OTHER REMINISCENCES OF BONIFAZIO, AND A FESTIVAL.
My locanda stood opposite an old and gloomy house, the marble
entablature of whose door attracted my attention. There were old
sculptures on it—the arms of Genoa, and Gothic initials. It gave me
great pleasure to learn that the Emperor Charles V. had spent two days
and a night in this house. It affected me as deeply as if I had suddenly
met a countryman and friend on this foreign rock. The house speaks
German to me; and when I look at the window where Charles V. stood,
there crowd upon my mind many epochs of German history, and many great
names rise before me—Luther, Worms, Augsburg, Wittenberg, Maurice of
Saxony, Philip of Hesse, Schiller and _Don Carlos_, Goethe and _Egmont_.
Charles V. was a striking phenomenon. He was the last Emperor in the
full sense of the word; for there arose against the Emperor, on whose
dominions the sun never set, a little man, in a gray capote and cowl,
and let fall a word which, like a bomb, shattered all the magnificence
of the empire of the Cæsars. Yet are those men foolish who abuse Charles
V. because he did not comprehend the Reformation, and put himself at the
head of that movement. He was Emperor, and nothing else. He grew weary;
and the man whose stormy life had been a perpetual struggle with powers
which ruined Germany—with France, and with the Reformation—gave his
kingdoms away, and, recognising the all-changing hand of time, became
an anchorite, and laid himself in a coffin. I am much pleased that I
have seen Titian's splendid portrait of Charles V. My neighbour at the
window there is now no image of my fancy, but a creature of flesh and
blood.
It was an accident which brought Charles to Bonifazio. My friend Lorenzo
gave me the following account of it. Charles was on his way home from
his unsuccessful expedition against Algiers; a storm forced him to
take refuge in the Gulf of Santa Manza, in the vicinity of Bonifazio.
He stepped ashore with his retinue, and, curious to learn what kind of
land this Corsica was, which, in those times as well as now, had the
character of being barbarous and warlike, he entered a vineyard. Filippo
Catacciolo, the proprietor, happened just at that moment to be there. He
offered grapes to the Emperor; and in the course of conversation awoke
in him a desire to see the wonderful town of Bonifazio, which Alfonso
of Arragon had been unable to take. The Corsican then offered to be his
guide, and put his house in the town at the Emperor's service, promising
at the same time to preserve his incognito. He gave him his horse,
the Emperor mounted, and the little procession set itself in motion.
Catacciolo in the meantime despatched a messenger to the magistrates
with this announcement—"Charles, King of Spain and Emperor of the Holy
Roman Empire, will this day be Bonifazio's guest." As Charles was
approaching the town, suddenly the cannon thundered, and the people
rushing out of the town shouted, _Evviva Carlo di Spagna!_ He turned
with surprise to Catacciolo, and said, "Friend, you have betrayed me!"
"No," replied the Corsican; "for this is the nature of the cannons of
Bonifazio—the sunbeams discharge them of their own accord when a prince
such as you approaches."
Charles then entered Catacciolo's house, and was well entertained there.
On his departure, he called his host, and said to him, "My friend,
since you have entertained your guest so well, you are at liberty to
ask three favours." Catacciolo begged three privileges for the town of
Bonifazio; and these being granted, the Emperor gave him permission to
ask still one favour for himself. After some reflection, the Corsican
at last said, "The boon I ask is that your Highness command that when I
am dead, my body be laid under the high altar of the Cathedral; for as
that privilege is never accorded to a layman, the honour and distinction
will be the greatest which has ever been conferred on a citizen of
Bonifazio."
The Emperor granted this also. Catacciolo then conducted him back to
the harbour, and, when his guest had embarked, took the horse on which
he had ridden, and killed it on the spot.
Catacciolo's house is incomplete. A few gaps are visible in the wall.
The reason of this is that the magistrates, out of consideration for
the fortress, prohibited his erecting a house on that spot. Catacciolo
then promised to construct a beacon for them at his own cost, if they
gave him permission to build. The chief magistrate thereupon consented;
but it was stipulated that Catacciolo should not be allowed to finish
his house until he had completed the beacon. Accordingly, he carried
on both buildings at the same time; but although he never did more than
lay the foundation of the beacon, he completed his house, only leaving
a few gaps in the wall to evade the contract.
Catacciolo was tall and handsome, and on that account went by the name
of Alto Bello. His family was one of the wealthiest and oldest in the
town, and is frequently mentioned in its history.
