CHAPTER IV.

TO ISOLA ROSSA.

Our first long expedition in the island was what may be called the north-western tour, embracing the best part of a circle, and comprising St. Florent, Ile Rousse and Calvi; thence on to Corte.

This tour I think is a good one to begin with, as it is on the whole less interesting and beautiful than the others. After the first day's drive, it does not abound so very much in beauties, and it does abound to a remarkable degree, even for Corsica, in dirt.

Yet, although not so wildly beautiful as some of our expeditions, there was much that was exceedingly picturesque and curious; and Calvi, above all, is a town worth going far to see.

There is only one way of travelling in Corsica, for those who wish to see anything of the country and obtain any enjoyment from their travels; and that is, in a private, hired carriage, which--driver, horses, and carriage--may be had at a reasonable rate per day.

From Bastia we started in style, with a roomy carriage and three horses, for which luxurious equipage we paid thirty francs a day; but charges are higher here than at Ajaccio, and, in our other rounds, we obtained an equally good carriage and two horses, with a very superior coachman, for twenty francs a day.

This is the usual charge all over the island, and includes the keep of both driver and horses; but half the return journey is expected to be paid, as well as a douceur of about two francs a day to the man.

In this case, the excuse was the hilly roads and our heavy luggage, necessitating a third horse; but I think our inexperience was the real cause of the difference. It is as well to fix the bargain beforehand, and also to make some inquiries regarding the man to whom you entrust your precious lives and limbs for several days, as, on these roads, a tipsy or inefficient driver would be no joke. For the comfort of timid travellers I may, however, as well remark, that every Corsican seems born to handle the reins, as a South Sea Islander to swim; and, although very furious drivers, they are remarkably safe ones. Also, that their undoubtedly thirsty habits interfere wonderfully little with their duties.

For instance, the drowsiness which is prone to take possession of many Corsican drivers after the midday halt and thenceforth, and which causes them to nod ominously on the box, has no effect apparently upon a sort of sixth sense, which wakes them up by instinct just in time for a sharp turn, a steep descent, or a bad bit of road.

This Bastia coachman of ours--a big, rough, bullet-headed fellow--was not the most sober of mankind; but, although probably the worse for drink every evening when off duty, he took care not to overstep the nodding stage when in its discharge.

More than once, at the approach of some nasty corner or sudden precipice, the point of an umbrella was levelled at the small of his back; but it never had cause to culminate in a prod, for, precisely at the necessary moment, the furry cap adorning the unkempt head, raised itself, and the brown hands tightened their hold upon the loose reins.

The best course, however, is to forget both bad road and sleepy driver in the glorious prospect that seldom is wanting in Corsica; for a system of nervous watchfulness is not conducive to comfort or enjoyment.

It was not an auspicious day on which we started on our tour. After an early breakfast, we left the Hotel de France at eight o'clock in pouring rain, and began mounting the steep ascent to the Col Teghine.

Steep, indeed, was the hill, and very long; and the position of the third horse was no sinecure. Fortune, however, favours the brave; and before an hour was over, the sun came peeping forth through many a dark rift, blue clouds rose up and filled the gaps, and the sunlight glanced sparkling on dewy flower and crystal-covered olive grove. Thenceforth, the day was fine, and showed to advantage one of the most beautiful drives that can well be imagined.

Steep rose the green hills above and below us, with the blue sea at every turn stretching wide before us, and bringing out into clearer prominence its three islands, whilst the opposite shore of Tuscany lay a soft blue line on the horizon. On the lower slope, groups of olive, orange, and lemon trees--the two latter in full fruit--and the sun shining gaily on the many golden balls; above us, banks of cystus, shining arbutus and Mediterranean heath, with foaming cascades pouring down from the rocky hillsides, and rose-coloured cyclamen and golden broom bending lovingly above their banks.

Bastia, looked down upon from this road, had a very picturesque appearance. It seemed the only bit of life on the wide, desolate-looking plain which stretched away into dim distance to the south, bordered on one side by the sea, and on the other by the inland range of hills, and enclosing an arm of the sea called the Lake of Bigulia.

