staid behind to sketch the village, and taken shelter from a shower of
rain, had been courteously invited by a gentleman, who passed, to accept
the accommodations of his house for the night, but, in the meantime,
Antoine had conducted me and the baggage to another house. It belonged
to a small proprietor, who was profuse in his politeness, but, we
thought, lacked the really hospitable feeling we had found in houses of
less pretensions. Curiosity or civility brought about us quite a
_levée_ of the better class while we were arranging our toilet. The
supper was execrable, consisting of an _olla podrida_ of ham, potatoes,
and tomatoes stewed in oil and seasoned with garlick, and the wine and
grapes were sour. However, we had excellent beds. In my room there was a
small collection of books, on a dusty shelf, which I should not have
expected to find in such hands. Among them were some old works of
theological casuistry, Metastasio, a translation of Voltaire's plays,
and a geographical dictionary in Italian. I learnt that they had
belonged to the proprietor's uncle, a _medico_ at Padua, and were
heirlooms with his property, which our host inherited. The position of
these small proprietors is much to be pitied. By great penuriousness
they contrive to make a poor living out of a vineyard and garden with a
few acres of land, having neither the spirit nor industry, and perhaps
very little opportunity, to better their condition. There was evidently
some struggle in the mind of our host between his poverty and
gentility—added to what was due to the national character for
hospitality—when we came to proffer some acknowledgment for our
reception. It was just an occasion when, travelling in this way, one is
rather puzzled how to act, but we were relieved from our difficulty by
finding that our offering was received without much scruple.
Next morning, to my great surprise, for I was too sleepy to notice it on
going to bed, I found a gun standing ready loaded on one side of the
bed, in curious contrast to the crucifix and holy-water pot on the
other,—succour close at hand against both spiritual and mortal foes. We
had walked through the country without any alarm, and concluded that
the reign of the rifle and stiletto was ended in Corsica. But how came
the gun to be loaded? was it from inveterate habit even now that
fire-arms were proscribed, or was Louis Napoleon's decree still eluded?
I shall never forget the view from my chamber windows as I threw open
the long double casement at six o'clock in the morning. It was my first
view of Monte Rotondo, the loftiest of the Corsican mountains. A long
ridge and its crowning peak were capped with snow. The range to the
eastward was in deep shade, but with a rich amber hue behind them as the
sun rose. I watched its kindling light as it touched the snowy top of
Monte Rotondo, and spread a purple light over the sides of the eastern
ridge. The night mists had not yet risen from the valley of the Golo. We
hastened to descend towards it, after the usual small cup of _café noir_
and a piece of bread. The environs of Bigorno on this side are very
beautiful. Groves of olive with their silvery leaves and green berries
not yet ripened mingled with vines planted in terraces, the vines
festooning and running free, as one sees them in Italy. Gardens full of
peach and fig trees filled all the hollows—a charming scene through
which the path wound down the hill. Antoine brought us fresh figs from
one of the gardens—a relish to the dry remains of our crust. Before the
sun had gained much elevation, it became exceedingly warm on a southern
exposure; the green lizards darted from crevices in the vineyard walls,
all nature was alive and fresh, and the air serene, with a most heavenly
sky.
All this was very delightful. Nothing can be more so than this style of
travelling in such a country, with a friend of congenial spirit and
taste. My companion was very well in this respect; but, as I before
observed, his genius led him to be rather excursive in his rambles, so
that he was sometimes missing when he was most wanted. Now, we had just
started on this very agreeable morning walk with the prospect of
breakfast in due time at the post-house on the banks of the Golo. But,
instead of our enjoying this together, my friend, by a sudden impulse,
leaped over a vineyard wall, and saying he should like to take a sketch
from that point, desired me to saunter on, and he would soon overtake
me.
[Illustration: NEAR BIGORNO.]
What with a Pisan campanile, a Corsican manse, festooning vines, a
cluster of bamboo canes—indicative of the warm south—and the group of
mountains with the truncated peak in the distance, a very clever sketch
was produced, though not one of my friend's best;—and I have great
reason to be obliged to him for his sketches, without which I fear this
would be a dull book. At that moment, indeed, I would have preferred his
companionship. However, bating this feeling and a certain hankering for
my breakfast in the course of a two hours' walk, I trudged on alone in a
very pleasant frame of mind. Nothing could be more charming than the
green slopes round which the path wound, with occasional glimpses of the
Golo beneath,—its rapid stream white as the milky Rhone,—after leaving
behind the orchards and gardens. The rest of the descent lay through
evergreen shrubbery so frequently mentioned, and a more exquisite piece
of _máquis_ I had not seen. Thus sauntering on, sometimes talking with
Antoine, a species of shrub, which I had not much observed before,
attracted my particular attention among the arbutus and numerous other
well-known varieties. It was a bushy evergreen, of shapely growth, five
or six feet high, with masses of foliage and clusters of bright red
berries, having an aromatic scent.
