CHAPTER VII.

A SERMON BY THE WAYSIDE.

We were glad enough to reach Sartene on our return, after a hot and dusty drive.

We had ordered a relay of horses from Ajaccio next day, to meet us half-way between Sartene and the capital, so as to do the whole return distance in two days; and we quite looked forward to our snug little rooms at l'Hotel de l'Univers. But, alas! for the futility of human hopes!

No sooner did "shades of eve prevail, and the moon tell out her wondrous tale," than Nos. 2 and 3 found themselves surrounded by a black and scarabean army. From every direction swarmed these unpleasant visitors in bold assurance, and nothing daunted by the sight of their brethren's corpses upon the polished floor.

In this dilemma we called in the deaf but friendly waiter, who solemnly fetched a dustpan and brush, with which he performed the funeral obsequies of the dead, and the prompt execution of the living.

"You will now sleep well, mesdames," said he, consolingly, but unveraciously; "behold, they are all dead!"

But he mocked us; and another five minutes found us again demanding assistance, whilst, with disturbed faces and gathered up petticoats, we strove to evade the approaching enemy. This time the landlord accompanied the waiter.

"Why do the black beetles come to-night? There were none last time," we asked, reproachfully.

"Voila, mademoiselle, they _will_ come sometimes, and we cannot help it. The kitchen is on this floor, and there has been a spell of hot weather. But they will not hurt you, mademoiselle, they do not bite."

"Ah!" said we, miserably, "you do not know English ladies. They have a horror of creeping beasts. We would rather have something that _did_ bite, than a room full of black beetles."

The fat, good-natured countenance of the portly landlord was filled with compunction at the sight of our distress. He made another tour round our room, and crunched one or two more black beetles. "There will not be many more now, mademoiselle, and indeed they will not hurt you. But shall I have beds made up for you in the sitting-room next door? There _might_ not be so many there."

But this well-meant though useless offer we of course declined; and, with a sympathetic good night on one side, and a melancholy one on the other, the two kindly Corsicans retired.

At half-past five next morning I was awakened by shouts in the street outside my window, and going out into the large stone terrace upon which our windows all opened, I looked down upon a lively scene below.

It was Sunday morning, and had been chosen as inspection day for the gendarmes of Sartene, by a certain M. le general, who was going the round of the island on such duties, and who was stopping at our hotel.

First came the review of the mounted gendarmes, and then of the foot police. These latter were only fifteen in number, but seemed remarkably well up in their drill.

M. le general, capering about on his white horse, was a very gorgeous spectacle. His scarlet cloak was rolled up behind him as a saddle cushion, and his pistol holsters in front were striped black and white, while his own uniform was blue.

The inspection lasted scarcely an hour; but the general's shouts to his small body of soldiers might have been heard a mile off.

It was a lovely sunny morning, and, as we were to leave for Ajaccio at 9 a.m., before eight o'clock No. 3 was out, tearing up the hill towards St. Amiens, with the purpose of sketching one or two of the picturesque wayside tombs which adorned that road.

An early walk on Sunday morning is the time to see the natives in Corsica.

The large church square just beyond the hotel where the gendarmes had been drilled, was full of men, three or four hundred, with, as far as could be seen, not a single woman amongst them; but descending the steep hill from St. Amiens were many neat, black-robed women returning, prayer-book in hand, from early Mass, and all saluting the English lady and her sketch-book with a grave surprised politeness.

Men, women, and children, all riding mules, were also coming in from the country to spend their Sunday in town.

The quiet gravity and the extreme tidiness of these holiday makers struck one forcibly. They all pursued their way in silence, the men usually with spotless white shirts appearing under their velveteen coats, and the younger women with clean, starched, white head-gear; but both men and women totally destitute of either ornament or colour in their dress.

It was a beautiful morning for a sketch, and the interruptions, though many, were not discourteous.

Once No. 3 felt an animal's breath snorting on her neck, and turning round, saw a mule close behind, its rider, gun on back, looking over her shoulder with great interest.

On her saying good morning to the man, he immediately smiled and lifted his cap; and remarking that he wished he knew how to draw, he gave his mule a gentle kick and continued his way.

