TWO STORIES OF THE VENDETTA.
ORSO PAOLO.
The people of the village of Monte d'Olmo were one day celebrating a
festival of the Church. The priests had taken their places before the
altar, and numbers of devout worshippers had already assembled within
the sacred edifice, while not a few still lingered over their gossip
outside. Among these latter were the Vincenti and Grimaldi—two families
between which a hereditary feud had existed from time immemorial. To-day
they ventured to look each other in the face, as the sacred festivity
compelled at least a temporary suspension of all animosities.
Somebody started the question, whether or not the priests should be made
to wear the capote or cowled cloak of their order during the procession.
"No," said Orso Paolo, of the Vincenti family, "they should be made to
do nothing of the kind, for it was never the custom in our forefathers'
times."
"Yes," cried Ruggero, of the Grimaldi family, "they ought to wear their
capotes, for that is the regulation of our Holy Church."
And the strife for and against capotes waxed hot and noisy, and filled
the little square before the church with a din that could not have been
exceeded, had a declaration for or against Genoa been the question to
be decided. One took the word out of another's mouth; one after another
sprang upon the stone bench to defend his opinion in a speech, and the
by-standers hissed or applauded, shouted in derision or approbation,
according as a Grimaldi or a Vincenti had advocated or denounced the
capotes.
Suddenly some one let fall an insulting expression. That moment
rose cries of rage and defiance, and every one drew his pistols from
his belt. The Grimaldi rushed upon Orso Paolo, who fired among his
assailants. Antonio, Ruggero's eldest son, fell mortally wounded.
The music of the holy mass ceased in the church. The people poured out
in a body—men, women, and children, the priests in their robes, crucifix
in hand.
The entire village of Olmo was one confused scene of flight and pursuit,
re-echoing with yells of fury, and the reports of fire-arms. The cries
of the Grimaldi were vows of death to Orso Paolo.
Orso had made for the woods with the speed of a hunted deer. But
his foes saw his aim; revenge gave them wings, and they succeeded in
interposing themselves between him and the hoped-for shelter.
He was surrounded. From every side he saw furious pursuers approaching;
already their balls whizzed about his head. It was vain to think of
reaching the wood; there was little time to ponder a new plan; he
was cut off from the open country; only a house stood near on the
mountain-side—the house of his deadly foe Ruggero.
Orso Paolo saw it, and in a moment he had crossed its threshold and
secured the door. He had his weapons with him, his carchera was full
of cartridges, there was a store of victuals in the house, and he might
hold out for days. It was empty too; all its usual inmates had hurried
into the village, and Ruggero's wife was occupied with the wounded
Antonio. Her second son, still a child, had alone remained in the house,
and lay asleep.
Scarce had Orso Paolo intrenched himself here, when Ruggero appeared
with all the Grimaldi at his back; but the barrel of Orso's gun appeared
at the window, and he was heard to promise its contents to the first
that approached the door. No one ran the risk.
In most ungentle mood, they stood before the house uncertain what to
do; Ruggero stamped with rage that his deadliest enemy should have found
refuge in his own house; the tiger is not more furious when it sees and
cannot reach its prey.
The crowd increased every minute, and filled the air with their
vociferations; presently the wail of women was heard to mingle with
their cries; it was a party carrying the wounded Antonio into the house
of a relation. The sight redoubled Ruggero's fury; he rushed into a
house, and snatched a firebrand from the hearth, to fling upon his own
roof, and consume it and Orso Paolo together. As he swung the brand
round his head, and cried to the others to follow his example, his
wife threw herself distractedly in his way. "Madman," she cried, "our
child is in the house! Would you burn your child? Antonio is at death's
door—Francesco lies sleeping within there—will you murder your last
child?"
"Let them burn to death together," cried Ruggero; "let the world be
burnt to ashes, if only Orso Paolo perish in the flames!"
The shrieking woman threw herself at her husband's feet, clasped her
arms round his knees, and refused to let him move from the spot. But
Ruggero thrust her from him, and hurled the firebrand into his house.
