THE TOWN OF BASTIA.
Soon after four o'clock, our small vessel laboured its way into Bastia
harbour, and a crowd of little boats came alongside to convey us and
our effects to shore. I looked down, and saw the most wonderful sea, a
deep Prussian blue, tossing against the steamer's sides; looked above,
and saw a long, level shore, backed by low hills, the large town of
Bastia rising gently from the water's edge, with complex streets and
tall, factory-like houses. In a few minutes we were landed on Corsican
soil; and, whilst our things lay before the door of the custom house
just opposite the landing-stage, they became the cause of a lively
altercation between the many female porters anxious to appropriate them
as far as the hotel. We were the centre of an admiring, or curious,
crowd of about a hundred natives; and amongst these, twenty or thirty
tall, stalwart women and a few boys pushed, and jostled, and fought
over our possessions, with an intense determination good to see. The
men, meanwhile, Corsican fashion, stood by, silent and dignified, their
hands in their pockets, looking on indifferently at the struggles of
their better halves. When at length we were ready to start, and the
three trunks had been replaced on the hand-cart, we had to pursue and
divest five women of our small handbags, sketching blocks, and bundles
of wraps, with which, deprived of the trunks, they were separately
consoling themselves, deciding, to their mortification, that it did
not require that number of stout females, in addition to a strong
cart, to carry our very moderate allowance of luggage. Three of them,
nevertheless, followed us to the hotel door, where, placing the heavy
boxes on their heads, they marched with stately steps up the dark and
dingy staircase, and deposited them in our rooms.
It is astonishing what weight Corsican women can bear upon their heads.
From childhood upwards, they are accustomed to carry all the heavy
domestic burdens, and to carry them on their heads. They will pile one
thing on the top of another, until, in the distance, they look like
an advancing phantom of monstrous form. Enormous piles of wood, two
or three yards long, large baskets full of heavy family goods, great
wooden or earthenware cans and jars full of water, with sometimes a
baby on the arm, are their usual burdens. Nothing but a baby is ever
carried on the arm; and so much more convenient has habit made it to
them to use their heads rather than their hands, that I believe, if
the baby could be induced to keep its equilibrium as surely as the can
of water or the load of wood, it would long ago have been transferred
likewise to that elevation. Here is a specimen of a woman, who, with
a remarkably strong and plunging infant on her arm, and a very large
jar balanced sideways on her head, remained placidly motionless for at
least ten minutes before us at the village of Buchisano, to have her
portrait taken.
The men of Corsica never carry anything except a gun or a
heavily-knobbed stick; in fact, they rarely carry themselves, as they
are generally on mule or donkey back; and it is no unusual sight to
meet one or two of the nobler sex jogging along, pipe in mouth, on
their mules, whilst the women of the family trudge behind, bearing babe
and burden.
The Corsican women are much more lively than their helpmeets; they
have less of dignity and a vast deal more energy. They can appreciate
a joke, which, as a rule, the men apparently cannot.
I should imagine that a woman is never, or hardly ever, ill-treated in
Corsica. She is too useful, and the men of the family too apathetic;
but, undoubtedly, she is looked upon as an inferior animal by the other
sex.
"Les femmes sont si ignorantes," as a man said to me, with good-natured
contempt; and certainly they cannot discuss the politics and resources
of their country with the glib intelligence displayed by nearly all
the men; but the country would be in a queer condition without their
industry and energy.
The men mostly slouch a good deal, the result of a lazy, useless life,
spent in wanderings up and down the village street, and ceaseless
gossip, varied by an occasional expedition with their guns into the
country; but the women have a fine upright carriage, owing to their
long habitude of balancing heavy articles upon their heads.
The dress of the men at Bastia, and indeed all over Corsica, differs
little from that of the English working classes, and generally consists
of brown fustian or black velveteen. The only variety is caused by the
wide-awake hat, the high boots, and the invariable strap across the
shoulder supporting the large yellow gourd, which, hanging at their
side, contains their wine.
The women dress very quietly, nearly always in black or white, or
some equally sober shade. They wear a skirt and jacket of different
materials, with a large white or black handkerchief tied under the
chin. This handkerchief, when pulled well forward, is a good protection
against the sun; but, in the heat of summer, most of them perch upon
it an enormous low-crowned, flat-brimmed, white straw hat, as big as an
ordinary parasol, which, as it bears no trimming whatever, is somewhat
trying even to a good-looking face.
You never see a Corsican woman's hair, which is a pity, as there is
reason to believe it is often pretty and luxuriant.
