THE VENDETTA
We know that in very early times, when a man felt himself injured, he
took the law into his own hands and punished the offender--that is, if
he were strong enough. Later on, when men got more civilized, this was
not permitted, but offenders were punished by being fined. The fine
was paid to the injured person or to his family--so much for an eye,
so much for a leg, and so much for a life. Thus we read in the laws of
Ethelbert: “If one man strike another with the fist on the nose--three
shillings. If the eye be struck out, let boot (_i.e._, amends) be made
with forty shillings.”
So in due time law took the place of private vengeance, and now,
throughout almost the whole of Europe, if a man is wronged, he seeks
redress in the public courts of law. This, however, is not yet the
case in Corsica. There many people carry out their own punishments in
their own way, or, in other words, they shoot their foes. Hence
murders are common. At one period of Corsican history it is said that
there were 28,000 murders in thirty years. Things are not nearly so
bad as that now. The practice of taking private revenge is called the
_vendetta_.
[Illustration: MULES DRAWING TIMBER. _Page 75._]
The Corsicans are quarrelsome by nature, and often, when excited by
wine or by losses at cards, they will stab and shoot each other.
Then they are rather fanciful about what they consider insults. If a
neighbour’s dog strayed into a garden and rooted up the cabbages, this
might perhaps be considered as a personal insult, especially if the
neighbour were not friendly, and the owner of the dog would be in fear
of his life. The offended one would hide behind a rock or a tree, and
when a favourable opportunity occurred he would put a bullet through
his enemy.
In former days, when daggers only were used, a man avoided a stronger
foe, and waited for a chance to stab him in the back. But guns are
now so common that any man with a grievance finds it easy to take the
life of an enemy. Guns are seen everywhere. The shepherd guards his
flock with a gun on his back; the travelling pedlar slings one over his
shoulder; the driver of the diligence would as soon forget his whip as
his gun. Small boys save up the odd coppers that they can earn or beg
in the big towns, and carefully hoard them till they can afford to buy
a gun, or at least a pistol.
But the quarrel does not end with the death of the first offender, for
the relatives of the dead man think it their duty to avenge his unhappy
end. If they can, they shoot the murderer himself. If they cannot do
this, then they shoot one of his relations--any one will do--father,
mother, cousin, uncle, or nephew. Of course, more deaths follow on
the other side, and so the game goes on. At times a whole village is
divided into two opposite parties, and the people are afraid to go to
their work in field or garden.
When a man has made up his mind to avenge a death, he often allows
his beard to grow until the terrible deed has been done. It sometimes
happens that so many people are employed in tracking each other that
life becomes next to impossible. In such cases a priest is often called
in to try to act as peacemaker. If he is successful, the leaders of
both parties meet in the village church, and solemnly swear before the
altar to put an end to the quarrel.
After a murder has been committed, the guilty person “takes to the
maquis.” Away he goes into the Bush, and, hidden in a hollow, he lives
a lonely but not altogether miserable life. He is not so much afraid of
the gendarmes, for, should they set out to trap him, some member of his
own party will be sure to give him warning, so that he may get safely
away to another hiding-place. He is much more afraid of a relative of
the murdered man who may be hiding in the next hollow, ready to shoot
him as soon as he shows himself. As a rule he hides fairly near to his
own village, where he can receive food and clothing from his friends
and relatives.
No one thinks any the worse of a man who has revenged himself in this
way. In fact, if he did not, he would be regarded with contempt by
friends and enemies alike. He is actually expected, as a matter of
course, to take vengeance for his own or someone else’s injuries, and
if he is successful, and has to go into hiding, the neighbours say
that he “has had a little misfortune.” In some villages there exists
to this day the practice of preserving the blood-stained shirt of a
man who has been assassinated. If the man’s children are too young
to seek out those who have killed him, the relic is shown them from
time to time until they are old enough to wash out the stain with the
blood of someone else. “One does not cry for a father who has been
assassinated,” said a mother to her children; “one avenges him.” And a
man has been known to cry out over the body of his father, who had died
a natural death, “Alas! why did you not die by violence, that I might
have avenged you?”
As girls are not supposed to be able to avenge the family insults in
the same way as men, they are not treated as being of much account. A
peasant who had six daughters and three sons has been heard to remark,
“I have only three children.” Still, stories are told of women who
have practised the vendetta like men. Some years ago a poor widow lost
her only son by the hand of an assassin. The son was a good-looking,
sturdy fellow of about twenty-two, and his mother’s only support. She
had no relative to take up her cause. She went into the Bush herself,
and searched every hole and corner, gun in hand, tracking the murderers
of her son. They escaped from time to time, but she never gave up,
and for several months the outlaws knew neither peace nor safety. One
morning, however, she also was found dead at the corner of a wood. She
had fallen a victim to the man who had robbed her of her much-loved son.
Sometimes it is not possible to find an opportunity to slay immediately
the man you seek. But vengeance, though long delayed, is fairly sure.
There is a story told of a man who was wanted by a neighbour whom he
had offended. For twenty years this man kept inside his house, never
daring to show his face upon the door-step. At last he heard that his
tireless enemy was dead, and he ventured into the street to see the
funeral procession go by. No sooner did he put his foot outside the
door than bang went a rifle, and he fell dead on his own threshold. The
funeral procession broke up with a laugh, for the whole burial business
was a sham, a mere trick to get the man into the open.
A small cross is erected wherever a dead body is found, and in some
places these crosses are scattered about so plentifully that the sight
is quite saddening. As the peasants pass the cross they throw a stone
or a branch at the foot, until in time a large mound is raised to the
memory of the departed. Though murders are so common, yet theft is
almost unknown. It is looked upon as a terrible disgrace to be a thief,
and the traveller may sleep securely in the most out-of-the-way part of
the country without any fear of being robbed.
One of the greatest things that Paoli ever tried to do when he was
ruling the island was to put down the vendetta. He sent the priests
throughout the land to preach mercy and forgiveness, and he himself
travelled long distances to reconcile families who were at war with
each other. He enacted severe penalties against all those whom he
could capture who had taken the life of a fellow-countryman, and he
was particularly stern towards all those who killed, not a personal
foe, but the relative of a foe. Amongst the first victims of his new
law was one of his own relatives, who, having committed a murder, was
arrested and executed. Paoli was not able to completely suppress the
vendetta, but so successful were his efforts that in a few years the
population of the island was increased by several thousands, although
the Corsicans were still at war with the Genoese, and losing men in
every conflict.
The French Government is doing its best to put down murder, but, like
Paoli, has not by any means been completely successful. In Ajaccio,
in the early part of 1907, a porter on the quay felt that he had been
insulted by a young French officer. So one Saturday evening he took his
gun, walked into the restaurant where the young Lieutenant was dining,
and shot him as he sat at table. No one attempted to stay him as he
turned and fled to the maquis. He even dared to come back into the
town on the Sunday afternoon, and sit in the crowded streets with his
gun across his knees. My wife said to a local tradesman, “I hope he
will soon be captured.” “Why?” exclaimed the man she addressed. “He is
really a very good fellow.”