The fire caught. Soon the flame rose, and the dancing sparks flew about
upon the wind. The mother had sunk lifeless to the earth, and they
carried her to the house where her son Antonio lay.
But Ruggero stood before his burning house, which was now completely
surrounded by the Grimaldi, that Orso Paolo, if he should attempt to
escape, might find their bullets in his way; Ruggero stood before his
house and gazed into the flames, laughing horribly as they rose and
roared, shouting mad shouts of gratified revenge and wild pain, as the
beams cracked and fell in—for it seemed to him that every burning beam
fell upon his own heart.
Often he thought he descried a form among the flames, but perhaps it was
only a wreath of smoke, or a whirling column of fire—then, again, came
sounds as of a weeping child. Suddenly the roof fell in with a crash,
and smoke and tongues of flame shot up from the horrid ruin towards
heaven.
Ruggero, who had been standing dumb and motionless, staring with glassy
eye, body bent forward, and arm outstretched toward the house, fell
with a groan to the earth. He was borne into the neighbouring house,
and laid beside his wounded son. When his consciousness returned, he
was unable at first to understand what had happened, but immediately the
truth dawned upon him—the glare of his burning home flashed conviction
and remorse into his soul, and shuddering, he recognised the dreadful
enormity of his deed.
For the space of a minute he stood in deep thought, as if the lightning
of heaven had scathed him to the marrow; then with a sudden start, he
tore the dagger from his belt, and would have buried it in his breast.
But his wife and friends arrested his arm, and deprived him of his
weapons.
What had become of Orso Paolo? What of Francesco?
When Orso Paolo found the beams of the roof had taken fire, he began
to seek for some place of safety, some hole or vault where he would be
protected from the flames. As he wandered from chamber to chamber, he
heard the weeping and terrified screaming of a child. He sprang into
the room whence it issued. A child sat here upon its bed, and, bitterly
weeping, stretched its arms towards him, and called for its mother. It
seemed to Orso at that moment, as if the Evil One called to him from
out the flames to murder the innocent child, and so punish his foe's
vengeful barbarity. "Hast thou not a right of vengeance over the very
children of thine enemy? Thy knife, Orso! Extinguish the last hope of
the house of Grimaldi!"
A horrid thirst for vengeance glared in Orso's eye as he bent over the
child. The glow from the flames bathed himself, the child, the room,
in a purple tinge as of blood. He bent over the weeping Francesco,
and—suddenly he snatched up the child, clasped it to his breast, and
kissed it with a wild fervour. Then, still bearing it in his arms, he
rushed out of the chamber, and groped his way through the burning house,
seeking some spot of safety.
The house had scarcely fallen in, when the horns of the Vincenti were
heard outside the village. The men of Castel d'Acqua, all of them
friends or relations of Orso Paolo, had heard of his danger, and were
assembled for his rescue. The Grimaldi fled from the scene of the
conflagration to the house in which Ruggero, his wife, and Antonio were.
A quarter of an hour of fearful suspense passed away.
Suddenly the market-place of Olmo resounded with a loud and exulting
shout, and from a hundred tongues was heard the cry: Evviva, Orso Paolo!
Antonio's mother flew to the window; then with a cry of joy she rushed
to the door, and after her Ruggero and the women.
Through the midst of the jubilant crowd came Orso Paolo, his face
beaming with joy, and the child Franceso clasped tenderly in his arms.
His clothes were singed, he was black with smoke, and covered with
ashes. He had rescued himself and the child in a vault beneath a flight
of stairs.
Ruggero's wife threw herself on Orso Paolo's breast, and flung her arms
round him and her little son, with a joy too deep for utterance.
But Ruggero fell upon his knees before his foe, and while he embraced
his feet with sobs, begged his forgiveness, and God's.
"Rise, my friend Grimaldi," said Orso Paolo; "may God so to-day forgive
us both, as we forgive each other; and here, before the people of Olmo,
swear eternal friendship."
