Chapter 17

NICE AND MENTONE.

Throughout the cruise to the Orient, up to the time of departure from Naples, our party of tourists had the great steamer to themselves, there being no other passengers on board. At Naples, however, a change took place. As the Steamship Company granted us the privilege of remaining over in Europe and returning later in the season in some other steamer of the same line, a large number of the tourists left the Moltke at Naples for side trips on the Continent, and many more intended to leave at Nice; so that not more than one-fourth of the original number was booked to return direct from Nice to New York. During the time our steamer lay at Naples a cargo of freight was taken on board, and on the day of departure one thousand steerage passengers ascended the gangway, some with valises of curious shape, a few dragging trunks, but the greater number with all their possessions in bags or bundles.

At ten o'clock on the night of March thirtieth, we stood at the rail watching the lights on the shore gradually disappearing from sight as the Moltke steamed away from the harbor.

"What must be the thoughts of these Neapolitan exiles as they sail away from 'Sunny Italy,' their place of birth, their homeland, and their friends?" mused my friend, referring to the emigrants gazing farewell to their native land.

"There is sadness in their hearts, for their faces and attitudes show it," said he, answering his own question. "Some of the women are shedding tears. But they are all hopeful. They have heard that in the promised land there is plenty of work, high wages, enough to eat, and, what is far better, opportunity to rise. In Italy there is scarcity of work, low wages, a chunk of black bread, and nothing better to look forward to in the future."

"You are right, young man, there is something to look forward to in America, an opportunity to rise in the world," said a fellow tourist, well known as a man of wealth and distinction. "I can sympathize with these poor people who are seeking to better their condition. Thirty years ago I was a poor man, leaving Europe in the steerage as an emigrant to the land of promise. I worked my way to the West, became a miner, and met with success."

"To reach America appears to be the desire of many in Italy," remarked another. "In the elevator of one of the hotels in Naples I found the elevator boy studying an English spelling book. He said, 'I am going to America as soon as I have money enough; there is a chance for me to become something if I can get to New York.' A cab driver asked me if I knew his cousin in Chicago. 'My cousin,' said he, 'saved enough money to buy a third-class passage to New York. That was just three years ago. Now he is sending money home to his friends to take them over. He must be doing well. We never have any money to give away.' Money to spare for his friends! That told the cabman the story of a golden land."

On Tuesday, as we sailed northward, we passed the island of Elba, on which the banished Napoleon remained ten months after his abdication. We endeavored to recall the history of the events that preceded the great Emperor's first downfall; the campaign in Russia, the burning of Moscow, the winter retreat, the depletion of the grand army by frost and hunger. But when the little island of Monte Cristo came in sight, memory brought to mind pleasanter recollections,--Dumas' story of the "The Count of Monte Cristo," so wonderful in our youthful days, Edmond Dantes' escape from the dungeon, the cave on the island, and the fabulous wealth concealed therein.

On the day of arrival at Nice, hundreds of owners of automobiles from all parts of Europe were assembled in that city for trials of speed; the morning races had taken place and the dust-covered racers were just coming in from their fast runs. On the way to the hotel we saw an automobile run over one man and knock another down. An excited French woman who was rolled over in the dust but not injured followed the offending car to the garage with tongue, hands, and arms all in rapid motion. She was giving the chauffeur a tongue-lashing and calling his attention to her soiled clothing. Her tirade prompted the chauffeur to draw some coins from his pocket and place them in her hand, and then her hurt feelings apparently were quickly relieved.

Nice has a delightful climate. It is protected from the cold winds of the north by hills and mountains and fanned by the mild breezes of the sea. Royalty, beauty, and wealth make their abode in this favorite resort on the shore of the Mediterranean during the winter season, and English lords, French counts, Russian princes, German barons, and American millionaires sojourn at the magnificent hotels or reside in beautiful villas.

The season of gaiety was just closing when we arrived and the hotels were not crowded, yet there was much to see. It was a pleasure to drive on the clean, well-paved avenues, which are shaded by great trees and lined with handsome homes and white stone hotels, passing lawns and gardens filled with palms, roses, choice flowers, and blooming vines. It was interesting to stroll along the sea front for two or three miles on a stone pavement fifty feet wide, the popular promenade of the city, with the waves of the blue sea rolling almost to your feet on one side and the wide avenue filled with handsome teams and motor-cars of every description on the other. It was entertaining to secure a chair in the park during the afternoon concert, and, comfortably seated, listen to the military band, admire the gowns of the French women, and note the variety of uniforms worn by the French officers. Those afternoons in the park were very restful for there was no hurry nor confusion nor crying of wares for sale, and the balmy sea breeze had a soothing effect on the nerves.