Every Corsican carries a huge cotton umbrella--red, green, or brilliant
blue--both for the heavy rains and for protection from the sun.
Our first view of the Hotel de France somewhat appalled us. The street
in which it is situated is a fine one--the finest in Corsica--wide and
full of handsome houses; but the entrance to the hotel was mean and
dark, and the outside decidedly dirty.
The first hotel in Corsica, after leaving luxurious Italy, is certainly
a shock to a sensitive mind; and that at Bastia does not let you down
gently. The food is good and abundant, the charges very reasonable,
and the people exceedingly good-natured; but the stone hall and narrow
staircase are unswept, the bedrooms dingy, and the floors and walls not
above suspicion.
Nevertheless, the Hotel de France is the best in Bastia; and, although
we did not find it clean, we probably should have found the other
hotels (of which there are several) a good deal dirtier.
Our fat friend, who had established himself as our guide and protector
through the custom house and streets, and who had given his arm to one
of our party who was in a shaky condition, owing to the voyage, now
left us in the hotel hall, bidding us farewell till dinner time, and
commending us to the care of M. Stauffe.
It was an amusing table d'hôte at six o'clock. There were about
eighteen or twenty gentlemen, all Corsicans, we being the only
representatives of our sex. All were exceedingly lively, our stout
friend especially being the centre of much repartee and rapid argument.
As usual in Corsica, the conversation, carried on in very good French,
was almost exclusively devoted to political questions, which were
discussed very freely, and with so much animation that now and then hot
words seemed imminent; but they always passed away in a joke.
Our friend, after living so long abroad, found his opinions rather too
cosmopolitan for his neighbours, and they hammered away at each other
with an amazing freedom and familiarity.
But the old fellow continued to take a great interest in us,
interspersing his political talk with polite remarks across the table,
and recommending to us in turn nearly every dish. If we seemed to
approve of any of these, he became quite excited, nodding his head with
many smiles, and remarking in a satisfied tone, "Bon, bon, bon!"
This was repeated so often, being only diversified by an occasional
"Bien, bien, bien!" that it was quite impossible to resist laughing,
which at length we all did, including himself.
"Mais avouez, mademoiselle," he remarked to No. 3, "qu'il y a de beaux
plats dans la Corse."
"Sans doute," she replied, politely; "and many other beautiful things,
I believe."
"Mais oui!" he returned, smiling. "Un beaux pays. Et," with a sudden
happy thought, turning towards a good-looking young man seated next
him, and who did not attempt to disclaim the compliment, "de beaux
garçons! Blonds, comme lui. Et noirs--comme moi!"
The fair young man turned upon him quite fiercely. "_You_ a garçon?" he
asked. "How old are you? _I_ am twenty-four."
"And I forty-seven--un bel âge!"
His neighbour pulled his long yellow moustaches with a scornful laugh.
"You are an old man--voilà!" said he, curtly.
The wind that night at Bastia was remarkable. This part of the coast
is noted for its constant and varying gales. Whether this particular
wind were the "Sirocco," or the "Grecale," or the "Libecchio," or any
other of the various currents which afflict this town, I know not; but
it was a most unpleasant wind, and one that seemed especially weird in
the darkness of night.
My bedroom was a thorough Corsican room; not a bolt nor a lock fastened
properly, and doors and windows were confidingly open to every sound
within doors, and every breeze without.
Chimneys and roofs constituted the chief look-out, but my view likewise
comprised, between the two high towers of the church of St. Jaen, a
small stretch of blue black sea, lying heaving angrily in the fitful
moonlight, with now and then a gleam of sheet lightning illuminating
its dark bosom.
Wonderfully still and soundless was the night air, until suddenly,
every quarter of an hour or so, came a wild gust that rattled loose
slates outside, and shook the doors and windows as if they were wrested
by some violent human hand. This sort of thing, repeated all night long
at short intervals, and accompanied by a dismal howling like the wails
of lost souls in purgatory, is not exactly conducive to repose; and
my first night on Corsican soil was spent in pondering over insular
phenomena, and speculating how many would be of an equally disturbing
nature.
We spent several days in Bastia, during which time, either the sirocco,
or one of its family, continued to blow with unabated vigour; and, as
I found an equally squally wind in possession on my return many weeks
later, I concluded that this sort of thing had been going on all the
time. For which reason alone, if for no other, I infer that Bastia is
not a desirable place for a prolonged residence.
It does not take very long to explore the town. It is a rather compact
place of about eighteen thousand inhabitants, curiously built, as are
most Corsican towns, running up the side of a hill, with one large main
street, joined to the lesser ones by flights of steps, or more often by
steep stony ascents.
