THE FOREST OF SORBA.
When at last cold dawn had passed away, and given place to rosy
morning, such a view was gleaming in through the little open window as
seemed almost to compensate for horrors past.
What mattered it now, in the clear brilliant sunshine, that a monstrous
black beetle, overcome by slumber or reflection, was looking down
serenely from the wall just above; or that, on lifting a shoe from the
floor, two more hopped out merrily?
A pure cone of glistening snow was rising from a belt of pines and
chestnut woods from the valley in which stood the inn, and blocking up
the little window with a dazzling vicinity of beauty.
The blue sky behind it shone like a sapphire, and everything seemed
sparkling in the glorious pure early sunshine; snow girdles above, and
dewdrops from green branches below, whilst larks were thrilling the air
with their mysterious hidden song:--
"What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
"Like a glowworm golden,
In a dell of dew,
Scattering, unbeholden,
Its aerial hue,
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view.
"What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields or waves or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?"
After an early breakfast we left Bocognano, and proceeded on our way to
Ghisoni before nine o'clock.
For two or three hours we followed the Corte route, mounting up the
Foce Pass, where before we had descended in the diligence. But two
months had made a vast difference in the nature of the views. Where all
had been bleak and bare before, pale feathery beeches now hung over
gorge and ravine, shading the hot ascent, and chestnuts in full leaf
bent above many a foaming cascade as it rushed down the hill-side.
Snow mountains still surrounded us on either side, but rich groves of
trees filled up the valley beneath, and clothed the opposite slope with
a warm mantle, out of which rose the white conical peak of Monte D'Oro
at a great height into the burning blue sky.
The forest of Vizzavona was far more beautiful than at our first visit.
There were no naked trunks or bare branches now: both beeches and pines
were in full luxuriance, and everywhere was richest foliage and most
grateful shade, showing only occasional peeps of the grand snowy ranges
through the avenue breaks. Descending again, we baited, for our mid-day
rest, under a frying sun but a frosty atmosphere, on an exposed plateau
just beyond the forest, beside a lonely and deserted cantonnier's
house, where the ground was bare, but where snow, on grandest hills,
hemmed us in on every side.
After washing down our bread and raisins with a draught from the
delicious mountain spring that ran before us, we descended the hill
a little farther, to investigate a little pine wood just above the
road-way.
It was fringed by gigantic Mediterranean heath trees, and the ground
was carpeted by cyclamen and fir cones, out of which the lizards
darted at our approach in hundreds, some only an inch or two long, and
evidently mere babes of their tribe.
Almost at the same moment, my companion and I started two large snakes.
Mine was black, and about four feet long; hers green, and somewhat
shorter. The black fellow sprang almost from under my feet on the
narrow pathway, and wriggled away rapidly, swimming across a dyke
just beside it, and then hastening into concealment up the side of the
opposite bank.
The other one started out in the same way just before my companion, but
took refuge in the hollow of a neighbouring tree-trunk, putting out his
pretty green head and bright green eyes every other minute cautiously,
to see if the coast were clear, but always retiring when he observed us
watching.
I have no doubt that wood, and every wood and forest in Corsica, is
more or less full of such snakes; but their timidity makes them little
formidable, unless one should happen to place a bare hand or foot by
accident upon them.
Starting anew, we continued our descent through thick chestnut woods,
and beside mountains, apparently steeper and nearer; until at length,
just above the village of Vivario, we left the Corte road and struck
off to the right towards the forest of Sorba.
This forest is situated upon the summit of such a high hill that, when
Antonio pointed it out to us, it seemed quite impossible that we should
have time, or the horses strength, to reach it that day.
It proved, however, to be only a very toilsome mount of about
three hours. This ascent to the Col is certainly the most steep and
precipitous of any forest we had yet seen in the island; but the road
is fairly good, and the views, near and far, are exquisite.
As we entered the outskirts of the forest, young firs bent over the
large boulders around us; then the numerous thin-stemmed pines crowded
more closely together, growing at each turn larger, handsomer, and
bigger of girth, until, near the summit, the trees that lined the
path on either side were the finest we had ever seen for height and
circumference. Many of these trees were of vast reputed ages; which,
however, could not be computed until, after being felled, their rings
were counted. Some of them, however, sent to the Paris Exhibition of
1867, were proved to be four hundred years old.
