Vendetta! or, the Story of one forgotten. A novel

Preface

. Lest those who read the following pages should deem this story at all improbable, it is perhaps necessary to say that its chief incidents are founded on an actual occurrence which took place in Naples during the last scathing visitation of the Cholera in 1884. We know well enough, by the chronicle of daily journalism, that the infidelity of wives is, most unhappily, becoming common, — far too common for the peace and good repute of society. Not so common is an outraged husband's vengeance ; — not often dares he take the law into his own hands, — for in England at least, such boldness on his part would doubtless be deemed a worse crime than that, by which he personally is doomed to suffer. But in Italy things are on a different footing, — the ver bosity and red-tape of the law, and the hesitating verdict of special juries, are not there considered sufficiently efficacious to soothe a man's damaged honour and ruined name. And thus, — whether

PREFACE.

. right or wrong, — it often happens that strange and awful deeds are perpetrated, — deeds of which the world in general hears nothing, and which, when brought to light at last, are received with o o -* surprise and incredulity. Yet the romances planned by the brain of the novelist or dramatist are poor in comparison with the romances of real life, — life wrongly termed commonplace, but which, in fact, teems with tragedies as great and dark and soul-torturing, as any devised by Sopho cles or Shakespeare. Nothing is more strange than truth ; — nothing, at times, more terrible ! Marie Corelli. August, 1886. VENDETTA!

Chapter I I, Who

write this, am a dead man. Dead legally — dead by absolute proofs — dead and buried ! Ask for me in my native city and they will tell you I was one of the victims of the cholera that ravaged Naples in 1884, and that my mortal remains lie mouldering in the funeral vault of my ancestors. Yet ... I live ! I feel the warm blood coursing through my veins — the blood of thirty summers ; — the prime of early manhood invigorates me, and makes these eyes of mine keen and bright — these muscles strong as iron — this hand powerful of grip — this well-knit form erect and proud of bearing. Yes ! . . . I am alive, though declared to be dead ; alive in the fulness of manly force — and even sorrow has left few distinguishing marks upon me, save one. My hair, once ebony-black, is white as a wreath of Alpine snow, though its clustering curls are thick as ever.

" A constitutional inheritance ? " asks one physician, observing my frosted locks. " A sudden shock ? " suggests another, VENDETTA ! 2 " Exposure to intense heat ? " hints a third. I answer none of them. I did so once. I told my story to a man I met by chance — one renowned for medical skill and kindliness. He heard me to the end in evident incredulity and alarm, and hinted at the possibility of madness. Since then I have never spoken. But now I write. I am far from all persecution — I can set down the truth fearlessly. I can dip the pen in my own blood if I choose, and none shall gainsay me ! For the green silence of a vast South American forest encompasses me — the grand and stately silence of a virginal nature, almost unbroken by the ruthless step of man's civilisation — a haven of perfect calm, delicately disturbed by the fluttering wings and soft voices of birds, and the gentle or stormy murmur of the free born winds of heaven.

Within this charmed circle of rest I dwell — here I lift up my overburdened heart like a brimming chalice, and empty it on the ground, to the last drop of gall contained therein. The world shall know my history. Dead, and yet living ! How can that be ? — you ask. Ah, my friends! If you seek to be rid of your dead relations for a certainty, you should have their bodies cremated. Otherwise there is no knowing what may happen ! Cremation is the best way — the only way. It is clean, and safe. Why should there be any preju dice against it ? Surely it is better to give the remains of what we loved (or pretended to love) to cleansing fire and pure air than to lay them in a cold vault of stone, or down, down in the wet and clinging earth. For loathly things are hidden deep in the mould — things foul and all unnameable — long worms — slimy creatures with blind eyes and useless wings — abortions and deformities of the insect tribe born of poisonous vapour — creatures the very sight of which would drive you, O delicate woman, into a fit of hysteria, and would provoke even you, O strong man, to a shudder of repulsion.

But there is a worse thing than these merely physical horrors which come of so-called Christian burial — that is, the terrible uncertainty. What, if after we have lowered the narrow strong box containing our dear deceased relation into its vault or hollow in the ground — what, if after we have worn a seemly garb of woe, and tortured our faces into the fitting expression of gentle and patient melancholy — what, I say, if after all the reasonable precautions taken to insure safety, they should actually prove insufficient ? What, — if the prison to which we have consigned the deeply-regretted one should not have such close doors as we fondly imagined ? What if the stout coffin should be wrenched apart by fierce and frenzied fingers ? — what, if our late dear friend should not be dead, but should, like Lazarus of old, come forth to challenge our affection anew ?

