The Finger of Fate Part 19

Unhappily, this view of the case is not the correct one. At present, and for a long time past, the brigands of Italy, so far from skulking in mountain caves or forest lairs, openly disport themselves in the plains, even where thickly peopled; not unfrequently making themselves masters of a village, and retaining possession of it for days at a time. You may wonder at the weakness of the Italian governments, that permit such a state of things to exist. But it does exist, sometimes in spite of the governments, but sometimes also with their secret support and connivance--notably in the territories of Rome and Naples. To explain why they connive at it would be to enter upon a religio-political question which we do not care to discuss--since it might be deemed out of place in the pages of a mere romantic tale.

The motive of these governments for permitting brigandage was similar to that which elsewhere gives "comfort and support" to many an a.s.sociation almost as despicable as brigandage. It is the old story of despotism all over the world, _Divide et impera_; and prince or priest, if they cannot govern a people otherwise, will even rule them through the scourge of the robber.

Were there two forms of religion in Italy, as in Ireland, there would be no brigands. Then there would be no need of them: since in aspiring to political liberty the two parties would satisfactorily checkmate one another, as they have done and still do in Ireland--each preferring serfdom for itself rather than to share freedom with its hated rival.

Since in Italy there is but one religion, some other means was required to check and counteract the political liberty of the people. Despotism had hit upon the device of brigandage, and this is the explanation of its existence.

The nature of this hideous social sore is but imperfectly understood outside Italy. It might be supposed an irksome state of existence to dwell in a country where robbers can ramble about at will, and do pretty much as they please. And so it would be to any one of sensitive mind or educated intelligence; but where the bandits dwell, there are few of this cla.s.s, the districts infected with them having been long since surrendered to small tenant-farmers and peasantry. A landed proprietor does not think of residing on his own estate. If he did, he would be in danger every day of his life--not of being a.s.sa.s.sinated, for that would be a simple act of folly on the part of the brigands--but hurried away from his home to some rendezvous in the mountains, and there held captive till his friends could raise a ransom sufficient to satisfy the cupidity of his captors. This refused--supposing it possible of being obtained--then he would certainly be a.s.sa.s.sinated--hanged or shot-- without further hesitancy or equivocation.

Knowing this, from either his own or his neighbour's experience, the owner of an Italian estate takes the precaution to reside in the towns, where there is a garrison of regular soldiers, or some other form of protection for his person. And only _inside_ such a town is he safe. A single mile beyond the boundary of their suburbs, sometimes even within them, he runs the risk of getting picked up and carried off, before the very faces of his friends and fellow-citizens. To deny this would be to contradict facts of continual occurrence. Scores of such instances are annually reported, both in the Roman States and in the late Neapolitan territory--now happily included in a safer and better _regime_, though still suffering from this chronic curse.

But it may be asked of the peasantry themselves--the small farmers, shopkeepers, artificers, labourers, shepherds, and the like--how they live under such an abnormal condition of things?

That is what the world wonders at, more especially the public of England; which is not very intelligent on any foreign matter, and dull at comprehending even that which concerns itself. Have we ever heard of one of our own farmers raising his voice against a war, however cruel or unjust, against the people of another country, provided it increased the price of bacon in his own? And in this we have the explanation why the peasant people of Italy bear up so bravely against brigandage. When a village baker gets a _pezzo_ (in value something more than a dollar) for a loaf of bread weighing less than three pounds, the real price in the nearest town being only threepence; when a labourer gets a similar sum for his brown bannock of like weight; when his wife has another _pezzo_ for washing a brigand's shirt--the brigandesses being above such work; when the shepherd asks and obtains a triple price for his goat, kid, or sheep; and when every other article of bandit clothing or consumption is paid for at a proportionate famine rate, one need no longer be astonished at the tolerance of the Italian peasantry towards such generous customers.

But how about the insults, the annoyances, the dangers to which they are subject at the hands of these outlaws?

All nonsense. They are not in any danger. They have little to lose, but their lives; and these the brigands do not care to take. It would be to kill the goose, and get no more eggs. In the way of annoyances the English labourer has to submit to quite as many, if not more, in the shape of heavy taxation, or the interference of a prying policeman; and when it comes to the question of insult, supposing it to be offered to a wife or pretty daughter, the Italian peasant is in this respect not much worse off than the tradesman of many an English town annually abandoned to the tender mercies of a maudlin militia.

Brigandage, therefore, in the belief of the Italian peasant, is not, at all times, so very unendurable.

Notwithstanding, there are occasions when it is so, and people suffer from it grievously. Scenes of cruelty are often witnessed--episodes and incidents absolutely agonising. These usually occur in places that have either hitherto escaped the curse of brigandage, or have been for a long time relieved from it; where owners of estates, deeming themselves safe, have ventured to reside on their properties, in hopes of realising an income--more than a moiety of which, under the robber _regime_, goes into the pockets of their tenantry, the peasant cultivators. And to prevent this residence of the proprietors on their estates is the very thing desired by their proletarian retainers, who benefit by their absence--this begetting another motive, perhaps the strongest of all, for the toleration of the bandits.

When, in districts for a time abandoned by them, the brigands once more make appearance, either on a running raid or for permanent occupation, then scenes are enacted that are truly deplorable. Owners for a time remain, either hating to break up their households, or unable to dispose of the property in hand, such as stock or chattels, without ruinous sacrifice. They live on, trusting to chance, sometimes to favour, and not unfrequently to a periodical bleeding by black mail, that gains them the simple indulgence of non-molestation. It is at best but a precarious position, painful as uncertain.

