CHAPTER VIII.

TO VICO.

A few days' quiet at Ajaccio, was quite sufficient for us. The hotel, lately so lively, was now completely deserted, and even the white-capped chamber-maids had taken flight until next season. We had the large rooms completely to ourselves, and found them melancholy. The town, too, was hot and stuffy. Everybody was moving up to their summer houses, and the close air was depressing.

We were glad to arrange another tour to the north-west of the island, including the forests of Aïtone and Valdoniello. The first night was to be spent at Vico, a village up amongst the hills, a favourite resort of the upper ten of Ajaccio in summer.

It was a good six-hours' drive to Vico, and, as we wished to see something of its surroundings, which we were told were very pretty, we started before eight o'clock in the lovely morning sunshine.

The carriage was a small one, for we took little or no baggage, and only two passengers. To No. 1, called away on a promised visit to Italy, we bade a melancholy farewell, and, with the faithful Antonio for charioteer, trotted through the blazing little town, down the dusty Bastia road, and under the handsome aqueduct along the flanks of the western hills, leaving the sea behind us glowing in vivid sapphire tints against the purple hills.

Toiling up the hot, rocky ascent, Monte Nebbio and Monte D'Or mocked us with cool, snow-mantled forms rising in our faces, and the large château on the top of a steep hill termed Monte Lisa, was pointed out to us as a favourite resort to many during the summer heat.

For miles, also, the great purple rock of Monte Gozo towered bleak and majestic before us, rising abruptly from the green plain, and reminding one, as it hung in cool blackness over the far-reaching glare, of a "great shadow in a thirsty land."

Corn-fields waved softly at its foot, the corn rising five feet high; and the village of Appieto nestled in its shade behind green knolls.

Glimpses of the western sea began to greet us as we mounted, and at the summit of the steep Col San Sebastiano, a splendid panorama lay before us, in many a range of blue and purple hills, backed by glittering walls of snow.

Then, descending to Calcatoggio, the magnificent Gulf of Sagona suddenly burst upon us, dazzlingly blue, and stretching far away in its many indented bays, with Carghese, scarcely visible, lying between the two furthest headlands, far out to sea.

Calcatoggio, on the side of a steep hill, backed by woods and facing this glorious bay, has a most perfect position, but enjoys the reputation of being a remarkably dirty village. It boasts, however, a fountain of delicious water at its entrance, where we and our horses by turns regaled ourselves.

A more exquisite day I never saw, and sea and sky were dazzling in their sunny brilliancy as our little carriage ran merrily down the green hill-sides, overlooking the purely green water, and then for miles passing along beside its translucent, sparkling little waves, as they danced upon their sandy floor.

The Gulf of Liamone was too tempting to pass; and, leaving the carriage, we wandered along the fine white sands, seeing every weed and pebble in the wonderfully clear water. No shells, however, were to be found, and the hot sand burnt our feet and hands as we flung ourselves down to rest.

On clambering up the bank again and returning to the carriage, No. 3 found Antonio extended upon the box, face downwards, wrapped in heavy slumber, that even her advent did not disturb; and he only sprang up hastily, seizing his reins, at the sound of her voice.

Antonio had shown signs of nodding ever since the mid-day halt, and an unworthy suspicion of drink had seized upon our minds.

"You are sleepy to-day," remarked No. 3, severely.

"Si, mademoiselle," was the curt reply.

"Is it the heat?" she demanded, without abating the severity of her tone.

"Si. And being up all last night."

"Up all last night!" she repeated, mollified at once. "How did that happen?"

"A party in Ajaccio had to be driven into the Campagne late last night, and I only got home at six this morning. Then I got a message from the padron to tell me you wanted me for half-past seven. So I had to see after your carriage and horses at once."

Poor Antonio! No wonder he was sleepy. We soon became convinced that he was the most abstemious of men; but it was no rare event for him to be out driving all night, and at work again all day without rest.

"They give the horses more rest than you," I said.

"Yes; but night and day work would injure the horses, and I am strong."

"Do you have your Sundays free?" I asked.

"But no. Sundays and week days are all the same to us."

"Have you no holidays?"