Should we not grieve sorely that we had failed to avail ourselves of the secure and classical method of cremation ? Espe cially if we had benefited by worldly goods or money left to us by the so deservedly lamented ! For we are self-deceiving hypocrites — few of us are really sorry for the dead — few of us remember them with any real tenderness or affection. And yet God knows ! they may need more pity than we dream of ! But let me to my task. I, Fabio Romani, lately deceased, am about to chronicle the events of one short year — a year in which was compressed the agony of a long and tortured lifetime. One little year !— one sharp thrust from the dagger of Time ! It pierced my heart — the wound still gapes and bleeds, and every drop of blood is tainted as it falls ! One suffering, common to many, I have never known VENDETTA ! 4 — that is, — poverty.

I was born rich. When my father, Count Filippo Romani, died, leaving me, then a lad of seventeen, sole heir to his enormous possessions, — sole head of his powerful house — there were many candid friends who, with their usual kindness, prophesied the worst things of my suture. Nay, there were even some who looked forward to my physical and mental destruction with a certain degree of malignant expectation — and they were esti mable persons too. They were respectably connected, — their words carried weight, — and for a time I was an object of their maliciously pious fears. I was destined, according to their calculations, to be a gambler, a spend thrift, a drunkard, an incurable roue' of the most aban doned character. Yet, strange to say, I became none of these things. Though a Neapolitan, with all the fiery passions and hot blood of my race, I had an innate scorn for the contemptible vices and low desires of the unthinking vulgar.

Gambling seemed to me a delirious folly — drink, a destroyer of health and reason— and licentious extravagance an outrage on the poor. I chose my own way of life — a middle course between simplicity and luxury,— a judicious mingling of home like peace with the gaiety of sympathetic social inter course — an even tenor of intelligent existence which neither exhausted the mind nor injured the body. I dwelt in my father's Villa— a miniature palace of white marble, situated on a wooded height overlooking the Bay of Naples. My pleasure grounds were fringed with fragrant groves of orange and myrtle, where hun dreds of full-voiced nightingales warbled their love melodies to the golden moon. Sparkling fountains rose and fell in huge stone basins carved with many a quaint design, and their cool murmurous splash refreshed the burning silence of the hottest summer air.

In this retreat I lived at peace for some happy years, surrounded by books and pictures, and visited frequently by friends — young men whose tastes were more or less like my own, and who were capable of equally appreciating the merits of an antique volume, or the flavour of a rare vintage. Of women I saw little or nothing. Truth to tell, I instinctively avoided them. Parents with marriageable daughters invited me frequently to their houses, but these invitations I generally refused. My best books warned me against feminine society — and I believed and accepted the warning. This tendency of mine exposed me to the ridicule of those among my companions who were amorously inclined, but their gay jests at what they termed my " weakness " never affected me. I trusted in friendship rather than love, and I had a friend — one for whom at that time I would gladly have laid down my life — one who inspired me with the most profound attachment.

He, Guido Ferrari, also joined occasionally with others in the good-natured mockery I brought down upon myself by my shrinking dislike of women. " Fie on thee, Fabio ! " he would cry. " Thou wilt not taste life till thou hast sipped the nectar from a pair of rosered lips— thou shalt not guess the riddle of the stars till thou hast gazed deep down into the fathomless glory of a maiden's eyes— thou canst not know delight till thou hast clasped eager arms round a coy waist and heard the beating of a passionate heart against thine own ! A truce to thy musty volumes ! Believe it, those ancient and sorrowful philosophers had no man hood in them — their blood was water— and their slanders against women were but the pettish utterances of their own deserved disappointments. Those who miss the chief prize of life would fain persuade others that it is VENDETTA ! 6 not worth having.

What, man ! Thou, with a ready wit, a glancing eye, a gay smile, a supple form, thou wilt not enter the lists of love ? What says Voltaire of the blind god ? " Qui que tu sois voilk ton maitre, II silt— il est— ou il doit etre ! " When my friend spoke thus I smiled, but answered nothing. His arguments failed to convince me. Yet I loved to hear him talk — his voice was mellow as the note of a thrush, and his eyes had an eloquence greater than all speech. I loved him — God knows ! unselfishly, sincerely — with that rare tenderness sometimes felt by schoolboys for one another, but seldom experienced by grown men. I was happy in his society, as he, indeed, appeared to be in mine. We passed most of our time together, he, like myself, having been bereaved of his parents in early youth, and therefore left to shape out his own course of life as suited his particular fancy.

