SAN ROCCO BY THE RESTONICO.
The environs of Corte abound in lovely walks. Surrounded as it is by
mountain, ravine, and river, this is no wonder. Certainly, one not
easily rivalled, is to be found in the valley of the Restonico, one of
the two rivers which rush seething and boiling just below the town.
We strolled into this beautiful vale quite by accident, after hastily
skirting the streets, to avoid those "horrid boys." The road, which
was rough but broad, wound for miles through a narrow gorge, bordered
on both sides by the wildest and steepest walls of rock, at the bottom
of which swirled, in mingled white foam and malachite green, over a
boulder-strewn bed, the busy Restonico.
The rocks upon the opposite side especially were inaccessibly steep,
and appeared about five hundred feet high; but were in places clothed
by rich herbage, and, here and there, wherever their straight sides
sloped a little, covered by thick groves of chestnut trees.
The road itself was shaded in parts by the great crags that hung
overhead, and in parts by avenues of chestnuts; while many a gurgling
little stream rushed down the hill-side and ran merrily across our
path. In front, filling up the end of the gorge, sometimes hidden by
massive rocks or sudden luxuriance of foliage, rose the stately white
head of Monte Rotondo.
Looking back, the town of Corte rose from amongst its coronal of hills
with beautiful effect, the long cross-topped church spire pointing
faintly into the bright blue sky, and the white citadel on its strange
precipitous eminence, peering, as it seemed, into heaven itself.
It was one of the hottest days we had felt in Corsica, and, beautiful
though the walk was, it was almost pain to hurry, umbrella in hand,
from one shady spot to another. If ever snakes would stand upon their
tips and dance in the sun together, as our driver once informed us he
had seen them do, it would have been to-day! The lizards on the glaring
walls seemed countless; and, wherever the glare was intensest, there
the little green husband and brown wife basked together in loving
enjoyment.
Very thankful were we at last to sit down on some large boulders beside
the rushing waters, where a grove of thickly growing chestnuts threw
a grateful shade around. The river here had thrown up quite a little
shore of gravel, now partially grassed over with soft green turf; and
the chestnut pods of last summer almost covered the ground at our feet.
At a short distance from us, stood, on a little grassy plain, beneath
a blighted tree trunk, a tiny chapel, about six feet high and two feet
wide, containing a golden image of the Madonna.
It had the appearance of a doll's house, and somehow looked out of
place beside that wide, wild, tumultuous river. This was about two
miles out of Corte; but, considerably nearer the town, is a much more
singular chapel.
Chapel, perhaps, is scarcely the word for it, since it is only a
species of box, or square hole, formed by nature or blasting, in a
large block of solid rock by the roadside. The hole is about three
feet square and deep, and is glassed over in front. Inside this strange
little tabernacle is a highly coloured, well-modelled figure of a man,
with one of his trouser-legs turned up to show a remarkably life-like
wound on the knee, to which he draws the attention of the passer-by
with a pathetic countenance. A dog, looking rather ashamed of himself,
stands beside the pilgrim and completes the group.
This individual is, we are informed, San Rocco of rather obscure
memory, and beneath the tabernacle is the following inscription,
cut into the rock:--"Fermati, Passegioro, e prega intanto se vuoi
l'assistanza di San Rocco."
The little white oratory fixed in the huge glaring rock, with the tiny
stone steps beside it, and the Restonico roaring beneath it, would have
been a picturesque sight to English eyes, had it not been that the
figure within reminded one irresistibly and most unpleasantly of our
late tormentors, the Italian beggars, with their officiously displayed
surgical horrors.
According to Baring-Gould, in his "Lives of the Saints," San Rocco,
or Saint Roch, was a rather mythical personage. All that is authentic
about him is that he was a Frenchman, a native of Montpellier, who went
on a pilgrimage to Rome, and, on his return, not being recognized,
was taken up as a spy, and died miserably in the common gaol. He
was of good family and some means (which he forsook for the sake
of his pilgrimage), and died about the year A.D. 1350. Legend adds,
that whilst in Italy, where the plague at this time was raging, he
miraculously cured thousands by making over them the sign of the cross,
until himself attacked; when, creeping into a miserable hovel, he was
supplied by a friendly dog with necessary food. An angel subsequently
touched him upon the thigh, from which place the plague boil rose and
burst. When dying in the Montpellier prison, St. Roch prayed that all
invoking him should be henceforth delivered from the plague; and an
angel appeared with the written promise that his patronage should prove
the perfect cure of all suffering from this scourge.
In several of representations St. Roch an angel is seen beside him,
touching his thigh, and the dog also sometimes carries a loaf in his
mouth.
It was just beginning to cool a little when we were forced to turn
homewards. Monte Rotondo was growing grander and nearer, the path was
more lovely, and the chestnut woods thick and shady; but all these
charms, alas! had to give way to the claims of the six o'clock table
d'hôte at Hotel Pierracci. The return walk was delicious, and the
fashionable hour of promenade had evidently just commenced; for we
began to meet family groups taking their evening stroll together up the
hitherto deserted gorge. Just where a lofty cypress, stem and solitary,
lifted up its dark, pointed head high into the deep blue sky, to mark
the presence of a tiny cemetery upon the steep hill-side above us, the
sun suddenly fell behind Corte's framework of hills, and we re-entered
the baking streets in early shadow.
At the doorway of the hotel a very tall sentry stood at arms; for we
had the honour of housing a general beneath our roof.
This general was a very grand person. At dinner-time his rank and
dignity obliged him to have a table to himself, where he sat eating
his chicken and salad in solitary grandeur and profound silence. I was
really sorry for the poor general; for he was young and good-looking,
and seemed intended by nature and his own inclinations (as evinced
by sundry half-wistful glances towards the large table, where we, the
common herd, dined in unpretending sociability), for a more agreeable
and gregarious lot than the one forced upon him by the claims of his
exalted position.
It was very thrilling, however, to see our _militaire_ receive his
letters in the morning. The sentry entered, musket on shoulder,
clanking through the salle à manger (for I am ashamed to say this
military grandee had not a private sitting-room, or did not use
it); grounded arms, saluted, presented the epistles from the extreme
length of a very stiff arm, and then stood motionless at attention, an
inanimate blue and red human poker.
Tremendously hot though the day had been, the evening was exceedingly
chilly, and we at last requested the morbid waiter to light us a fire.
"What! cold?" he asked, incredulously.
"Yes," said I, apologetically, "I am afraid we are."
"Dear me, how strange it is! There are you cold, and I quite warm.
Women are queer!"
"Well," said I, meekly, feeling quite relieved that this was all the
scolding I was to receive; "you see, you work hard, and we are sitting
still; that makes the difference."
"Si, si," said the little gloomy man, as he blew at the wooden logs
with good-natured assiduity; "but you women are always chilly. We men
are stronger, that is it." And he gave a final puff and positively
smiled.
We soon learnt that, in Corsica, the word "lady" was an unknown
quantity. Whenever, solicitous of our dignity, we used it in speaking
of ourselves or companions, we were generally corrected by the natives,
and the word "woman" substituted. "The reason why I cannot tell;" for I
fancy Corsicans are above any petty democratic pride of equality; and
they usually behave towards our sex with a kind courtesy that is the
evident offshoot of the old national virtues of a brave and hospitable
race.