THE GROTTO OF BRANDO.
Notwithstanding the cold wind and the uncertain weather, we could not
leave Bastia without an expedition in the Cap Corse direction. Cap
Corse is the northern peninsula of Corsica, stretching out into the
Mediterranean for many miles, like a long tongue. At its extremity are
fine rocks and one or two lighthouses, but these we were fated not to
see.
We started from the hotel in good time, leaving behind No. 1, who
preferred the quaintness of the Bastia architecture, and wished to
sketch in the streets.
Our equipage was a little open carriage, drawn by a pair of lively
chestnut ponies that went like the wind; and we were further escorted
by "Bigemark"--a black and tan quadruped apparently belonging to the
pointer breed, intelligent and affectionate, but not endowed with the
fatal gift of beauty, and possessed of barely a remnant either of ears
or tail. Our first object was to see the Caves of Brando, wonderful
grottos of limestone formation, in the hillside close by the seashore,
about seven miles from Bastia.
The road to Brando was charming, following the shore the whole way,
about a dozen yards above the sea level; the slope downwards being
clothed with splendid cacti, and with groves of olive, orange, cherry,
walnut, and fig trees, with here and there an ilex. Out of the forests,
the two common trees of Corsica are the olive and the ilex; and
beautifully they harmonize together, the rich shining green of the ilex
contrasting effectively with the silver grey of the olive.
The forest trees consist chiefly of pines, firs, and beeches, varied by
a few oaks and cedars; and the chestnut woods generally stand alone.
Bordering the slope, and amongst the olives, bloomed flowers of every
description and colour; whilst great grasses, pale pink asphodel, and
giant golden spurge, grew like young trees among the rocks, and all
along the roadside the weird prickly pear raised its ghostly arms in a
huge hedge.
Beyond this, almost from beneath our feet, stretched far away the wide
sweep of Mediterranean, sparkling with countless flashes, and bearing
on its laughing bosom the islands of Capraya, Elba, and Monte Christo.
Monte Christo was but a blue cone above the waters; and Capraya, though
larger, was cloudy and mysterious; but Elba lay before us majestically
grand in the dappled sunlight, precipitous walls of barren rock and
smiling hillside standing out in a fine contrast.
On the other side of the road, and rising steeply up, were rocky hills,
well clothed with the sweet-smelling macchie; whilst, between every
rocky rift, showed glimpses of wilder mountains, the inland chain of
Corsica, raising their grey heads from misty veils of morning.
Macchie, in Corsica, is a word that means much. It is, literally,
scrub or undergrowth; but it is, practically, one of the most perfect
garments ever woven by nature. It may be thick or thin, but is
generally composed of a dense mass of shrubs, from two to four feet
high, massed over and carpeted under by the richest and most luxuriant
flowers.
The pink and the white cystus, the common weed of Corsica, which covers
miles of country with its red or snow-white bushes on their sturdy
growth, is the usual foundation of the macchie; but mingled with it
are a score of other low growing plants, of various and often aromatic
scents.
Here, by the Bastia road, where the hills sloped gently up from the
road, the macchie grew closely; but where the grey and green and red
rocks rose more steeply, the plants could only hang in the crevices
overhead--here a cystus, and there a purple thistle, with the little
crimson cyclamen peeping out of every cranny, and the bright lizards
darting across the sunny stones.
Very beautiful was this first view of the Corsican rocks, and of the
wide sea panorama of historic islands, each telling in silent grandeur
its own history of adventure, heroism, or the stern freaks of fortune.
The very name of Monte Christo seemed to launch one into dim dreams
of wild peril and desperate attempt; whilst the dark cliffs of Elba
frowned in a stern harmony to their tale of the despotic emperor, whose
heart for a time beat in impotent resistance against its prison walls.
What a satire it seemed, to place that proud, all-conquering Corsican
on an island from whose heights he could plainly see the rugged
mountains of his native land--almost smell the sweet odours of the
macchie-covered hills, wafted across his childhood's sea, from her to
him!