“What do you call this shrub, Antoine?” plucking a branch.
“_Lustinea_; the country people express an oil from the berries for use
in their lamps.”
“Ah! I perceive it is the _Lentiscus_.” In Africa and the isle of Scios
they make incisions in the stems, from which the gum mastic is procured.
The Turks chew it to sweeten the breath. It grows also in Provence,
Italy, and Spain.
Presently, I sat down on a bank, casting anxious glances up the path
after my friend, and, basking in the sun, finished Antoine's basket of
figs, which only whetted my appetite, while I was endeavouring to
indoctrinate Antoine with the persuasion that our countrymen in general
are neither “_Calvinistes_” nor “_Juives_.” Antoine, who had been asking
a variety of questions about “_Inghilterra_” and “_Londra_” was not
better informed on this subject than a great many foreigners I have met
with in Catholic countries, who, by the former term, class all
Protestants with the Reformed churches of the Continent. I have often
had to inform them, to their manifest surprise, that we have bishops,
priests and deacons, cathedrals, choirs, deans and canons, vestments,
creeds, liturgies and sacraments, in the English church, and were, in
short, very like themselves, at least in externals. Matters of faith I
did not feel inclined to meddle with.
The discussion ended as we struck the level of the valley of the Golo,
not far from Ponte Nuovo. The heat in this deep valley became
suffocating, and the dusty high road was an ill exchange for the fresh
mountain paths. Here, then, I made a decided halt, and this being the
battle-field on which, in 1769, the French, after a desperate struggle,
gained a decisive victory over General Paoli and the independent
Corsicans, I had just engaged Antoine in pointing out the positions of
the two armies, and tracing the tide of battle which, they say, deluged
the Golo with blood and corpses for many miles,—when my lost companion
came rushing down the hill-path among the rustling evergreens.
“You have been waiting long—excuse me; I have had a little adventure.
That has detained me.”
“Humph!” My friend's sketching propensities often led him into a “little
adventure,” ending in a story which, I should almost have imagined, he
coined for a peace-offering, but that I had chapter and verse for the
main incidents. There was that story of his being kicked off the mule,
and—only the evening before—his _rencontre_ with the interesting young
shepherd.
“What now?”
“But you want your breakfast.”
“I should think I do.”
“I have had mine.”
“The deuce you have, you are luckier than I am.”
“Now, my dear old fellow, we will push on to Ponte Nuovo, and you will
soon get your's. I really am very sorry, but I could not help it.”
“But this is the famous battle-field, you know, and Antoine was just
going to describe it.”
“That will keep. We will make our _reconnaissance_ after you have had
your breakfast. As we go along, I will tell you how I got mine.”
The story shall be told as nearly as possible in my friend's own words.
* * * * *
“After you left me, I sat down to sketch in a little terraced garden,
shaded by fig-trees and vines. My sketch was nearly finished, and I was
thinking how I should overtake you, when a bright-eyed young maiden came
up, and, with the childlike wonder of a race of people living far out of
the track of sketching tourists, asked me ‘what I was doing.’
“‘Sit down, pretty maiden, and you shall see.’
“She obeyed with a _naïve_ simplicity, and we soon prattled away, she
telling me that she had never gone beyond the neighbouring villages, and
could not understand how I should come so far from _Inghilterra_, a
country she had never heard of, to draw pictures of their wild
mountains.
“‘Ah! you cannot comprehend how it is that I love your wild mountains,
and children of nature like yourself.’
“‘Will you come again?’—a question put with a spice of _espièglerie_
which, from some other pretty lips, would be rather flattering. ‘Yes,
you will come again, and I shall be grown up.’
“She did not seem, I found, quite pleased at being called ‘_mon enfant_’
by a young stranger, though it was all very well from her uncle, who, I
learnt, was the priest of the church in my sketch. Presently, away she
ran, blushing and smiling, to tell her uncle that there was a traveller
come from a far-off land who must be hungry, and who must eat and rest
under their roof.
