CHAPTER III
It was a lovely night. The moonlight was dancing on the waves, the shipglided smoothly on before a gentle breeze. Miss Lydia was not sleepy,and nothing but the presence of an unpoetical person had prevented herfrom enjoying those emotions which every human being possessing a touchof poetry must experience at sea by moonlight. When she felt sure theyoung lieutenant must be sound asleep, like the prosaic creature he was,she got up, took her cloak, woke her maid, and went on deck. Nobodywas to be seen except the sailor at the helm, who was singing a sort ofdirge in the Corsican dialect, to some wild and monotonous tune. In thesilence of the night this strange music had its charm. Unluckily MissLydia did not understand perfectly what the sailor was singing. Amida good deal that was commonplace, a passionate line would occasionallyexcite her liveliest curiosity. But just at the most important momentsome words of _patois_ would occur, the sense of which utterly escapedher. Yet she did make out that the subject was connected with a murder.Curses against the assassin, threats of vengeance, praise of the deadwere all mingled confusedly. She remembered some of the lines. I willendeavour to translate them here.
. . . "Neither cannon nor bayonets . . . Brought pallor to hisbrow. . . As serene on the battlefield . . . as a summer sky. He was thefalcon--the eagle's friend . . . Honey of the sand to his friends . . .To his enemies, a tempestuous sea. . . . . . . Prouder than the sun. . . gentler than the moon . . . He for whom the enemies of France. . . never waited . . . Murderers in his own land . . . struck him frombehind . . . As Vittolo slew Sampiero Corso . . . Never would they havedared to look him in The face . . . Set up on the wall Before my bed. . . my well-earned cross of honour . . . red is its ribbon . . . redderis my shirt! . . . For my son, my son in a far country . . . keep my crossand my blood-stained shirt! . . .
". . . He will see two holes in it . . . For each hole a hole in anothershirt! . . . But will that accomplish the vengeance? . . . I must havethe hand that fired, the eye that aimed . . . the heart thatplanned!" . . .
Suddenly the sailor stopped short.
"Why don't you go on, my good man?" inquired Miss Nevil.
The sailor, with a jerk of his head, pointed to a figure appearingthrough the main hatchway of the schooner: it was Orso, coming up toenjoy the moonlight. "Pray finish your song," said Miss Lydia. "Itinterests me greatly!"
The sailor leaned toward her, and said, in a very low tone, "I don'tgive the _rimbecco_ to anybody!"
"The what?"
The sailor, without replying, began to whistle.
"I have caught you admiring our Mediterranean, Miss Nevil," said Orso,coming toward her. "You must allow you never see a moon like thisanywhere else!"
"I was not looking at it, I was altogether occupied in studyingCorsican. That sailor, who has been singing a most tragic dirge, stoppedshort at the most interesting point."
The sailor bent down, as if to see the compass more clearly, and tuggedsharply at Miss Nevil's fur cloak. It was quite evident his lament couldnot be sung before Lieutenant Orso.
"What were you singing, Paolo France?" said Orso. "Was it a _ballata_or a _vocero_? Mademoiselle understands you, and would like to hear theend."
"I have forgotten it, Ors' Anton'," said the sailor.
And instantly he began a hymn to the Virgin, at the top of his voice.
Miss Lydia listened absent-mindedly to the hymn, and did not press thesinger any further--though she was quite resolved, in her own mind, tofind out the meaning of the riddle later. But her maid, who, being aFlorentine, could not understand the Corsican dialect any better thanher mistress, was as eager as Miss Lydia for information, and, turningto Orso, before the English lady could warn her by a nudge, she said:"Captain what does _giving the rimbecco_ mean?"
"The rimbecco!" said Orso. "Why, it's the most deadly insult that can beoffered to a Corsican. It means reproaching him with not having avengedhis wrong. Who mentioned the rimbecco to you?"
"Yesterday, at Marseilles," replied Miss Lydia hurriedly, "the captainof the schooner used the word."
