Part 21

It is commonly thought that it must be a disagreeable feature of Mentone that visitors encounter in their walks so many invalids there. No doubt there are a good many invalids at Mentone, and some of them have all the appearance of being so, but they do not predominate by any means. Many of them keep their rooms, and those who go out seldom go beyond the promenade, except for a drive. It is indeed painful sometimes to see some delicate invalids who are hopelessly beyond recovery, and particularly young men, thin, gaunt, and white, well wrapped up, even on sunny days; but they are never so numerous as to make Mentone a painful residence. The English people, as a rule, are wiser than the Continental. They come at an early stage of their complaint, and get rapidly cured; while it is said, on the other hand, that people of other nations come when they are incurable. Of course, some of these invalids succumb, and from time to time a death occurs; but a funeral is seldom or never seen. When a death happens, the hotel people keep it as long quiet as possible. The authorities take charge of the burial, and the body, which must lie unburied twenty–four hours after death, is removed in a coffin after dark to the mortuary adjoining the cemetery, where the relations assemble usually on the following day, and it is buried. The expense of burial is said to be moderate, the charges varying according to circumstances. But there is one repellent fact connected with this subject which I have heard exists. It is, that some of the hotels put up a notice in the printed bills of charges, which are hung in the bedrooms, that a death occurring in the house will be charged so much. This is no doubt done to prevent disputes, and there is fairly reason for a charge, seeing that the bedding on which the dead person lay is burnt or otherwise destroyed, the room is unoccupied for a short time, and it is against the hotel; but the making of this prominent notification shocks one’s feelings, and may sometimes be injurious to the invalid. I have not personally seen it.

The cemetery of Mentone, surmounting the hill, on the ridge and slopes of which the old town is built, has a picturesque look from below. As usual abroad, the Protestant ground is separated from the Roman Catholic; the Catholics, by the narrow feeling of religious exclusiveness, refusing Protestants burial in the same ground with themselves. But it collects the strangers the more together, and it is painful to walk round and think of the many who are buried so far away from their homes and friends. We have seen at different places one or two funerals, when the English service was performed, but at Cannes had the opportunity of witnessing a funeral service conducted by the French Protestant clergyman. He was a remarkably fine–looking old gentleman, and in place of a formal service, or perhaps in addition to it, for we had not arrived at the commencement, he made a very touching address to the relations and others present, and offered a simple earnest prayer. We could not help thinking that it was so very much more appropriate than the formal service of the Church of England, however stately and beautiful, which so often is rattled over without much appearance of feeling, and is uniformly the same to all.

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We were three months in Mentone during our first winter there, and, as may be gathered from what I have previously said, we had ample means of spending the days pleasantly. Perhaps the evenings, though pleasant, had too much of the public life about them, living so much in family with others. We occasionally longed for the quietness of home life, which could not be said to be had by simply retreating to our rooms. Sometimes the evening was varied, as I have elsewhere mentioned, by little entertainments, such as conjurors with their tricks. But we had, even amidst all the pleasant days we spent there, some peculiarly red letter days, embracing our more extensive excursions, and days to be noted.

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Of these, the first was Christmas day. Among the English people this was maintained in the usual manner; but we had heard that there would be a grand service according to the Roman Catholic form in the cathedral or parish church, and we went thither. The Church of St. Michael, a large one, dating back, it is said, to the thirteenth century, was draped with crimson cloth, and a profusion of gold or gilt articles was displayed at the altar, which was lighted up with an immense quantity of candles. The place was crammed with people, the crowd even extending a good way outside the door. After the usual service and chanting, the great event of the day took place. Several priests, preceded by a tall janitor in cocked hat and uniform and halberd, in humble imitation of the grand man of the Madeleine, commenced parading through the church, one of them bearing in his arms a wax doll, baby size, as if new born, which he held out to be kissed; and every one, even respectable–looking people, pressed forward as they slowly progressed to kiss the doll’s foot. When he came our length, the priest, a jolly fat man, who, whatever he may have felt at the absurdity of the scene, contrived to keep his countenance, quietly, seeing at a glance we were Protestants, or what was the same thing, ‘Anglais,’ presented it to others, and did not give us a chance. A priest behind him took up the collection. Each person, besides, had to pay for the use of a chair, some paying for two, one being used to kneel on.