“The good priest received me with much _empressement_, having been
brought out to meet me by the little Graziella, as I was following the
path to the cottage door.
“‘Ah! you are English, you are a Protestant, no doubt. It matters not;
the stranger is welcome under my humble roof were he a Jew or a Turk. We
are all brothers.’
“I found the priest well informed on English affairs, into which, and
matters connected with them, we soon plunged. Meanwhile, Graziella, with
the assistance of a hard-faced but kindly old crone, prepared a repast
of fruits, eggs, coffee; and the priest brought out a bottle of wine,
the produce of his own vineyard, which I have seldom found equalled. It
was all very appetising. I only wished you were there.”—
“I was just then, curiously enough, indoctrinating Antoine, nothing
loath, with the priest's sentiment of universal brotherhood, a simple
Gospel truth, which, overlaid with ecclesiastical systems, never took
deep root, and is sadly out of vogue now-a-days. I imagine we shall find
the Sards far more bigoted than their neighbours here.”
“And you were doing your good work, fasting, while I feasted. It was all
tempting, but I was puzzled how to eat my egg; there were no spoons.”
“Why not ask for one; you were talking French? Had you been attempting
Italian, you might have stuck fast. _Cucchiaio_ is one of the most
uncouth words in that beautiful language. Well I remember it being one
of the first I had to pronounce, when, in early days, I got out of the
line of French _garçons_: _cuc—cucchi_,—give me our Anglo-Saxon
monosyllables for such things as spoons, knives, and forks,—at last I
blurted out _cucchiaio_, in all its quadrosyllabic fulness. The Rubicon
was passed (by the way, it was on the _carte_ of my route); after that I
stuck at nothing, though for some time it was the _lingua Toscana—in
bocca—Inglese_.—But how did you manage your egg?”
“Why, it is good manners, you know, to do at Rome as others do, so I
watched the priest. He removed the top, as we do, and then very nicely
sipped the contents of the shell, which—charming Graziella! excellent
_duenna!_—were done to a turn, just creamy.”
“Ah! I perceive it was suction, a primitive idea, when spoons were not.
Now I understand the old proverb about not teaching our venerable
progenitors ‘to suck eggs.’”
“Old fellow, cease your banter, or I shall never get to the end of my
story. As to the eggs, I did not manage mine as cleverly as the priest
did his. I made a mess of it, bestowing good part of the yolk on my
moustache, much to Graziella's amusement. I perceived she could hardly
refrain from tittering. But she was soon sobered,—the conversation
turning on the last days of Corsica—and tears came in her eyes. Alas!
the ruthless spirit of _vendetta_ in this wild country had cost her the
lives of her father and brothers; and, her mother being dead, she was
left an orphan under the care of the good priest.”
“‘Uncle, persuade him to stay, if only for another hour. I should like
to hear more of those countries where there is no _vendetta_; where they
plough and reap and dwell in safety; where fathers and brothers are not
compelled to flee from their villages to the wild _máquis_ and the
mountain crags.’
“‘My pretty child, I cannot stay now. Perhaps some day I may return.’
“‘_Addio!_ then. _Evviva! Evviva!_ In two years I shall be grown up, and
uncle will no longer call me child, and you shall tell me more of lands
I shall never see. But ah! I know it will never be. _Bon voyage!_ Forget
not the priest's home among the mountains of Corsica.’
“I shall not forget it. How often one says hopefully ‘I will come back,’
when it would be idle ever to expect it; and yet I would wish to see
once more the little girl who said, ‘Come, if it is but for an hour!’
“I rushed down the mountain side, and found you scorched with a burning
sun, thirsty, breakfastless,—the very image of the knight of tho woeful
countenance,—I all joy and fun with my morning's adventure, you
perplexed, out of patience, hungry, and tired. I cannot help laughing at
the contrast.”
CHAP. XIII.