The path mounted so rapidly that we could see over the heads of nearly
all these forest giants, except those immediately on the road level;
and through every break loomed the magnificent head of D'Oro, now
some distance, but looking grander and larger than ever, hanging like
something unearthly between sky and plain, with a wide belt of clouds
round his base, but with his head clear and cloudless.
The road which we had passed over seemed to lie under our very feet,
and, as we mounted, the boulders grew more and more gigantic and
imposing. At one place we had a very narrow shave to get past. A great
block of rock had become detached from the mountain-side above, and
fallen across our path at a remarkably steep point. We all got out
while the horses wormed themselves round the corner, and Antonio half
lifted the empty carriage after them, leaving only the wheels on one
side on mother earth, and supporting the other side himself.
"If this had been night, and we had been descending," asked No. 3,
"what would have become of us then?"
Antonio shook his head with a silent smile. He was too wise to commit
himself to any opinion on such a point.
"But no one would come down such a place at night, I suppose?" she
remarked.
"Yes," said Antonio; "the very first time I ever drove out into the
country, when I was a boy of fifteen, was down this very road. A party
had to go to Ghisoni and back in haste, and we returned down here by
night; and there was no moon."
"And you had no mishap?"
"No, mademoiselle," was the grave reply; "I have never had a mishap
yet."
As we neared the lofty summit of the Col, shifting clouds ran across
our path, and broke about us, dividing us alternately from heaven
and earth; but, as at length we reached the top, we found ourselves
enveloped in a dense fog of cloudland.
We stood for a moment on the pass to rest the horses, and, as we looked
down into that abyss of white vapour, into which we were to plunge in
another minute, its trackless desert appeared appalling, and it seemed
as if we were going to throw ourselves into a bottomless pit of misty
horror. It was almost impossible to believe that land and hill and
valley lay beneath that horrible veil.
But Antonio knew every turn of the sharp descent as we flew down the
mountain-side; and presently dim misty forms of hills, bleak and bare,
with here and there fir woods, but no snow mountains, broke through the
thinning clouds.
Ere long they cleared away, and, after passing through lines of
magnificent chestnut trees, many scorched and blackened by ruthless
forestiers, we looked down upon Ghisoni, situated in a valley closely
shut in on all sides just above a foaming river.
It was an ugly village, even for Corsica, and its inn was not cheering
in appearance, although more cleanly looking than Bocognano of
unsavoury memory.
As it proved, however, this little inn was by no means uncomfortable,
and one of the cleanest we had met with.
Whilst waiting for dinner, we took a walk, followed by some twenty or
thirty children, and made our way up to the cemetery hill, looking down
upon the noisy torrent.
The children were very friendly and not disagreeable, although rather
pressing in their attentions, most of the boys taking off their caps,
and all of them offering us nosegays of flowers.
We were quite reconciled to them before we returned to the village,
and had grown so used to our usual triumphal procession of juvenile
admirers, that it astonished us to see one of a group of men, who had
all politely bowed as we passed them, dart into the centre of our train
with a torrent of angry words, and an energy of threats that dispersed
the tribe at once and left us free.
Strolling on in the opposite direction, we went to see the famous crag
of Christalisione. This is a magnificent cliff of perpendicular grey
rock rising from the opposite side of the gorge, and overhanging the
wild torrent foaming through it, about half a mile from the village.
Some men were mending the road, which was in sore need of repair; and,
as they rested on their pickaxes and shovels to gaze after us, we spoke
to one or two of them, and found them, as usual, pleased to be talked
to, and exceedingly polite and intelligent.
The great crag looked very noble, with a band of white clouds
encircling his middle, from which the grey head and greyer base emerged
at top and bottom.
At six o'clock we returned to our inn, to find dinner laid at the small
round table for half a dozen people.
The salle à manger was, as usual, a long low room, rather dark; but it
seemed clean, and there was no smell worse than ancient tobacco smoke.
The walls were covered with gay frescoes, representing rural scenes.
It was a little embarrassing to wash one's hands for dinner under the
curious scrutiny of some eight or ten pairs of eyes. My little bedroom
window faced the village street, and as it possessed neither blind
nor shutters, I found myself an object of increasing interest to the
heads that gradually gathered at the opposite windows, and protruded
themselves to an alarming extent in the excitement of commanding my
movements.
