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Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/ladystourincorsi01ford
Project Gutenberg has the other volume of this work.
Volume II: see https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44994
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
A LADY'S TOUR IN CORSICA.
by
GERTRUDE FORDE.
In Two Volumes.
VOL. I.
London:
Richard Bentley and Son,
New Burlington Street.
1880.
(All rights reserved.)
Printed By William Clowes and Sons, Limited,
Beccles and London.
PREFACE.
The popularity of Corsica is increasing so rapidly, and information
regarding the island is so difficult to obtain, that these sketches may
not be unacceptable to intending travellers.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Perils in Corsica 1
II. The Town of Bastia 11
III. The Grotto of Brando 27
IV. To Isola Rossa 50
V. The Curé of Calvi 74
VI. The Haute Balagne 87
VII. The Country of Serafino and Massoni 94
VIII. Some more about Bandits 105
IX. Corte and its Hotel 116
X. An Encounter with Street Urchins 125
XI. Manners and Customs at Corte 133
XII. San Rocco by the Restonico 142
XIII. A Thirteen Hours' Drive 151
XIV. A Bandit Village 170
XV. The Town of Ajaccio 190
XVI. Napoleon's House 201
XVII. The Chapel of St. Anthony 213
XVIII. Les Iles Sanguinaires 224
XIX. Jours de Fête at Ajaccio 229
XX. A Raw Lunch 239
XXI. Bergers and Gamins 255
A LADY'S TOUR IN CORSICA.
CHAPTER I.
PERILS IN CORSICA.
It is strange that Corsica should be as little known and visited as it
is. Placed within easy reach of the most unambitious tourist, offering
him the loveliest scenery and few serious difficulties of travel, it
yet remains comparatively a _terra incognita_.
Many people have a vague idea that its sole claim to distinction lies
in the fact of its having given birth to the great Napoleon, and that
it is now a land of semi-savagery, snakes, brigands, and other horrors.
There is not a brigand on the island.
Snakes exist in some numbers, but the majority are harmless; and, of
those whose bite is dangerous, there need be no fear on the part of the
traveller, as they are in a far greater hurry to get out of his way,
than he of theirs.
As regards the semi-savagery, that is perhaps a matter of opinion.
The Corsican comes of a race of heroes: he is proud, conservative, and
reticent; phlegmatic until roused, then dangerous.
The lower orders are full of intelligence, but their domestic
surroundings are utterly bare and unrefined, and the comparative luxury
of our working class is unknown to and apparently undesired by them. In
one respect the Corsican is certainly uncivilized; he is, as a rule,
quite indifferent to the value of money, and prefers his own inherent
idleness, or supposed dignity, to any pecuniary advantage. A gun is
generally in his hand, a spade never; and he will often starve before
he will work, beg, or cheat.
Rich lands lie uncultivated, and houses fall to ruins in Corsica,
because the inhabitants are too lazy to spend a few hours daily in
toil.
On the other hand, especially coming from Italy, the land of cheats
_par excellence_, it is refreshing to be in a country where there
is neither whining beggar, overreaching landlord, nor humbugging
tradesman.
A traveller may go from one end of Corsica to the other, and if
he behave courteously himself, will probably never meet with a
discourteous word, from the time he sets foot on the island until he
leaves it.
At the same time, it cannot be denied that the Corsicans, though
polite and even friendly to strangers, have a weakness for shooting one
another. It is nonsense to suppose the vendetta is crushed out; it is
as lively as ever in some parts.
The almost inaccessible mountains are still the resort of escaped
bandits (outlaws)--pursued by the weak arm of the law--who,
occasionally bringing down their gend'arme, are never known to
interfere with a stranger. Their object is not robbery, but concealment
from justice, and the crime for which it follows them is generally the
result of some private feud.
In all this, I speak of the lower orders, the Corsicans _purs et
simples_. The upper classes are not Corsican at all, save in their love
for their country.
A Corsican gentleman essays to speak French like a Parisian, and
imitates both the French manners and character. He is generally lively
and talkative, and has quite cast away the ignorant apathy of his
poorer brethren regarding the value of money. He is the advocate of
commerce and railways, and all modern improvements, and dreadfully
ashamed of such barbarous national customs as the vendetta, generally
flatly denying that such a thing exists at the present day, and boldly
telling you that not a bandit is now to be found in the mountains.
When we expressed our intention of visiting this unknown land, many
were the warning voices raised to intimidate us by alarmed friends,
and we felt that we were bold women to stick to our project. One by
one, the terrible prophecies poured in, like so many shadows of Job's
messengers, until the stoutest heart might have been excused a quiver.
The plague, malaria, sunstroke, serpents, brigands, bugs--these
were a few of the horrors held out by sensible people, some of them
travellers, for our consideration.
Notwithstanding these reports, however, we persevered; and the result
showed how much faith is to be given in such cases to friendly advice.
