CHAPTER VIII.

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.