THE TOWN OF AJACCIO.
English people are apt, at Ajaccio, to incur a good deal of public
obloquy and well-merited contempt by their pronunciation of the name.
In their Northern ignorance, they are accustomed to pronounce the two
_c_'s soft; and find considerable difficulty in schooling their tongues
to the popular sneeze-like intonation.
In this dilemma, I bethought me of a plan adopted by a fond and
phonetic mother I had known years ago, to cure a failing common amongst
those of tender years, viz., the adding of an agreeable but unnecessary
_r_ to those Christian names which terminate in a vowel, and by whom
the following couplet was composed, to be repeated twenty times daily
by her children--
"Give Anna-an apple, and Julia-a cake;
Send Maria-Eliza-afloat on the lake."
Acting on this precedent, I put my poetic muse to work, and, in an
incredibly short space of time, had composed this chaste and elegant
refrain--
"Ajaccio! Ajaccio!
What name so very catchy, O!
Is there a town can match thee, O,
To turn adrift a scratch trio
Of English dames, Ajaccio?"
This verse I took, as a sort of mental pill, last thing before getting
into bed, repeating the dose whenever I happened to wake in the night.
At breakfast time, and whilst employed at my toilet, I continued the
same process, mixing Ajaccio up with coffee and rolls; and, before
noon, had the comfort of feeling that the disease was cured, and the
national sneeze effectually imitated.
This trifling incident is only named for the benefit of any future
English travellers afflicted with a like difficulty.
Ajaccio is one of the most delightful little towns possible for a
residence. Both climate and population wear a sunny air that can hardly
fail, one would think, to put even the proverbial British grumbler into
good spirits and a good temper.
The views on every side are smiling and lovely, without being
oppressively grand. For everyday use such a landscape wears best,
as, in domestic life, a cheerful comely woman is preferable to a
magnificently attired belle.
Soft purple hills, a blue, gently heaving sea, and pretty white
villas, nestling amongst groves of trees, are the sights of Ajaccio,
all melting and glowing in the glory of the mid-day sun, or gathering,
every half-hour, new lights and shadows, till the haze of evening.
The town itself is far cleaner than any other in Corsica; the streets
are gay and busy, with a French liveliness; the inhabitants have a
remarkable talent for smiling, and the tradespeople are the most civil
in the world. Their politeness absolutely knows no bounds. They place
the most unbounded confidence in strangers; and you may enter a shop
without your purse and carry off an armful of purchases, to the entire
satisfaction of the owner, who quite blushes on being told of your name
and residence.
It is apparently considered quite a favour to be allowed to show you
the way, and the straw hats are pulled off with a polished smile worthy
of Beau Brummel. One man, at a chemist's door, went so far as to thank
us for having thus appealed to him!
Another, an optician, a sweet-looking old gentleman, in a grey slop and
wide-awake, after having vainly searched for some time for an eye-glass
to suit No. 3, was quite overcome when she apologized for the useless
trouble given; and showed off the talents of his handsome black and
white retriever, which, at his request, leaped upon a chair to kiss his
master, with a paw placed on either shoulder.
The shops at Ajaccio are fairly good, and more modern in appearance
than at Bastia; and certainly they deserve to be patronized, if it is
only to learn good manners.
The climate of Ajaccio is lovely; very little rain falls there.
During our different visits to the town this highly rainy and
unsatisfactory spring, only one day, I think, was really wet; and I
noticed that the weather generally seemed brighter here than elsewhere.
In winter it is charming. November, December, January, February, and
March, vary exceedingly little in temperature, ranging from fifty-five
to sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, with an average of sixty-two degrees;
but Miss Campbell declares January and February to be the most perfect
months of the year in Ajaccio; and March is certainly far less windy,
chilly, and dusty here than on the Riviera.
In April the temperature generally rises considerably, and towards
the end of the month the winter visitors begin to leave in a body.
It becomes then rather too relaxing, but is wonderfully free from
mosquitoes and fevers, and other Southern plagues, up to the month of
July; when, although not positively dangerous, like the towns on the
eastern coast, it is decidedly not healthy for any Northern stranger
who may be enough of a salamander to brave its tropical heat.
In July and August, even the natives, under their big umbrellas, dread
the glaring sun; the upper classes all remove to their country houses
or summer lodgings up among the hills, and the snakes and lizards
hold high jinks on deserted road and furnace-like rock; whilst the
scorpions, whose sting is death to man or beast, occasionally vary
their amusements by appearing _within_ the houses.
Ajaccio is more and more becoming a winter resort for consumptive
persons. The temperature is as mild as that of Mentone, and more
equable. It is less expensive, equally comfortable, and equally
beautiful in its surroundings.
