--an opinion I am not inclined to confute.
In a few days, Giustiniani was well enough to return to his home,
which he reached in a gloomy and dissatisfied state of mind. He had
already observed that Bartuccio, who rode over every day professedly
to see him, felt in reality ill at ease in his company, spoke no
longer with copious familiarity, and left him in a few minutes,
professing to be obliged to return to his duty. From his bed, however,
he could hear him for some time after laughing and talking with Marie
in the garden; and he felt, without knowing it, all the pangs of
jealousy: not that he believed his friend would interfere and dispute
with him the possession of the gem which he had discovered, and over
which he internally claimed a right of property, but he was oppressed
with an uneasy sentiment of future ill, and tormented with a
diffidence as to his own powers of pleasing, that made him say adieu
to Marie and her father with cold gratitude--that seemed afterwards to
them, and to him when reflection came, sheer ingratitude.
When he had completely recovered his strength, he recovered also to, a
certain extent his serenity of mind. Bartuccio was often with him, and
never mentioned the subject of Marie. One day, therefore, in a state
of mingled hope and love, he resolved to pay a visit to his kind host;
and set out on foot. The day was sunny; the landscape, though rugged,
beautiful with light; a balmy breeze played gently on his cheek. The
intoxication of returning strength filled him with confidence and joy.
He met the old doctor herborising a little way from his house, and
saluted him so cordially, that a hearty shake of the hand was added to
the cold bow with which he was at first received. Giustiniani
understood a little of botany, and pleased the old man by his
questions and remarks. They walked slowly towards the house together.
When they reached it, M. Brivard quietly remarked: 'You will find my
daughter in the garden,' and went in with the treasures he had
collected. The young man's heart bounded with joy. Now was the time.
He would throw himself at once at Marie's feet, confess the turbulent
passion she had excited, and receive from her lips his sentence of
happiness, or---- No, he would not consider the alternative; and with
bounding step and eager eye, he ran over the garden, beneath the
orange and the myrtle trees, until he reached a little arbour at the
other extremity.
What he saw might well plunge him at once into despair. Marie had just
heard and approved the love of Bartuccio, who had clasped her, not
unwilling, to his breast. Their moment of joy was brief, for in
another instant Bartuccio was on the ground, with Giustiniani's knee
upon his breast, and a bright poniard glittered in the air. 'Spare
him--spare him!' cried the unfortunate girl, sinking on her knees. The
accepted lover struggled in vain in the grasp of his frenzied rival,
who, however, forbore to strike. 'Swear, Marie,' he said, 'by your
mother's memory, that you will not marry him for five years, and I
will give him a respite for so long.' She swore with earnestness; and
the next moment, Giustiniani had broken through the hedge, and was
rushing franticly towards Santa Maddalena.
When he recovered from his confusion, Bartuccio, who, from his
physical inferiority, had been reduced to a passive part in this
scene, endeavoured to persuade Marie that she had taken an absurd
oath, which she was not bound to abide by; but M. Brivard, though he
had approved his daughter's choice, knew well the Corsican character,
and decreed that for the present at least all talk of marriage should
be set aside. In vain Bartuccio pleaded the rights of an accepted
lover. The old man became more obstinate, and not only insisted that
his daughter should abide by her promise, but hinted that if any
attempt were made to oppose his decision, he would at once leave the
country.
As may well be imagined, Bartuccio returned to the city with feelings
of bitter hatred against his former friend; and it is probable that
wounded pride worked upon him as violently as disappointed passion. He
was heard by several persons to utter vows of vengeance--rarely
meaningless in that uncivilised island--and few were surprised when
next day the news spread that Giustiniani had disappeared. Public
opinion at once pointed to Bartuccio as the murderer. He was arrested,
and a careful investigation was instituted; but nothing either to
exculpate or inculpate him transpired, and after some months of
imprisonment, he was liberated.
Five years elapsed. During the first half of the period, Bartuccio was
coldly received by both M. Brivard and his daughter, although he
strenuously protested his innocence. Time, however, worked in his
favour, and he at length assumed the position of a betrothed lover, so
that no one was surprised when, at the expiration of the appointed
time, the marriage took place. Many wondered indeed why, since
Giustiniani had disappeared, and was probably dead, any regard was
paid to the extorted promise; whilst all augured well of the union
which was preceded by so signal an instance of good faith. The
observant, indeed, noticed that throughout the ceremony Bartuccio was
absent and uneasy--looking round anxiously over the crowd assembled
from time to time. 'He is afraid to see the ghost of Giustiniani,'
whispered an imprudent bystander. The bridegroom caught the last word,
and starting as if he had received a stab, cried: 'Where, where?' No
one answered; and the ceremony proceeded in ominous gloom.
Next day, Bartuccio and his young wife, accompanied by M. Brivard,
left Santa Maddalena without saying whither they were going; and the
good people of the town made many strange surmises on the subject. In
a week or so, however, a vessel being wrecked in the Straits,
furnished fresh matter of conversation; and all these circumstances
became utterly forgotten, except by a few. 'But this drama was as yet
crowned by no catastrophe,' said the officer, 'and all laws of harmony
would be violated if it ended here.' 'Are you, then, inventing?'
inquired I. 'Not at all,' he replied; 'but destiny is a greater
tragedian than Shakspeare, and prepares _dénouements_ with superior
skill.' I listened with increased interest.
