Chap. XX Leave Corte for Ajaccio — A Legend of Venaco — Arrival at Vivario
The distance from Corte to Ajaccio is about fifty miles; the most interesting objects on the road being the great forest of Vizzavona, and Bocagnono embosomed in chestnut woods. In order to take these leisurely, mules were bespoken at Vivario, a mountain village at the foot of Monte d’Oro, as far as which we determined to avail ourselves of the diligence passing through Corte, en route from Bastia to Ajaccio. For the first two stages after leaving Corte we knew that there was little temptation to linger on the way; and it is unadvisable to waste time and strength by walking or riding on high-roads when coach or rail will hurry you on to a good starting point for independent rambling. To travel systematically from one great town to another by such conveyances, with perhaps an occasional excursion in the neighbourhood, is a very different affair.
We were called at midnight, and walking to the bureau, shortly afterwards the voiture came rumbling up, a small primitive vehicle, drawn by three mules. It contained five passengers, “booked through;” three rough fellows, all smoking, and a woman with a squalling bambino, dignified by the name of Auguste. Under these circumstances, we proposed taking our seat on the roof, as there was no banquette. The commis du bureau objected;—we should fall off, and he would be blamed; it was contre les régles; and every traveller knows how despotically the rules are administered by foreign officials. He must submit to be a mere machine in their hands, to be stowed away and conveyed like his portmanteau. The rules are, however, generally enforced with great civility; but the commis was not civil. Early rising, or sitting up late, had put him out of temper, and the passion into which he worked himself about this trifle was very amusing. “There was room inside, and why could not messieurs accommodate themselves in the voiture like sensible people?”
We did not lose our temper, and carrying our point, had every reason to rejoice in our victory. The moon was up, and showed the sort of scenery through which we passed, by a very hilly but well-engineered road, to great advantage, in its various aspects. Now we were slowly ascending a bare hill-side in the full light; then plunging into hollows buried in the deepest shade of chestnut woods branching over the road. Then there were scattered groups of the rugged ilex, with its pale green leaves silvered by the moonbeams; and, where the land was cultivated, there was the livelier green of the young wheat, and the dark verdure of luxuriant crops of sainfoin: scarcely a house was passed; a solitary habitation is a rare sight in Corsica.
Our position also gave us the advantage of the voiturier’s conversation, which, under the inspiration of the scene, the woods, and moonlight on a lonely road, was well spiced with stories of banditti. At that corner they stole from the thicket, and gave their victim a mortal stab. There was a cross over his grave, but it has been removed. A deadly shot from behind that grey rock struck down another. Here they had a bloody fight with the sbirri. Such tales, as it has been already remarked, are heard everywhere. I forget the particulars; but they are all variations of one wild strain, of which the key-note is blood.
One legend of another kind I remember. The voiturier related it as we approached Venaco:—
“A long while ago—it was in the tenth century, I believe—there lived here a Count of Corsica, by name Arrhigo Colonna, who was so handsome that he was called Il Bel Messere. He had a beautiful wife and seven beautiful children. Feuds arose in the country, and his enemies, jealous of his great power, slew the Count and his seven children, and threw their bodies into a little lake among the hills. There was deep lamentation among the vassals of the Bel Messere; and his wife, having escaped, led them against the assassins, who had taken refuge in a neighbouring castle, stormed it, and put them all to the sword. Often are the ghosts of the Bel Messere and his seven children seen flitting by the pale moonlight—on such a night as this—among the woods and on the green hills of Venaco; and the shepherds on the mountains all around preserve the tradition of their sorrowful fate.”
We reached Vivario before daylight, and leaving the voiture, scrambled up a lane, then some dark stairs, and found ourselves in the gaunt rooms of a rude locanda. The people were astir, expecting us, and the best sight was, not indeed a blazing fire of logs—though Vivario is close to the forest, such fires are not to be seen indoors—but at least some lighted embers on the cooking-hearth, giving promise of a speedy cup of hot coffee, for we were very cold. The mountain air was keen, Vivario standing nearly 2000 feet above the level of the sea. The best news was that the mules for our journey were forthcoming. Meanwhile, we got our wash, and, it being too early to eat, had our déjeûner of bread and wine, grapes and ham, packed in a basket, to be eaten on the road.
We were objects of much curiosity. Whence did we come? where were we going? what was our business?—were questions of course.
“From London.”
“Sono chiesi in Londra?”
“Inglesi—sono tutti Christiani?”
It may easily be imagined that the communal schools in Corsica give little instruction in ethnology; and even intelligent persons, like our former guide Antoine, appeared to doubt our right to be called Christians. That was often questioned, the people seeming little better informed than they were when Boswell travelled in Corsica, almost a century ago.
“Inglesi,” said a strong black fellow to him, “sono barbare; non credono in Dio grande.”
“Excuse me, sir,” replied Boswell; “we do believe in God, and in Jesus Christ too.”
“Um,” said he, “e nel Papa?” (and in the Pope?)
“No.”
“E perche?” (And why?)
This was a puzzling question under the circumstances, for there was a great audience listening to the controversy. So Boswell thought he would try a method of his own, and he very gravely replied:—
“Perche siamo troppo lontano.” (Because we are too far off.) A very new argument against the universal infallibility of the Pope. It took, however; for his opponent mused awhile, and then said:—
“Troppo lontano! Ha—Sicilia è tanto lontano che l’Inghilterra; e in Sicilia si credono nel Papa.” (Too far off! why Sicily is as far off as England; yet in Sicily they believe in the Pope.)
“Ah!” said Boswell, “Noi siamo dieci volte più lontano che la Sicilia.” (We are ten times farther off than Sicily.)
“Aha!” said the questioner; and seemed quite satisfied. “In this manner,” concludes Boswell, “I got off very well. I question much whether any of the learned reasonings of our Protestant divines would have had so good an effect.”
Barbari, heretici, whatever we were, we parted on good terms with our kind hostess. Two mules were at the door, attended by a lad, who, at first sight, appeared too young for the long and rather fatiguing journey before us; but he had a most intelligent countenance, with hair, eyes, and features of the true Italian character, and he handled his mules well, and proved a most active and agreeable attendant.