"None, mademoiselle. I have been at this work driving now for nine years, ever since I was fifteen, but I have never had more than an hour or two to myself at a time. If I had time to study and raise myself," he continued wistfully, "I should seek some better _métier_ than this.

"Well," said No. 3, "it is, at any rate, a very pleasant and healthy occupation; and a man who has grown accustomed to the open air would not be happy at sedentary work."

Antonio's white teeth gleamed as he smiled affirmatively. "It is the best occupation in the world for happiness," said he; "a man cannot quarrel or get into trouble by himself; and one feels always light-hearted in the open air. But one may have too much of anything."

Sagona, which we passed soon after, is a tiny village, boasting two or three eucalypti, and a little quay the size of a sixpence.

Near here, the river Liamone, one of the most considerable in Corsica, throws itself into the sea, after its many tortuous windings among the intricate maze of hills around Vico.

Leaving the sea border soon after passing Sagona, we struck inland through cystus-covered hill, bright poppy-sprinkled corn-field, and willows whispering and sighing among a sea of giant bracken fern; here and there, underneath a bit of grateful shade, where myrtle, laurestinus, and arbutus edged the hot wayside; then on, amongst wild and rugged hills, where lizards, green and black, with bright eyes and supple tails, glided rapidly up the face of yellow rocks, and where a long black serpent was sunning himself in the grass by the roadside. On--until suddenly the reins were flung down, and, with a quick leap, Antonio was off his box, and mutely pointing to a pretty fern-shaded fountain close beside us, a fountain boasting three spouts, under which three human heads were instantly bending, to emerge a minute afterwards, dripping and refreshed.

If any one wishes to gain a notion of the divine nectar of Olympus, let him travel on a hot June day under a Corsican sun, walking up a few of the steepest hills; and then let him apply his thirsty mouth to one of the mountain rivulet-fed fountains placed here and there along the wayside by a philanthropic government.

It is a nectar to be found only in Olympus; the valleys know it not.

And now, as we drove on up the steep ascent, we were looking down into a deep close valley where a long, low, red-roofed building, strangely isolated, marks the springs of Caldonelli, formerly much thought of for their medicinal qualities, but whose wretched accommodation and low-lying situation are now deserted for the more genteel and convenient baths of Guaguo on the heights above.

Grand rocks and richly wooded hills, the resort of the wild boar, the deer, and the moufflon, surrounded us as we mounted higher and higher, towards a cloudless sky, where, over stony heights, looked down the splendid range of Monte Rotondo's white heads, until at length we reached the summit of the Col St. Antoine, nearly five thousand feet high, with Vico at our feet, and a cool wind blowing over the heads of mountain ranges innumerable below, and from the skirts of the white-robed monarchs all around.

Just behind Vico, lying amongst its green and ilex-covered hills, rose the fine rocky range of Monte Libbio, full of queer pointed peaks, "La Sposata," the hooded wife, conspicuous amongst them.

Up the road came many a Vico proprietor, bowing to us courteously, and reining up his terrified mule on the very edge of the steep precipice with the most perfect unconcern.

The hill was terribly steep, and the turn at the bottom very sharp, but we drew up in style before Pozzo di Borgo's "Hôtel de France." The title was very grand, but the inn was neither above nor below the usual average of Corsican inns. It was not appallingly dirty; neither, on the other hand, was it agreeably clean.

A short rest during the terrible heat was necessary, and then we sallied forth to spy out the land.

Feeling the sun still too hot for walking, we sat and sketched by the roadside, finding plenty of amusement.

Up and down the road, to and from the forests, came the heavy charrettes laden with pine-wood, and drawn by sure-footed patient mules decorated with high spikes of wood on either side of the collar, and a pointed hood of leather, of Capuchin shape, between; then a flock of pretty goats, then some smiling women with laden heads, men on mule-back, and finally, a little girl, who, after regarding us with curiosity for a minute or two, ran back and presented us with her nosegay.

Soon afterwards, sauntered up a big, black-eyed, black-bearded man, dressed very poorly, but with a keen intelligent face, who, after wishing us good evening, sat down on the wall beside us for a good chat.