"And whom was he talking about?" inquired Orso eagerly.
"Oh, he was telling us some odd story about the time--yes, I think itwas about Vannina d'Ornano."
"I suppose, mademoiselle, that Vannina's death has not inspired you withany great love for our national hero, the brave Sampiero?"
"But do you think his conduct was so very heroic?"
"The excuse for his crime lies in the savage customs of the period. Andthen Sampiero was waging deadly war against the Genoese. What confidencecould his fellow-countrymen have felt in him if he had not punished hiswife, who tried to treat with Genoa?"
"Vannina," said the sailor, "had started off without her husband'sleave. Sampiero did quite right to wring her neck!"
"But," said Miss Lydia, "it was to save her husband, it was out of lovefor him, that she was going to ask his pardon from the Genoese."
"To ask his pardon was to degrade him!" exclaimed Orso.
"And then to kill her himself!" said Miss Lydia. "What a monster he musthave been!"
"You know she begged as a favour that she might die by his hand. Whatabout Othello, mademoiselle, do you look on him, too, as a monster?"
"There is a difference; he was jealous. Sampiero was only vain!"
"And after all is not jealousy a kind of vanity? It is the vanity oflove; will you not excuse it on account of its motive?"
Miss Lydia looked at him with an air of great dignity, and turning tothe sailor, inquired when the schooner would reach port.
"The day after to-morrow," said he, "if the wind holds."
"I wish Ajaccio were in sight already, for I am sick of this ship."She rose, took her maid's arm, and walked a few paces on the deck. Orsostood motionless beside the helm, not knowing whether he had better walkbeside her, or end a conversation which seemed displeasing to her.
"Blood of the Madonna, what a handsome girl!" said the sailor. "If everyflea in my bed were like her, I shouldn't complain of their biting me!"
Miss Lydia may possibly have overheard this artless praise of her beautyand been startled by it; for she went below almost immediately. Shortlyafter Orso also retired. As soon as he had left the deck the maidreappeared, and, having cross-questioned the sailor, carried back thefollowing information to her mistress. The _ballata_ which had beenbroken off on Orso's appearance had been composed on the occasion ofthe death of his father, Colonel della Rebbia, who had been murdered twoyears previously. The sailor had no doubt at all that Orso was comingback to Corsica _per fare la vendetta_, such was his expression, and heaffirmed that before long there would be _fresh meat_ to be seen inthe village of Pietranera. This national expression, being interpreted,meant that Signor Orso proposed to murder two or three individualssuspected of having assassinated his father--individuals who had,indeed, been prosecuted on that account, but had come out of the trialas white as snow, for they were hand and glove with the judges, lawyers,prefect, and gendarmes.
"There is no justice in Corsica," added the sailor, "and I put much morefaith in a good gun than in a judge of the Royal Court. If a man hasan enemy he must choose one of the three S's." (A national expressionmeaning _schioppetto_, _stiletto_, _strada_--that is, _gun_, _dagger_,or _flight_.)
These interesting pieces of information wrought a notable change in MissLydia's manner and feeling with regard to Lieutenant della Rebbia.From that moment he became a person of importance in the romanticEnglishwoman's eyes.