Returning downstairs, we found that our three fellow-diners consisted
of a Frenchman, called by his companions "M. le General," and occupying
the civil post of "Garde General" of the neighbouring forests; and two
Corsicans, one a plain "garde forestier," and the other the master of
the inn himself.
It is a little peculiar to sit down to dinner with one's innkeeper;
but, except for the sentiment of the thing, we had little to complain
of, as mine host was most agreeable and well-behaved. His conversation
was amusing, and he had arrayed himself in semi-evening costume in
honour of our presence. His knowledge of the culinary resources of the
household, too, did us many a good turn during dinner, as he sent his
daughter, acting as waitress, for first one thing and then another, out
of the family cupboards.
The garde forestier was a tall good-looking man of about thirty,
dressed in brown velveteen and hessians, and seemed a clever man. Both
he and mine host spoke French with great rapidity, if not with the same
idiom as the Parisian garde general.
M. le General was a very fine gentleman indeed. He was thoroughly
French, both in appearance and conversation, and his exalted rank
evidently accounted both for his tone of good-tempered patronage in
addressing his two male companions, and the _persiflage_ with which he
favoured us.
"Flowers!" he exclaimed, when the forestier made some remark about the
floral richness of his country; "why, you haven't a garden in the whole
of this little island of yours!"
"I have some astonishing roses in my garden behind the house, which I
will show you after dinner," said the host.
"Roses, mon cher! Why, you Corsicans don't know a rose when you see
it! You gather a few miserable little worm-eaten buds, and call them a
bouquet of roses. There isn't a man in Corsica who understands how to
make a garden."
The two Corsicans took this rebuke very meekly, perhaps owning its
truth in their hearts; and presently the conversation diverged to the
subject of bandits.
"Do you know, mesdemoiselles," said the General, "that you are now in
the heart of the bandit country?"
We testified our knowledge of the formidable fact.
"Probably, mesdemoiselles, you expect these bandits to be very terrible
fellows? You would not know them from other people; in all probability
you have met one or two in the street this evening," continued our
French friend, who evidently wished to create a "sensation," and
was not particular about the use of the long bow. "Ma foi! they are
'charmants garçons,' and 'braves hommes,' these bandits--they would
behave to you with every civility."
"Possibly," said we. And the two Corsicans assented gravely, seeing
nothing in the subject to joke about.
"Yes, mesdemoiselles," went on M. le General, warming with his topic,
"you may sleep safely in your beds to-night, here as elsewhere. You
need not fear the bandits."
"We do not fear them," we remarked, unable to help laughing.
"Ah, poor fellows! They are often ill-used men, and forced into their
way of life. Is it not so, my friends?" he asked, turning to his
companions.
"They are brave men," said mine host gravely.
"They may be ill-used," remarked No. 3; "but they are not brave when
they lay wait for their enemy and shoot him concealed in the maquis. It
would surely be more manly to give him a chance."
"Yes," said the big garde forestier, "you are right, mademoiselle. The
man who fires upon his foe from the maquis is a lâche. He should shoot
him in the open street."
"Quite so, mon cher," said M. le General, "always provided that his
enemy has not a pistol with which to return the compliment!"
But the Corsicans looked grave at this levity; and the versatile
General had soon found another topic of conversation.
"Is it true, mesdemoiselles," he asked, as he poured a half-pint of
sweet oil over his salad, "that you meditate going to the Inzecca
precipices to-morrow?"
"We do," we replied.
"You had better not go, ladies. Ah! mon Dieu! _there_ are precipices
indeed! It is terrible. Such a road! One slip of the horse's foot--one
stone rolling--and vous voilà perdues!"
"We mean to risk it, monsieur."
"Ah, you English ladies are rash; you fear nothing. Have you a good
driver?"
"A very good one; and one we can trust perfectly."
"That is well; for it is a terrible place, an expedition of horror.
Precipices six hundred feet high--a wall of rock overhanging--ah,
ciel! And a steep and narrow road, where one false step may cause
destruction! Think of that, mesdames!"
We had thought of it, and enjoyed the prospect; but, as these three men
shuddered sympathetically over the horrors of the place, we began to
wonder faintly whether the Inzecca would indeed prove our romantic and
early tomb.