CANNES.--Any one with a liking for titles, that is, English titles,
which are the only ones worth having, is sure to be gratified at
Cannes. For Cannes is like Bournemouth, select and expensive. At the
_Prince de Galles_ Hotel in Cannes the other day, when the register was
brought to me to sign, I noticed that for five pages mine was the only
name of a commoner. Earls were as thick as blackberries and there were
Viscounts galore. This explains why so few, comparatively, are met with
at the other Riviera resorts. Cannes is _par excellence_ an English
resort, and woe betide the _bourgeois_ Frenchman or spectacled German
who innocently happens upon one of its mammoth hotels; and many are
the shivers that shake his _Jäger_-clothed frame at the numerous open
windows and delightful draughts of fresh air that are so home-like to
an Englishman or a civilized American.
Like Bournemouth, Cannes is rich in pines and poor in shops and cabs.
But here every one brings their own turn-out, and few teams are to
be seen without both footman and coachman in some well-known London
livery. For amusements Cannes is a poor place, that is, for theatres;
but there is plenty of tennis, which one may, if properly introduced,
play with Russian Grand-Duchesses or Austrian Archdukes; and the Grand
Duke Michael is working up some excitement over golf links. He did me
the honour to ask for my subscription, but as I am not in Cannes _en
permanence_ I was not obliged to subscribe. One can go to twenty teas
in an afternoon, if one is so disposed, and "_pique-niques_," dances
and dinners are almost too numerous to count. At Rumpelmayer's the
"_Hig-lif_" of Cannes, as the French call it, is to be met between five
and six o'clock, when most of the _habitués_ of Rotten Row happen in
for a cup of the delicious chocolate tempered with whipped cream of
which Rumpelmayer makes a specialty. All the villa owners at Cannes
(for there are very few villas rented here; if one wants a house in
Cannes one must build it) send to Regent Street for whatever they want,
consequently no shops at Cannes but those making a specialty of kitchen
necessaries or provisions have any _raison d'être_ and they are not
missed. Most of the hotels have good libraries, and one can lounge away
days in the palm-shaded garden, watching the sunshine dance and sparkle
upon the rich blue sea. There is a restful feeling about Cannes, an
aristocratic repose and seclusion not shared by any of the other
resorts on the coast, except, perhaps, in a modified degree, by San
Remo; and physicians say the air here is not so stimulating as at Nice
and Mentone. Of course, it is not so stimulating as at Monte Carlo,
either, but that is for a different reason!
No one can get a footing at Cannes unless their social record is
unassailable, and as it costs a small fortune to live here for even
a week, objectionable people are kept away, and one does not meet
the cockney Londoner who drops his h's promiscuously or the shoddy
American who speaks with a twang and is always looking for a spittoon.
Even the cooking is English at Cannes, and cold "ros-bif" and pickles
with a tankard of ale and a bit of apple tart (than which there is no
more palatable luncheon) often forms the meal of some hearty party
of Britons. One leaves Cannes with regret; and a sigh for its quiet
pleasures as one is whirled into the noisy, huge station at Nice.
One finds here a very different atmosphere. All is gaiety, noise and
bustle. Splendid shops thrust their wonderfully arranged windows upon
one's notice. Redfern's name appears in gilt with the Prince of Wales'
plumes above it, and many names familiar to frequenters of the Paris
jewellers' shops are met with. Strolling along the Quai Masséna one
could spend hours simply looking in the shop windows at pearl pins
marked at £1,000, or at some little pink emerald worth a fortune simply
because it does not happen to be green. And the famous Galignani
library is not to be ignored, with its fascinating display of all the
latest London books and the Christmas numbers of the English papers
with their half-hidden pictures of Santa Claus; nor the huge Casino
and Winter Garden where one pays two francs for a ticket of admission,
good for the whole day, where reading-rooms and the latest telegrams of
Reuter's Agency tempt one to settle down for several hours. There, in
the domed central garden, among hundreds of palms and tropical plants,
one can listen to a capital band while having an ice from the Nice
Bignon's.
