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.”