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New Year’s day is, however, the great day among the native population; and gifts among the foreigners are usually then exchanged, in place of, as with the English, on Christmas day. A very common form of such gifts is that of a large bouquet of flowers, generally more than a foot in diameter, laid out in circular symmetrical rows, the flowers on short stalks being supported by wires. They look pretty, but stiff, and do not last so long as our assorted bouquets with their long stalks. On occasion of a birthday, the heroine of the day, if popular, and the event were known, would often get three or four such sent to her.

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On the 3d of February we saw bands of young men parading the streets in an uproarious manner, with flags, and preceded by drummers beating the usual rat–tat–tat. We could not imagine what this meant, until informed that it was the day upon which the young men drew lots for the selection of those who were to serve as conscripts in the French army. The noise and merriment were, like the tom–tom at a Hindoo suttee funeral pile, doubtless intended to hide the agony and to drive away thought, if they any had, from the ‘chosen few.’

A week later witnessed the grandest event of the season, for on 10th February the keeping of the Carnival commenced. For some days previously, the shops were full of false faces, wire gauze masks, strange dresses, and confetti; and cars were in course of decoration for the event, which necessarily, in a small place like Mentone, could only be upon a small scale. The coming affair was the grand talk of the town, and we had even some masquerading before it came. At last the eventful morning dawned. It was a complete holiday. Every one turned into the streets, or took possession of windows, balconies, and other salient points; while the promenade was ornamented with long venetian decorated poles, such as we had planted in the streets of Edinburgh when the Queen came to unveil the Prince Consort’s statue in 1876. Balconies were draped, flags were everywhere fluttering in the breeze, and the Cercle where prizes were to be distributed was gaily dressed with evergreens and coloured calico. At mid–day the procession was expected to move; but it was much too important to move off so early, and did not commence till two o’clock. Meantime the streets were filled with people in the oddest and most comical attire, with masks on their faces, rendering them unrecognisable by their friends. One of these figures was absurdly dressed in feathers as a huge cock, while another represented a still larger eagle. All this time the people were peppering each other with confetti, small round chalk pellets smaller than peas. But the grand peppering was reserved for the procession, which at last hove in sight. It was preceded by a car filled with musicians in carnival costume, who did not play, being probably afraid lest their instruments might suffer damage. Then a long row of fancy soldiers ambled forward on horseback, two and two, dressed in a uniform of blue coat and white trousers, looking very gay. Then various cars were dragged slowly or staggeringly along in odd devices, one of which was the representation of a gigantic lobster pie filled with men dressed out in red as boiled lobsters, while the horses had vast coverings as black or unboiled lobsters. Another car personified classical statuary, the men and women being chalked or painted over in white, and intended to be motionless, but as taken being well shaken, not always succeeding in preserving either rigidity or composure. Various other cars, besides walking figures, and people in carriages, all disguised, completed the procession, which, like a stage army, to make up for the want of numbers, passed round the circle and repassed repeatedly. All this time, the people in the street, or on the balconies or scaffoldings erected for the occasion, and in the carriages and cars, continued to fire away at each other a copious shower of confetti. These were discharged with a right good–will; but all, except the improvident, being protected by masks and calico garments, no damage was suffered, except when a man audaciously appeared in a good hat, which hat was battered by discharges of confetti without mercy. Young men and young ladies adopted the novel method of flirting by vigorously pelting each other, and wicked men would quietly and furtively slip a handful of confetti down a woman’s open neck. This tomfoolery was begun upon the Saturday and continued upon the Monday, but was not practised upon the Sunday at Mentone. At Nice, however, where the English do not preponderate, the Carnival, which was there upon a larger scale, was kept up on the Sunday, and about twenty of the visitors (foreigners, of course) at our hotel went to Nice to see it. On the Monday night the promenade was lighted up by means of paper Chinese lanterns, and there was an exhibition of fireworks, concluding with setting in blaze a giant figure representing ‘the Mentone man,’ well stuffed with tar. The streets on the following day, as well as previously, were covered with the chalk pellets, and it was some time before they were swept and restored to their ordinary condition.