There, too, one may see a good exhibition of marionettes, a sort of
glorified Punch and Judy show, where all the gilded infancy of Nice
congregates to enjoy the fun. And one can waste hours over the _petits
chevaux_; where, on a huge, green-clothed table, six small horses are
wound up, and race around a circle, bets being made upon the colour
and number of the winner. In the height of the season the management
is said to make 3,000 francs per day out of this simple amusement. At
the far end of this pleasant Jardin d'Hiver is the entrance to the
small play-house connected with it; but the companies who perform
here are not above reproach; except during Carnival, when no expense
is spared to secure the best talent, and the Paris play-houses are
called upon to contribute their best actors for the edification of the
visitors. A stroll among the Nice shops in the evening is delightful,
in the warm balmy air, with the moonlight over all and the echo of some
mandolin concert in the distance. One can listen to street musicians
in this sunny land without any fear of hearing "Comrades" or "Ask a
P'leeceman," and may even reasonably expect something decent in the
way of selections from "Carmen" or "Dinorah," both of which are prime
favorites among the lower classes. Nice has long had a municipal
theatre, but this is not well supported, and the most flourishing
establishment of this sort in the town is a huge music hall or _café
concert_, which does a roaring business. Sweet-shops abound in Nice
and are a never-ending surprise to English folk, who very sensibly put
them down to the increasing number of Americans who come here. A huge
Casino has just been built on the end of a long pier stretching out
into the sea, and they tell an amusing tale of the way in which the
gambling privilege was secured. An unsuccessful appeal had been made
to the Mayor, M. Henry, and the speculators were in despair until it
suddenly occurred to them that their establishment was not on land,
but at sea, and so they appealed to the Minister of Marine at Paris
with better success. Charming drives abound in every direction around
Nice, and coaches go over to Monte Carlo every few hours. There is but
one drawback to Nice as a place of residence--the increased number
of the descendants of Israel who are making it a seaside synagogue.
Fashion has deserted it for Cannes, but it will always be the favoured
resort of the gay and the bored--those who do not care for society,
and for whom society does not care. The change to the small station
of Monte Carlo and the gaudily-ornamented lift that slowly rises to
the bluff above is marked. For pure luxury and the highest degree of
comfort Monte Carlo ranks next to Paris. Take the Hôtel de Paris, next
the Casino, for instance, an establishment owned and conducted by
the Casino company. Soft velvet carpets into which one's foot sinks,
Wedgwood toilet sets, and easy chairs that would not look out of place
in Belgravia, are the distinguishing characteristics of the bedrooms;
and there is not a gas lamp in the place; hundreds of little wax
candles, each shaded by a deep red shade, give light; and when one is
enjoying the cooking, which is a dream in itself, and drinking in all
the beauty and elegance, it is hard to remember that one is in what has
been called the most wicked place on earth. The Bishop of Gibraltar
considers it so abandoned, in fact, that he has refused to license a
Chaplain or consecrate a Church--queer logic on His Lordship's part,
who seems to go on the principle that the worse the place the less
necessity for a Church. And yet the villa holders of Monte Carlo form
a very respectable class. The late Mr. Junius Morgan had a villa here
and many other well-known names might be cited. The place is charmingly
small and centres round about the immense and beautiful Casino. Ask
the inhabitants of the Principality of Monaco what they think of the
Casino and the gambling company. They will reply that it is an unmixed
blessing. For the company pays the taxes of the little realm, keeps
all the roads and public works in good repair; and poverty is almost
unknown. The inhabitants are allowed to enter the gambling rooms but
one day in the year--on the fête day of the Prince of Monaco. Strangers
gain admission to the rooms by presentation of their visiting cards,
and without them are not allowed entrance. A droll tale is told of the
application of this rule to the Marquis of Salisbury. He was going to
the rooms with a party and not having any visiting card with him was
stopped by the gigantic doorkeeper. He was somewhat angry at this and
drew himself up, saying, in very English French: "_Mais j'ai ne pas
besoin d'une carte de visite. Je suis le Marquis de Salisbury, Premier
d'Angleterre._" But the doorkeeper still refused and would not let him
in. He afterwards explained his incredulity by saying to a friend:
"How could I believe he was Milord Salisbury and the Prime Minister
of England? He wore a tweed suit and had his trousers turned up." This
brother evidently derived his idea of the appearance of a Marquis
from the Italian article of that name, which is usually greasy, and
fearfully and wonderfully attired.