The foes sank into each other's arms, and the people shouted exultingly:
Evviva, Orso Paolo!
Antonio soon recovered from his wound; and gay were the festivities
of that evening in the village of Monte d'Olmo, when the Grimaldi
and the Vincenti celebrated their solemn feast of reconciliation. The
olive-branch of peace decked the houses, and nothing was to be heard
but evvivas and musket-shots, and the music of tinkling wine-glasses,
violins, and mandolines.
DEZIO DEZII.
When the Genoese were still lords of the island of Corsica, a furious
contest arose between the two villages of Serra and Serrale, in the
pieve of Moriani. Two houses were at bitter and bloody feud—the Dezii
in Serra, and the Venturini in Serrale.
At length they had grown weary of the long war of vengeance, and both
families had with solemn oath sworn peace before the Parolanti. Now
these Parolanti are worthy men, appointed as arbitrators by the two
parties in common; they act as witnesses of the oath of reconciliation;
in their hands is lodged the written deed by which amity is ratified,
and it is their duty to watch that for the future nothing be done to
break the peace. On that godless man who nevertheless does break the
peace, falls the scorn and contempt of all the good, and the wrath
and vengeance of the Parolanti overtake his house, his field, and his
vineyard.
The Dezii and the Venturini, then, had in this manner sworn peace, and
a happy tranquillity reigned in the Pieve di Moriani. But as the evil
spirit of contention cannot rest, but must ever be blowing upon the
ashes, to see if some spark of the old grudge may not yet be awakened,
it fell out one day in the market-place of Serrale, that such a spark
was kindled in the fierce heart of the old Venturini. Nicolao was a
grayhaired man, but in bodily vigour he was young as his sons. He had a
dark look, a venomous tongue, and the cramp in his dagger-hand. He met
young Dezio Dezii on the market-place—Dezio, the pride and flower of the
house of his enemies. He was a comely youth, and of pleasant manners;
but his temper was quick and fiery.
This old man with the dark look, addressed sneering and bitter words to
Dezio, nor was it known why he should have done so; for the youth had
given him no provocation. When the words fell on Dezio's ear, his heart
filled with shame and indignation; but he thought on the Parolanti, on
his oath of peace, and the gray hairs of Nicolao; and he quieted his
swelling heart, and passed silently out of the village of Serrale.
It so happened, however, that on the same evening the old man and
the youth met in the open field. When Dezio saw Nicolao approaching,
observing that he was unarmed, he left his gun leaning on a tree, that
the Evil Spirit might not provoke him to injure a man who carried no
weapon; then, going up to old Nicolao, he demanded haughtily the ground
of his insult.
The old man replied contemptuously; and after a few fiery words had
passed, he seized the youth by the breast, and gave him a blow in the
face. Dezio staggered back; the next moment he sprang to his musket,
and in another second Nicolao fell, shot to the heart.
The unhappy Dezio fled as if pursued by the avenging angel, and made
his way from crag to crag far into the heights of Monte Cinto, where he
threw himself, weeping, into a cave.
The Parolanti had hastened to the scene of this deed of blood. They
cried, "Wo over Dezio and all his race!" and assembled in a body before
his dwelling. His young wife was in the house. They told her that she
must leave her home, for it had fallen under the ban of justice; and
as soon as the sobbing woman had crossed the threshold, they set the
house on fire, and burned it to the ground. They then entered Dezio's
chestnut-grove and olive-orchard, and, with the hatchet, barked every
tree, in token that the owner had broken his oath and shed blood, and
that the curse of angry Heaven had fallen upon him and all that was his.
And this they did according to ancient and sacred custom.
The kinsmen of Dezio remained quiet, for they acknowledged that in all
this was nought but justice. But Luigione, son of the murdered Nicolao,
allowed his beard to grow, signifying thereby that he had resolved to
avenge his father's blood. He took his gun, and ranged the hills to find
Dezio; and, as he could not come upon his traces, though he lay night
and day among the rocks, he took service with the Genoese, who formed
the watch in the Tower of Padulella, thinking, that with their help, he
might perhaps surprise his foe.