He chose art as a profession, and, though a fairly successful painter, was as poor as I was rich. I remedied this neglect of fortune for him in various ways with due forethought and delicacy — and gave him as many com missions as I possibly could without rousing his sus picion, or wounding his pride. For he possessed a strong attraction for me — we had much the same tastes, we shared the same sympathies, in short, I desired nothing better than his confidence and companionship. In this world no one, however harmless, is allowed to continue happy. Fate — or caprice — cannot endure to see us monotonously at rest. Something perfectly trivial — a look, a word, a touch, and lo ! a long chain of old associations is broken asunder, and the peace we deemed so deep and lasting is finally interrupted.

This change came to me, as surely as it comes to all. One day — how well I remember it ! — one sultry evening towards the end of May, 1881, I was in Naples. I had passed the afternoon in my yacht, idly and slowly sailing over the bay, availing myself of what little wind there was. Guido's absence (he had gone to Rome on a visit of some weeks' duration) rendered me somewhat of a solitary, and as my light craft ran into harbour, I found myself in a pensive, half uncertain mood, which brought with it its own depression. The few sailors who manned my vessel dispersed right and left as soon as they were landed, — each to his own favourite haunts of pleasure or dissipation, — but I was in no humour to be easily amused. Though I had plenty of acquain tance in the city, I cared little for such entertainment as they could offer me.

As I strolled along through one of the principal streets, considering whether or not I should return on foot to my own dwelling on the heights, I heard a sound of singing, and perceived in the distance a glimmer of white robes. It was the Month of Mary, and I at once concluded that this must be an approaching Procession of the Virgin. Half in idleness, half in curiosity, I stood still and waited. The singing voices came nearer and nearer — I saw the priests, the acolytes, the swinging gold censers heavy with fragrance, the flaring candles, the snowy veils of children and girls — and then all suddenly the pic turesque beauty of the scene danced before my eyes in a whirling blur of brilliancy and colour from which looked forth, — one face ! One face beaming out like a star from a cloud of amber tresses — one face of rose tinted, child-like loveliness — a loveliness absolutely per fect, lit up by two luminous eyes, large and black as night — one face in which the small, curved mouth smiled half provokingly, half sweetly !

I gazed and gazed again, dazzled and excited ; beauty makes such fools of VENDETTA ! 8 us all ! This was a woman ... one of the sex I mistrusted and avoided— a woman in the earliest spring of her youth, a girl of fifteen or sixteen at the utmost. Her veil had been thrown back by accident or design, and for one brief moment I drank in that soul-tempting glance, that witch-like smile ! The procession passed . . . the vision faded ... but in that breath of time one epoch of my life had closed for ever, and another had begun ! Of course I married her. We Neapolitans lose no time in such matters. We are not prudent. Unlike the calm blood of Englishmen, ours rushes swiftly through our veins — it is warm as wine and sunlight, and needs no fictitious stimulant. We love, we desire, we possess ; and then ?

We tire, you say ? These Southern races are so fickle ! All wrong — we are less tired than you deem. And do not Englishmen tire? Have they no secret ennui at times when sitting in the chimney nook of " home, sweet home," with their fat wives and ever spreading families ? Truly, yes ! But they are too cautious to say so. I need not relate the story of my courtship — it was brief and sweet as a song sung perfectly. There were no obstacles. The girl I sought was the only daughter of a ruined Florentine noble of dissolute character, who gained a bare subsistence by frequenting the gaming tables. His child had been brought up in a Convent renowned for strict discipline — she knew nothing of the world. She was, he assured me with maudlin tears in his eyes, " as innocent as a flower on the altar of the Madonna."

I believed him — for what could this lovely, youthful, low-voiced maiden know of even the shadow of evil ? I was eager to gather so fair a lily for my own proud wearing — and her father gladly gave her to me, no doubt inwardly congratulating himself on the wealthy match that had fallen to the lot of his dowerlcss daughter. We were married at the end of June, and Guido Ferrari graced our bridal with his handsome and gallant presence. " By the body of Bacchus ! " he exclaimed to me when the nuptial ceremony was over, " Thou hast profited by my teaching, Fabio ! A quiet rogue is often most cunning ! Thou hast rifled the casket of Venus, and stolen her fairest jewel — thou hast secured the love liest maiden in the two Sicilies ! " I pressed his hand, and a touch of remorse stole over me, for he was no longer first in my affection.