The Casino at Monte Carlo and its tables have been often described;
but the crowds that linger three deep about the green cloth are always
fascinating to watch. _Grande dames_ and _cocottes_ elbow each other,
and English statesmen rub shoulders with Parisian blacklegs. The day
I was there I saw the Duc de Dino (who married Mrs. Stevens, of New
York,) philosophically drop £2,000, and stand it better than a young
man who lost five francs at roulette. But the saddest thing of all
was to see young girls of eighteen or twenty (the rule is not to
admit anyone under twenty-one, but of course the officials are often
hoodwinked) with "systems," pressing close to the table and pricking
number after number on their cards as they eagerly follow a run on the
red or the black. These people are always sure they will some day break
the bank, and linger on from day to day and from week to week leaving
whole fortunes in the maw of the remorseless "Administration." Each
additional week seems to add to the strained, eager look in their eyes,
the drawn, pinched look about the mouth, and the tell-tale wrinkles
about the temples that proclaim an habitual gambler. The _croupiers_,
too, are curious studies, as they whirl the ball or deal the cards
that mean so much to the eager crowd; cool, calm, impassive, there is
something devilish about the monotonous way in which they call "_Faites
vos jeux, Messieurs_," or "_Le jeu est fait. Rien ne va plus._" Some of
them, it is easy to see, have come down in the world; and one man was
shown to me who had filled a high position in a crack British regiment,
before he had been detected cheating at cards and had been ruined for
life. I may not give his name or all the facts in the case, but it bore
a striking resemblance to Sir William Gordon-Cummings' "accident."
There is a peculiar class of harpies in the Casino, but very well
dressed harpies, who make their living by "living up" to the table,
so to speak, and grabbing the winnings of the lucky but slow players.
Enormous sums are lost in this way by careless winners, for the ball
(in roulette) rolls so quickly around, and the _croupiers_ toss the
gold so quickly in the general direction of the winners, that a very
quick eye is needed to spy one's property. The "_Série Noir_" has
already begun at Monte Carlo, and two suicides have occurred. Of course
the "Administration" policy is to hush up these little matters, and
whenever a dead body is found in the lonely gardens surrounding the
Casino (about one a fortnight is the average during the season) its
pockets are pretty sure to be filled with gold and notes, placed there
by the wily detectives of the Casino, to show that the poor man could
not have shot himself on account of his losses at play. And rumour says
that they have an admirably prompt way of getting rid of the bodies of
those who are thoughtless enough to commit suicide on the company's
grounds without noise or scandal. An eye witness told me the following
tale of a tragedy in the rooms last year, which he vouches for: about
ten o'clock at night, when everything was in full swing and the rooms
were crowded with well-dressed people (no shabby-looking character is
ever admitted; and the devil in this case is certainly "in society"),
a shot was suddenly heard, and a handsome young fellow, pale as death,
staggered from the _Trente et Quarante_ table with his hand to his
bleeding side. He fell with a crash, and at once, like lightning, a
crowd of the Casino detectives had closed around him, opened a window
overlooking the sea, and thrown him out upon the rocks below. So
quickly did this take place that not six people saw it, and the people
who inquired about the disturbance were told that a lady had fainted
from the heat and from the explosion in a gas pipe. The next morning
the dead body of the young man was found on the rocks, with his pockets
filled with gold and no trace of a wound about him.
Lovely Monte Carlo! It is like a decayed lady-apple--lovely to look on,
but rotten at the core.
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