THE CURÉ OF CALVI.
Driving through an irregular little street with overhanging houses,
our coachman suddenly stopped before a dirty stone staircase. This, he
informed us, was the entrance to our hotel. We were suspicious; and the
event proved how just were our suspicions.
It seemed incredible that a large town like Calvi should furnish no
better inn than this wretched looking one; besides which, we had been
distinctly advised to go to a certain Madame Puoggi in the Haute Ville,
and this was the Basse Ville.
But it was impossible to move our stolid coachman. This was the best,
the only inn in Calvi: he had never heard of Madame Puoggi: there was
no inn in the upper town at all. Alas! we afterwards discovered that
this degenerate Corsican lied in this, as in other matters; and that
fate and his obstinacy had led us to the third best inn in the town!
But, unable ourselves to discover the mysterious Madame Puoggi, we were
forced to submit to destiny.
The sun was shining hotly upon white (or what had been white) pavement,
when we descended from the carriage, and the scene was one of the
gayest and most pictorial I ever looked upon.
A narrow, uneven street, houses with tumbledown balconies and broken
stone staircases, opening out before us to a wide white quay with the
gleaming sea alongside, and a row of vessels like Arab dhows at anchor,
drying their long drooping sails in the sun.
Behind these, the grand old citadel, white and fierce, looking down
with the pride of five centuries upon quay and town, and sea and hill;
and from the opposite coast, as far as the eye could reach northward,
a chain of receding blue mountains.
Most of the vessels had come from the African coast, bringing a motley
array of foreign sailors.
As our carriage drew up, three ghostly beings, draped in white sheeting
from head to foot, with nought but black beard and shining black eyes
emerging, stood motionless, a yard or two off, silently watching our
unbelieving footsteps as we entered the inn. Calvi is full of these
stately Arabs. Every corner you turn, you find one or two sitting
squatting in the sun in their white sheets, still as statues, but
silently following you with eyes full of a contemptuous astonishment.
After a hasty lunch in a room overhanging the emerald sea, and where a
balcony looked straight into its depths--a room with the most perfect
view ever framed by nature, but greatly marred by man's neglect of
drainage--we went out to explore the citadel.
Passing along the gay quay, and ascending a steep slope of stones and
rubbish between the houses, we found ourselves on the hill from whence
sprung the bastion walls, surrounded by sea on every side save one.
It made one almost giddy to stand at the base of these great sloping
walls, and look up their lofty face; and one felt no surprise at the
numerous shocks they had defied. Then, by a steep narrow ascent, cut in
the rock and protected by stony walls, we mounted into the heart of the
citadel, and the haute ville within. This haute ville, enclosed by the
fortifications, is the original old town; the basse ville below being
of much later date.
The houses inside the citadel were all of stone, and although close
together, in narrow, winding stony streets, up which no vehicle could
possibly go, were built with some attempt at regularity, and were not
so dirty looking as those in the lower town. There being absolutely
nothing but stone in the haute ville, the streets were comparatively
free from dust, and the high wind that swept over this lofty perch sent
a sweet refreshing air through the walled-in causeways.
The church stood in the main street, in the centre of the citadel.
Repairs were going on inside, and we strolled in, being soon joined by
the curé, a man about thirty, with a thin pale face and a sweet smile.
Gentle goodness was written on the features of this man; and very shy
was he before three strange Englishwomen, and altogether nervous of his
French idioms, but with a Corsican enthusiasm in his wild dark eyes.
The church, he told us, was built in 1100, but partially destroyed by
fire (coming, of course, from an enemy's bombshell!) about two hundred
years ago, as an inscription cut upon the outside steps testified.
He showed us the old font of black and white and red Corsican marble,
belonging to the fifteenth century, of which age also was the marble
altar. A strange old bas-relief in the chancel wall was much older
than this, and had been only lately found and uncovered. "Calvi,"
said the curé, with his dark eyes glowing, "has been bombarded eight
or ten times, but she has never succumbed. The church is as strong
as the rest of her fortifications, and has resisted many a siege. She
has never been taken, 'si ce n'était pas par les Anglais.'" He showed
us a large, badly executed statue of our Lord, placed within a most
curious and beautiful old frame, composed of separate small squares of
oil-paintings on sacred subjects.
"See," he said, "there used to be a life-size picture of the Saviour
inside that frame, and it was very ancient and beautiful. It hung upon
that wall opposite, under the western window; but the English, in
bombarding our citadel, sent a ball clean through the wall and shot
away the picture. So we removed it here behind the altar, and placed
this statue within the frame."
"Ah!" said No. 1, "that was Nelson's doing."
"Yes," said the curé, with one of his shy bright smiles, "it was
your great naval commander, Nelson. But, although he took Calvi, and
destroyed the picture, he left an eye behind him!"
And this was true enough.
"But," said No. 3, "you Corsicans like the English, do you not? They
have often been friendly to you."
"Yes," he replied; "the English are a free nation, and they can feel
for those who fight for liberty."
We were quite sorry to say good-bye to our new friend, as we left him
standing on the steps of his grand old church, the wind lifting his
black hair, and a farewell smile lighting up the refined, visionary
face, as he crossed himself with a thin brown hand.
Leaving the church, we wandered amongst the mazes of the little
streets, which seemed strangely deserted in the midday sun; feeling
glad at length to leave the strong glare of the citadel, and descend to
the sea and lower town.