His careless air, his frank and good humour, which had at firstimpressed her so unfavourably, now seemed to her an additional merit,as being proofs of the deep dissimulation of a strong nature, which willnot allow any inner feeling to appear upon the surface. Orso seemed toher a sort of Fieschi, who hid mighty designs under an appearance offrivolity, and, though it is less noble to kill a few rascals than tofree one's country, still a fine deed of vengeance is a fine thing, andbesides, women are rather glad to find their hero is not a politician.Then Miss Nevil remarked for the
first time that the young lieutenanthad large eyes, white teeth, an elegant figure, that he waswell-educated, and possessed the habits of good society. During thefollowing day she talked to him frequently, and found his conversationinteresting. He was asked many questions about his own country, anddescribed it well. Corsica, which he had left when young, to go firstto college, and then to the Ecole militaire, had remained in hisimagination surrounded with poetic associations. When he talked of itsmountains, its forests, and the quaint customs of its inhabitantshe grew eager and animated. As may be imagined, the word _vengeance_occurred more than once in the stories he told--for it is impossibleto speak of the Corsicans without either attacking or justifying theirproverbial passion. Orso somewhat surprised Miss Nevil by his generalcondemnation of the undying hatreds nursed by his fellow-countrymen.As regarded the peasants, however, he endeavoured to excuse them, andclaimed that the _vendetta_ is the poor man's duel. "So true is this,"he said, "that no assassination takes place till a formal challengehas been delivered. 'Be on your guard yourself, I am on mine!' are thesacramental words exchanged, from time immemorial, between two enemies,before they begin to lie in wait for each other. There are moreassassinations among us," he added, "than anywhere else. But you willnever discover an ignoble cause for any of these crimes. We have manymurderers, it is true, but not a single thief."
When he spoke about vengeance and murder Miss Lydia looked at himclosely, but she could not detect the slightest trace of emotion onhis features. As she had made up her mind, however, that he possessedsufficient strength of mind to be able to hide his thoughts from everyeye (her own, of course, excepted), she continued in her firm beliefthat Colonel della Rebbia's shade would not have to wait long for theatonement it claimed.
The schooner was already within sight of Corsica. The captain pointedout the principal features of the coast, and, though all of thesewere absolutely unknown to Miss Lydia, she found a certain pleasurein hearing their names; nothing is more tiresome than an anonymouslandscape. From time to time the colonel's telescope revealed to herthe form of some islander clad in brown cloth, armed with a long gun,bestriding a small horse, and galloping down steep slopes. In each ofthese Miss Lydia believed she beheld either a brigand or a son goingforth to avenge his father's death. But Orso always declared it was somepeaceful denizen of a neighbouring village travelling on business,and that he carried a gun less from necessity than because it was thefashion, just as no dandy ever takes a walk without an elegant cane.Though a gun is a less noble and poetic weapon than a stiletto, MissLydia thought it much more stylish for a man than any cane, and sheremembered that all Lord Byron's heroes died by a bullet, and not by theclassic poniard.
After three days' sailing, the ship reached Les Sanguinaires (TheBloody Islands), and the magnificent panorama of the Gulf of Ajaccio wasunrolled before our travellers' eyes. It is compared, with justice, tothe Bay of Naples, and just as the schooner was entering the harboura burning _maquis_, which covered the Punta di Girato, brought backmemories of Vesuvius and heightened the resemblance. To make it quitecomplete, Naples should be seen after one of Attila's armies haddevastated its suburbs--for round Ajaccio everything looks dead anddeserted. Instead of the handsome buildings observable on everyside from Castellamare to Cape Misena, nothing is to be seen in theneighbourhood of the Gulf of Ajaccio but gloomy _maquis_ with baremountains rising behind them. Not a villa, not a dwelling of anykind--only here and there, on the heights about the town, a few isolatedwhite structures stand out against a background of green. These aremortuary chapels or family tombs. Everything in this landscape isgravely and sadly beautiful.
The appearance of the town, at that period especially, deepened theimpression caused by the loneliness of its surroundings. There wasno stir in the streets, where only a few listless idlers--always thesame--were to be seen; no women at all, except an odd peasant come in tosell her produce; no loud talk, laughter, and singing, as in the Italiantowns. Sometimes, under the shade of a tree on the public promenade, adozen armed peasants will play at cards or watch each other play; theynever shout or wrangle; if they get hot over the game, pistol shots ringout, and this always before the utterance of any threat. The Corsicanis grave and silent by nature. In the evening, a few persons come out toenjoy the cool air, but the promenaders on the Corso are nearly all ofthem foreigners; the islanders stay in front of their own doors; eachone seems on the watch, like a falcon over its nest.