Just outside Ajaccio is the Villa Milelli, in a garden where pomegranates, myrtles, and roses bloom. This was the summer residence of the Napoleon family, and it is said that here the young soldier spent his furloughs, pursuing his favourite mathematical studies under a big oak-tree. Thither I bent my steps. I found the house in a lonely, lovely spot, guarded by two ferocious-looking, ferocious-barking, mildly-mannered dogs, and by a big, untidy, unwashed Italian, equally ferocious in appearance, and equally mild in manner. He could not speak English; I could not speak Italian. Nevertheless, we understood each other well enough. I had come to see the house; he was there to show it. He led us first into a deserted kitchen, and, waving his hand with an almost circular sweep, he exclaimed in a low gruff voice, “Napoléon.” As there was nothing whatever in the room, it was difficult to understand what he expected us to admire. He led us up a rickety ladder—the staircase had disappeared—to an upper story. We entered a room which, like the kitchen, did not possess a single stick of furniture. The walls were decayed; the rafters were worm-eaten. The guide bowed to the fireplace, the floor, and each of the walls in turn, and at every bow he exclaimed, “Napoléon!” He threw open one of the windows, and pointing to the broad bay beyond, to the long line of white-capped, purple heights, to the pine-groves and the palms, he finally remarked in the most solemn of voices, “Napoléon.” After that he uttered not another word. He closed the window, showed us down the ladder, accepted our little silver offering with becoming politeness, pointed with his hand to the path through the wood, and bowed us a graceful and respectful farewell.
CHAPTER VIII
CORTÉ
Somewhere about the year 1000 a number of feudal lords, or “signori,” leagued themselves together and set up a capital at Corté, the centre of the island, and in the very heart of the mountains. What the place looked like in those days we have no means of knowing, for in this, as in most of the other towns of the island, there is nothing belonging to the remote past to remind us of very early events in the history of the land. Corté is lonely enough still, and you may wander for days in the great granite hills without meeting a single human being. The circle of gorges, the ravines, and the mountains present to us the same features that they presented to the feudal lords, and account for the choice of the position of the feudal capital, and for the part which the town has played in the military history of Corsica. Corté is a proud and heroic town. Around it have gathered numerous stories of gallant attacks upon the grim and frowning citadel that has been both won and lost by Corsicans, Genoese, and French. The men of this proud hill-fortress have throughout the centuries ever been faithful to their country, and willing to shed their blood for it. They are worthy descendants of a people that honours only the warriors that have led them to the field, a people whose only literature consists of wild songs of war, and chants that call aloud for vengeance on oppressors. The women have at all times been as true and as valiant as the men. They are, as they have always been, noted for their beauty. At the time when the hand of the Genoese lay heavy upon their land they vowed never to marry, that they might not give birth to slaves.
Corté is connected by rail with Ajaccio, and there are probably few visitors to the island who do not, during their stay, forsake the orange-trees and the palms upon the coast to visit the barren hills where the feudal capital once stood. Preferring the road to the rail, I made the journey from the sea to the mountains by bicycle, walking the greater part of the way and freewheeling the rest, ascending and descending continually the steep granite waves which rise and fall from one end of the island to the other.
At the foot of the rock on which the modern town stands it is necessary to dismount from the bicycle. The houses and the churches are far above on the crest of a great billow of rock. Corté can hardly be said to stand on the side of the mountain. It does not stand; it floats. Towering above all on a slightly higher crest of granite, is the citadel, which was erected about the fifteenth century. Here and there amongst the tall houses are dotted the slender campanili which are common in most of the towns of Southern Europe. As seen in the distance, the appearance of the citadel-crowned breaker, with the smaller undulations of white and grey houses, is eminently picturesque. On closer acquaintance the most noticeable thing is dirt. In a general way it may be quite truthfully said that the more attractive a Corsican town may appear in the distance, the less comfortable it proves when you wish to stay there.
CORTÉ, THE CITADEL.
We ascended on foot the steep and narrow streets, assailed from time to time by crowds of stone-throwing children. As we returned soft smiles for hard stones, we soon became good friends with the little ones; in fact, their friendship for us proved so strong that it became a nuisance. The moment a camera was erected all the youngsters crowded in front of it, and insisted on forming a part of the picture. In Siam, as soon as the natives see a camera they run away; in certain parts of Holland the children will allow themselves to be photographed if they are paid for it; but in Corsica everyone wants to be photographed, and the sight of a Kodak will produce a crowd at any hour of the day. To escape the troop of followers, we went into the church. While we were pretending to be solemnly gazing at the altar, the children marched in after us by the dozen and played at leap-frog over the chairs, while the breezes wafted into the sacred building odours that overpowered the incense and nearly killed the worshippers.
Finding that it was quite impossible to escape the crowd, we went outside into the open air again and began to work. Our first object of attack was the Maison Gaffori, in front of which stands a statue of Gaffori, one of the many Corsican heroes who headed revolts against the Genoese. On the side of the pedestal that supports the statue there are a number of carvings, one of which recalls a story of the bravery of the General’s wife.