At last, in a blue bay where little breakers dashed merrily, the red
ponies were suddenly reined up. Bigemark came to the carriage door
to offer his congratulations, and our taciturn coachman informed us
we were at Brando. At the same time he obligingly pointed out to us,
up the side of the steep hill, a stony watercourse, down which ran
a lively little stream, and which, he told us, was the "path" to the
grotto.
Up this we accordingly went, with one hand keeping a desperate clutch
on our straw hats (which evinced a strong disposition to obey the
invitation of the sirocco, and fly away for a nearer view of Capraya),
and, with the other, rescuing what garments we could from the running
stream.
About half-way up the hill we were met by an aged but lively crone,
who with another woman escorted us to the caves, informing us, as
we supposed (for it was quite impossible to understand her toothless
jumble of bad French and Italian patois), that she was the custodian
of the place. The grottos belong to a private family, of the name of
Ferdinandi, who have made the winding staircases, and whose name, on
the stone slab fixed in the rock outside, is appended to the intimation
that this their work is devoted to the enjoyment of all lovers of
beauty.
Leading us by the hand, and laughing much at our evident want of
comprehension of all the interesting facts with which she was beguiling
the short way, our cavern crone opened a little wooden door in the
face of the cliff, and ushered us straight into a Gothic-roofed
hall of limestone, the reception room in this winding gallery of
nature's building. Here we were told (by gesture) to remain until our
guides returned. We accordingly sat down on a block of limestone,
which constituted the one chair in this chilly, half-stuffy hall,
semi-darkness revealing the grey white walls and roof, and the rude
staircase up which had gone our two companions to light up the many
hanging lamps necessary to illuminate the caves.
In about ten minutes they returned, and we then proceeded up the same
staircase, cut roughly out of the rock, into the heart of the cliff.
Overhead hung countless glittering stalactites, whilst on each side
the most fantastic walls enclosed us, the dim rays of the oil lamps
throwing open tracery and arched roof into weirdest shadows and gleams
of sparry radiance.
Here and there the path was broken, and in some places we had to bow
humbly beneath the drooping arch; sometimes up, and sometimes down, we
went on in this airy labyrinth for about ten minutes before we turned
and came back by another path. The limestone formations probably extend
much further into the cliff; but the winding pathway goes no further,
and one can only be thankful that Corsican energy has effected so much.
The forms of some of the stalagmites were most curious, rising like
Alpine ranges, with an infinity of Matterhorns, above many a little
hollowed nook, or like the carved screen behind some marble altar; some
so delicate in tracery and so transparent that a light, held behind
them, lit them up like finely veined cream-coloured glass; whilst the
stalactites overhead were countless and most graceful, often passing
below their stalagmitic brethren and falling between them in a rich
confusion of spiral carving.
What a glare it seemed when we emerged again from fairyland, out among
the arbutus and the foxgloves on the green hillside, overlooking the
dazzling sea!
The old woman was merrier than ever after her short incarceration in
Mother Earth, and held out her capacious apron to receive our fees;
sending after us many good wishes, which I have no doubt were as
sincere as her witticisms were pungent, but which unfortunately were
quite lost upon us.
The stipulated sum to see the caves of Brando is a franc and a half
each person. It seems a good deal at first; but the visitors are no
doubt few, and the expense of so many lights rather heavy.
In a minute or two more, we and the red ponies and Bigemark were off
again, trotting on to the marina, or little sea hamlet of Sisco. A mile
or two past Brando, we came in sight of Erbalunga, a most picturesque
little village lying on a low tongue of land right out into the
Mediterranean, a Genoese round tower at its furthest end, standing on
black rocks washed incessantly by the breaking waves.
Towards one o'clock we reached our baiting place, a seashore village
which appeared to consist of one house, namely, the dirty and
unpretentious inn before which we stopped. Since leaving Brando, the
road had become sterner, the rocks barer, and the flowers more scanty;
the green groves disappearing from the waterside, and being replaced by
great blocks of granite and porphyry.