The one drawback, of course, is the voyage; but good vessels run two
or three times a week from Marseilles to Ajaccio direct, a voyage of
sixteen hours; and this is decidedly the best and easiest route for
invalids (unless exceptionally bad sailors), as they then avoid the
smaller vessels, and the long cold land journey over the interior from
Bastia.
The Hôtel Germania in Ajaccio is excellent, and leaves nothing to be
desired.
There are, as I have said, two hotels in the town; both large and good.
The Hôtel de France is decidedly cheaper, and, we were told, was
comfortable, and well-managed by an exceedingly attentive landlord; but
I fancy a few luxuries to be had at Hôtel Germania are not attainable
there.
But the great attraction for invalids in Hôtel Germania is that it is
the usual nucleus of the resident English.
The chaplain (here for the winter season) usually stays at this hotel;
the house is warm, and airy, and spacious; the bedrooms are dainty and
well furnished, and there is a cosy salle de lecture, or drawing-room,
containing a good piano.
Tidy little maids, in muslin caps and aprons, attend upon the ladies'
wants; the mistress is kind and attentive, and the food is said to be
rather superior to that at the other hotel.
From ten to twelve francs a day is the usual price at the Hôtel
Germania for "pension" in the season. This includes a nice room with
sofa and writing-table; attendance, and three meals, including six
o'clock table d'hôte.
The hotel is out of the town, but within two minutes' walk of it; built
against a green wooded hill, covered with prickly pear, and thickly
populated by nightingales; and has a nice little garden of its own,
rich in roses and scarlet geraniums.
Every winter a little English band of visitors, from twenty to forty
in number, gathers here; and the society within the house is generally
exceedingly pleasant and sociable.
Outside, there are lovely walks and drives; carriages can be hired at
two francs the hour; and the pretty English church (in which, during
the winter, service is held two or three times a week by the chaplain)
is within a stone's throw.
For a botanist, there are ferns and flowers innumerable along the
roads; and for a conchologist, there are plenty of pretty shells on the
long range of sands.
The town itself has remarkably few smells for Corsica, and strangers
can walk about without being followed and mobbed by juvenile savages.
The Place du Marché, out of the principal street, and looking upon the
open quay, is a pretty square. In the centre of it, gazing out upon
the blue sea and the bluer hills, rises a large marble statue of the
first Napoleon, surrounded by little fan palms and other shrubs, and by
light fountain jets. The statue is not worth much, but its position and
surroundings are well chosen; and the Ajaccio fountains, unlike those
of Trafalgar Square, play constantly, not occasionally.
Place Buonaparte, a little further on, in the Cours Grandval, is very
fine. It is just beyond the street and the town, and is a wide open
space facing the sea, and in front of the tree-lined Boulevard.
A large and imposing group stands in its midst. Napoleon on horseback
is the central figure; on each side of him stand two of his brothers,
guarding, as it were, the four corners of the dais on which he is
stationed. The figures are in bronze, and well-executed; and the group
is most striking, seen from the Boulevard, standing out vividly, as it
does, against the perfect blue of sea and sky.
Behind the group are some remarkably hideous but useful drinking
fountains; an oasis for the thirsty traveller in the midst of the
white, dusty, unshadowed Place.
The cathedral (for Ajaccio is an ancient bishopric) is but a poor
building. It is small, ornamented with a few pillars of grey Corsican
marble, with local black marble round the principal altar, and another
of a peculiar but not pretty tint, dappled yellow, decorating some of
the side altars.
Two of these, both dedicated to the Virgin, were illuminated in a
singular way. A slit was made in the roof, through which the light of
a lamp streamed down upon the picture, shining upon the head of the
Madonna, and gilding the sky behind her.
The images of the saints were peculiarly grotesque and out of taste
in their adornments, and one wondered how any one, with the smallest
sense of the ludicrous, could have allowed such absurdities to mar a
religious spot.
A brightly coloured Madonna, with a very yellow face, placed upon
a small pedestal, wore a huge wreath of white artificial flowers
surmounting and almost concealing her most uninviting countenance,
whilst another hung on her outstretched wrist, and innumerable
glass beads and gaudy brass rings decked throat, and dress, and
well-displayed fingers.
But, further on, was a far more ridiculous figure on another pedestal.
It was, I fancy, St. Nicodemus--an exceedingly black-browed personage,
got up in a species of ball-costume, with a large white wreath
decorating his thick black hair, and another, equally big, hung round
his neck and falling below a heavy beard, whilst a long red-beaded
rosary fell from his extended arm.
If the clergy of Ajaccio, however, have no sense of humour, they
apparently understand the meaning of hard work; for I was struck by a
written notice, affixed to one of the confessionals, which stated that
a certain Abbé Simconi, one of the cathedral staff, attends daily here
from 6 to 11 a.m., and from 1 to 6 p.m., for the purpose of hearing the
confessions of his flock. After this, no one can say that the Corsican
clerics are idle.