Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

Home > Literature > Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli > Page 31
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 31

by Marie Corelli


  MARIE CORELLI.

  Vendetta!

  OR, THE STORY OF ONE FORGOTTEN

  The very first title Corelli used for this novel was Buried Alive, but George Bentley, her publisher, suggested the final title of Vendetta! The novel was published in 1886, shortly after the publication of her first novel, A Romance of Two Worlds. The then Prince of Wales was sufficiently intrigued by the second novel to request his own copy of the book. It was summarised in a 1903 biography of Corelli (by Coates and Bell) as “an exposition – in the form of a novel – on marital infidelity.”

  The narrative opens with a melodramatic statement typical of Corelli’s style: “I, who write this, am a dead man.” Writing from the solitude of a South American forest, the narrator, Fabio Romani, tells the reader that he, a Neapolitan aristocrat, fell victim to an illness resembling cholera in his home city in 1884, slipped into a coma which to all those who saw him resembled death itself and he was placed in a flimsy coffin and “laid to rest” in the family vault. There he awakes and naturally goes into a blind panic, using all his strength to fight his way out of the coffin. He finds some booty hidden in the vaults by a band of brigands led by the notorious Carmelo Neri and resolves to use the treasure to finance his “resurrection”. Meanwhile, his “widow” carries on life regardless, seemingly unaffected by her loss.

  In reality the couple were a poor match from the start; Romani was a rather other-worldly young man, more used to the company of the arts and Guido Ferrari, his dearest male friend; Nina, his bride, whom he married in haste, is younger than him and comes from a family of noble name but poor character; her strict convent education has done nothing to dispel her inherited “bad blood”. From the outset, Nina has the upper hand; Romani can deny her nothing and is her “willing and devoted slave”. Before long the couple have a baby and Romani is rather taken aback at Guido’s less than enthusiastic welcome for his newborn daughter, left wondering at the heavy hints of jealousy and betrayal, but unable to connect them with his new and apparently happy life.

  Only three years after Nina and Romani first meet, cholera comes to Naples; here the back story and the present join together with Romani’s “death”. A shock almost as terrible as being buried alive is about to assail Romani, however. As he makes his way back to his home after struggling from the family vault, his appearance much altered by the shock of events, he learns that people are saying unflattering things about his wife’s character. Something in his mind tells him to approach his own home secretly and with caution; whilst hidden in the garden, he is devastated to witness Guido and Nina in a passionate embrace and it is clear that the affair has been going from almost from the start of the marriage. The final blow is to overhear his wife say: “I am glad he [Romani] is dead.” Romani is beside himself with grief. When the lovers have moved on, he takes up the crucifix he was buried with and “swore by that sacred symbol never to relent, never to relax, never to rest, till I had brought my vow of just vengeance to its utmost fulfilment”.

  Romani goes away for a while and on his return he poses as the Conte Cesare Oliva, a wealthy man returning to Naples after a long time away. The stress of his challenges has turned his hair prematurely white and on his return to Naples he dons smoked spectacles and is able to pass as a much older man; he befriends his “widow” and her lover as a stranger, a ruse that soon fools them. This is the first act of Romani’s execution of his plans for revenge, but can his plans succeed?

  In their rather sycophantic biography of Corelli, Coates and Bell describe the skill with which the author depicts Naples and its people and the way she can describe a delightful scene only to knock it down with some dreadful event; a master of building suspense. As the biographers point out, it is a familiar story she tells in this novel, that of marital infidelity and one which she reinforces throughout the novel with various similar anecdotes about murdered cheating wives and cuckolded husbands.

  This is a much better paced story than Corelli’s first novel, perhaps because there is a welcome absence of the many esoteric discourses found in Romance of Two Worlds. Some scenes are very well written; the account of Romani fighting his way in sheer panic out of his own coffin is convincing and suggests that Corelli could have been an accomplished writer of adventure stories if she had been so inclined. The suspense is maintained our desire to find out if and how Romani is able to exact revenge. Vendetta! is an accomplished novel, which holds its own with many other dramatic romance novels of the late nineteenth century.

  Corelli, c. 1906

  An early frontispiece

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  CHAPTER XXX.

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  Naples, Italy, c. 1890 — a main setting of the 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 dare 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 verbosity 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 honor and ruined name. And thus — whether 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 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 Sophocles or Shakespeare. Nothing is more strange than truth — nothing, at times, more terrible!

  Marie Corelli.

  August, 1886.

  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 moldering 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 fullness 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 i
ts clustering curls are thick as ever.

  “A constitutional inheritance?” asks one physician, observing my frosted locks.

  “A sudden shock?” suggests another.

  “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 civilization — a haven of perfect calm, delicately disturbed by the fluttering wings and soft voices of birds, and the gentle or stormy murmur of the freeborn 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 prejudice 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 mold — 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 vapor — creatures the very sight of which would drive you, oh, delicate woman, into a fit of hysteria, and would provoke even you, oh, 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? Especially 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 life-time! 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 — 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 future. Nay, there were even some who looked forward to my physical and mental destruction with a certain degree of malignant expectation — and they were estimable 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 spendthrift, a drunkard, an incurable roue of the most abandoned 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 gayety of sympathetic social intercourse — 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 hundreds 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 flavor 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 rose-red 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 manhood 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 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 voilà ton maitre,

  Il fut — il est — ou il doit être!’”

  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 commissions as I possibly could without rousing his suspicion 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 toward 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 harbor, 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 favorite haunts of pleasure or dissipation — but I was in no humor to be easily amused. Though I had plenty of acquaintance 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 picturesque beauty of the scene danced before my eyes in a whirling blur of brilliancy and color from which looked forth — one face! One face beaming out like a star from a cloud of amber tresses — one face of rose-tinted, childlike loveliness — a loveliness absolutely perfect, lighted 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 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 forever, and another had begun!

 

‹ Prev