Feeling a little doubtful as regarded lunch, we entered the inn door,
and picking our way across the very dirty floor of the outer room, in
which were assembled some half dozen or so of peasant men and women,
with the usual accompaniment of dogs and guns, we were shown by the
host into an inner apartment, and supplied with two rickety chairs.
The floor of this apartment was not much cleaner than the other, and
a bedstead lately in use filled one end of it. But a capital smell
of cooking came from the kitchen on the other side, and through the
grimy little window gleamed the bluest sweep of sea and sky. After some
conversation with our host, a hairy, black bearded man of polite and
sociable proclivities, smoking a short pipe, we discovered that the
culinary resources of the establishment consisted of an omelette. But,
sniffing again incredulously, and stating our conviction that something
better was secreted in the little kitchen, after some hesitation, a
soup tureen, containing the most savoury smelling soup, was brought to
us.
"Look here, mesdames," said the landlord confidentially, "I have two
more ladies upstairs, lodging here; young ladies, whose home is in the
Cap, and this is their soup. But, if you will not take too much, you
shall have some. The ladies have also my best room, or you would not
have had to put up with this poor apartment."
Whilst making his polite speeches, and they were many, our host
constantly half raised his fur cap from his bushy hair; but he
continued to smoke his short black pipe.
Whilst we were eating our soup, he drew a chair up to the table, and
continued the conversation.
"You are Continentales, ladies, are you not? Are you Frenchwomen?"
"No, monsieur, we are English," we replied, feeling gently flattered by
the compliment to the purity of our French accent.
It was not until some time later that I discovered that the Corsican
lower orders, although often speaking the French tongue tolerably
fluently, yet were not very correct judges of the French accent. And
I confess my vanity received a shock when a young Corsican gentleman
at Corte, who had travelled a good deal and lived some time in Paris,
remarked, almost before I had opened my mouth, "You are English, I
perceive, mademoiselle? One discovers that at once by your accent!"
This gentleman was very agreeable, and gave me some interesting
information about his country; but, from his opening speech, I
could have told _him_, however good his accent, that _he_ was not a
Frenchman.
"Ah!" said the landlord, thoughtfully, "English, to be sure. They
travel a great deal, for they are all rich, as rich as possible."
"No," said I; "some of them are very poor." Whereat our black friend
laughed incredulously.
It is simply impossible to convince any uneducated Corsican that
England is not a nation composed exclusively of millionaires. He thinks
every English person has his pocket full of gold.
England, although well known to them all by name, is to them a sort of
Ultima Thule; and the mere fact of a journey taken from such a distance
for purposes of pleasure, seems to them conclusive upon the point.
"How can you say you are not wealthy when you have come all this way to
amuse yourselves?" was frequently said to us in a tone of conviction.
This being the popular notion, it is much to the credit of the people,
and a proof of the national simplicity and honesty, that imposition and
overcharging to strangers is almost unknown.
A little stir outside now attracted the attention of the landlord, and
he left us to finish our lunch alone. This appeared to me a favourable
opportunity for depriving the Cap Corse young ladies of a little more
of their good soup, and I was just going to help myself to a second
basinful when the old woman who had spread the table for us, and who no
doubt had suspected my felonious intentions, entered from the kitchen
and abruptly bore off the tureen upstairs.
So I had to content myself with munching some sour bread, which my
companion was already sharing with a happy family gathered around,
consisting of three cats, a dog, two pigeons, and a hen. They did not
seem to share our objections to the bread which we found difficult to
swallow, even when soaked in the good red wine upon the table.
The peninsula of Cap Corse is celebrated for its red and white
wines, which even in the sixteenth century, we are told by the native
historian Fillipini, were exported to the Continent and much thought
of.