Looking past Charles V.'s house, the eye falls upon the island of Santa
Maddalena, on the Sardinian coast. I distinctly perceive the tower, and
see the young artillery officer, Napoleon, leap out of the ship to take
it. Napoleon dwelt eight months in Bonifazio, opposite Charles V.'s
house. The meeting of these two great imperial names on this spot is a
remarkable coincidence, for it was Napoleon who overturned the old and
far-famed imperial throne of Charles V.
Bonifazio, in the days of its prosperity, had some twenty churches
and cloisters. The cloisters were abolished, and only three churches
remain—the Cathedral of Santa Maria of the Fig-tree, San Domenico,
and San Francesco. Santa Maria is of Pisan architecture—a large, heavy
church, lost among narrow streets. Its spacious porch is the resort and
promenade of the citizens, who walk about there as the Venetians do in
the square of San Marco. In olden times, the Senate of Bonifazio used
to assemble in this cathedral, to deliberate on civic affairs.
Farther on, towards the edge of the rock, lies San Domenico—a beautiful
church of the Templars, whose emblematic triangle is still visible
on the walls. It is a graceful structure, of the purest Gothic
proportions, and only wants the overlaid façade to have a pleasing
effect outside as well as in the interior. Unquestionably it is the
finest church in Corsica, next to the ruins of the Canonica at Mariana.
Its snow-white octangular tower, which the Pisans began, resembles
an indented fortress-turret; it is incomplete. In the church, I found
many monumental tablets of Knights-Templar and of Genoese nobles—among
others, that of a Doria. Cardinal Fesch sent a few pictures to it,
but they are of little value. Far more interesting are the little _ex
votos_—the votive pictures on wood, which Bonifazian citizens who have
been delivered from some impending danger have dedicated to the Madonna
and St. Dominic. There are many pirate-scenes among them, right vividly
delineated. The third church—San Francesco—is small; but it possesses
great interest as containing the only spring in Bonifazio. Elsewhere,
the Bonifazians content themselves with the rain-water collected in
cisterns, drawing their main supply from the large, deep reservoirs into
which one may descend by stone steps—a meritorious work of the Genoese.
Most of the old cloisters in Corsica belonged to the monks of the
order of St. Francis. These gentlemen had settled in great numbers on
the island, and their saint himself, they say, was once in Corsica. He
visited Bonifazio; and as the citizens of this town are accounted the
most religious in the whole island, I shall relate the legend in the
words of my friend Lorenzo.
You may see, lying on the other side of the gulf, the deserted monastery
of San Giuliano; the holy Francis himself gave the following occasion
for its erection: One day, on what voyage I cannot tell, he put in to
the harbour of Bonifazio and stepped ashore. When night came, he knocked
at the door of a house, and begged admission and shelter. But he was
not so fortunate as Charles V., for they shut the door upon him—and
no wonder, for he looked wild and shaggy, like a Corsican bandit. The
holy Francis turned away with a troubled heart, and laid himself down
in a cave near the house; and, after commending himself to God, fell
asleep, In the meantime there came a maid-servant out of the house,
to throw foul water into the cave, as she had been wont to do. As she
entered, she saw therein something shining, and was so frightened, that
she had almost poured the unclean water over the holy Francis—for it
was the good man himself that shone. I am told that the holy Francis
thereupon raised himself from the ground, and with his gentle smile
said to the maid: "My friend, do as you have been wont to do; I lived
a whole year in a pig-stye, as all the world knows." The stupid maid,
notwithstanding, ran towards the house with loud cries of alarm, and
told how she had found a man in the cave, who had the strange property
of giving out light from some parts of his body. The news of this spread
like wildfire through Bonifazio; the Bonifazians hastened to the spot,
and when they had found the holy man, they raised him up in their arms,
made much of him, and besought him to leave behind a memorial of his
having been there. The holy Francis said: "My friends, let us then build
a little convent here, as a perpetual remembrance." On the instant, the
Bonifazians set about carrying stones to the spot, and Francis laid the
foundation-stone with his own hands; and after having done this, he took
leave of them, and again went on board his ship. Now the convent was
not named after his name, because he was not yet canonized, but after
the name of St. Julian. At a later period, the Bonifazians built the
Church of San Francesco in honour of the saint. Hard by, there stood
on the rock in olden times a grove of pines, myrtle, and box-wood—a
truly miraculous growth, as it rested on the bare limestone rock. It
was forbidden to fell a tree there on pain of losing the right hand.
