The beauty of Corsica, says Mérimée, "is grave and sad.
The aspect of the capital does but augment the impression caused by the solitude that surrounds it.
There is no movement in the streets.
You hear there none of the laughter, the singing, the loud talking, common in the towns of Italy.
Sometimes, under the shadow of a tree on the promenade, a dozen armed peasants will be playing cards, or looking on at the game.
The Corsican is naturally silent.
Those who walk the pavement are all strangers: the islanders stand at their doors: every one seems to be on the watch, like a falcon on its nest.
All around the gulf there is but an expanse of tanglework; beyond it, bleached mountains.
Not a habitation!
Only, here and there, on the heights about the town, certain white constructions detach themselves from the background of green.
They are funeral chapels or family tombs."
The aspect of the capital does but augment the impression caused by the solitude that surrounds it.
There is no movement in the streets.
You hear there none of the laughter, the singing, the loud talking, common in the towns of Italy.
Sometimes, under the shadow of a tree on the promenade, a dozen armed peasants will be playing cards, or looking on at the game.
The Corsican is naturally silent.
Those who walk the pavement are all strangers: the islanders stand at their doors: every one seems to be on the watch, like a falcon on its nest.
All around the gulf there is but an expanse of tanglework; beyond it, bleached mountains.
Not a habitation!
Only, here and there, on the heights about the town, certain white constructions detach themselves from the background of green.
They are funeral chapels or family tombs."