Dezio, meanwhile, lived with the fox, the deer, and the wild sheep, and
roamed about in desert fastnesses, every night seeking a new shelter,
ever wandering, and ever bearing with him in his heart sadness and
alarm. One day he escaped in a ship with sailors, who were his friends,
to Genoa. He enlisted in the service of the Genoese, and in this
banishment long years went by.
At length there awoke in him a longing to see his native country and his
wife. He obtained his discharge, and took with him from Genoa a letter
of protection, which ordained that he was to live free and unharmed in
Corsica, and outlawed any one that should seek to injure him.
Perhaps, too, Dezio hoped that Luigione's thirst for vengeance had
in the course of time gone to sleep. He returned accordingly to his
village, found his wife again, and remained quietly within her house.
Nobody knew that he had come back; for he never showed himself, going
only into the woods, and to lonesome places, where he was certain that
no one would meet him. But the shadow of old Nicolao was always by his
side.
Weeks and months passed thus, and nobody knew or spoke of Dezio. One
day, Luigione, who was famous in these mountains as a hunter, said to
his wife, "I dreamt last night that I shot a fox in the hills. I shall
go out to-day; perhaps I may have good luck." So he threw his gun upon
his shoulder, and went into the hills.
He started a fox. It took cover in a thicket, and Luigione hastened
after. The spot was wild and lonely. As soon as he got among the bushes,
he found a narrow shepherd's track, which wound about and about, and led
him always deeper and deeper into the savage country. Suddenly, Luigione
stopped. Below a clump of wild olives, he saw a man lying in deep sleep.
Beside him lay his double-barrelled gun and his zucca. A long and bushy
beard partly concealed his face. Luigione remained motionless as a
statue; but with a feverish eagerness his eyes devoured the sleeping
man. The blood shot seething hot to his cheeks, and then again they
became deadly pale; his heart was beating so loud that it might almost
have given the alarm to the sleeper.
He made a single step forwards—another; he gazed into the stranger's
face. Yes; it was Dezio—his father's murderer! A wild smile lit up
Luigione's face. He drew the dagger from his belt.
"God has given thee into my hands," he murmured, "that I may kill thee
this day. My father's blood be upon thee!" and he raised the two-edged
blade. But a swift thought sped like an angel between him and his
sleeping foe, and suspended the weapon in the air. The words of the
angel were, "Luigione, forbear to murder sleep!"
Luigione sprang suddenly backwards. Then, with a fearful shout, he cried—
"Dezio! Dezio! rise, and stand to thy weapon!"
The sleeper leapt to his feet, and caught up his gun.
"I could have murdered thee sleeping," said Luigione to him; "but
it would have been the deed of a villain. Now defend thyself, for my
father's blood cries for revenge!"
Dezio, shocked to death, gazed for one moment on the terrible man, then
he hurled his gun far into the bushes, tore pistol and dagger from his
belt, and flung them both away, and, baring his breast, cried—
"Luigione, shoot, and avenge thy father! Then I shall have rest in my
grave! Kill me!"
Luigione looked at his enemy in amazement, and for a while both were
silent. Luigione then laid down his gun, went up to Dezio, and offered
him his hand. "God," he said, "gave thee into my hand; but I forgive
thee. Peace be with the blood of my father! Now, come and be my guest."
The two men went down into the village side by side; and they remained
friends. And as Luigione had no children of his own, he stood godfather
to the child of Dezio, as a solemn token that they were reconciled
before God; and this he did according to ancient custom.
Dezio grew weary of the world, and became a monk. So pure and
God-fearing was his walk, that he was beloved by all till the day of his
death; and the blessing of his pious and peace-making spirit diffused
itself far and wide among the hills.
On his burial-day, the villages of all the region accompanied him to his
grave; and still in the pieve of Moriani they speak of Dezio the comely
youth, Dezio the murderer, Dezio the bandit, Dezio the monk, Dezio the
priest, Dezio the saint.