_Ponte Nuovo.—The Battle-field.—Antoine's Story._
Half an hour's walk along the high-road brought us to the solitary
building of which we were in search. Uniting the character of an
_albergo_ and a fortified post, of which there are several scattered
throughout the island on commanding spots, the loop-holed walls, with
projecting angles for a cross-fire, and the barrack round a court
within, still occupied by a small party of _gendarmes_, were striking
mementos of the state of insecurity in Corsica, and what travelling was
at no very distant period. Shut in by the mountains, the air of the
valley is close and stifling, disease marked the countenances of the few
inmates, and the barrack-room into which we climbed, with its benches
and tables, were all miserably dirty. The promise of a dish of fresh
trout from the Golo was a redeeming feature in the aspect of affairs to
one who had waited long, and walked far, without his breakfast. But the
dish reeked as if the Golo ran oil, and the fish were still floating in
the unctuous stream, spite of my injunctions to the weird priestess of
the mysteries of the cave beneath—“_Senza olio, senza olio_,” reversing
the phrase in the Baron de Grimm's story of the Frenchman, who, having
sacrificed his own _goût_ to his guest's _penchant_ for asparagus _au
naturel_, on his friend's falling down in a swoon, rushed to the top of
the staircase, shouting to his cook, “_Tout à l'huile, tout à l'huile_.”
We stood on the bridge of Ponte Nuovo, just beneath the post, the scene
of the last struggle for Corsican independence; and there Antoine
pointed out the details. The Corsicans, under Pascal Paoli, having
occupied the strong position in the Nebbio through which we had been
rambling for the last few days, the Count de Vaux, the French
generalissimo, concentrated his forces, amounting to forty-five
battalions, four regiments of cavalry, and a powerful artillery,
determined to crush Paoli's brave but ill-organised militia, and finish
the war by a single blow. The French commenced the attack on the 3rd of
May, 1769. For two days it was an affair of outposts, but, on the 3rd,
De Vaux pressed Paoli with such vigour in his fortified camp at Murato,
that the Corsican general was forced to retire beyond the Golo. He
established himself in the _pieve_ of Rostino, a few miles above the
bridge, leaving orders for Gaffori to hold the strong heights of Lento,
while Grimaldi was to defend Canavaggia,—two points by which the French
might penetrate into the interior. Bribed by French gold, Grimaldi—“_Ah!
il traditore!_” exclaimed Antoine,—and Gaffori, unmindful of his
honourable name, offered no resistance to the advance of the French.
On the 9th of May, the militia left by Paoli to defend the passes into
the valley, finding themselves unsupported, abandoned their posts and
fled.
“Down the pass we descended this morning from Bigorno,” said Antoine,
“through those other gorges you see in the mountains, our people poured
in wild confusion, closely pursued by the enemy. They thronged to the
bridge. It was held by a company of Prussians, who had passed from the
Genoese to the Corsican service; and a thousand Corsican militia lined
the river bank. If the French carried the bridge, all was lost. The
Prussians were the only regular troops in Paoli's army. They stood firm
in their discipline. The fugitives threw themselves upon them, charged
with the bayonet by the French in the rear. The Prussians had to hold
their position against friends and foes, indiscriminately, after a vain
attempt to rally the flying Corsicans. Unfortunately they fired into the
mass. A cry of ‘Treachery!’ was raised, the panic became general,
disorder spread throughout the ranks, the enemy profited by it to secure
their victory; the rout was complete, and the Corsicans scattered
themselves among the mountains and forests. The Golo was red with blood,
and the corpses of my countrymen, mingled with their enemies, floated in
its current for many miles. It was a day of woe, a fatal day!”
The feeling of nationality still lingers in Corsica, though without an
object, without a hope. Men such as Antoine, the mountaineers, the
shepherds,—all true-hearted Corsicans treasure up the traditions of
former times, and, with the scene before his eyes, Antoine traced the
action of Ponte Nuovo with as lively an enthusiasm, as deep an interest,
as if it had been an affair of yesterday, in which he had borne a part.
But the vision passed away. Antoine had pressing cares of immediate
interest, to which he now gave vent. Here we were to part; we had an
opportunity of forwarding our baggage to Corte by the _voiture_ which
daily passes Ponte Nuovo, and there was no further need of the services
of Antoine and his mule. He would gladly have followed our steps to the
extremity of Corsica—to the end of the world, and we were sorry to part
from him. Short as our acquaintance was, he had become attached to us.
Our rambles had brought us into close intimacy, and suited his taste.