Holy men of the bush, anchorites, sat there in a mountain hermitage,
worshipping God and singing pious hymns, high above the strait, near
to heaven. The wood and the hermitage are now both gone; and where
they once stood, the sentinel in his red hose now paces up and down,
whistling some merry soldier's air.
On the 15th of August, I was awoke by the thunder of cannon under
my window. In my sleep I thought it was the Spaniards and Alfonso of
Arragon, with their bombs, making a desperate assault on the rock; but
I soon remembered that the Bonifazians were celebrating the anniversary
of the birthday of the old Emperor Napoleon, and the Assumption of the
Virgin Mary. For it was on the holiday of the Assumption of the Mother
of God that Napoleon was born, and both these events have now the honour
of being commemorated throughout the whole of France on the same day.
The reports of the guns rolled and boomed over the strait, and awoke
Sardinia from its sleep. What a beautiful festal morning!—the sky and
the sea so blue, the air so calm and cool, rose-red banners waving
everywhere!
The people of Bonifazio literally revelled in a sea of rapture that
day. The streets were crowded in every part, and adorned with national
flags, whereon one might still read the proud inscriptions: _République
Française, liberté, égalité, fraternité_. "You may believe me when I
tell you," said a Bonifazian to me, "that we were genuine republicans
in those days." I saw many groups playing draughts in the street; and
beside the great gates, too, they sat at this old, knightly game. Others
walked about the piazza, dressed in their best clothes, and all were
very merry.
I love to look on a multitude keeping holiday. One feels on such
occasions that he lives on a good earth and fair; it was very pleasing
to see this little world-forgotten people resting a while on its
solitary rock, and out of its poverty preparing for itself a simple,
childlike festival. These poor people have so little of all that makes
life varied and agreeable—no drama, no society, no horses, carriages,
or music—not even a newspaper, except at wide intervals. Many here, are
born and step into their limy graves, without having seen even Ajaccio.
They live here perched high up in the air on their dry rock, and have
nothing but the air and the light, and that one grand view over the
strait to the Sardinian hills. One may guess, therefore, what a holiday
is likely to be in Bonifazio.
The people of the surrounding country added to the multitude; they
had come to see the great procession. It was strange to see so many
well-dressed people filling the usually desolate streets. The young
girls laughed sweetly from the windows of their houses, all clad in
white, with flowers in their hair: I believe that all the maidens of
Bonifazio were angels that day, in virtue of the procession.
The firing of cannon announced that the procession had begun. It issued
from the Church of Santa Maria of the Fig-tree, which was all ablaze
with lights, and marched towards that of San Domenico. The crucifix and
some old church banners, which seemed to be Genoese, led the way; then
came men, women, and maidens, with waxen tapers in their hands, and,
last of all, the heavenly Virgin herself. Four strong men bore her on a
bier; on each corner of which stood a motley-coloured little angel made
of wood, and carrying a nosegay in his hand. In the centre, a wooden
image of Mary floated on blue wooden clouds. There was a silver glory
above her head, and round her neck was hung a costly chain of coral,
found near Bonifazio and presented by the fishermen to the Virgin. Half
the inhabitants of Bonifazio walked in the procession, and many pretty
girls among them, with white dresses and pale faces, as if they had been
sculptured out of Bonifazian gypsum. All bore tapers, but the sea-breeze
insisted on walking in the procession too,—a huge long fellow made of
white lime, and all enveloped in a white cloak of lime-dust. He blew
out the wax-light of one pretty gypsum figure after the other, and ere
the procession had reached San Domenico, he had won the moccoli-game,
and extinguished them all. I also accompanied the procession. When one
asked me how I liked it, I saw from his eyes, which were beaming with
a heartfelt pleasure, what I ought to say; and I replied, "_Signore
mio, ella è maravigliosa_." The childlike simplicity and joy of this
festival-day were very touching. In the evening they illuminated the
streets with a large bonfire, which had been piled up in front of the
town-hall. When I inquired why they did so, I received for answer, "This
fire is kindled in honour of Napoleon." So did Bonifazio celebrate the
great festival, and was joyful and light-hearted; and when it was night,
I heard in the streets the cheerful sound of song, and the jingling of
the mandoline.