Part 15

Nice is a large town in the province of Nice, formerly part of the Sardinian kingdom, when the boundary line between France and Italy lay about four miles to the westward of the town. Ceded to France, it is now the capital of the French department of the Alpes Maritimes. The population, which forty years ago was 34,000, is now stated by Bædeker to be 50,000; but as the town has been from year to year rapidly extending under the influence of the railway facilities, and now covers a large area, it is probable that this estimate is much under the mark, and that it numbers greatly more. Arriving by the railway, the station is left, and the town entered by a wide handsome street or boulevard called the Avenue de Longchamps. This leads straight down to the Place Massena and the Pont Neuf, where are the public gardens, the Promenade des Anglais, the Boulevard du Midi, and other noted parts. The river Paillon passes through Nice, and is crossed near its mouth by the Pont Neuf.

Nice is a very lively place, and in some respects is attractive. The town is well laid out, and it has many good shops, though none of them large. It is a commercial town, but does not possess many notable public buildings. The cathedral lies in a quarter I never visited; but a handsome Roman Catholic church, externally large, but internally contracted, has been recently built of a fine white stone, and forms a feature in the avenue. The streets, houses, and hotels are imposing. The Promenade des Anglais is a long wide roadway along the beach, extending westward between one and two miles; and upon its landward side, many of the largest and best hotels, a theatre, and other buildings have been erected. This promenade is the great resort, particularly on a Sunday, of the inhabitants and visitors, and it has certainly a magnificent aspect. A handsome iron bridge of three arches over the Paillon connects it with the Boulevard du Midi, which forms a continuation eastward towards the harbour.

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Nice was, and I suppose still is, a free port, and therefore possesses some advantages. Its harbour affords accommodation for many large ships. Before reaching it, however, and to the south–east of the town, a hill interposes, rising abruptly above 300 feet high, popularly called the Chateau, of which castle, however, nothing is now left but its ruins. The slopes of the hill are covered with trees, many of them exotics, through which the road winds gently to the top. We drove up this winding road to the harsh music of innumerable French drummers and trumpeters (one would have thought the tyros of all France were here assembled) practising upon their respective instruments all sorts of disagreeable rat–tats and military signals of contradictory import in dinning, hoarse, distracting, discordant, ear–cracking immaturity—a very Babel of uncertain sounds, tending to realize, perhaps faintly, the Highlander’s dream of heaven,—that delectable thought of ‘four and twenty bagpipers all in one room, and all pleyin’ different chunes.’ Nevertheless, every visitor desirous of obtaining the best view of Nice and its environs should make the ascent, previously bribing the concierge to ascertain if possible at what hour the unhappy musicians dine or otherwise disappear. On the top of the hill there is a platform, from which is obtained a most striking panoramic view. Below, on one side, lie the harbour, and the hills beyond to the eastward, over which the Corniche road proceeds to Mentone and Genoa; then on the south, the beautiful Mediterranean Sea, hemmed in by promontories, and basking and glittering in the sun; westward, the promenades; and thence northwards and eastwards, the city, bounded in the distance by mountains. But what arrested our attention most was the extraordinary torrent bed of the river Paillon. Crossing the Var, we had seen a similar bed, and much wider. In a railway train, however, one has little opportunity of catching more than a passing glimpse of things, especially when the railway line is nearly on the same level. But from the platform of the chateau we were looking down upon the bed of the Paillon from a considerable elevation, which enabled us to see up the course of the river for some miles away to the mountains, where it became lost to view. As the torrent beds are a remarkably characteristic feature of the Riviera, I may just describe their appearance. The bed or channel of the river consists of a broad stony course, through which usually a streamlet trickles; the bed being out of all proportion to the size of the stream as usually seen. It is, however, stony, and no grass grows in it; and sometimes, after heavy rains or from snowy meltings, the water comes down from the mountains in torrents, and more or less covers the channel from side to side, even occasionally, when the rains are more than ordinarily protracted, flooding it considerably—a fact which I believe the contractors in forming the railway found to their cost. But although we have seen heavy rains lasting for days together, I do not think that, with one exception, we ever witnessed such a flow of water in any of the river beds as completely to cover it. The strange aspect of the river course, however, is produced by men continually digging into it when and where dry, and riddling out the fine limy earth which has been borne down from the uplands, and carting it away for building and other purposes; by doing whereof they leave behind them all over it large holes and little heaps of riddled–out stones, imparting a very mottled and singular appearance to the channel. The river Paillon, therefore, extending for miles in this condition, had a most novel and extraordinary aspect from the chateau. Although there had been heavy rain the day before, the stream was very diminutive.