"Bon jour, mademoiselle," said a bright voice a few minutes later; and, looking up, No. 3 saw an old woman standing before her. She evidently belonged to the lower orders, and was poor, although neatly dressed in a semi-conventual attire of black serge, edged with white, and wearing a long rosary and cross by her side.

She appeared to be very old, and was toothless, and consequently a little difficult to understand, but had an upright carriage, and the sweetest and blithest of old faces.

"Good morning," said No. 3; "you have been to church, I suppose?"

"Of course, mademoiselle. And not you?"

"I do not always go to Mass," replied No. 3; "I am not of your religion."

"No, mademoiselle? Ah! what a pity? You are English, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, madame."

"But they believe in Jesus in your country, do they not, mademoiselle?" said she, innocently.

"And where are you going now?" asked No. 3, when she had satisfied her old friend on this point.

"I? Oh, I am off to visit my 'pauvres,' and my poor dear 'malades.'"

"Do you visit them every Sunday morning?"

"Why, every morning, mademoiselle!"

"But are there many malades in Sartene?"

"Oh yes, mademoiselle. There are always plenty who are sick and suffering, or infirm, or unhappy; and they are glad to see me. They are all good to me, my poor children!"

"But you are so old yourself. Don't you get tired, running about all day like that?"

The old soul laughed merrily.

"I am used to it, mademoiselle, and le bon Dieu has given me strong legs. Sometimes I am tired in the evening; but I am longing to be off again next day. It makes one so happy to feel one can do something for le bon Dieu, though one is old and poor."

"You are a sister?" asked No. 3. "But you do not live in a convent, do you?"

"Oh no, mademoiselle, I have never lived in a convent. I live by myself, and amongst my children."

"Your poor children?"

"My poor and my sick children, mademoiselle."

"You look very happy," said No. 3, gazing up into the wrinkled, beaming old face.

The old sister suddenly bent down, showing a large brass ring on her forefinger, on which was carved a crucifix.

"Look, mademoiselle," she exclaimed, kissing it reverently; "this is what makes me happy! Lui--c'est mon époux, mon ami, mon Dieu!"

It was time to return homewards; and as No. 3 got up, her new friend wrung both her hands affectionately.

"Tell me your name, mademoiselle," she said, "that I may know for whom to pray. And you, when you go to your Mass in England, you will remember old Catarina Rinaldi, will you not?"

And with a parting smile, the old woman moved off briskly, her face shining with the reflection of the spring brightness on the wayside, down which she passed.

Open air sermons are sometimes the best.

At the bottom of the hill, a tall woman, bearing an enormous earthenware jar perched sideways upon her head, appeared suddenly; and an intelligent boy of thirteen or fourteen also passing, was pounced upon by No. 3 to make known her wish to the countrywoman that she should pause a moment to be sketched.

The black-eyed woman laughed shyly, but after a moment's hesitation consented, understanding apparently that it was her big pot only which was the attraction. But no sooner did she find out that her face also was to be inserted in the sketch, than, with unfeigned fright, she covered it with her hands and prepared to run away.

A short argument followed, in which both No. 3 and her interpreter endeavoured vainly to reassure the model; but it proved useless, and, still keeping her hands before her brown face, she presently hurried off, regardless of the sneers of her juvenile but more highly educated countryman.

"What on earth frightens her?" asked No. 3.

"How can I tell, mademoiselle? Behold, these country women are so ignorant and stupid!" replied this youthful Solon, with a shrug.

"Do they believe in the evil eye in Corsica?"

"Maybe. A few foolish ones."

"Perhaps she does?"

"It may be so, mademoiselle. She is but an uneducated woman from the hillside."

No. 3's new friend walked home beside her, and was an exceedingly agreeable companion.

He spoke very good French, and his stature, which was small but dignified, was augmented by a large shiny black hat.

No. 3 felt quite glad of his manly escort as she passed through the great square again.

"Are there no women in Sartene?" she asked, "or do they never come out of doors?"

"They come out in the evening, mademoiselle, and walk about; but they never leave their houses in the morning, unless it is to go to Mass. They have plenty to do indoors."

"And the men do nothing?"

"It is not a man's place to do household work," replied the young man, with evasive dignity.

The carriage was at the hotel door as the two came up, and the young Corsican took off his cap politely as we drove away.

From Sartene to Ajaccio is a nine-hours' drive, without any pause; and of course cannot be done without a change of horses half-way.