In just such a dilemma was the father of Luigi Torreani, _sindico_, or chief magistrate, of the town in which he dwelt, owning considerable property in the district. Up to a late period he had felt secure from the incursions of the bandits. He had even gone so far as to gain ill-will from these outlaws, by the prosecution of two of their number at a time when there was some safety in the just administration of the laws. But times had changed. The Pope, occupied with his heretical enemies outside his sacred dominions, gave little heed to interior disturbances; and as for Cardinal Antonelli, what cared he for complaints of brigand outrages daily poured into his ears? Rather, had he reason for encouraging them--this true descendant of the Caesars and type of the Caesar Borgias.

It was to this peril in which his father was placed that the paragraph in Luigi's letter referred. Henry Harding, reflecting within his prison cell, had hit upon its correct interpretation.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

THE TORREANIS.

On that same night in which the brigands had strayed into the town of Val di Orno, the _sindico_ had learned something which caused him more than ever to fear for the future. The bold, bullying behaviour of the men was itself sufficient to tell him of his own impotence, in case they had chosen to violate the laws of hospitality. But he had been told of something more, something personal to himself, or rather to his family-- that family consisting solely of his daughter Lucetta. She and Luigi were his only children, and they had been motherless for many years.

What he had learned is already known to the reader--that Corvino had been seen to cast longing looks upon his child. This is the Italian parlance when speaking of a preference of the kind supposed to exist in the bosom of a brigand. Francesco Torreani knew its significance. He was well aware of the personal attractions possessed by his daughter.

Her great beauty had long been the theme, not only of the village of Val di Orno, but of the surrounding country. Even in the city itself had she been spoken of; and once, while on a visit there with her father, she had been beset by blandishments in which counts and cardinals had taken part; for these red-legged gentry of the Church are not callous to the smiles of witching woman.

It was the second time Corvino had seen Lucetta Torreani; and her father was admonished that he had perhaps seen her twice too often, as that once more he might bring misery to his house, leaving it with a desolate hearth. There was no insinuation against the girl--no hint that she had in any way encouraged the bold advances of the brigand chief. On the contrary, it was known that she hated the sight of him, as she should do. It had been simply a warning, whispered in the father's ear, that it would be well for her to be kept out of Corvino's way. But how was this to be done?

On the day after the visit of the band, Francesco Torreani noticed something strange in his daughter's manner. There was an air of dejection not usual to her, for the pretty Lucetta was not given to gravity. Why should she be low-spirited at such a crisis? Her father inquired the cause.

"You are not yourself to-day, my child," he said, observing her dejected air.

"I am not, papa; I confess it."

"Has anything occurred to vex you?"

"To vex _me_! No, not quite that. It is thinking of another that gives me unhappiness."

"Of another! Who, _cara figlia_?"

"Well, papa, I've been thinking of that poor young _Inglese_, who was carried away by those infamous men. Suppose it had been brother Luigi?"

"Ay, indeed!"

"What do you think they will do with him? Is his life in danger?"

"No, not his life--that is, if his friends will only send the money that will be demanded for his ransom."

"But if he have no friends? He might not. His dress was not rich; and yet for all that he looked a _galantuomo_. Did he not?"

"I did not take much notice of him, my child. I was too busy with the affairs of the town while the ruffians were here."

"Do you know, papa, what our girl Annetta has heard? Some one told her this morning."

"What?"

"That the young _Inglese_ is an artist, just like our Luigi. How strange if it be so?"

"'Tis probable enough. Many of these English residents in Rome are artists by profession. They come here to study our old paintings and sculptures. He _may_ be one, and very likely is. 'Tis a pity, poor fellow, but it can't be helped. Perhaps if he were a great _milord_ it would be all the worse for him. His captors would require a much larger sum for his ransom. If they find he can't pay, they'll be likely to let him go."

"I do hope they will; I do indeed."

"But why, child? Why are you so much interested in this young man?

There have been others. Corvino's band took three with them, the last time they pa.s.sed through. You said nothing about them."

"I did not notice them, papa: and he--think of his being a _pittore_!

Suppose brother Luigi was treated so in his country?"

"There is no danger of that. I wish we had such a country to live in; under a government where everything is secure, life, property, and--"

The _sindico_ did not say what besides. He was thinking of the admonition he had recently received.

"And why should we not go to England? Go there and live with Luigi. He said in his last letter, he has been successful in his profession, and would like to have us with him. Perhaps this young _Inglese_ on his return may stop at the inn; and, if you would question him, he could tell us all about his country. If it be true what you say of it, why should we not go there to live?"

"There, or somewhere else. Italy is no longer a home for us. The Holy Pontiff is too much occupied with his foreign affairs to find time for the protection of his people. Yes, _cara figlia_, I've been thinking of leaving Val di Orno--this day more than ever. I've almost made up my mind to accept the offer Signor Bardoni has made for my estate. It's far below its value; but in these times--what's all that noise in the street?"

Lucetta ran to the window, and looked out.

"_Che vedette_?" inquired her father.

"Soldiers," she replied. "There's a great long string of them coming up the street. I suppose they're after the brigands?"

"Yes. They won't catch them for all that. They never do. They're always just in time to be too late! Come away from the window, child.

I must go down to receive them. They'll want quartering for the night, and plenty to eat and drink. What's more, they won't want to pay for it. No wonder our people prefer extending their hospitality to the brigands, who pay well for everything. Ah, me! it's no sinecure to be the _sindico_ of such a town. If old Bardoni wishes it, he can have both my property and place. No doubt he can manage better than I. He's better fitted to deal with banditti."