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We stayed but one night at Nice, although we went several times afterwards from Mentone to spend the day there. I do not therefore pretend to know it well. It is the most expensive town in the Riviera, but is alluring to those who go in good health for pure enjoyment. For promotion of enjoyment and gaiety, it is, I presume, everything that can be desired; but although the climate is better than that of some other places, being, it is said, equal or similar to the climate of Florence, it wants the shelter which is so necessary to invalids. The mountains are not near enough to afford protection, and cold winds, keen and piercing, blow down the streets, very trying to delicate constitutions, especially to those suffering from pulmonary complaints. In fact, it would seem to be the battle–ground of all the villainous winds which afflict the south. The _bise_, the _marin_, the _tramontane_, the _mistral_, the _sirocco_, are in continual conflict for the ascendency; and sometimes the one and sometimes the other has it, and enjoys its triumph for a few days in dealing misery on the inhabitants. To many the sea–breeze is most trying. I met on one occasion, on the railway, a gentleman in bad health returning from Nice to Rome because he could not stand its sea–breeze. But given good strong health and a relish for the kind of life, and Nice is charming.

The hotels and pensions are legion in number; but those considered good by English people, it is well to know, are costly.

Theatres, skating rinks, bathing, exhibitions of paintings and sculpture, each in turn claims patronage, while delightful excursions by carriage can be made to places of interest in the neighbourhood. There is a constant stir of life in Nice, aided not a little by military promenades and military music, a band playing each afternoon in the public gardens.

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But we were impatient to be off to Mentone, which, from all we could learn before leaving home, was thought to be the most desirable of all the health resorts in the Riviera for winter residence. Our friends had preceded us from Cannes, and secured quarters for us in the same hotel with themselves.

The carriage road from Nice to Mentone, about 24 miles, is one of the most charming parts of the Corniche drive, and, if weather be not cold and expense be no obstacle, it ought, unless the traveller be an invalid, to be preferred to the railway, which, although it skirts the Mediterranean just at a sufficient elevation to give a charm to the view of its lovely waters, suffers the great drawback of passing through numerous tunnels, some of them long. On the other hand, the drive by road, for which 40 and even 50 francs are asked (though less will be taken), rises at one part to a great height, overlooking the ocean, and being there on the top of the hills, is without protection from the cutting north wind.

It was not warm enough to warrant our venturing to drive, and we decided to go by rail. Soon after leaving the station at Nice, we crossed the torrent bed of the river Paillon, but were still in the town or suburbs of Nice, and in the midst of orange gardens, the fruit shining, like everything else, in the brilliant sun. At the other end of a long tunnel we reached Villefranche, where the gulf of that name presents a large natural harbour, in which one or more men–of–war are sometimes to be seen. From this point the railway hugs the coast, passing under or through the hills by tunnels, whereby many fine points of view are missed, and particularly the sight of Eza, a curious town perched on a precipitous rock, formerly a Saracen free–booter’s stronghold. The Corniche road is more inland, and commands the whole prospect uninterruptedly. As the train emerged from these tunnels successively, bay after bay, filled with the beautiful blue Mediterranean water, hemmed in by rocky promontories, upon which lonely trees sometimes grow, met our sight, but, most tantalizingly, immediately after disappeared from view, eclipsed by the next tunnel. At last, after rather more than half way to Mentone, the bold, peculiar rocky promontory of Monaco, for which we had been watching, appeared, stretching out like a tongue of land, or rather a long steep rock, into the ocean. The view of Monaco either from west or from east is very striking. The rock is from 200 to 300 feet high, and dips perpendicularly into the ocean, crowned by the town, the handsome palace of the Prince of Monaco, and by fortifications. It is inaccessible on three sides, and can only be reached by a fortified road upon the east side sloping up the side of the rock. Upon the north end, which is also steep and inaccessible, it is connected at the bottom by a low narrow belt of land. I shall, however, recur to Monaco in describing a visit to Monte Carlo, which lies about half a mile to the eastward. After leaving Monaco station, the passenger, looking down, sees on the ground below, and leading up to Monte Carlo, a number of villas, pure and bright in their colouring, looking so clean and tidy in the sunshine with which on this occasion we were again favoured. Monte Carlo is not well seen from the railway, as the line and station lie below and even in part under it. All trains stop both at Monaco and Monte Carlo, and at the latter place they generally set down and take up a considerable number of people, who resort either to the gaming tables, or to the delightful gardens which surround them, or to the music room of the Casino. Leaving Monte Carlo, we came in sight of another long projecting though not precipitous point of land, or rising hill ground, covered with trees, principally dark pines. This, the promontory of Cape Martin, is the west boundary and termination of the western protecting arm of Mentone. It necessitates another long tunnel, escaping from which, and passing extensive terraces or forests of old olive trees, and crossing two river courses, we at last arrived at our long anticipated destination, the subject of many thoughts during past months—Mentone.