We sat down on the river bank, and he unbosomed his mind more freely
than he had yet done. We learnt, on our first acquaintance, that he had
left his country and sailed to foreign parts. What forced him to
emigrate had been inferred from a fearful disclosure to which no
reference had been since made. Now, on the eve of parting, he told us
all his story, and opened out his hopes for the future. For reasons into
which we did not inquire, there seemed to be no apprehensions as to his
personal safety; but, lamenting the want of means and opportunity for
bettering his condition at home, his thoughts again reverted to
emigration. It was the best thing he could do; and, reminding him of the
success of many of his neighbours from Capo Corso, who sought their
fortunes in South America, we exhorted him not to indulge the indolence
natural to his countrymen, but apply himself manfully to an enterprise
for which he had many qualifications, and heartily wished him success.
The point on which his story turned was, as I suspected, a tale of love,
jealousy, revenge. He related the catastrophe with more than usual
feeling, but without any seeming remorse. He was justified by the
Corsican code of honour. The details, though simple, might be worked up
into one of those romantic and sentimental tales for which Corsican life
supplies abundant materials. But neither is that my _rôle_, nor am I
willing to betray Antoine's confidence. My readers shall have, instead,
a similar tale—of which, as it happens, a namesake of Antoine is the
hero—developing the same powerful passions. It is not one of the stock
stories borrowed from books which one finds repeated in writers on
Corsica, but, I believe, from the source from which I derived it, an
original as well as authentic tale. The scene lies at a village in the
mountains, not far from Ponte Nuovo, our present halting-place.
CHAP. XIV.
FILIAL DUTY, LOVE, AND REVENGE: A CORSICAN TALE.
On a fine spring morning, some thirty years ago, there was an unusual
stir in a _paese_ standing near the high-road between Bastia and
Ajaccio. The village, like most others in Corsica, clustered round a
hill-top, and stood on the skirts of a deep forest, with which the eye
linked it through intervening groves of spreading chestnut and other
fruit-trees. It was Sunday; and, after mass, the whole population
flocked to the market-place, a large open area in front of the _Mairie_,
to witness one of those trials of skill in shooting at a mark, formerly
common in Corsica as well as in Switzerland.
Above the roof of the _Mairie_ sprung a grim tower, serving at once for
a prison, in which criminals were confined, and for the barracks of the
_gendarmerie_ stationed in that wild district. On the present occasion
the target was set up at the foot of this tower, and all the young men
of the village were, in turn, making a trial of skill with their long
guns, while the old peasants stood near giving advice, and the village
girls, ranged in _costume de fête_ round the palisades inclosing the
place, rewarded the most successful of the competitors with smiles and
glances of encouragement.
The contest had lasted for some time, and many shots were fired without
the mark—fixed at the distance of about 300 paces—having been hit, when
a young man, armed with a short Tyrolese rifle, came up to the barrier.
He was dressed after the fashion of his fathers, but with great
neatness. Short breeches of green velvet descended to the knees, and the
calves of his legs were encased in deer-skin gaiters fastened by metal
buttons. A broad belt of red leather girded his loins. It concealed a
small pouch of cartridges, but the hilt of a strong dagger peeped from
underneath the belt. His open shirt exposed to view a manly breast. He
wore a sort of jacket of the same stuff as the breeches, but faced with
crimson, and garnished, after the Spanish fashion, with a number of
small silver studs. A high-crowned hat of black felt was cocked jantily
on one side of his head, and a medallion of the _Madre dei Dolori_ stuck
in the band, completed the picturesque costume of the Corsican peasant.
The young man, on his arrival, received a cordial welcome from all the
competitors for the honours of the day, and, among the village maidens,
many a bright eye beamed with a tender but modest delight on his manly
form, shown to advantage in the national costume. Still he gave no sign
of an intention to take any part in the sport for which they were
assembled.
In consequence, after a short interval, during which the firing had
ceased, an old villager thus addressed him:—
“How is it, Antonio, that you, the best marksman in the village, have
joined us so late? The sport flags; let us have one of your true,
unerring shots.”
“Excuse me, father Joachimo, I am in no humour to-day to partake in the
gaiety of my friends.”
Pressed, however, by repeated entreaties, the young man at last
yielded, and, advancing to the barrier, and unloosing his rifle from the
slings, took a cartridge from his pouch, and proceeded to charge his
piece with much deliberation. While doing this, his eyes were fixed on a
crevice in the tower, from which was hanging a little iron cage
containing the mouldering remains of a human skull. At this spectacle
his countenance changed from its usual ruddy hue to a mortal paleness,
and tears were seen to fill his eyes.