These we had ordered at Bechisano, but they did not arrive, and great was Antonio's disgust when we had finally, after an hour's waiting, to drag on our tired horses to Grosseto, where we found the fresh couple awaiting us.

We, however, had no objection to an hour's rest in the village of Bechisano, where, sending away horses and driver for rest and refreshment, we got rid of our bread and cheese, and began to take a woman's portrait.

The crowd around us increased every moment, and before long I had counted seventy-five heads, all jammed close beside the carriage. But they were the most pleasant and friendly of people. Conversation became exceedingly animated, and the pretty, sensible-faced woman who, with jar and bimbo, acted as our model, became the object of much harmless chaff.

Finally, amid a great deal of laughter, an innocent-looking old crétin, with a childish face, was dragged forward as a fit and very willing subject for our pencils.

But one and all, though full of merriment, were perfectly obliging and courteous; and even the children pulled one another off the carriage, admonishing each other not to shake the artists. One boy's face struck me by its rare and peculiar beauty. It was of a deep olive, perfectly oval; and his delicately curved lips never lost their gentle gravity as he kept his large liquid brown eyes with their heavy fringes fixed upon us, leaning his head against the carriage, and answering our remarks in one or two gentle monosyllables. I never saw a greater contrast than there was between this pale, beautiful, refined boy-countenance, and the face of a poor little girl behind him. She was dirty and untidy, ugly to an extreme, and with evil passions expressed on the childish features to an unnatural degree. The slightest push caused her to scowl and retort, with a malignant anger in her fierce black eyes that was positively appalling. This small Corsican seemed more than ready to start a vendetta on her own account before long.

We were still sitting laughing and sketching in the carriage, surrounded by our numerous admirers, when I heard an astonished voice at my elbow.

"Had you not better walk on a little, and so get rid of all these people?"

And looking down, I saw Antonio's grave face, a little more serious than usual. It was clear he regretted our want of dignity, and did not admire such bonhomie in the foreign ladies under his care.

"We like the people, Antonio; they amuse us," said I apologetically, and feeling sure that by the remark I was losing caste in his eyes.

Antonio immediately retired a few steps, and sat down upon a low wall behind the carriage in silence, keeping, however, a scrutinizing watch upon us and our surrounders, and ready to pounce fiercely upon the first boy whose audacity might tempt him to scale the coachman's box.

And before long Nos. 2 and 3 had taken his advice and walked on, leaving No. 1 alone in the carriage to hold _levée_ with the assembled multitudes.

A terrific shower forced them, however, soon to rush to the nearest shelter, which consisted of a large rough-looking wooden house beside the road.

Entering within the doorway, they stood in a deserted passage, full of logs of wood, and from one end of which ran a tall wooden ladder--the family staircase up to the habited rooms. Down this ladder, presently, peered several small pairs of bright eyes, soon augmented by a detachment of female faces, all grinning and curious, but retreating hastily when we showed signs of advancing.

After a time, however, one, bolder than the rest, beckoned us hospitably upstairs; and, rather curious to see the family _ménage_, up the steep ladder we went.

We found a low dark room, almost unfurnished, save for two or three wooden stools, on which, and on the floor before the hearth, sat four or five women, and as many children, enjoying the blaze of the log fire.

Their gossip appeared very merry, and they fell into shrieks of laughter over the attempted Italian of Nos. 2 and 3. Of French they could neither speak nor understand a single word, except one woman, who with many smiles offered us each a stool before the fire, remarking with much dignity, "Moi, je suis _le maître_ de cette maison. _Ceux-la_," pointing to her group of friends, "sont les femmes des cantonniers!"

There was a great deal of laughter over our endeavours to parcel out the right children to the right mothers, and a positive refusal at first to accept the few sous we brought out as a thankoffering for the fire and shelter.

The difference between the Corsican men and women often struck us; the former so grave, reticent, and thoughtful; the latter so merry, gay, and careless.

On the road back to Ajaccio, Antonio became communicative, and talked of many things.

Sartene, he said, was not famous for its peaceable character in this somewhat unpeaceable island. In Sartene the fashionable weapon, however, is no firearm, but a heavy knobbed stick akin to an Irishman's shillelagh.

Nearly every man carries one of these, as we had noticed, underneath his arm, but with no idle idea of assistance in walking.