IX.

_MENTONE._

THE union of bold grandeur with soft loveliness in the Mentone landscape, arrest and powerfully strike the eye upon arrival. Familiarity with its scenery, after a residence of months, scarcely dims the first impression. We had heard much in a general way regarding it even before leaving home, but every expectation was at once far exceeded by the reality. We had just left Cannes and Nice, and witnessed them both in their brightest aspects; but Mentone in its natural features, and seeing it, as we did, for the first time, in glorious sunshine, threw them both into the shade. It was an agreeable surprise, and made us instantly feel that a more beautiful spot for winter residence could not have been chosen.

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Originally the town of Mentone consisted simply of a collection of high old houses, rising ridge upon ridge like so many terraces resting upon the steep slope of a hill, the crest of which was at one time crowned by a castle or palace of the old feudal lords, now converted into a picturesquely–situated cemetery. This hill or ridge, with its curious old houses,—among or above which the cathedral and other churches stand, from which there rise two elegant minaret–like spires, one taller than the other, conspicuous from every quarter round,—forms a very striking object, especially when seen from the east, and from that side may be said in miniature to resemble a little, though of a different character, the old town of Edinburgh, which, however, is far more lofty and extends at least ten times farther. The harbour or port of Mentone lies at the bottom of the seaward end of this ridge. Curious old high houses, resting upon odd long–shaped water–worn rocks, the terminals of the hill, abut and hem in the harbour on the north or land side; while on the south side, a long breakwater is in course of formation for protection from the ocean waves, which, coursing over the whole width of the Mediterranean Sea without interruption, occasionally, under the pressure of a south–west wind, dash up and over with great vigour. An old building, at one time a small castle, standing at the end of the original pier, makes an object in the landscape, and perhaps could tell some tales. The water in the port is extremely shallow, so that the anchorage is only adapted for vessels of a small size, of which there are always a few moored to the quays. The hill ridge, with the projecting pier, form, similarly to Cannes, the dividing line between what are termed the east and west bays.

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The books which have been recently written on Mentone, particularly those of Dr. Bennett and of Mr. William Chambers, but more than any book, the good reports of visitors, have induced such an influx of winter dwellers from distant lands as to have created a new town in both bays. Rather, it may be said that the hotels extend in both directions, for in reality the newer parts of Mentone are made up chiefly of lines of large hotels, the street or shop part of the town being only a necessary sequence. From the ridge eastward to the gaping gorge of St. Louis, which is now the boundary line between France and Italy, the distance by road is about two miles. Hotels line upon one side nearly the first mile, the other side being open to the sea, and villas dot the remainder of the way. From the gorge, south or seaward, a mountain called Belinda (1702 feet) springs up, and from its shoulder a promontory juts out to the sea and forms the termination of the east projecting arm of the bays. From the north side of the gorge a mountain range rises more loftily into the majestic Berceau and Grande Montagne, and, stretching away to the north and north–west, form the great shield to Mentone from the east and north–east winds. These mountains attain an elevation of about (more or less) 4000 feet,—the Grande Montagne being stated by one authority to be 4525 feet,—and show themselves boldly and almost perpendicularly in some parts like enormous colossal walls of bare rock. Due north from Mentone, and from two to three miles distant from it, another chain of mountains lies almost at right angles right across from east to west—St. Agnes in the centre, and behind it the high and sharply–pointed Aigle (4232 feet high)—affording shelter from the north winds; while the Agel (3730 feet high), and some other lesser mountains, terminated by the long promontory of Cape Martin, all lying from north to south, afford shelter from the west and north–west winds, and particularly the cold mistral. Within these greater mountain chains, a series of high ridges or hills standing in front, or issuing out of them like huge tumuli, all covered with olives in terraces, afford additional shelter; so that were it possible for the wind to blow down the outer rampart, it would be withstood by this inner wall or circle of lesser heights, some of which are 1000 feet high. In the distance on the other side of the great mountains, but invisible from Mentone, the Maritime Alps rise to a height of from 5000 to 9000 feet. It will thus be seen that the configuration of the mountains is that of a great semicircle, and that on every side save the south or sunny side, open to the sea, Mentone has protection from the cold winds which in reality blow over the tops of these great walls and strike at some distance away,—the north or prevailing winter wind reaching the sea some miles out. It cannot be said that the cold of the winds is not felt, but it is so greatly averted or modified that Mentone is practically sheltered; and hence it is that, coupled with the long continuance during the winter of dry open sunny weather and the absorption and radiation of the sun’s heat in and from the limestone rocks, it becomes so admirable a place for the invalid.

