The Count of Monte Cristo
hamlet too poor to pay a priest and which, having no other name, was
called Borgo; he told Luigi that he might meet him on his return, and
that then he would give him a lesson, warning him that it would be
short, and that he must profit as much as possible by it. The child
accepted joyfully. Every day Luigi led his flock to graze on the road
that leads from Palestrina to Borgo; every day, at nine o’clock in the
morning, the priest and the boy sat down on a bank by the wayside, and
the little shepherd took his lesson out of the priest’s breviary. At
the end of three months he had learned to read. This was not enough—he
must now learn to write. The priest had a writing teacher at Rome make
three alphabets—one large, one middling, and one small; and pointed out
to him that by the help of a sharp instrument he could trace the
letters on a slate, and thus learn to write. The same evening, when the
flock was safe at the farm, the little Luigi hastened to the smith at
Palestrina, took a large nail, heated and sharpened it, and formed a
sort of stylus. The next morning he gathered an armful of pieces of
slate and began. At the end of three months he had learned to write.
The curate, astonished at his quickness and intelligence, made him a
present of pens, paper, and a penknife. This demanded new effort, but
nothing compared to the first; at the end of a week he wrote as well
with this pen as with the stylus. The curate related the incident to
the Count of San-Felice, who sent for the little shepherd, made him
read and write before him, ordered his attendant to let him eat with
the domestics, and to give him two piastres a month. With this, Luigi
purchased books and pencils. He applied his imitative powers to
everything, and, like Giotto, when young, he drew on his slate sheep,
houses, and trees. Then, with his knife, he began to carve all sorts of
objects in wood; it was thus that Pinelli, the famous sculptor, had
commenced.
20105m
“A girl of six or seven—that is, a little younger than Vampa—tended
sheep on a farm near Palestrina; she was an orphan, born at Valmontone
and was named Teresa. The two children met, sat down near each other,
let their flocks mingle together, played, laughed, and conversed
together; in the evening they separated the Count of San-Felice’s flock
from those of Baron Cervetri, and the children returned to their
respective farms, promising to meet the next morning. The next day they
kept their word, and thus they grew up together. Vampa was twelve, and
Teresa eleven. And yet their natural disposition revealed itself.
Beside his taste for the fine arts, which Luigi had carried as far as
he could in his solitude, he was given to alternating fits of sadness
and enthusiasm, was often angry and capricious, and always sarcastic.
None of the lads of Pampinara, Palestrina, or Valmontone had been able
to gain any influence over him or even to become his companion. His
disposition (always inclined to exact concessions rather than to make
them) kept him aloof from all friendships. Teresa alone ruled by a
look, a word, a gesture, this impetuous character, which yielded
beneath the hand of a woman, and which beneath the hand of a man might
have broken, but could never have been bended. Teresa was lively and
gay, but coquettish to excess. The two piastres that Luigi received
every month from the Count of San-Felice’s steward, and the price of
all the little carvings in wood he sold at Rome, were expended in
ear-rings, necklaces, and gold hairpins. So that, thanks to her
friend’s generosity, Teresa was the most beautiful and the best-attired
peasant near Rome.
“The two children grew up together, passing all their time with each
other, and giving themselves up to the wild ideas of their different
characters. Thus, in all their dreams, their wishes, and their
conversations, Vampa saw himself the captain of a vessel, general of an
army, or governor of a province. Teresa saw herself rich, superbly
attired, and attended by a train of liveried domestics. Then, when they
had thus passed the day in building castles in the air, they separated
their flocks, and descended from the elevation of their dreams to the
reality of their humble position.
“One day the young shepherd told the count’s steward that he had seen a
wolf come out of the Sabine mountains, and prowl around his flock. The
steward gave him a gun; this was what Vampa longed for. This gun had an
excellent barrel, made at Brescia, and carrying a ball with the
precision of an English rifle; but one day the count broke the stock,
and had then cast the gun aside. This, however, was nothing to a
sculptor like Vampa; he examined the broken stock, calculated what
change it would require to adapt the gun to his shoulder, and made a
fresh stock, so beautifully carved that it would have fetched fifteen
or twenty piastres, had he chosen to sell it. But nothing could be
farther from his thoughts.
“For a long time a gun had been the young man’s greatest ambition. In
every country where independence has taken the place of liberty, the
first desire of a manly heart is to possess a weapon, which at once
renders him capable of defence or attack, and, by rendering its owner
terrible, often makes him feared. From this moment Vampa devoted all
his leisure time to perfecting himself in the use of his precious
weapon; he purchased powder and ball, and everything served him for a
mark—the trunk of some old and moss-grown olive-tree, that grew on the
Sabine mountains; the fox, as he quitted his earth on some marauding
excursion; the eagle that soared above their heads: and thus he soon
became so expert, that Teresa overcame the terror she at first felt at
the report, and amused herself by watching him direct the ball wherever
he pleased, with as much accuracy as if he placed it by hand.