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Of a different sort were other days regarded as eventful in so quiet a place as Mentone. A fall of snow was an event, the discovery of ice in the river, even a rainy day was to be noted. But of all days of this description, those in which Corsica was visible were the greatest, and the query when friends met on such days always was, ‘Have you seen Corsica this morning?’ It was only in peculiar states of the atmosphere that this distant island became visible, and it happened perhaps six times in the winter. Just before sunrise,—generally from a quarter to half an hour before, if the atmosphere was particularly clear, and especially if frosty,—the sun rising behind Corsica revealed the tops of mountains from 90 to 130 miles off, and from 6000 to 9000 feet high: the vision remained till the sun rose to the horizon, when it disappeared. I was always on the watch on likely mornings, and succeeded in taking a sketch of the view, which, by verifying at each successive appearance, I rendered exact. The engraving opposite is a little more than half that of the original sketch, which was just as seen. Only on one occasion was Corsica visible during the day. This happened in the second winter, on 26th November 1877. I had seen it in the morning, and was incredulous when informed in the forenoon that it was then visible. Seeing was believing, however; for there it was, and it remained in sight the whole day till four o’clock, the sun throughout shining brightly _on_ it instead of behind it, so that this appearance was quite different from what was seen in the morning. I looked upon it as the harbinger of wet weather, and accordingly for some days afterwards we had rain.

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By the end of February we began to prepare for leaving Mentone to travel in Italy. During December we had five days, during January two days, and during February three days with more or less rain—eleven days altogether out of ninety. Besides these days, which were also cold, we had as many more days which were cold or stormy without being wet. All the other days, even with the north or east winds blowing, were fine and sunny. There were very few days in which an invalid could not venture out. In fact, more than three–fourths of the weather was fine and sunny, and often as hot as a hot day in July at home. On 27th February, however, we had an eclipse of the moon, which was total. It must, I think, have had a serious effect upon the temperature, for immediately afterwards it became extremely cold; so much so that there was ice for the first time on the river, and it was needful at last to don our winter attire. We had planned to leave upon the 2d March, but the day was such as to necessitate postponing our departure till the morrow. We proceeded by carriage to San Remo.

ITALY.

X.

_SAN REMO AND GENOA._

WE were now proceeding into a country with which many old associations were united, running back to schoolboy days,—a land over whose sunny skies and vine–clad fields so many raptures have been uttered; a land bearing evidence in its deeply–interesting ruins of the power of a great empire long since passed away; a land of the old classic literature, and of so much that was grand in ancient art. The pleasure of visiting it, long looked for, had come at last, and with high anticipation (a feeling, I suppose, common to most people) we entered Italy.

Our great difficulty on leaving Mentone was the weather. Friends who had just been travelling spoke of having had in Italy great severity of cold and much rain. One of these friends advised against going so soon, but another thought we might now without any hesitation set off. Perhaps impatient to leave after having formed our plans, we resolved to adventure, upon the theory of the Scotch saying, generally applied to the converse of the case, that the cold would be, as the spring advanced, ‘a fault aye mending.’ As it turned out, we would have been better to have waited eight or ten days longer after the 3d of March, the date of our departure; and, judging from our experience on this occasion, I should say that about the middle of March is the earliest time to commence a tour in Italy, after spending a winter in the sheltered regions of the Riviera. It is not only cold previously, but, except in favoured spots, the prospect is bleak and wintry. The vines which in the summer grow so luxuriantly and are so extensively cultivated, are leafless, the trees are bare, and the fields black.

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We left old friends, and as we rattled through the street of Mentone we passed familiar places sorrowfully. Shortly afterwards we reached the Pont St. Louis, and were in Italy.

At the _douane_ station beyond the bridge, we were stopped by the _douaniers_, who made a show of examining luggage; but they saw we were _bona fide_ travellers, and we were not detained more than a few minutes. This brevity of detention and being spared the annoyance of having all one’s luggage turned out and tossed about, are two great advantages of proceeding by carriage. Passengers going by railway to Italy from Mentone are stopped at Ventimiglia for a weary hour, and must submit to the usual inspection.

The _douane_ roadside station, to which we had often walked, stands high, and commands a remarkably good view of Mentone and all its surroundings. We looked back from this point and others on our way, not knowing if we should ever see this cherished spot again.