The weather was delightful and the air pure and clear when, on the morning of April fourth, a party of sixteen filled the seats of a four-horse drag for a drive from Nice to Mentone over the famous Corniche road, a round trip of over forty miles, noted as one of the finest drives in Europe. We had decided to go to Mentone over the Upper Corniche road, which winds among the mountains, and return by the Lower Corniche road, which follows the shores of the sea.

Our driver snapped his long-lashed whip and the horses started off as gaily as if they shared our exuberant spirits.

"That is the river Paillon," said the driver, pointing to a diminutive stream in the midst of a wide stony bed. "The river has very little water in it now, but when the snow melts in the mountains it becomes a torrent."

The little stream had a peaceful look. Many washer-women were busily at work along its banks, many clothes lines were filled with drying garments, and sheets were bleaching on the stones. A number of red objects in the distance proved, as we drew nearer, to be a company of red-trousered French soldiers washing their linen in the stream. Another company in red trousers and white shirts marched by us, carrying their bundles to the river. After leaving the river we passed an immense public wash trough where forty women were washing clothes and apparently having a social time. There was room at the trough for double that number.

The macadamized road winding up the mountain side in easy grades, supported at many places by walls of substantial masonry, was in perfect condition. Occasionally as our team moved slowly upward we heard the "honk, honk" of a horn and a racing automobile making a time record flew swiftly by and was soon out of sight, or rushing down grade around sharp curves at tremendous speed toward us caused some hearts in our coach to palpitate in anxiety until the racer had safely passed.

"At this spot a Russian Count and his friend were killed on the morning of the races," said our driver as we rounded one particularly sharp curve. "The count, expecting to be a winner in the race, was speeding his motor-car at the rate of fifty miles an hour, when it swerved against the rocks and he and his friend were hurled over the wall and crushed to death."

As we ascended the mountains we saw on the slopes below us orchards of gray olive trees, in the valleys orchards of dark green orange and lemon trees filled with yellow fruit, clean looking white or yellow or pink houses with red tile roofs dotting the landscape, and the white stone Hotel Regina, beautiful for situation, standing prominent on a summit. The rocks in the channel of the Paillon appeared to be a bed of pebbles. In the distance, to the south, could be seen the buildings of the city we had left and the glistening waters of the sea beyond; on the north, wooded hills and terraced mountains; and far away, the snow covered summits of the Alps. While we gazed at one of these scenes of beauty, the soft mellow tones of a convent bell came pleasingly to our ears.

"Why is it the bells ring so sweetly here?" inquired one of the occupants of our coach. "It must have been melodious notes like these that pleased the ear of the poet Moore."

At each turn of the road our point of view changed and the panorama unrolled before us. We looked down upon a series of beautiful pictures. The Mediterranean lay two thousand feet below us, its surface reflecting every shade of blue and green, its coast a succession of inlets, bays, promontories, and peninsulas. White roads winding among the shrubbery on the peninsulas looked like white ribbons on a green background, the red tiled houses like little toys, and the harbor of Ville Franche like a pond on which floated tiny boats that a child might play with.

"What a picturesque town!" exclaimed a tourist.

"That is the city of Eze. It is a very old city," said the driver.

"Perched among the mountains, with its odd castle on a detached hill top," said one of the tourists "it reminds me of a painting by one of the old masters. Cimabue, I think, or Perugino. I cannot remember which. I am constantly regretting while traveling abroad that we are not more proficient in history and art. While the professor and the artist were with the party we could turn to them for information. But now we must depend upon ourselves."

"Not necessarily," replied another, "for we have Baedeker and the guides; and there are the drivers, too, to call upon when they can understand our English or we can understand their French."

For some distance beyond Eze the road followed the side of rugged limestone cliffs surmounted by fortifications and signal stations. At the old, queer-looking town of La Turbie, while the horses rested for an hour, we selected postal cards and took kodak views. Soon after leaving La Turbie, while descending the mountain, we looked down upon the little principality of Monaco, its capital, the city of Monaco, the palace of the Prince built upon a rocky promontory, and the white buildings of Monte Carlo.