In a quarrel these heavy club-headed sticks can do great execution; and, as the men are always quarrelling, broken heads are tolerably common, and murder not unknown.

"Last night," said Antonio, "I was in the stable, and a young man was with me, talking. Presently another entered, and after a few minutes picked a quarrel with the first. I didn't heed them much, for I was looking after my horses. But presently I heard a blow, and saw one of them fall flat on his back. The other fellow had hit him on the head with his stick, and he seemed dead."

"What did the assailant do?" I asked; "was he shocked?"

Antonio smiled his quiet amused smile. "He walked off. No, he was not shocked at all."

"And you?"

"I did what I could. I put some straw under the young man's head, and gave him water; and in about an hour he got up and went out."

"Is he much hurt?"

"Oh, he will have a broken head for some time."

"And what will he do to his assaulter? Break _his_ head next time he sees him?"

"Perhaps he may do that, too. But he will go this morning and lay the case before the prefect."

"And what will be done to the man who knocked him down?"

"Oh, he will be fined."

A queer mixture of law and barbarism appears to co-exist in Sartene.

"Antonio," I asked, as we passed through village after village full of idling men, standing at street corners, whilst the church bell vainly called for Vesper worshippers, "do the men in Corsica never go to church? Have they no religion?"

"Not much, mademoiselle. They seldom go to a service unless there is some grand procession, and, for the most part, they do not themselves know what they believe."

"They are not staunch Roman Catholics, like the Italians?"

"The Jesuits are banished from Corsica, mademoiselle. They taught much, and the people miss that. Then the French have brought in new ideas, and many of our men have learnt to scoff, from them."

"Are not the priests respected, then? Are they not good?"

"Some are good, and some are bad, mademoiselle; but the people do not listen much to them. Sometimes, monks will come round the villages preaching, and they do good, for they are holy, and the men listen to them."

"Do the priests never try to stop the vendetta?"

"How can they? Those that are quarrelling would not listen to them. And for that matter, you may see a priest himself sometimes walking about with a dagger or a pistol at his belt."

"But only to defend himself?"

"Well, yes; to defend himself," replied Antonio, a little doubtfully.

"Antonio," said I, "do _you_ think it right to shoot your enemy down?"

"No, I do not think it right."

"But, if he had shot one of your family, would you do it?"

Antonio was silent. He was a calm, but a very truthful young man.

"Would you?" I asked again.

"I don't know, mademoiselle. A man cannot tell what he may do in anger."

"But it would be murder," said I; "and now you have courts, where your enemy would receive due punishment."

"But if he got off meanwhile to the macchie," asked Antonio, his dark eyes gleaming with a spice of mischief, "and was never seen again; what then?"

"Well," I said, after a pause, "you must be a difficult race to manage."

"The Corsicans quarrel amongst themselves sometimes, mademoiselle; and they kill one another sometimes; but they are a quiet people on the whole. They are content to live upon little, they neither beg nor steal" ("nor work," he might have added), "and they make no commotions. If there is any disturbance in the country, it is caused by Italians. There are more Italians than French in the island, and they are very rough and disorderly. If ever a stranger is molested it is by the Italians. No Corsican will ever speak rudely to you, mademoiselle."

There are certainly no begging propensities about the Corsicans. It had been with the greatest difficulty that we managed to make the bimbo's mother at Bechisano allow her baby to clasp a fifty-centime piece in his chubby hand, after refusing anything herself for her good-natured pose of a quarter of an hour opposite our carriage.

But Antonio's eloquence on the subject of Corsican docility rather lost its effect upon me, owing to the peculiar character of one of our new relay of horses. He was a great raw-boned brute about sixteen hands high, who reared upright at starting, and showed a strong disposition to bolt the first few miles--a disposition only checked by the extreme stolidity of his companion, who stumbled over his nose every few steps.

"N'ayez pas peur, mademoiselle," said the grave voice at my side, consolingly; "I know him well; he will do no harm. That fellow who rears is twenty-three years old; but he is much the best of the two. But the 'padron' should not have sent such horses for you."

In fact, with any driver less skilful or less careful than ours, I doubt if we should ever have reached Ajaccio that night; and we were reminded that it behoves travellers in Corsica to choose their horses before starting on a journey.