Returning to Marcantonio's house, I found in the room both mother and daughter, and we drew in round the table in sociable family circle. The women were mending clothes, were talkative, unconstrained, and naïve, like all Corsicans. The unresting activity of the Corsican women is well known. Subordinating themselves to the men, and uncomplainingly accepting a menial position, the whole burden of whatever work is necessary rests upon them. They share this lot with the women of all warlike nations; as, for example, of the Servians and Albanians.
I described to them the great cities of the Continent, their usages and festivals, more particularly some customs of my native country. They never expressed astonishment, although what they heard was utterly strange to them, and Giulia had never yet seen a city, not even Bastia. I asked the girl how old she was. "I am twenty years old," she said.
"That is impossible. You are scarce seventeen."
"She is sixteen years old," said the mother.
"What! do you not know your own birthday, Giulia?"
"No, but it stands in the register, and the Maire will know it."
The Maire, therefore—happy man!—is the only person who can celebrate the birthday of the pretty Giulia—that is, if he chooses to put his great old horn-spectacles on his nose, and turn over the register for it.
"Giulia, how do you amuse yourself? young people must be merry."
"I have always enough to do; my brothers want something every minute; on Sunday I go to mass."
"What fine clothes will you wear to-morrow?"