In some particulars, this northern district of Cap Corse bears a
stamp of its own, apart from the customary Corsican character. It is
one of the most fertile districts in the island. Oranges and lemons,
and the fruit called the cédrat, which is neither orange nor lemon,
but something between the two, and is much preserved, grow here
luxuriantly; whilst vineyards flourish in every direction.
The valleys all along the coast, and especially the Vale of Luri, are
green and cultivated; and the population is thicker and more well-to-do
than in the other parts of the island. The land certainly is rich and
peculiarly friendly to the growth of vines, but the secret perhaps lies
in the superior energy of the Cap Corse people.
For several centuries they have manifested an industry truly
unpatriotic, and a corresponding neglect of warlike pursuits. Among
the gentler inhabitants of this district it was, too, that Christianity
found its first converts on the island, from them gradually spreading
to the sterner tribes southward; and tradition asserts that St. Paul,
amongst his many perils by sea, braved the dangers of this rocky coast,
and landed somewhere on Cap Corse as its first missionary.
Sisco also, Gregorovius tells us, possesses a marine church dedicated
to St. Catherine, and containing some very remarkable relics, such as
the rod with which Moses smote the Red Sea, almonds from the garden
of Eden, and even a piece of the lump of earth from which Adam was
modelled!
I saw no church in or near Sisco during my short stay there; but, had I
then been aware of the reputed possession of these treasures, I should
certainly have made some efforts to discover its whereabouts.
We were still struggling with the sour bread when the landlord
re-entered. He had rather a triumphant smile upon his countenance, as
he remarked quietly, "You cannot go back to Bastia; you must stay here.
Your carriage is all broken to pieces."
"That is unfortunate," said we; "but we could not stop here, quand
même; we could walk back to Bastia, it is not ten miles." And, leaving
the happy family, we walked outside to see the truth of the assertion.
A little crowd of about a dozen people, constituting, I fancy, all
the population of the village of Sisco, had gathered round the inn,
watching the course of events with a sort of phlegmatic interest.
Our carriage was gone from its original position in the middle of the
road, and stood by the wall of the inn yard, with one red pony standing
quietly beside it, and the other enjoying a canter on his own account
about a quarter of a mile off, and rapidly becoming a speck in the
distance.
As we came up, our driver advanced to us, with the pole and part of the
carriage in his hand, saying curtly, with the first smile we had yet
seen upon his countenance, "The carriage is broken."
To use a slang expression, we both felt a little "floored." "Yes," we
replied to this incontrovertible fact; "but don't you think you had
better catch the pony?"
Jehu acquiesced silently, and proceeded in a leisurely manner up
the road, where, assisted by another man, he managed to capture the
recalcitrant pony in an incredibly short space of time.
"Well," we inquired when he returned; "and how are we to continue our
journey?"
"You cannot."
"Won't the carriage hold together?"
"Mais non!"
"And how are we to get back to Bastia?"
"Oh, I will mend it up enough for that."
It was impossible to be angry with such a piece of placid indifference
as this man, however much one might wish it; one might as well have
been angry with a sack of wheat.
So we left him, humming softly to himself, to mend up the carriage as
best he could, whilst we walked on towards the Cap for a two or three
hours' stroll.
The sun now lay hot upon the shadeless road, which began to mount
gently, keeping, however, close above the seashore, and always
bastioned on its other side by rocky walls, which after a while
gave place to massive lordly hills, green and steep, more than one
surmounted by ruined tower or long deserted cloister, braving in
solitary grandeur the eastern gales that sweep each crag-topped
eminence.
It was a beautiful walk; only a little bit marred by the unpleasant
attentions of two men in a mule cart. They passed once, stopping the
conveyance to offer us a seat, which we declined; and afterwards
shouting and calling after us from a wayside inn, where they had
stopped.
On returning homeward, we were not overpleased to see our persecutors
again coming after us in their blue blouses and black wide-awakes.