There is said to have been a Roman settlement and several large towns in this region long ago; but now, all along the extensive plain, the eye can only make out one small village, and it has a pale, deserted look, as if unloved by nature or by man.

And not without reason. From Bastia downwards, almost to the southernmost extremity of the island, this eastern coast is flat, marshy, and malarious.

A man of forty is an old man in this fatal district. Even the natives fly from it, leaving its shores barren and uncultivated; and the poor Italian labourer, who, more industrious than his Corsican neighbour, comes over the sea in spring to till the soil, creeps up each night into the mountains, to avoid sleeping in the deadly air.

When at length we reached the summit of the Col Teghine, the view was magnificent. We were on a narrow ridge 1735 feet high--on one side looking down upon the eastern coast; on the other, upon scattered mountains of every strange form, and a vast panorama of western sea and coast. The large gulf of San Fiorenzo lay before us, indescribably blue; and, into it, stretched out arm after arm of wildest red and purple rocks, glowing far, far below in the cloudless atmosphere. Anything more beautiful than those far-away vivid rock ranges beneath our feet, it would be impossible to conceive; and as for a moment, with our hands full of lovely flowers, we paused on the lonely sky-surrounded pass, and threw ourselves down on the rich maquis, a little lark rose from beside us, in the still mountain hush, and gave voice to nature's meaning. In another moment we began the long descent to St. Florent, surrounded by wild and rugged mountains, the sea always beneath us, the steep road winding along the flanks of barer and less verdant hills, the maquis more abundant, and the flowers rarer than on the other side.

For an hour or more we gallopped down, passing a picturesque high towered church, and finally going over a flat plain by the winding shores of the lake-like gulf of St. Florent. Then, with a sudden turn, into a narrow unsavoury little street, where our carriage could scarcely pass, and up to the door of a very uninviting inn, whose interior, however, proved superior to its exterior.

Inns and innkeepers in Corsica may be most correctly described as uninviting. Whatever flourish of trumpets you make on arriving, and however rare an event may be the advent of a carriage of any description, the proprietors never appear to welcome you; and you are expected to toil panting upstairs, all your baggage in your arms, before meeting with any assistance. And this very often in a place where the excitement of a foreigner's coming has been sufficient to rouse the entire population, and send a score or two of shrieking children at your heels.

The hall and staircase of this particular inn were remarkably still and deserted; and being then unused to Corsican eccentricities, we felt doubtful, after one or two silent flights, whether the stone staircase led to anything more promising than empty chambers. But at length, a long, low _salle-a-manger_ burst upon us round a corner; and here, with the assistance of a nice dog, and in company with a party of remarkably lively Germans lately deposited by the diligence, we managed to get through some rather sheepy mutton cutlets, good cheese, cakes, and wine, for the modest sum of fifteen pence a-piece. We were likewise offered a dish of raw ham; but this, although included gratis in the bill of fare, we declined politely.

St. Florent is a small and rather dirty village, placed in most picturesque fashion by the edge of the sea. Some of the houses are built upon a narrow ridge of black rocks running out into the sea, and have both back and front washed by the waves and sprinkled by the surf on stormy days.

It has a nice little quay, along which were several good coasting vessels at anchor.

From the inn, whose base was at the water's edge, was a lovely view, spreading across bright blue sea, and over the houses on their rocky ledge to the rosy tinted range of hills behind.

We were to rest here two hours, and determined to take a sketch. But, being about noon, the sun was blazing down upon the unsheltered white road and on the hard brown rocks in an unpleasant manner. So Nos. 2 and 3 crept up a perpendicular bit of cliff, on to a narrow, steep ledge, where there was a foot or two of shade; and here, with the cliff overhanging their perch, and the wonderful water, malachite and purple in its lights and shadows, beneath them, indulged in happy contemplation and artistic effort.