In doing so we missed our way among the many loopholed stone passages,
and No. 1, fired by a desire to rouse one of those impassive white
statues and hear his voice, stopped short before an Arab crouched upon
a step, demanding of him our whereabouts.
The white bundle with the swarthy face, however, treated us with the
contempt due to our temerity, never even taking the trouble to raise
his black eyes, but keeping his stolid gaze fixed upon the sea before
him.
I began to think these doubled-up men could not move, so motionless
were they; and felt quite relieved when, later on in the evening, I
saw them striding, positively running--turbans unloosed, white robes
flapping, and shoes and stockings showing--up and down the streets,
buying provisions preparatory to a start.
The shore of the bay surrounding Calvi is wide and smooth, with a fine
sand and pretty shells, including a vast number of the mauve-coloured
_Donax_. The morning mists were clearing away, and it was very pleasant
to lie here, as we did, basking in the sun, watching snow peak after
snow peak, behind the blue hills opposite, slowly unveil itself and
stand out in a lovely white glow. The snow looked so close and so cool,
bowing over the hot sands, and throwing shadows on to the sea beneath.
Coming home across the sandhills, which separate the shore from the
level road, we came upon the most perfect and beautiful flowers I
ever saw. They were a species of low growing cactus, only rising a few
inches from the ground, the blossoms of a most brilliant rose colour.
They had the appearance of chrysanthemums, and were about three or four
inches across, covering the sandhills for yards with an unbroken sheet
of vivid crimson.
Returning to the inn, we found our dinner awaiting us, as well as three
native "gentlemen," who were anxious to commence operations at their
table, but could not do so until our advent.
These were the three avocats who, we had been previously informed,
unfortunately occupied the three best bedrooms. These individuals
we necessarily looked upon as our natural enemies; and our prejudice
against them was not mitigated by the terrific noise made by them and
the pretty waitress together.
She was a fat, untidy, golden-haired blonde; one of the prettiest women
I ever saw in or out of Corsica, but gifted with the strongest faculty
for banging about earthenware and metal utensils that could well be
imagined.
This was the spoilt child of the house, adopted, we were informed,
by the dark young hostess because of her superior education, which
enabled her to talk French to the guests. And talk French she did,
unceasingly--to the male guests, at any rate; standing with arms akimbo
against the wall, chaffing Messieurs les avocats to our utter neglect,
and making such a babel, between crockery flung about and shrieking
repartee, that we felt strongly inclined to throw a plate at her
touzled golden head.
Dinner, however, was achieved at last; and on re-entering our rooms,
what a sight met us!
The sun had just set, and twilight was creeping on, but the whole of
the near range of hills opposite lay bathed in a crimson glow that was
almost blood red, and was reflected in the clear waters below. The
glow remained for about five minutes, and then gradually faded away
into the soft grey of evening. Never in my life did I see anything more
beautiful or vivid than that sunset glow at Calvi.
Nos. 2 and 3 soon found that no retirement was to be had in their
chamber. The low open window looked out upon a balcony, which led up by
steps direct from the main street of the town.
The window-sill was just of a convenient height for the populace to
lean their elbows upon, which they accordingly did, in large numbers.
We could only shut out our visitors by closing both windows and inside
shutters; and we preferred the populace.
At last came a swarthy black-browed Italian, introduced by the pretty
waitress, whose noisy admirers had departed with their cigars down the
street, and who therefore had nothing better to do than to gossip with
us. He was a sailor, and his hands were full of pretty trinkets of
coral and lava, picked up by himself.
His Italian patois was peculiar, and the waitress acted interpreter,
whilst we bargained for his wares. He was a queer looking man, as black
and dirty as soot and absence of soap and water could make him, with a
passionate, cut-throat looking face, that broke out occasionally into
childlike smiles.
The bargains being completed to every one's satisfaction, No. 1, who
alone of us three could make herself understood by our dark friend,
plunged him suddenly into a condition of hopeless confusion and swarthy
blushes by requesting of him a song.
"Oh, madame, I cannot sing!"
"What! an Italian sailor not sing?"
"No, no; indeed, madame, I cannot."
"What, not this?" and madame hummed a gay boating song.
If our friend did not sing the song, it was clear that he knew the
words of it well, for on hearing them he became greatly excited,
seizing both madame's hands in his and pressing them affectionately.
Some weeks later, when at Ajaccio, Nos. 2 and 3, strangely enough,
again lighted upon our sailor friend. He was standing at the hotel door
with a companion, armed with fresh corals and some lovely feathery
seaweed. He seemed delighted to see us again, inquiring effusively
after No. 1, and informing us that he had worked his way on foot from
Calvi.
By the time our sailor had departed, it was growing dark. But our
visitors were not over. The door opened, and in trooped four or five
people, carrying with them the "canapie" which was to be devoted to
our use for the night, and proceeding leisurely, amidst much gossip, to
make the bed.
We understood and tolerated the presence of the master of the house
over this ceremony; but I was a little puzzled by the comfortable
deportment of a tidily dressed young man, who came in with the rest,
examined the shells upon the dressing-table, and entered into easy
conversation with us.
I inquired of giddy golden-head who he was.
"Oh," she said, carelessly, "he is a friend of ours; mate of a vessel
in the harbour."
I made no response to this, for I began to feel my ignorance regarding
manners and customs in Corsica.
The next morning, the usual rain was pouring down in bucketsful
overhead; but very thankful were we, after a sleepless night, an
early breakfast, and a dear bill, to depart from Hotel Colombani, with
its indescribable dirt and smells, its exquisite views, and its loud
waitress.