Each of the threatened perils turned out, more or less, nothing but a
phantom.
The truth of the matter is, that Corsica is a remarkably easy country
in which to travel, totally without difficulties or dangers of any
sort, to the person who is only careful to select a good coachman as
his pioneer.
On the other hand, the accommodation is often extremely rough, and it
is by no means the place for an invalid or a fastidious person.
The cooking is nearly always good, and the dinners excellent; but the
village inns are sometimes filthy, and the bedrooms horrible. There is
only one good hotel--really excellent--in the whole island, and that
is at Ajaccio; and people who travel in Corsica must be prepared, not
only for broken windows, sour bread, and no butter, but for bad smells,
black floors, and a total absence of all the decencies of life. They
will also occasionally find an army of black beetles in their rooms,
and sometimes something worse.
Sundry and manifold remedies we tried against this last and most
terrible plague; but all in vain.
One friend, a consul, counselled the use of carbolic soap, and we
accordingly each invested in a slab of this not over inviting article,
submitting ourselves to a scent like that of puppy dogs on washing day.
But the enemy didn't mind it in the least.
Another, military, friend believed strongly in Keating's powder, and
informed me how, one night in Poland, upon a threatened attack of
vermin, he had put it to a severe test. He had thrown up an earthwork
of Keating in a ring round the bed, reposing within peacefully
unmolested until morning. The enemy had stormed the bastion, but failed
to make a breach, being repulsed with heavy loss; and, when day broke,
retired discomfited and utterly routed, leaving their dead upon the
plain. But clearly the Polish bug has not the indomitable energy and
insular enterprise of his Corsican relative. Our carefully prepared
entrenchments were utterly futile; and the foe, when present, speedily
gained possession of the battle-field, causing ignominious flight.
But in many instances, where the village inn looked of the poorest and
lowest, our anticipations, in respect of uncleanliness, were agreeably
disappointed.
Our party, when at last it started for the island, consisted of three
unprotected ladies, whom, for the sake of distinction, we will call
Nos. 1, 2, and 3.
It was towards the end of April when we left Leghorn for Bastia, and
not a propitious day. All night long a high gale had been blowing, and
the lightning dancing across a black sky; and when, at about 8 a.m.,
we left the quay in our little boat, the wind had not moderated much,
and even in the harbour the waves tossed us up and down in a most
lively manner. When we reached the steamer, we saw that she was a most
wretched little concern, laden with merchandise, and of no beam at all;
whilst the open sea beyond was covered with high white breakers.
I think our hearts would have failed us, and we should have turned
back, notwithstanding the good augury of a Sunday morning, had it not
been for the tedious term of delay circumstances had already imposed
upon us at Leghorn and at Florence. We felt that if we did not go by
this boat, we might never go: the season was already late for Corsica:
so we shut our eyes, and went.
For nearly three quarters of an hour that horrid little knife-shaped
steamer rose and sank on the heavy swell inside the harbour; and then,
at length, when every one was beginning to look pale, she heaved up her
anchors and departed on her way. And what a way it was!
There were but few passengers on board beside ourselves, and no ladies.
The others consisted of half a dozen French and Corsican gentlemen,
one of whom, a stout, middle-aged individual, returning to his native
land after a thirty years' absence in France, took a special interest
in the three adventurous English ladies, who could brave such a sea
for its dear sake. This person, watching our failing powers, offered us
much kindly sympathy and well-meant advice, received, I fear, with the
amount of ingratitude usual on such occasions.
For eight long hours we tossed, and rolled, and danced about on the
bosom of that heartless sea. It was really bad weather, and the waves
washed clean over the rickety little vessel. I lay vaguely wondering
whether we should share the fate of a large Indian steamer, which the
very day before had been wrecked in this sea, on the Elba rocks, on
its way to Bombay. Starting from Leghorn at 5 a.m., at seven o'clock
she struck upon the rocks, and before an hour was over the fine vessel
was not only a total wreck, but almost entirely submerged. Fortunately,
a fleet of fishing-boats in the neighbourhood rescued the crew, and
passengers, who, after an unenviable cruise of seven or eight hours,
and with the loss of all their baggage, found themselves relanded
at Leghorn, where some of them came to our hotel and detailed their
misfortunes.
But over those eight hours I draw a veil. I would only caution any
intending visitor to Corsica, who may not be a good sailor and a tough
traveller, not to be misled by any popular delusions as to the "calm
blue waters of the Mediterranean," but to be careful as to the boat and
day he selects for his voyage. Also, to make sure that the boat marked
in his time-table does really go at the hour specified, or indeed at
all that day, which is by no means to be taken for granted.
"O that steamer to Bastia!
There could nothing be nastier,
Not even in Charon's dark wherry;
For _that_ passage is quicker,
And you cannot be sicker
In crossing the Stygian ferry!"