Apparently their journey had been no further than to the inn; and it
was probably not the first inn they had visited, for they were more
pressing and less agreeable than ever. One man went so far as to jump
down from his seat, insisting upon the advantages of a drive in the
cart; and it was only by walking on rapidly, with the damping remark
that we did not understand a word they said (which, as they spoke a
harsh Italian patois, was nearly true), that we at length managed to
get rid of them. This, I must remark, was the sole occasion on which
any one of us experienced any rudeness or unpleasantness from the
behaviour of any grown up Corsican man or woman. One could scarcely say
as much for many more frequented countries, after incessant travelling
for several weeks in their loneliest and wildest regions.
On nearing Sisco, we met the carriage, driver, and ponies coming slowly
towards us.
"See," said the coachman, with a gay, placid smile, "am I not a good
workman?" And he pointed to the pole and broken carriage, pieced
together by his bits of string. He really seemed to think the breakage
altogether quite a clever affair.
"How did the accident originally happen?" we inquired.
"The ponies ran up against the wall whilst I was out of sight for a
moment," was the careless reply.
The man was evidently not a fool, but his comfortable phlegm surpassed
anything I ever saw, out of Corsica.
On the road home, we passed another round tower standing lonely by
the roadside overlooking the sea, and No. 3 got out to sketch it. It
was--like all the Genoese towers which strew the country, standing
erect on every high cliff and commanding hill--perfectly round and not
very lofty, but of immense thickness, and but little ruined.
Apparently, our coachman had not profited much by his morning's lesson;
for, whilst we sat by the roadside, he found it more to his taste to
come and look over our shoulders than to remain by his carriage. The
ponies were anxious to get home, and would not stand. They had already
taken the empty carriage, with no guard save Bigemark, half across the
road, when I pointed out the fact to Jehu.
"Oh," said he, composedly, "they will stand."
"But," said No. 2, "they are _not_ standing; they are moving now."
Again he smiled silently.
"Is it your carriage?" I demanded of the imperturbable man.
"Mais non!"
"Whose, then?"
"M. Stauffe, sans doute."
"Poor M. Stauffe! I am sorry for him. His carriages must come
expensive."
Jehu gave a momentary stare, and then took the hint, and departed to
his ponies.
No town could look more lovely than did Bastia as we returned
homewards. Framed in by a foreground of noble cacti and of green hills
on one side, and blue sea on the other, the shipping stood out against
a crimson sky, and the white houses lay in the soft evening light
against a range of pink and blue and purple mountains.
The wind had moderated, and the Mediterranean, as we entered the town
and passed along the broad quay, lay like a shining sapphire against
the dark mole; but the calm was delusive, for at night again the
sirocco resumed its sway, and a few hours later a vivid thunderstorm
was rolling over the angry sea.
Not much beyond Sisco lies Pino, a village on the western shore,
surrounded by gardens, vineyards, and the residences of some of the
wealthiest of the islanders. Not far from it is the celebrated tower
of Seneca, a round tower standing in stern solitude on the summit
of a pointed rock rising from amongst the mountains and overlooking
two seas. We were very sorry not to see this tower, although it is
very doubtful whether it deserves its name, and whether the Roman
philosopher, during his eight years' exile in the uncongenial land of
Corsica, did really frequent these rocky wilds in preference to the
neighbouring towns of Mariana or Aleria. Corsican savagery and Corsican
character were unpalatable and incomprehensible to the courtly, selfish
stoic, and his comments upon his hosts are little flattering. He
calls them liars, robbers, revengeful, and irreligious, and will not
even admit the natural beauties of this "rude island," "desolate in
situation, scanty in products, and unhealthy in climate."
But the unhappy position of poor Seneca may well explain his
ill-temper. He might write long-winded letters of consolation to
his mother, inculcating the beauty of resignation and of a calm
indifference to earthly surroundings; but I have no doubt the sour
bread and stony roads tried the equanimity of the polished Roman
just as much as they do that of the fastidious traveller nowadays,
who moreover comes, unlike Seneca, by his own will and for his own
pleasure.