20107m
“One evening a wolf emerged from a pine-wood near which they were
usually stationed, but the wolf had scarcely advanced ten yards ere he
was dead. Proud of this exploit, Vampa took the dead animal on his
shoulders, and carried him to the farm. These exploits had gained Luigi
considerable reputation. The man of superior abilities always finds
admirers, go where he will. He was spoken of as the most adroit, the
strongest, and the most courageous _contadino_ for ten leagues around;
and although Teresa was universally allowed to be the most beautiful
girl of the Sabines, no one had ever spoken to her of love, because it
was known that she was beloved by Vampa. And yet the two young people
had never declared their affection; they had grown together like two
trees whose roots are mingled, whose branches intertwined, and whose
intermingled perfume rises to the heavens. Only their wish to see each
other had become a necessity, and they would have preferred death to a
day’s separation.
“Teresa was sixteen, and Vampa seventeen. About this time, a band of
brigands that had established itself in the Lepini mountains began to
be much spoken of. The brigands have never been really extirpated from
the neighborhood of Rome. Sometimes a chief is wanted, but when a chief
presents himself he rarely has to wait long for a band of followers.
“The celebrated Cucumetto, pursued in the Abruzzo, driven out of the
kingdom of Naples, where he had carried on a regular war, had crossed
the Garigliano, like Manfred, and had taken refuge on the banks of the
Amasine between Sonnino and Juperno. He strove to collect a band of
followers, and followed the footsteps of Decesaris and Gasparone, whom
he hoped to surpass. Many young men of Palestrina, Frascati, and
Pampinara had disappeared. Their disappearance at first caused much
disquietude; but it was soon known that they had joined Cucumetto.
After some time Cucumetto became the object of universal attention; the
most extraordinary traits of ferocious daring and brutality were
related of him.
“One day he carried off a young girl, the daughter of a surveyor of
Frosinone. The bandit’s laws are positive; a young girl belongs first
to him who carries her off, then the rest draw lots for her, and she is
abandoned to their brutality until death relieves her sufferings. When
their parents are sufficiently rich to pay a ransom, a messenger is
sent to negotiate; the prisoner is hostage for the security of the
messenger; should the ransom be refused, the prisoner is irrevocably
lost. The young girl’s lover was in Cucumetto’s troop; his name was
Carlini. When she recognized her lover, the poor girl extended her arms
to him, and believed herself safe; but Carlini felt his heart sink, for
he but too well knew the fate that awaited her. However, as he was a
favorite with Cucumetto, as he had for three years faithfully served
him, and as he had saved his life by shooting a dragoon who was about
to cut him down, he hoped the chief would have pity on him. He took
Cucumetto one side, while the young girl, seated at the foot of a huge
pine that stood in the centre of the forest, made a veil of her
picturesque head-dress to hide her face from the lascivious gaze of the
bandits. There he told the chief all—his affection for the prisoner,
their promises of mutual fidelity, and how every night, since he had
been near, they had met in some neighboring ruins.
20109m
“It so happened that night that Cucumetto had sent Carlini to a
village, so that he had been unable to go to the place of meeting.
Cucumetto had been there, however, by accident, as he said, and had
carried the maiden off. Carlini besought his chief to make an exception
in Rita’s favor, as her father was rich, and could pay a large ransom.
Cucumetto seemed to yield to his friend’s entreaties, and bade him find
a shepherd to send to Rita’s father at Frosinone.
“Carlini flew joyfully to Rita, telling her she was saved, and bidding
her write to her father, to inform him what had occurred, and that her
ransom was fixed at three hundred piastres. Twelve hours’ delay was all
that was granted—that is, until nine the next morning. The instant the
letter was written, Carlini seized it, and hastened to the plain to
find a messenger. He found a young shepherd watching his flock. The
natural messengers of the bandits are the shepherds who live between
the city and the mountains, between civilized and savage life. The boy
undertook the commission, promising to be in Frosinone in less than an
hour. Carlini returned, anxious to see his mistress, and announce the
joyful intelligence. He found the troop in the glade, supping off the
provisions exacted as contributions from the peasants; but his eye
vainly sought Rita and Cucumetto among them.
“He inquired where they were, and was answered by a burst of laughter.
A cold perspiration burst from every pore, and his hair stood on end.
He repeated his question. One of the bandits rose, and offered him a
glass filled with Orvietto, saying, ‘To the health of the brave
Cucumetto and the fair Rita.’ At this moment Carlini heard a woman’s
cry; he divined the truth, seized the glass, broke it across the face
of him who presented it, and rushed towards the spot whence the cry
came. After a hundred yards he turned the corner of the thicket; he
found Rita senseless in the arms of Cucumetto. At the sight of Carlini,
Cucumetto rose, a pistol in each hand. The two brigands looked at each
other for a moment—the one with a smile of lasciviousness on his lips,
the other with the pallor of death on his brow. A terrible battle
between the two men seemed imminent; but by degrees Carlini’s features
relaxed, his hand, which had grasped one of the pistols in his belt,
fell to his side. Rita lay between them. The moon lighted the group.
“‘Well,’ said Cucumetto, ‘have you executed your commission?’
“‘Yes, captain,’ returned Carlini. ‘At nine o’clock tomorrow Rita’s