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Our quarters were in the west bay, considered to be more bracing and less relaxing than the other, which is said to be three degrees warmer, and, from being so, and more enclosed and protected, better suited to the extremely delicate. The hotels and houses in the west bay—in which is also situated the new or shop portion of the town—extend, though not continuously, about a mile; and there has been formed in front, by the border of the sea, a roadway called the Promenade du Midi,—a good and fairly–wide pleasant road for foot–passengers and carriages,—which is, in the early part of the forenoon, the great resort of invalids and other strangers, who here meet their friends, and can view the sea uninterruptedly in their walks, or enjoy a book or a newspaper on one of the many seats provided for the weary or lazy. A low stone–built bulwark protects the promenade from being washed away by the sea, which sometimes, though very rarely, sweeps up forcibly in heavy waves, and even occasionally in a storm, so as to dash over the road. But when the wind is from the north, the sea retires under its pressure 60 to 100 feet from the bulwark, and there is scarcely a ripple upon the water, which then looks like one sheet of blue glass. And this is its predominating or normal condition during the winter. When the waves come, they trundle over monotonously, without gaining or losing a step. It is the great drawback of the Mediterranean that it has no tide, or a tide that is all but imperceptible. The difference between high and low water at Mentone is only from two to three feet. The consequence is, that the sea does not carry away sufficiently the impurities which are conveyed to it; and there is wanting that interesting feature of a tidal beach, the change from hour to hour of the appearance of the shore. It is only right, however, to add, that Mentone enjoys comparative immunity from the noisome influence of exposed drainage. Small drains only empty into the west bay; and they are not particularly offensive, though they might be improved by carrying pipes down into the water,—only the likelihood is, that the first storm would sweep them away. Another empties in the east bay, at the corner formed by the junction of the old town at its north end with the shore. This is at all times disagreeable to passers–by, and must be insalubrious to those residing in its neighbourhood. But it seems difficult to understand how Mentone is drained, unless the east pipe conveys the great bulk of the sewerage to the sea; although, so far as the old town is concerned, it has been explained that the natives collect all manure to carry it off to the country, thus combining thrift with cleanliness. That the town is not as yet so disagreeable as Cannes, may arise from the population being greatly smaller. When Mentone increases much, as it is threatening to do, it may be quite as discernible.

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I have never seen any place so strikingly enclosed as Mentone is by its semicircle of mountains and the minor hill ridges. The higher parts of the mountains are steep, rocky, and bare; but all over the ridges, and far up away into the mountains, the olive tree is cultivated in terraces built for their reception. The orange and lemon trees mingle with the olives at a lower elevation, and in some, especially the higher parts, pine trees furnish a deep green covering. But all combined add a rich beauty to the imposing grandeur of the scene. Some of the buildings also contribute materially to the effect. On the summit of a lofty ridge, between the Carrei and Boirigo valleys, a monastery conspicuously rears its head. On the other heights there are houses of peculiar construction, curiously painted; and the whole place is dotted over with bright–coloured villas, of all tints and shades of white and yellow, relieved by the almost invariable roofing of red tiles, and the usual gay greens of the outside venetian jalousies. But next to the mountain heights, the most marked lineaments of the Mentone scenery are its valley depths or ravines between the various ridges, and in which rivers find their beds, although in the dry weather which generally prevails they are but trickling streams, and in some cases usually almost dry. The greater valleys are three—or rather, it may be said, four—in number, consisting of two larger, with their torrent beds, the Carrei and Boirigo; a third, containing a smaller river course, the Gorbio; and a fourth, the Mentone valley and streamlet, the smallest of all, but obtaining its name from, or giving it to, the old town, at the bottom of which, or underneath the streets, the rivulet passes. The valleys, three of them of considerable width, in which these rivers run, form beautiful adjuncts to the town; and the torrent beds, which are not so long or so wide as those at Nice, are striking without being distasteful to the eye.

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