Ajaccio as we see it to-day is not an old town. The fortress that is known to have existed here in earlier times has disappeared, and the city that was the seat of a bishopric for hundreds of years has vanished, without leaving a trace of its former existence behind. The modern Ajaccio, or rather, the older part of the modern Ajaccio, was established in the fifteenth century by the Genoese on a site about a mile to the south of the old hill-city which tradition asserts to have once flourished there.

The chief feature of Ajaccio as one sees it on arriving by steamer from Marseilles is the gaiety of its aspect. The tall houses are painted pale blue, pink, or light green, and in the early morning, when the face of the gulf is without a ripple, the many-coloured town is reflected as in a Swiss lake. It is set in a framework of high mountains, which until late spring remain crowned and adorned with masses of snow. The streets are lined with palms and orange and lemon trees, which give the place quite an Oriental appearance. The trees at Easter are laden with fruit, but the ripe oranges are left severely alone by the children in the streets, for they are bitter and unpleasant to the taste.

The men walk about in the squares, sit at the cafés, lounge on the benches, and stare at the sea, and seem to know little of the meaning of work. What they want in the way of food, clothing, and rent is obtained for them by their hard-working women-folk. The women are seen riding and driving mules, carrying water, buying and selling in the markets. The general rule is that the women do all the work, while the men sit and think. If their thinking is equal to their sitting, they must be a very thoughtful race. They do nothing else. Even the only engineer, motor and cycle repairer in Ajaccio is a wrinkled old woman.

At all hours of the day women assemble at the public fountain, which also serves as the public washing-place. These women are mostly dressed in black, for a reason that will be best understood after reading the chapter on “The Vendetta.”

The houses are of the usual pattern, tall, arranged in flats, and containing an enormous number of tenants. The open drain-pipes that crawl over the outsides of the dwellings are as offensive to the nose as they are to the eye.

As every schoolboy knows, Ajaccio, the present capital of the island, was the birthplace of Napoleon. And even if you have forgotten the fact, you have not long set foot in the town before you are reminded of it. Everything speaks to you of Napoleon. His shadow haunts the place. Streets have been named after him, chapels have been built to his memory, the local museum is crowded with souvenirs of himself and his family, his statues adorn the public squares, and the dull-looking house that was the nest of this imperial eagle is a place of frequent pilgrimage. Like a good tourist, I went to see the great usurper’s earliest home. It is very plain, but it is one of the best in Ajaccio. It is built in three stories, each containing six windows. Over the front-door is inscribed on white marble, “Napoléon was born in this house, August 15th, 1769.”

No sooner does the traveller get within easy reach of the Place Letitia, where the house stands, than he is surrounded by children screaming, “La maison Napoléon! la maison Napoléon!” I chose a little girl as a guide. A score or two of children, friends and acquaintances of the guide, followed us, forming a very noisy escort. They demanded with great patience and energy, “Un sou, monsieur—un sou.” Our chosen leader proved herself a true daughter of a fighting race by turning round from time to time and dealing vigorous blows at anybody within convenient reach. The blows, however, were without the least effect, nor did the crowd diminish or the cries cease because I steadily refused to reply to the demand for sous.

We were conducted over the house by an elderly, benevolent-looking woman.

“Are you French?” I asked.

She was highly offended, for the Corsicans are an extremely patriotic nation, and think most other people, the French included, far beneath themselves in courage and other manly virtues. The old lady drew herself up to her full height, and, looking as vicious as such a nice old lady possibly could, she snapped out, “No; Corsican.”

“So much the better,” I replied, and she forgave me at once. She showed us only the rooms on the first floor of the house. There was the little parlour with a few articles of furniture which she said had originally belonged to the family. I learned afterwards that they had never done anything of the kind. There was the little room where the hero was born, a dining-room with a floor of glazed tiles, and a drawing-room with a floor of inlaid wood.

The baby Napoleon was an ugly little fellow, with a very big head. He screamed so loudly that he astonished most people who had ever had any experience of the strength of a baby’s lungs. As he grew to boyhood he was noted for his ugliness. Everyone who saw him remarked his enormous head and his feeble body. He had a naughty temper, and gave himself and others a great deal of trouble in consequence. When he was taken at the age of two to be baptized at the cathedral, he resisted the sprinkling of the holy water screaming violently, “No, no!” and striking everyone within reach, the priest included. The only person whom he feared, as a boy, was his mother. She realized what a passionate temper he possessed, and sent him, when five years old, to a girls’ school, hoping that the influence of his new companions would soften him a little. He seems to have been quite happy amongst his girl school-fellows, until he chose a sweet-tempered child of his own age as his first sweetheart. This aroused the jealousy of some of the girls and the taunting of others. The elder girls in particular made fun of the loving pair. One day, Napoleon, furious at the jeers of his school-fellows, seized a big stick and drove his persecutors away in a manner at once astonishing and painful. For this act he was expelled from the school and severely thrashed by his mother, whom, nevertheless, he dearly loved. He always said in after-life that all that was best in him was due to the influence of his mother in his early days. And yet Madame Letitia was fond of the rod when the boy was naughty.

“Another day he made fun of his grandmother, who was in the habit of leaning on a stick as she walked, and said that she was like a witch. His mother happened to hear the remark, and looked sternly at the child, who contrived to keep out of her way until towards evening; then, when she seized him to administer punishment, the boy escaped from her grasp. The following morning he greeted his mother and prepared to embrace her as usual, but she had not forgotten the punishment that was his due, and pushed him from her. Later on in the day she told him that he was invited to dine with one of their relatives in the town, and he went up to his room to get ready. Madame Letitia followed him, found him changing his clothes, and fastened the door behind her, after which the young man had to submit to a flogging which was none the less severe that he had managed to evade it for a whole day.”B

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.