CHAPTER IX.

CORTE AND ITS HOTEL.

From Ponte alle Lecchia the road follows the course of the foaming river Vecchio for a long way, along a wide valley, where the green hills circling round are somewhat monotonous for a time, but presently turn into handsome grey and white limestone cliffs, hanging in one place in wild and curious peaks above the passing carriage.

After the large village of Cabouralino, the scenery becomes tamer again, the ground more cultivated, flocks of black and white silky haired goats with silvery bells passing us constantly.

The road, too, was here alive with men riding mules, and leading after them by a cord a string of other mules with packs on their backs. It was a matter of difficulty to pass some of these mules, who were not accustomed to "carriage company," and who backed towards the precipice occasionally, kicking wildly, to the discomfiture of their owners.

This part of the country was the scene of the battle of Ponte Nuovo, in 1769, the last battle fought for Corsican independence; and the date from which Corsica became a French province. It has a touching interest for this reason, and on account of its being a witness to the last vain effort of Paoli in his country's cause.

But now we were leaving the river, with its foaming waters and its bloody memories, over which the fine thoughtful face of Pasquale Paoli seemed to cast a humanizing influence, and were ascending the mountains under a blue sky.

Vast quantities of handsome hellebore, with large ball-like clumps of flowers, and of a species of pale green spurge (its flowers like a number of yellow caterpillars attached to the stem), grew by the roadside; ilex-trees scattered themselves up and down rocks of every form and height, above and below the road, and the mountains all round us became more and more covered with snow. Here and there were placed villages in lofty and commanding situations; one especially, named Suaria, which was perched just above us on a conical green hill rising from the road-side. The village was partially hidden by firs and ilexes crowning this pretty eminence; but the high four-storied campanile of Suaria Church stood out, white and imposing, above their sheltering branches. Very cold and frosty was the wind, notwithstanding the brilliant sun, as we reached the summit of the pass; but the view of mountain scenery spread out beneath us was magnificent.

And now we began our descent through many a tree-covered hill, towards Corte, its high, red-tiled houses visible miles before we reached it. Corte, the central inland town of Corsica, is, after Bastia and Ajaccio, the largest town in the island, and has a position unequalled for wild beauty.

It lies in the very heart of the wildest mountains of Corsica, surrounded on every side by their gaunt and precipitous flanks. Monte Rotondo, one of the highest of the inland chain, raises its snow-crowned head to look over the solemn blue-grey hills immediately behind Corte; and two broad foaming rivers dash down the gully beside the town, and unite, after passing under their handsome stone bridges, in the narrow valley just beneath.

Corte is itself at no mean height above the sea level; and, at the time of our first visit, was exceedingly cold, with a sharp north wind rushing through the town from the numerous mountain ravines.

The citadel, which of itself is not much, is built, with extraordinarily picturesque effect, upon the summit of a precipitous hill, rising from the midst of the town; up whose sides run a few houses, until the overhanging rocks force them to give place to the prickly pear. The main streets in Corte are wide, and paved with rough stone, with enormously high, factory-like houses, of seven or even eight stories, on each side. The houses are remarkably hideous, even for Corsica; built of dirty white stone, and red roofed, without any eaves, the windows irregular and poor, and the open doorways (into large buildings) often showing dirty and poverty-stricken interiors.

Very steep side streets, impassable for carriages, and sometimes giving place to a series of stone steps, lead up into the higher parts of the town, and towards the citadel and church.

Fine elm-trees make a nice avenue all up the main road, at the end of which are the two respectable hotels of Corte, Hotels Pierracci and Paoli, so precisely opposite that the rival guests can look into each other's windows.

If it were not for its dirt, and its ugly houses, the beauty of Corte would be almost unrivalled in European scenery. How one sighs in Corsica for the lovely grey cottages with broad eaves, and for the stately art-decorated mansions with graceful towers, of beauty-loving Italy!

No such thing is to be seen here. I doubt if, from one end of Corsica to the other, there is one building with any pretensions to real architectural beauty.

Art has never been much cultivated in the island. A people who for centuries have lived in a condition of incessant warfare and personal insecurity have but little time or inclination to indulge in the peaceful pursuits of their more luxurious neighbours; and Corsican architecture partakes of the Corsican character, being stern, rugged, and primitive. Many a village, nestled in some exquisite situation among snow-capped hills and orange groves, we found perfectly ruined, in an artistic point of view, by its ugly dwellings.

The churches are the only redeeming feature in Corsican architecture. Their campaniles, or bell-towers, are generally lofty and picturesque, divided into several stories, and standing apart from the body of the church.

Hotel Pierracci, which had been recommended to us, we found a fair hotel in many respects, but intensely national in its peculiarities. The despotic Briton, coming straight from club luxuries and obsequious attentions, would feel himself decidedly out of place there, and not a little miserable.

It is a large hotel, with two handsome dining-rooms, and spacious, well-furnished bedrooms; and although the broad stone staircase is somewhat odoriferous and the passages not over clean, yet the rooms are comfortable and perfectly above suspicion.

But, for the whole of this large establishment, generally well filled with a constantly changing series of guests, there appeared to be only one terribly overworked young waiter, and an elderly maid of all work, (exclusive of the kitchen department).

The result was, that even if you had that un-Corsican luxury of a bell in your room, which was not often, its repeated calls were unheeded; and you had speedily to learn and put in practice that great law of uncivilized regions, "If you want anything done, do it yourself."

As, however, every domestic was in a gasping hurry, and the big landlady--a mixture of sudden irascibility and occasional benevolence--was apt to regard your wants as puerile, and, Corsican fashion, to tell you so loudly to your face--a foray in dressing-gown and slippers to the kitchen, after hot water, or cleaned boots, or any other necessity of man and woman, was apt to end in ignominy and the trial of English tempers. The crockery and cutlery of Hotel Pierracci also run notably short.

It was a current joke amongst the English visitors, that the one coffee-pot of the establishment not only supplied all the numerous breakfast-tables of the different guests, but also did duty on occasions for shaving and toilette water. And this fact I can believe; for one morning, having by persistent obstinacy triumphed over the difficulties of obtaining a little hot water for dressing purposes, my tin jug was fetched away almost immediately afterwards, and I was astonished to see it reappearing on the breakfast table ten minutes later in its habitual guise of coffee-pot.

At breakfast this same coffee-pot was the cause of continual contention between the worried little waiter and ourselves. When it pleased him to give us our breakfast, he used to run in, fill our cups hastily, and whisk out again with his precious pot; and no entreaties or commands would persuade him to leave that invaluable and useful little metal jug behind him, or even to return with it and refill our cups. I think there was a bond of sympathy between that waiter and his coffee-pot, both so terribly overworked.

The food at Hotel Pierracci was good, but rather scarce, and it was difficult to make a dinner off the microscopic scraps which adorned the dishes during the eight courses of the table d'hôte. We noticed this particularly on our road home again, when perhaps our long stay in mountain air and the fine Corsican climate had increased our correct English appetites to a country voracity. But, on the whole, for Corsica, Hotel Pierracci may be considered a very comfortable hotel; and, excepting that at Sartene, which is also a good one, has the reputation of being almost the only large and handsome hotel out of Ajaccio.

Hotel Paoli, we were told afterwards by some French acquaintances, was clean and well ordered, with good rooms and very moderate charges; but we did not go inside the place.