But, alas! solitude and silent reflection are not possible to the English traveller in Corsica; and although the boys of St. Florent were a most superior lot, kind and gentlemanly, they very soon invaded our retreat--creeping along to us on hands and knees (for our ledge necessitated this lowly position), and offering for sale some pretty shells, freshly gathered from their sea bed. For the modest sum of three soldi, or three halfpence, I invested in half a dozen of these. But my St. Florent shells never reached England.

Happening to look up from my sketch a few minutes later, I found that the little heap beside me had all dispersed, and walked themselves over the side of the cliff; whilst one particular beauty, that I had put in my pocket, having taken a little longer to free himself from his embarrassing situation, was yet in sight, making the best of his hermit-crab way back to mother sea. The small salesman evidently did not belong to the anti-vivisection society, for, seeing my discomfiture, he borrowed a hairpin with much solemnity, and catching the poor crab in mid career, began to pick him out, raising his large brown eyes to us in silent affliction when our humanitarian principles forced us to stop this proceeding.

On returning towards the shore, we found a small crowd of kindly intentioned women and boys gathered on the rocks beneath, to assist us in our perilous descent. Notwithstanding this little obstruction, however, we managed to alight safely, and rejoin No. 1, who, from her baking seat below, had been regarding our amphibious proceedings with some anxiety.

Directly after leaving San Fiorenzo, we began to ascend, the town behind us lying on its little peninsula among the wide blue waters like a crystal, and backed by hills glowing vividly in the hot noonday sun.

In an hour or two we reached the summit of the Col Cerchio, where the scene changed, the hills beside the road opened out, and revealed to us a fine panorama of inland mountains and villages.

The road to Ile Rousse lies nearly all the way through barren rocky hills, varied occasionally by greener cones. A wonderful, weird-looking mountain of red granite, called Monte Temorro, keeps always in sight, sometimes at one side and sometimes at the other of the winding road, but its precipitous bare head never lost. This mountain, in its bleakness, reminds me strongly of the pictures of Quarantana in Palestine.

The rocks grew wilder as at length we reached more level ground, and here there were some attempts at agriculture, refreshing after so much barren scenery.

Jogging along on muleback, we met a man and a woman, both seated on the same beast. It is only round Bastia that the Corsican women affect continental fashions and the side-saddle; everywhere else in the island the women ride cavalier style, and side-saddles are unknown. The two were driving before them a large flock of native sheep, black and white. Corsican sheep are simply lovely. They have long, soft, silky hair, instead of wool, upon their bodies, and their faces are full of expression, with large, pathetic brown eyes.

The road now wound again right over the edge of the sea, and the clear green waves dashed against the brown rocks beneath us, and rolled in transparent curls upon the sandy shore for many a mile, watering with spray the rich shrubs that clothed the cliff to the very water's edge.

Here, on many a lonely hill overlooking the wide waste of waters, stood a massive, round Genoese watch-tower--half-ruined memorial of a cruel sway now passed, but which for centuries crushed out happiness and prosperity, although not resistance, from the heroic little island.

It was between six and seven when we reached Ile Rousse; but long before this, the picturesque promontory from which it takes its name was visible, standing far out into the bay, blood-red against a sunset sky.

The town, neat and tidy, lies at the water's edge, backed by the white snow-cones of Monte Pedro; but the rocks themselves are distinct, and are connected with it by a straggling little quay and long wooden bridge. They are composed of a long rough tongue of red sandstone, torn and rent into every picturesque shape, and running out into the sea for about a quarter of a mile. On the furthest rock rose a solemn watch-tower; on the nearer one, some grey old ruins.

The sun was just setting as we walked over the wooden bridge and climbed upon a high point. The rocks gleamed a fiery red where they caught the last rays, but ghostly black shadows filled their crevices below; and the old watch-tower looked grandly out towards the French coast, painted against an orange sky.

