We know that in very early times, when a man felt himself injured, he took the law into his own hands and punished the offender—that is, if he were strong enough. Later on, when men got more civilized, this was not permitted, but offenders were punished by being fined. The fine was paid to the injured person or to his family—so much for an eye, so much for a leg, and so much for a life. Thus we read in the laws of Ethelbert: “If one man strike another with the fist on the nose—three shillings. If the eye be struck out, let boot (i.e., amends) be made with forty shillings.”

So in due time law took the place of private vengeance, and now, throughout almost the whole of Europe, if a man is wronged, he seeks redress in the public courts of law. This, however, is not yet the case in Corsica. There many people carry out their own punishments in their own way, or, in other words, they shoot their foes. Hence murders are common. At one period of Corsican history it is said that there were 28,000 murders in thirty years. Things are not nearly so bad as that now. The practice of taking private revenge is called the vendetta.

The Corsicans are quarrelsome by nature, and often, when excited by wine or by losses at cards, they will stab and shoot each other. Then they are rather fanciful about what they consider insults. If a neighbour’s dog strayed into a garden and rooted up the cabbages, this might perhaps be considered as a personal insult, especially if the neighbour were not friendly, and the owner of the dog would be in fear of his life. The offended one would hide behind a rock or a tree, and when a favourable opportunity occurred he would put a bullet through his enemy.

In former days, when daggers only were used, a man avoided a stronger foe, and waited for a chance to stab him in the back. But guns are now so common that any man with a grievance finds it easy to take the life of an enemy. Guns are seen everywhere. The shepherd guards his flock with a gun on his back; the travelling pedlar slings one over his shoulder; the driver of the diligence would as soon forget his whip as his gun. Small boys save up the odd coppers that they can earn or beg in the big towns, and carefully hoard them till they can afford to buy a gun, or at least a pistol.

But the quarrel does not end with the death of the first offender, for the relatives of the dead man think it their duty to avenge his unhappy end. If they can, they shoot the murderer himself. If they cannot do this, then they shoot one of his relations—any one will do—father, mother, cousin, uncle, or nephew. Of course, more deaths follow on the other side, and so the game goes on. At times a whole village is divided into two opposite parties, and the people are afraid to go to their work in field or garden.

When a man has made up his mind to avenge a death, he often allows his beard to grow until the terrible deed has been done. It sometimes happens that so many people are employed in tracking each other that life becomes next to impossible. In such cases a priest is often called in to try to act as peacemaker. If he is successful, the leaders of both parties meet in the village church, and solemnly swear before the altar to put an end to the quarrel.

After a murder has been committed, the guilty person “takes to the maquis.” Away he goes into the Bush, and, hidden in a hollow, he lives a lonely but not altogether miserable life. He is not so much afraid of the gendarmes, for, should they set out to trap him, some member of his own party will be sure to give him warning, so that he may get safely away to another hiding-place. He is much more afraid of a relative of the murdered man who may be hiding in the next hollow, ready to shoot him as soon as he shows himself. As a rule he hides fairly near to his own village, where he can receive food and clothing from his friends and relatives.

No one thinks any the worse of a man who has revenged himself in this way. In fact, if he did not, he would be regarded with contempt by friends and enemies alike. He is actually expected, as a matter of course, to take vengeance for his own or someone else’s injuries, and if he is successful, and has to go into hiding, the neighbours say that he “has had a little misfortune.” In some villages there exists to this day the practice of preserving the blood-stained shirt of a man who has been assassinated. If the man’s children are too young to seek out those who have killed him, the relic is shown them from time to time until they are old enough to wash out the stain with the blood of someone else. “One does not cry for a father who has been assassinated,” said a mother to her children; “one avenges him.” And a man has been known to cry out over the body of his father, who had died a natural death, “Alas! why did you not die by violence, that I might have avenged you?”

As girls are not supposed to be able to avenge the family insults in the same way as men, they are not treated as being of much account. A peasant who had six daughters and three sons has been heard to remark, “I have only three children.” Still, stories are told of women who have practised the vendetta like men. Some years ago a poor widow lost her only son by the hand of an assassin. The son was a good-looking, sturdy fellow of about twenty-two, and his mother’s only support. She had no relative to take up her cause. She went into the Bush herself, and searched every hole and corner, gun in hand, tracking the murderers of her son. They escaped from time to time, but she never gave up, and for several months the outlaws knew neither peace nor safety. One morning, however, she also was found dead at the corner of a wood. She had fallen a victim to the man who had robbed her of her much-loved son.

Sometimes it is not possible to find an opportunity to slay immediately the man you seek. But vengeance, though long delayed, is fairly sure. There is a story told of a man who was wanted by a neighbour whom he had offended. For twenty years this man kept inside his house, never daring to show his face upon the door-step. At last he heard that his tireless enemy was dead, and he ventured into the street to see the funeral procession go by. No sooner did he put his foot outside the door than bang went a rifle, and he fell dead on his own threshold. The funeral procession broke up with a laugh, for the whole burial business was a sham, a mere trick to get the man into the open.

A small cross is erected wherever a dead body is found, and in some places these crosses are scattered about so plentifully that the sight is quite saddening. As the peasants pass the cross they throw a stone or a branch at the foot, until in time a large mound is raised to the memory of the departed. Though murders are so common, yet theft is almost unknown. It is looked upon as a terrible disgrace to be a thief, and the traveller may sleep securely in the most out-of-the-way part of the country without any fear of being robbed.

One of the greatest things that Paoli ever tried to do when he was ruling the island was to put down the vendetta. He sent the priests throughout the land to preach mercy and forgiveness, and he himself travelled long distances to reconcile families who were at war with each other. He enacted severe penalties against all those whom he could capture who had taken the life of a fellow-countryman, and he was particularly stern towards all those who killed, not a personal foe, but the relative of a foe. Amongst the first victims of his new law was one of his own relatives, who, having committed a murder, was arrested and executed. Paoli was not able to completely suppress the vendetta, but so successful were his efforts that in a few years the population of the island was increased by several thousands, although the Corsicans were still at war with the Genoese, and losing men in every conflict.

The French Government is doing its best to put down murder, but, like Paoli, has not by any means been completely successful. In Ajaccio, in the early part of 1907, a porter on the quay felt that he had been insulted by a young French officer. So one Saturday evening he took his gun, walked into the restaurant where the young Lieutenant was dining, and shot him as he sat at table. No one attempted to stay him as he turned and fled to the maquis. He even dared to come back into the town on the Sunday afternoon, and sit in the crowded streets with his gun across his knees. My wife said to a local tradesman, “I hope he will soon be captured.” “Why?” exclaimed the man she addressed. “He is really a very good fellow.”