AJACCIO AND NAPOLEON
Ajaccio as we see it to-day is not an old town. The fortress that
is known to have existed here in earlier times has disappeared, and
the city that was the seat of a bishopric for hundreds of years has
vanished, without leaving a trace of its former existence behind. The
modern Ajaccio, or rather, the older part of the modern Ajaccio, was
established in the fifteenth century by the Genoese on a site about a
mile to the south of the old hill-city which tradition asserts to have
once flourished there.
The chief feature of Ajaccio as one sees it on arriving by steamer
from Marseilles is the gaiety of its aspect. The tall houses are
painted pale blue, pink, or light green, and in the early morning,
when the face of the gulf is without a ripple, the many-coloured
town is reflected as in a Swiss lake. It is set in a framework of
high mountains, which until late spring remain crowned and adorned
with masses of snow. The streets are lined with palms and orange and
lemon trees, which give the place quite an Oriental appearance. The
trees at Easter are laden with fruit, but the ripe oranges are left
severely alone by the children in the streets, for they are bitter and
unpleasant to the taste.
The men walk about in the squares, sit at the cafés, lounge on the
benches, and stare at the sea, and seem to know little of the meaning
of work. What they want in the way of food, clothing, and rent is
obtained for them by their hard-working women-folk. The women are seen
riding and driving mules, carrying water, buying and selling in the
markets. The general rule is that the women do all the work, while the
men sit and think. If their thinking is equal to their sitting, they
must be a very thoughtful race. They do nothing else. Even the only
engineer, motor and cycle repairer in Ajaccio is a wrinkled old woman.
At all hours of the day women assemble at the public fountain, which
also serves as the public washing-place. These women are mostly dressed
in black, for a reason that will be best understood after reading the
chapter on “The Vendetta.”
The houses are of the usual pattern, tall, arranged in flats, and
containing an enormous number of tenants. The open drain-pipes that
crawl over the outsides of the dwellings are as offensive to the nose
as they are to the eye.
As every schoolboy knows, Ajaccio, the present capital of the island,
was the birthplace of Napoleon. And even if you have forgotten the
fact, you have not long set foot in the town before you are reminded
of it. Everything speaks to you of Napoleon. His shadow haunts the
place. Streets have been named after him, chapels have been built to
his memory, the local museum is crowded with souvenirs of himself and
his family, his statues adorn the public squares, and the dull-looking
house that was the nest of this imperial eagle is a place of frequent
pilgrimage. Like a good tourist, I went to see the great usurper’s
earliest home. It is very plain, but it is one of the best in Ajaccio.
It is built in three stories, each containing six windows. Over the
front-door is inscribed on white marble, “Napoléon was born in this
house, August 15th, 1769.”
No sooner does the traveller get within easy reach of the Place
Letitia, where the house stands, than he is surrounded by children
screaming, “La maison Napoléon! la maison Napoléon!” I chose a little
girl as a guide. A score or two of children, friends and acquaintances
of the guide, followed us, forming a very noisy escort. They demanded
with great patience and energy, “Un sou, monsieur--un sou.” Our chosen
leader proved herself a true daughter of a fighting race by turning
round from time to time and dealing vigorous blows at anybody within
convenient reach. The blows, however, were without the least effect,
nor did the crowd diminish or the cries cease because I steadily
refused to reply to the demand for sous.
We were conducted over the house by an elderly, benevolent-looking
woman.
“Are you French?” I asked.
She was highly offended, for the Corsicans are an extremely patriotic
nation, and think most other people, the French included, far beneath
themselves in courage and other manly virtues. The old lady drew
herself up to her full height, and, looking as vicious as such a nice
old lady possibly could, she snapped out, “No; Corsican.”
“So much the better,” I replied, and she forgave me at once. She showed
us only the rooms on the first floor of the house. There was the little
parlour with a few articles of furniture which she said had originally
belonged to the family. I learned afterwards that they had never done
anything of the kind. There was the little room where the hero was
born, a dining-room with a floor of glazed tiles, and a drawing-room
with a floor of inlaid wood.
The baby Napoleon was an ugly little fellow, with a very big head.
He screamed so loudly that he astonished most people who had ever
had any experience of the strength of a baby’s lungs. As he grew to
boyhood he was noted for his ugliness. Everyone who saw him remarked
his enormous head and his feeble body. He had a naughty temper, and
gave himself and others a great deal of trouble in consequence. When
he was taken at the age of two to be baptized at the cathedral, he
resisted the sprinkling of the holy water screaming violently, “No,
no!” and striking everyone within reach, the priest included. The only
person whom he feared, as a boy, was his mother. She realized what a
passionate temper he possessed, and sent him, when five years old,
to a girls’ school, hoping that the influence of his new companions
would soften him a little. He seems to have been quite happy amongst
his girl school-fellows, until he chose a sweet-tempered child of his
own age as his first sweetheart. This aroused the jealousy of some of
the girls and the taunting of others. The elder girls in particular
made fun of the loving pair. One day, Napoleon, furious at the jeers
of his school-fellows, seized a big stick and drove his persecutors
away in a manner at once astonishing and painful. For this act he was
expelled from the school and severely thrashed by his mother, whom,
nevertheless, he dearly loved. He always said in after-life that all
that was best in him was due to the influence of his mother in his
early days. And yet Madame Letitia was fond of the rod when the boy was
naughty.
“Another day he made fun of his grandmother, who was in the habit
of leaning on a stick as she walked, and said that she was like a
witch. His mother happened to hear the remark, and looked sternly
at the child, who contrived to keep out of her way until towards
evening; then, when she seized him to administer punishment, the boy
escaped from her grasp. The following morning he greeted his mother
and prepared to embrace her as usual, but she had not forgotten the
punishment that was his due, and pushed him from her. Later on in
the day she told him that he was invited to dine with one of their
relatives in the town, and he went up to his room to get ready. Madame
Letitia followed him, found him changing his clothes, and fastened the
door behind her, after which the young man had to submit to a flogging
which was none the less severe that he had managed to evade it for a
whole day.”[B]
[B] “Napoleon’s Mother.”--TSCHUDI.
Just outside Ajaccio is the Villa Milelli, in a garden where
pomegranates, myrtles, and roses bloom. This was the summer residence
of the Napoleon family, and it is said that here the young soldier
spent his furloughs, pursuing his favourite mathematical studies under
a big oak-tree. Thither I bent my steps. I found the house in a lonely,
lovely spot, guarded by two ferocious-looking, ferocious-barking,
mildly-mannered dogs, and by a big, untidy, unwashed Italian, equally
ferocious in appearance, and equally mild in manner. He could not
speak English; I could not speak Italian. Nevertheless, we understood
each other well enough. I had come to see the house; he was there
to show it. He led us first into a deserted kitchen, and, waving
his hand with an almost circular sweep, he exclaimed in a low gruff
voice, “Napoléon.” As there was nothing whatever in the room, it was
difficult to understand what he expected us to admire. He led us up a
rickety ladder--the staircase had disappeared--to an upper story. We
entered a room which, like the kitchen, did not possess a single stick
of furniture. The walls were decayed; the rafters were worm-eaten.
The guide bowed to the fireplace, the floor, and each of the walls in
turn, and at every bow he exclaimed, “Napoléon!” He threw open one of
the windows, and pointing to the broad bay beyond, to the long line
of white-capped, purple heights, to the pine-groves and the palms, he
finally remarked in the most solemn of voices, “Napoléon.” After that
he uttered not another word. He closed the window, showed us down the
ladder, accepted our little silver offering with becoming politeness,
pointed with his hand to the path through the wood, and bowed us a
graceful and respectful farewell.