The road leading up from the quay was shaded by an avenue of trees, and was evidently the favourite evening stroll of the Ile Rousse upper ten. A great number of the inhabitants were here, and we were much edified by the polite manner with which one and all raised their hats to us, wishing us "bon soir," one nice-looking Italian sailor, however, varying the salute by offering it in English--we, of course, responding in like manner, greatly to his delight.

The bump of manly courtesy is evidently well developed in Ile Rousse; for, coming up the street, pursued by a horde of excited children, shouting "Inglesé!" the tribe were reprimanded and even caught and pommelled by one or two of the smoking idlers at the street corners.

We often experienced courtesy of this sort amongst the Corsican men, who were far too kind and too well-bred to enjoy seeing us mobbed and annoyed by their progeny; but unfortunately, as a rule, their remonstrances proceeded no further than words, and for a verbal remonstrance the juvenile Corsican cares but little.

These Corsican children were a curious study. In some few places, notably Corte and Propriano, the children were unboundedly impudent; in some few others again, quiet little country villages, they had the modesty and simplicity to be expected in sweet Auburn; but these were exceptions.

They are, generally speaking, utterly fearless, but highly intelligent, eager to follow and criticize your every step, and to demand an answer to every question possible regarding your person and your nationality; but quite open to friendliness.

To those who are neither afraid of them nor angry with them, the pursuing horde will generally, after a few moments, show both civility and politeness. The age of chivalry in Corsica comes early. At thirteen, or even younger, a Corsican boy becomes a courteous young gentleman; and we soon learnt to feel at ease regarding our tormentors if we saw any approaching to that civilizing period of life.

The inn at Ile Rousse was not uncomfortable, and in appearance was vastly superior to many to which we went later on. We hoped and believed it was the abode of cleanliness; but, alas! hopes and appearances are delusive. The food, however, was excellent.

On our return from our twilight walk, we found our little table d'hôte dinner awaiting us, consisting of good soup, boiled beef, excellent duck, salad, cheese, "gateaux de Corse," and dessert. There were other diners in the general salle; but in consideration of our sex and our gentility, our dinner was brought to us in a smaller detached room.

The diners, however, soon cleared away; and when we entered the salle-a-manger to write our letters, we found the young landlady and her sister quite ready for a chat.

This was our first introduction to an almost invariable custom in small Corsican inns. The reserved Briton who would decline the after-dinner chat with his host or hostess, would be considered here a very churlish individual.

Our landlady, we found, was quite a historical character, being no other than the young woman of the "rose," named in Mr. Lear's book on Corsica. She was not quite so young now as then, it being eleven years since that episode; but she was still blooming, and as gay and talkative as a tame parrot; and whenever she laughed, (and that was not seldom or gently,) she shook the long plait of black hair that hung down her back until it danced again.

First presenting us each with a handsome bouquet of flowers "out of the garden," she and her sister drew their chairs up to the table, and leaning their elbows upon it, prepared for an hour's good gossip. Every one of our nation who had ever visited Ile Rousse was described to us minutely, with the inquiry as to whether we knew him; and the visitor's book, with its laudatory remarks and poetical effusions, shown us, with the urgent entreaty that we would translate those of them that were written in English.

This we did, refusing, however, when we were requested to indite a poem on our own account therein.

This was a sore disappointment to the "lady of the rose," who declared emphatically of No. 1 that she had "la physiognomie poetique!" but who recovered herself the next moment, and begged that we would, on our way upstairs, peep at any rate into the beautiful best bedroom, which she generally gave to her English guests, and which we should have had, had we sent a telegram beforehand to say we were coming, but which unfortunately was now occupied by a Corsican messieur.

So much occupied was it, that it was not until we were fairly in the show apartment, that we discovered that the occupant was already in bed, sleeping the sleep of the just!

We were not aware then, what we learnt later on, how necessary a thing it is in Corsica to telegraph one's coming beforehand. It insures a good dinner; and, at any rate, a room swept out to a certain degree.