The houses are perfect factories for height and baldness
of architecture, being, however, a shade cleaner and less
repulsive-looking than in any other Corsican town, except perhaps
Ajaccio. Seven stories is the usual height; some of the houses having
windows closely barred and wired (the remains perhaps of the outward
symbols of a vendetta in higher life than is now the fashion). It is
the only town in the island, except Ajaccio, which really has any shops
to speak of; but they are rather difficult for an English person to
find, as comparatively few of them have "shop windows," and you have
to peer in through dark, dingy doorways, to perceive the wares sold
within. It took us nearly half an hour to find the photographer, and a
long walk up steps, and down steps, and through gardens, among which an
occasional guiding placard encouraged our wearying search. But, on the
other hand, I found quite an ornamental straw hat, trimmed with blue
wool, was to be bought for the modest sum of fivepence halfpenny in the
high street!
Judging from their shops, the people of Bastia must be uncommonly
fond of sweets. The streets are pretty equally divided between the
"patisserie" and "confisserie" shops, and the coiffeurs, with here
and there a jeweller's window. But the best jewellery shops (and they
are not much to speak of) are in the Rue St. Jaen, behind the church;
and here, as in duty bound, we invested in little yellow gourds and
silver-mounted daggers. These daggers--the smaller ones made of coral,
ebony, or silver, in silver sheaths, and the larger ones of metal--are
inscribed with the fatal words, "Vendetta," or "La mort," and are very
thrilling to a stranger. But the thrill cools somewhat when one learns,
as we did later on, that whatever may have been the fashion in olden
times, the dagger is now comparatively unknown to the Corsicans, and
its use confined to the Italian and "Continentale." Probably, in the
days when the vendetta was the fashion amongst the upper classes, the
dagger was its usual instrument of vengeance; but now that murdering is
banished in great part to the lower ranks, guns and pistols have almost
entirely taken its place.
The Hotel de Ville at Bastia, with its high flight of steps, and
containing some specimens of native marble, is considered a fine
building; but to eyes fresh from Florence, the land of enchanted
palaces, there was not much to admire about it.
The same may be said of the church of St. Jaen. Its two high
towers were imposing at a distance, but otherwise the exterior was
commonplace. Inside were some large Norman arches of white marble;
and the different altars were surrounded by balustrades and pavements
of local marbles--green, and red, and variegated--curious, but not
nearly so beautiful as the Italian marbles. The six or seven wide
steps up to the church door were covered by groups of picturesque,
barefooted, dirty little children, who roamed unchecked in and out of
the building, laughing and chatting, and occasionally enjoying a game
of hide-and-seek behind the pillars. Some black-robed women, and a man
with tin-tacks in his mouth, were busy arranging a large figure of the
Madonna on a pedestal within the altar-rail, in front of the principal
altar.
This position of dignity was no doubt owing to the approaching month of
May, or "month of Mary;" but also partly, as a good woman informed us
in a whisper, because of the present severe affliction of bad weather
under which the country was suffering. The prayers of Mary, besieged
as her ear would be, in this position, night and day by the petitions
of believers, would, it was hoped, effect a mitigation of the evil. The
image was of china, life size, highly coloured, with golden crown, pink
cheeks, and blue robe, and was placed upon a pedestal about five feet
high, from the sides of which sprung a large arch of white roses and
gold tinsel, which completely encircled the Madonna. This pedestal was
being covered by the devotees, who bowed the knee each time on passing
the image, with coloured stuffs and white lace, and bedecked with many
brass candlesticks and vases of artificial flowers. It struck me as
a singular fact, that in a country so grandly prolific of beautiful
flowers as Corsica, the artificial should be preferred to the real.
Continuing our walk through the curious, narrow, stony streets, where
in one place we had to run the gauntlet of a large bonfire in a very
small byeway, over which the Bastia urchins, with bare legs, leaped
to an inspiring tune of their own chanting, we arrived at the bastion
walls. They are high and picturesque, but not to be compared with those
of Calvi or Bonifacio.
Here, also, we came upon a market with uncommonly dear oranges, and
with gay stuffs ranged upon open carts or stalls for peasant purchase.
The best looking end of the town is near the landing-stage. A fine quay
stretches out for some distance, and there is a good harbour, generally
floating one or two fine steamers from Africa or Marseilles. There is
also, of course, a statue of Napoleon on the place in front of the
quay, and here the soldiers, in their gay uniforms of blue and red,
drill unceasingly, and daily parade the town twice to the oft-repeated
tune of their particular local march.