The day after the departure of the married couple, a small boat with a
shoulder-of-mutton sail left the little harbour of Santa Maddalena a
couple of hours before sunset, and with a smart breeze on its quarter,
went bravely out across the Straits. Some folks who were accustomed to
see this manoeuvre had, it is true, shouted out to the only man on
board, warning him that rough weather was promised; but he paid no
heed, and continued on his way. If I were writing a romance, if,
indeed, I had any reasonable space, I would keep up the excitement of
curiosity for some time, describe a variety of terrific adventures
unknown to seamen, and wonderful escapes comprehensible only by
landsmen, and thus make a subordinate hero of the bold navigator. But
I must be content to inform the reader, that he was Paolo, a servant
of Giustiniani's mother, who had lived in perfect retirement since her
son's disappearance, professing to have no news of him. In reality,
however, she knew perfectly well that he had retired to Sardinia, and
after remaining in the interior some time, had established himself in
the little cottage, the ruins of which had attracted my attention. The
reason for his retirement, which he afterwards gave, was that he might
be enabled to resist the temptation to avenge himself on Bartuccio,
and, if possible, conquer his love for Marie. He no longer entertained
any hope of possessing her himself; but he thought that at least she
would grow weary of waiting for the passage of five years, and would
marry a stranger--a consummation sufficiently satisfactory, he
thought, to restore to him his peace of mind. Once a month at least he
received, through the medium of the faithful Paolo, assistance and
news from his mother; and to his infinite discomfiture learned, as
time proceeded, that his enemy, whilom his friend, was to be made
happy at last. His rage knew no bounds at this; and several times he
was on the point of returning to Santa Maddalena, to do the deed of
vengeance from which he had hitherto refrained. However, he resolved
to await the expiration of the five years.
Paolo arrived in safety at the cottage some time after dark, and
communicated the intelligence both of the marriage and the departure
of the family. To a certain extent, both he and the mother of
Giustiniani approved the projects of vengeance entertained by the
latter, but thought that the honour of the family was sufficiently
cleared by what was evidently a flight. Paolo was disappointed and
puzzled by the manner of the unfortunate recluse. Instead of bursting
out into furious denunciations, he became as pale as ashes, and then
hiding his face in his hands, wept aloud. His agony continued for more
than an hour; after which he raised his head, and exhibited a serene
brow to the astonished servitor. 'Let us return to Santa Maddalena,'
he said; and they accordingly departed, leaving the cottage a prey to
the storms, which soon reduced it to ruins, and will probably erelong
sweep away every trace.
Giustiniani reached his mother's house unperceived, and spent many
hours in close conversation with his delighted parent. He did not,
however, shew himself in the town, but departed on the track of the
fugitives the very next day. He traced them to Ajaccio, thence to
Marseille, to Nice, back to Marseille, to Paris, but there he lost the
clue. Several months passed in this way; his money was all spent, and
he was compelled to accept a situation in the counting-house of a
merchant of the Marais, and to give up the chase and the working out
of the catastrophe he had planned for his Vendetta.
A couple of years afterwards, Giustiniani had occasion to go to one of
the towns of the north of France--Lille, I believe. In its
neighbourhood, as my narrator told me--and on him I throw the whole
responsibility, if there seem anything improbable in what is to
come--the young man was once more overtaken by a storm, and compelled
to seek refuge in a cottage, which the gleams of the lightning
revealed to him. This time he was on foot, and after knocking at the
door, was admitted at once by a young woman, who seemed to have been
waiting in the passage for his arrival. She was about to throw herself
into his arms, when suddenly she started back, and exclaimed: 'It is
not he!' Taking up a candle, which she had placed on the floor, she
cast its light on her own face and that of the stranger, who had
remained immovable, as if petrified by the sound of her voice.
'Madam,' said he, brought to himself by this action, 'I am a stranger
in these parts, overtaken by the storm, and I beg an hour's
hospitality.'
'You are welcome, sir,' replied Marie, the wife of Bartuccio, for it
was she; but she did not at the moment recognise the unfortunate man
who stood before her.
They were soon in a comfortable room, where was M. Brivard, now
somewhat broken by age, and a cradle, in which slept a handsome boy
about a year old. Giustiniani, after the interchange of a few
words--perhaps in order to avoid undergoing too close an examination
of his countenance--bent over the cradle to peruse the features of the
child; and the pillow was afterwards found wet with tears. By an
involuntary motion, he clutched at the place where the poniard was
wont to be, and then sat down upon a chair that stood in a dim corner.
A few minutes afterwards, Bartuccio came joyously into the room,
embraced his wife, asked her if she was cold, for she trembled very
much--spoke civilly to the stranger, and began to throw off his wet
cloak and coat. At this moment the tall form of Giustiniani rose like
a phantom in the corner, and passions, which he himself had thought
smothered, worked through his worn countenance. Brivard saw and now
understood, and was nailed to his chair by unspeakable terror, whilst
Bartuccio gaily called for his slippers. Suddenly Marie, who had
watched every motion of the stranger, and, with the vivid intuition of
wife and mother, had understood what part was hers to play, rushed to
the cradle, seized the sleeping child, and without saying a word,
placed it in Giustiniani's arms. The strong-passioned man looked
amazed, yet not displeased, and, after a moment's hesitation, sank on
his knees, and embraced the babe, that, awaking, curled its little
arms round his head----
A tremendous crash aloft interrupted the well-prepared peroration of
the narrator; and, to say the truth, I was not sorry that a sail was
carried away, and one of our boats stove in at this precise moment,
for I had heard quite enough to enable me to guess the conclusion of
the history of this harmless Vendetta.