You pay a penny a word for telegraphic messages, and there is scarcely a village in the country without its office. Without a telegram, you may arrive to find no rooms, or, what is almost as bad, to be placed in rooms out of which the _family_ have kindly turned for your accommodation. We soon learnt by experience to have a perfect horror of these "family rooms."

The accumulated garments of the family lie about in all directions, your jug and basin are even more lilliputian than elsewhere, your bed quilt is grimy (they do not often supply you with blankets in Corsica), and the apartment appears, from its fugginess, never to have known the luxury of open windows.

A gun also occasionally peeps at you from a corner, and a pistol from the mantle-piece; and the family run in at all hours for their blacking brushes, their best boots, or a bottle of _vin ordinaire_ on the top of the household chest: but these are small matters.

Very beautiful looked the sea, lapping against the walls of the houses, and scattering spray over the red rocks, at 6 a.m. next morning; but in an hour it had clouded over, and sea and sky and rocks were all leaden grey in a lowering thunderstorm. At nine o'clock, however, it cleared up a little, and we started for Calvi, passing through green meadows and cultivated land to the summit of a mountain, and down again to the village of Algajola by the sea shore. Loving maquis clothed the limestone hills as we ascended again, looking beyond the grey crags, covered with soft green moss or scarlet leeks, to the village and ancient castle of Lumio. Long before we reached them, the snow mountains were raising white heads over the green hills before us; and as we paused on the summit of the second pass, the full view of the magnificent bay of Calvi burst upon us, sweeping out as far as the eye could reach, and glowing in the midday sun.

Figs, lemons, and prickly pear bordered our road as we descended through rocky hills to the long narrow level tract preceding Calvi; and, all the way, the wide blue sea beckoned on one side to the solemn range of snowy Alps upon the other.

It is impossible to describe the exceeding picturesqueness of the town and citadel as you approach from this road. Calvi lies upon a peninsula of high ground jutting out into the sea, and consists of two distinct towns--the lower, at the water's edge; and the upper, which comprises the citadel, built upon the hill.

The citadel, with the exception of Bonifacio, is the strongest in the island. Its bastion walls are of an immense height, gleaming white against the blue sky, and their thickness and impregnability are equal to their height. Nine or ten times have these bastion walls been assailed by foes of every nation, including the English, wearing out the very heart of the foe by their stern resistance, and often finally foiling his most determined efforts.

Planted upon inaccessible rocks commanding the sea, and formed by the very nature of its position for defence, the Genoese at an early date (about the fourteenth century) fortified it thus strongly; and although sometimes losing it for a while, yet managed to keep it in their hands for long centuries. Bonifacio and Calvi, both to a certain degree colonized by Genoese families, and filled with Genoese soldiers, were for many years the main, and often the only, cords by which this cruel and tyrannical government held on to unfortunate Corsica.

In the year 1735, a romantic little incident occurred upon this coast. It was towards the conclusion of one of the innumerable Corsican struggles against Genoese despotism, when, in the hopeless but undying cause of liberty, the blood of the islanders had been shed with an unwearied devotion and unassisted heroism that at last moved the heart of the practical but freedom-loving Briton to a sudden burst of sympathetic feeling. It would be a pity to tell the story in any other words but those of Gregorovius.

"Their embarrassments had become almost insupportable, when, one day, two strange vessels came to anchor in the Gulf of Isola Rossa (Ile Rousse), and began to discharge a heavy cargo of victuals and warlike stores--gifts for the Corsicans from unknown and mysterious donors. The captains of the vessels scorned all remuneration, and only asked the favour of some Corsican wine in which to drink the brave nation's welfare. They then put out to sea again, amid the blessings of the multitude who had assembled on the shore to see their foreign benefactors.

"This little token of foreign sympathy fairly intoxicated the poor Corsicans. Their joy was indescribable: they rang the bells in all the villages; they said to one another that Divine Providence, and the Blessed Virgin, had sent their rescuing angels to the unhappy island, and their hopes grew lively that some foreign power would at length bestow its protection on Corsica.... Generous Englishmen had equipped these two ships...."