Almost I regretted it — yes, on my very wedding-morn I looked back to the old days— old now though so recent — and sighed to think they were ended. I glanced at Nina, my wife. It was enough ! Her beauty dazzled and overcame me. The melting languor of her large limpid eyes stole into my veins, — I forgot all but her. I was in that high delirium of passion in which love, and love only, seems the key-note of creation. I touched the topmost peak of the height of joy — the days were feasts of fairyland, the nights dreams of rapture ! No; I never tired ! My wife's beauty never palled upon me ; she grew fairer with each day of possession. I never saw her otherwise than attractive, and within a few months she had probed all the depths of my nature. She discovered how certain sweet looks of hers could draw me to her side, a willing and devoted slave ; she measured my weakness with her own power ; she knew — what did she not know?

I torture myself with these foolish memories. All men past the age of twenty have learnt somewhat of the tricks of women — the pretty, playful nothings that weaken the will and sap the force VENDETTA ! 10 of the strongest hero. She loved me ? Oh, yes, I suppose so ! Looking back on those days, I can frankly say I believe she loved me— as nine hundred wives out of a thousand love their husbands, namely, — for what they can get. And I grudged her nothing. If I chose to idealise her, and raise her to the stature of an angel when she was but on the low level of mere womanhood, that was my folly, not her fault. We kept open house. Our Villa was a place of rendezvous for the leading members of the best society in and around Naples. My wife was universally ad mired ; her lovely face and graceful manners were themes of conversation throughout the whole neighbour hood.

Guido Ferrari, my friend, was one of those who were loudest in her praise, and the chivalrous homage he displayed towards her doubly endeared him to me. I trusted him as a brother ; he came and went as pleased him ; he brought Nina gifts of flowers and fanciful trifles adapted to her taste, and treated her with fraternal and delicate kindness. I deemed my happiness perfect — with love, wealth, and friendship, what more could a man desire ? Yet another drop of honey was added to my cup of sweetness. On the first morning of May, 1882, our child was born — a girl-babe, fair as one of the white anemones which at that season grew thickly in the woods surrounding our home. They brought the little one to me in the shaded verandah where I sat at breakfast with Guido — a tiny, almost shapeless bundle, wrapped in soft cashmere and old lace.

I took the fragile thing in my arms with a tender reverence ; it opened its eyes ; they were large and dark like Nina's, and the light of a recent heaven seemed still to linger in their pure depths. I kissed the little face ; Guido did the same ; and those clear quiet eyes regarded us both with a strange half-inquiring solemnity. A bird perched on a bough of jessamine broke into a low sweet song, the soft wind blew and scattered the petals of a white rose at our feet. I gave the infant back to the nurse, who waited to receive it, and said, with a smile, " Tell my wife we have welcomed her May-blossom." Guido laid his hand on my shoulder as the servant retired ; his face was unusually pale. " Thou art a good fellow, Fabio ! " he said, abruptly. " Indeed ! How so? " I asked, half laughingly ; " I am no better than other men."

" You are less suspicious than the majority," he re turned, turning away from me and playing idly with a spray of clematis that trailed on one of the pillars of the verandah. I glanced at him in surprise. " What do you mean, amico ? Have I reason to suspect any one ? " He laughed, and resumed his seat at the breakfast table. " Why, no ! " he answered, with a frank look. " But in Naples the air is pregnant with suspicion — jealousy's dagger is ever ready to strike, justly or unjustly — the very children are learned in the ways of vice. Penitents confess to priests who are worse than penitents, and by Heaven ! in such a state of society, where conjugal fidelity is a farce " — he paused a moment, and then went on — " is it not wonderful to know a man like you, Fabio ? A man happy in home affections, without a cloud on the sky of his confidence ?

" " I have no cause for distrust," I said. " Nina is as innocent as the little child of whom she is to-day the mother.'' " True ! " exclaimed Ferrari. " Perfectly true ! " and he looked me full in the eyes, with a smile. " White as the virgin snow on the summit of Mont Blanc, — purer VENDETTA ! 12 than the flawless diamond, — and unapproachable as the furthest star ! Is it not so ? " I assented with a certain gravity ; something in his manner puzzled me. Our conversation soon turned on different topics, and I thought no more of the matter. But a time came, — and that speedily, — when I had stern reason to remember every word he had uttered.

Chapter II

Every one knows what kind of summer we had in Naples in 1884. The newspapers of all lands teemed with the story of its horrors. The Cholera walked abroad like a destroying demon ; under its withering touch scores of people, young and old, dropped down in the streets to die. The fell disease, born of dirt and criminal neglect of sanitary precautions, gained on the city with awful rapidity, and worse even than the plague was the unreasoning but universal panic. The never to-be-forgotten heroism of King Humbert had its effect on the more educated classes, but among the low Nea politan populace, abject fear, vulgar superstition, and utter selfishness reigned supreme. One case may serve as an example of many others. A fisherman, well known in the place, a handsome and popular young fellow, was seized, while working in his boat, with the first symptoms of cholera.