Mentone is a popular winter resort on the Mediterranean with handsome houses and flower-filled gardens. Vineyards and groves of orange, lemon, and fig trees, cover the hillsides surrounding the city. We lunched in Mentone, and were entertained under the palm trees of the hotel garden by a band of Italian musicians, one of whom, an amusing character actor as well as singer, responded cheerfully to our requests for special selections and solos.

Our return from Mentone to Nice was through a succession of towns and villages. Along this coast road are many white hotels, comfortable-looking villas, and trimly kept lawns. In the gardens there were century plants, orange, lemon, and palm trees, and rose bushes of great size covered with bloom. On the tops of the garden walls, plants of various kinds were growing. Some of the walls were covered with long clusters of pink geraniums, some gracefully festooned with masses of overhanging heliotrope, and others draped with trailing vines aglow with scarlet bloom. The exuberant growth and bloom of these flowers attracted much attention and drew forth exclamations of delight.

"Did you ever see geraniums and heliotropes growing in such luxuriance?" asked one of the ladies.

"Only in my own state," replied a Californian. "There the plants grow to immense size and bloom in profusion."

"Do not forget charming Funchal," said another. "Remember that there we saw geraniums and fuschias of wonderful size, and vines of pink bouguainvillia that covered the mountain-side cottages."

At Monte Carlo, as we drove through the park that surrounds the white marble gambling palace, we admired the magnificent parterres of flowers, the beds of pansies being especially beautiful in variety of color and size of the flowers. On the piazza of the Café de Paris, where a band was playing, we had afternoon tea and from there watched the throng of visitors who were moving along the palm-lined paths or were ascending or descending the marble steps of the Casino.

"Is there a charge for admittance?" we inquired of the guard at the entrance of the white palace.

"No," he replied. "Present your visiting card at the desk of the Secretary in the corridor. He will approve. Then, after you have registered your name, a card of admission will be given you."

In the decorated rooms where the games of chance were in operation, many handsomely gowned women and well-dressed men were moving from place to place conversing in quiet tones, but crowds were centered around the roulette tables, where the chairs were all occupied and many people were standing. We joined the throng around one of these and saw that the table was divided into numbered spaces, some colored red and some black. In the centre of the table was a little wheel with spaces to correspond in number and color to those on the table. The stakes were silver five franc pieces, one or more. No other coins nor bills were permitted on the table.

"I will try it," said one of our party after watching the game awhile. "I will place a five franc on number seven black."

The table was dotted with silver coins. The croupier touched a spring that sent a small ball spinning around the wheel. The ball stopped in space three red.

"Three red wins," announced the croupier.

A woman with gray hair and large diamonds in her ears picked up her winnings and added them to the stack of silver on the table in front of her, and the croupiers with wooden rakes raked in scores of coins that had been laid on losing numbers.

At some of the tables in the magnificent apartments of the Casino the stakes were higher, twenty franc gold pieces being used, and at these tables, eager players, infatuated with the game, hazarded handfuls of gold on the turn of the wheel.

"The chances to win or lose appear to be about even," said the Californian. "They must, however, be in favor of the Casino; for the company requires a large income to meet the enormous expenses incurred in keeping up this handsome palace and grounds with thousands of employees, croupiers, guards, gardeners, and care-takers. In addition, the company pays a heavy tax to the Prince of Monaco, and yet is said to have large profit."

When our coach arrived at the hotel in Nice some one remarked: "You appear to be enthusiastic over your drive." We were; there was no doubt about it, and we might well have added that we were just as well pleased with the whole trip to the Orient. We started with great expectations and we were not disappointed.

At Nice, when the Moltke sailed for New York, we parted with feelings of regret from many pleasant friends and companions whose acquaintance we had made during the trip, and with whom we had been agreeably associated on sea and on land.

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Transcriber's Note:

Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. Some Illustrations have been moved to avoid splitting paragraphs and make smoother reading.

Noteworthy corrections: Pausanius => Pausanias (p. 110) re-remarked => remarked (p. 254) cavaran => caravan (p. 281) Mahmond => Mahmoud (p. 338) symphathize => sympathize (p. 380) millionaries => millionaires (p. 381) exlaimed => exclaimed (p. 386)

End of Project Gutenberg's A Trip to the Orient, by Robert Urie Jacob