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At the time we left Mentone, and for the greater part of the way, the air was full of an odour not over agreeable, and I fancied that it might be that the olive trees were being manured,—a process to which they are subjected every second or third year, when a ditch is dug round each of them, and part of the manure placed in it consists of old rags, which the better answer their purpose the older and filthier they are.

The day was fairly bright in the morning, and while we had the sun everything looked beautiful; but a black cloud which had been looming in the south arose, and, spreading, for part of the way obscured the great luminary, so that we could not see everything in perfection, and might only imagine how much more charming some parts must have been, had they been brightened by its rays. The want of sun also, as usual, chilled the air.

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We passed Belinda and Mr. Hanbury’s garden, and came in sight of Ventimiglia, which lies about seven miles from Mentone. It is fortified, and commands the Corniche road and access to Italy in that direction. The town itself has rather a striking appearance, and is well worth a visit. It was an old Roman station, and in the time of Augustus a flourishing place, adorned and supplied with temples, baths, and other accessories of Roman life. Many remains of these ancient times have been found, and at present the ruins of an amphitheatre about a mile eastward have been discovered and are being exposed. Enterprise in the direction of excavation is sure to reward the authorities, who are undertaking it. A broad torrent bed intersects the town, through which the Roja, a stream larger than any at Mentone, flows. The banks of this stream, which really contains water, were lined by washerwomen pursuing their occupation according to the manner of those at Mentone, already described. This river is crossed by a bridge, whence a fine view is had up the wide valley to the mountains.

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The road onward from Ventimiglia is dotted on each side by Italian houses, and offers a pleasant drive. After proceeding four miles, we arrived at Bordighera, or, as it is sometimes spelled, Bordighiera.

The promontory on which this small town lies, stretches far out into the sea. The town itself has been built on its west slope, and from Mentone always looks clothed in sunshine. Probably its half insular position may give a certain amount of softness to the air. It is now becoming a place of resort for invalids. The stranger population apparently is about from 150 to 200, more than one–half of whom are English. It is thought more bracing than Mentone, and may suit some constitutions; but it seems to want the shelter which most invalids require, and which is obtained elsewhere. It is, however, a bright–looking place, with several hotels. The Hotel de Bordighera, newly opened, is very pleasantly situated, with large garden in front. The other hotels are ‘D’Angleterre,’ ‘Beau Rivage,’ ‘Bellevue,’ and ‘Pension Anglaise.’ There are also about twenty villas, besides other houses, in which quarters may be obtained.

The people of Bordighera obtained from the Pope the privilege of supplying Rome with palms at Easter, in the manner afterwards mentioned (p. 298). The palm tree here, therefore, is a subject of special cultivation. We found the palm garden closed, presumably in preparation for Easter. Leaving the carriage, we ascended to the church or cathedral in the old town,—always a prominent object from Mentone,—and from this point, whence an extensive view is obtained, we took our last look, for that time, of the place where we had spent the previous three months so happily. Returning reluctantly to the carriage, we drove on, and soon passed round to the other side of the promontory, which thereupon shut out of view all the places whence we had come, and after proceeding seven or eight miles, reached San Remo.

SAN REMO.

San Remo is a place much recommended by physicians, often in preference to Mentone. Its air is said to possess all the invigorating qualities of that of Nice, with the warmth of that of Mentone; to be warm, exhilarating and soothing, and conducive to sleep. The mean winter temperature is stated by some accounts to be from 54° to 59° Fahrenheit; spring, 63° to 68°; summer, 72° to 85°; and autumn, 66° to 72°.[26] The icy Tramontane wind is said to be only slightly felt, and that in the west and more exposed end of the town, while the mistral is only known as a high wind. It is also asserted that the natives are healthy and long–lived. With all these recommendations as a health resort, San Remo cannot be considered to possess the attractions of Mentone, and it was with a feeling of disappointment we first entered the place. Perhaps our disappointment was increased by the difficulty of obtaining accommodation, and by the contrast in what we did obtain with what we had enjoyed at Mentone.

Arriving at the West End, we found all the hotels there full, and were glad to secure accommodation in one within the town, possessing a garden, dreary and overlooked by houses. The place—at all events externally—was not inviting; and as the weather was, during the greater part of our sojourn on this occasion, bad, with rain, our first impressions were not favourable.

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