This man was very dirty, and his beard appeared to have a tendency to run down his chest where the ragged open shirt left it bare; but he was a good talker, and had plenty to say for himself.

As usual, he opened the conversation by inquiring our nationality and our destination, asking also the name of our coachman, and approving of our choice of Antonio, dubbing him "un charmant garçon," and a friend of his.

The friendship, however, appeared unreciprocated, as Antonio, next morning, on being questioned about some of the affirmations of our new acquaintance, remarked, with his usual brevity, and with a somewhat scornful lip, "Ah! _he_ said so? Voilà! he is a blagueur!"

But we speedily diverged to more important topics, and it appeared that our companion was a literary and patriotic character. Corsica, he said, was in a bad way, but the abolition of the Jesuits was the best thing that had ever been done for her. He himself had laboured night and day to get a Protestant priest for Vico. He was not a Protestant himself--no; but that was not of so much account. What they wanted was some one who would preach to the people about the evils and necessities of their daily life; some one who had common sense and religious feeling, not a man who could do nothing but beg, and talk about the infallibility of the Pope. He had written a letter to the _Patriot_ newspaper on the subject: he often wrote letters for the papers. In fact, our friend evidently belonged to the liberal party of more advanced thinkers in the island. His remarks were full of shrewdness, not unmixed with conceit and a little bombast; and he was a very different specimen from the ordinary Corsican. He boasted that he was the best guide in Corsica; and pointed out to us a high conical hill rising just above, where he said the wild boar would now be disporting themselves in no mean numbers, and where, last season, he had escorted one or two German gentlemen to first-rate sport.

Below this wooded hill, on the slope of the lower one, hanging above the gorge where winds the silver thread of the Liamone, stands a picturesque white convent, now disused, but making a lovely picture against its background of circling hills and groves of pines.

Leaving this expedition for the morning, we bade adieu to our communicative friend, and turned in the opposite direction, passing through the village, and descending the hill past the tall wooden cross which guarded its entrance, through most lovely scenery. In every direction rose forest-covered hill, snowy Alp and rocky height, while far below, two rivers shone and gurgled through the bastioned valley. The sun was setting over mountains of every hue and form, and casting deep shadows on the rocks below; birds were singing in all the groves, and little mountain streams ran from mossy bed and ferny hollow across the roadway.

The path before us was like some vision of patriarchal times.

Flocks of goats and kids were coming home to shelter, none driven, but all following the master's footsteps, coming to his voice, many a one running alongside like a dog, or putting up a soft nose to be caressed, little kids of every colour danced in and out amongst them, skipping up into the air, or standing playfully on their hind legs to butt at each other.

Every man, as he passed, offered his salutation with the same grave politeness, and only the younger ones so far forgot their manners as to stand still a moment to stare at the strangers.

It was almost dark and quite cool when we returned to our inn, and to a dinner which is worthy of record.

It commenced with some good chicken broth, after which followed an _entrée_ of half a boiled fowl. This was succeeded by the third course, made up of the other half of the fowl, nicely stewed; and, after some boiled peas, the meal closed with the _pièce de résistance_ of a whole roast fowl!

Broccia and dessert succeeded, whilst our minds were engaged in a melancholy cogitation as to whether the three courses of the immortal Gladstone bore any resemblance to these.

But we had not yet solved this perplexing question, when the anticipation of a seven-o'clock breakfast and early walk on the morrow, sent us to bed amid serenades of countless nightingales; varied by the less agreeable concert of two poor children in the agonies of hooping-cough on one side,--two or three snoring women with cast-iron lungs on the other,--and, overhead, a lively family, consisting of a squalling baby (whose long-suffering mother found it necessary to walk it up and down incessantly), and a man whose chief nocturnal occupation appeared to be throwing his very heavy hobnailed boots from one end of the room to the other (whether to intimidate his offspring or the numerous rats I could not decide). I would willingly have strangled that baby, and put corks down the mouths of those snoring women (for the partitions of a Corsican inn are terribly thin); but the power was not mine. The varying torments had to be borne until the twitter of birds and the rosy sunlight came creeping in through the open window to bid me rise, sadder and wiser by one more experience of the comforts (?) of a night's rest in Corsica!