He was carried to his mother's house. The old woman, a villainous-looking hag, watched the little procession as it approached her dwelling, and taking in the situation at once, she shut and barricaded her door. " Santissima Madonna ! " she yelled shrilly through a half-opened window. " Leave him in the street, the abandoned, miserable one! The ungrateful pig ! He would bring the plague to his own hard-working, honest mother ! Holy Joseph ! who would have child ren ? Leave him in the street, I tell you ! " It was useless to expostulate with this feminine scare crow ; her son was, happily for himself, unconscious, and after some more wrangling he was laid down on her doorstep, where he shortly afterwards expired, his body being afterwards carted away like so much rubbish by the beeeamorti. The heat in the city was intense.

The sky was a burning dome of brilliancy, the Bay was still as a glittering sheet of glass. A thin column of smoke issuing from the crater of Vesuvius increased the impression of an all-pervading, though imperceptible ring of fire, that seemed to surround the place. No birds sang save in the late evening, when the nightingales in my gardens broke out in a bubbling torrent of melody, half joyous, half melancholy. Up on that wooded height where I dwelt it was comparatively cool. I took all precautions necessary to prevent the contagion from attacking our household ; in fact, I would have left the neighbourhood altogether, had I not known that hasty flight from an infected district often carries with it the possibility of closer contact with the disease. My wife, besides, was not nervous — I think very beautiful women seldom are.

Their superb vanity is an excellent shield to repel pestilence ; it does away with the principal element of danger — fear. As for our Stella, a toddling mite of two years old, she was a healthy child, for whom neither her mother nor myself entertained the least anxiety. Guido Ferrari came and stayed with us, and while the cholera, like a sharp scythe put into a field of ripe corn, mowed down the dirt-loving Neapolitans by hun dreds, we three, with a small retinue of servants, none of VENDETTA .' 14 whom were ever permitted to visit the city, lived on farinaceous food and distilled water, bathed regularly, rose and retired early, and enjoyed the most perfect health. Among her many other attractions my wife was gifted with a beautiful and well-trained voice. She sang with exquisite expression, and many an evening when Guido and myself sat smoking in the garden, after little Stella had gone to bed, Nina would ravish our ears with the music of her nightingale notes, singing song after song, quaint stornelli and ritornelli, — songs of the people, full of wild and passionate beauty.

In these Guido would often join her, his full baritone chiming in with her delicate and clear soprano as deliciously as the fall of a fountain with the trill of a bird. I can hear those two voices now ; their united melody still rings mock ingly in my ears ; the heavy perfume of orange blossom, mingled with myrtle, floats towards me on the air ; the yellow moon burns round and full in the dense blue sky, like the King of Thule's goblet of gold flung into a deep sea, and again I behold those two heads leaning together, the one fair, the other dark ; my wife, my friend — those two whose lives were a million times dearer to me than my own. Ah ! they were happy days — days of self-delusion always arc. We are never grateful enough to the candid persons who wake us from our dreams — yet such are in truth our best friends, could we but realise it.

August was the most terrible of all the summer months in Naples. The cholera increased with fright ful steadiness, and the people seemed to be literally mad with terror. Some of them, seized with a wild spirit of defiance, plunged into orgies of vice and intemperance with a reckless disregard of consequences. One of these frantic revels took place at a well-known cafe. Eight young men, accompanied by eight girls of remarkable beauty, arrived, and ordered a private room, where they were served with a sumptuous repast. At its close one of the party raised his glass and proposed, " Success to the Cholera ! " The toast was received with riotous shouts of applause, and all drank it with delirious laughter. That very night every one of the revellers died in horrible agony ; their bodies, as usual, were thrust into flimsy coffins and buried one on top of another in a hole hastily dug for the purpose.

Dismal stories like these reached us every day, but we were not morbidly impressed by them. Stella was a living charm against pestilence ; her innocent playfulness and prattle kept us amused and employed, and surrounded us with an atmosphere that was physically and mentally whole some. One morning — one of the very hottest mornings of that scorching month — I woke at an earlier hour than usual. A suggestion of possible coolness in the air tempted me to rise and stroll through the garden. My wife slept soundly at my side. I dressed softly, with out disturbing her. As I was about to leave the room some instinct made me turn back to look at her once more. How lovely she was ! she smiled in her sleep ! My heart beat as I gazed — she had been mine for three yearS; — mine only ! — and my passionate admiration and love of her had increased in proportion to that length of time.