SAN REMO.--There is a certain apparent similarity between Bournemouth
and San Remo. Both are "winter resorts" and both are popular with
invalids. But this similarity is only apparent. Frost and snow were
rife at Bournemouth a month ago. Sunshine and ripe oranges on the
trees are _en evidence_ at San Remo now. One shudders here, to think
of Bournemouth in winter, just as in Bournemouth the idea of the Lake
District out of summer was repelling.
The climate of the Riviera is not perfect, by any means, but unless
one goes to Honolulu or to "the Cape," it is hard to do better for the
winter. And yet it is not a tropical climate--or even sub-tropical,
simply one with a more or less genial warmth in the winter time.
San Remo is not so "mixed" in its society as Nice, so renowned for
suicides as Monte Carlo, or so vault-like as Mentone.
Cannes is the only place on the coast that approaches San Remo (and,
indeed, outdoes it, so far as exclusiveness in the "English Colony,"
which includes the small American contingent, goes); but Cannes is
really a slice cut out of Belgravia and set down by the Mediterranean,
and one may be in the height of the London Season all winter there.
Cannes is popularly referred to as the "Dukeries," on account of the
number of English Dukes spending the winter there. But to a person
liking society in moderation with a few good dances sprinkled in during
the winter and a fair amount of tennis, San Remo is an ideal place.
Knickerbockers and cricketing flannels are frequently seen, and there
is none of that striving after effect so much found at Cannes, where
top hats and frock coats are _de rigeur_ most of the time.
San Remo is near the French frontier and so, of course, is a queer
mixture of French and Italian village life (for it has only seventeen
thousand inhabitants). It is thirty-six hours from London and easily
reached either by the P. L. and M. Railway, by way of Lyons and
Marseilles, or by Milan and Geneva, via the Mont-Cenis tunnel.
The old town, or _Citta Vecchia_, is built on a hill away from the sea,
and the steep streets are crowded together pell-mell on the nearly
perpendicular hillside. Bradshaw's Guide refers to them as "steep,
mediæval streets"; but, although I admit the steepness, I have never
discovered the mediævalism--unless the abundant dirt and endless supply
of unsavoury smells may be taken to represent it. Of course, the dark,
narrow lanes are garlic-haunted, and that reminds me of a story I heard
here. At the old Cathedral, an English priest was talking to an Italian
peasant woman about the next world. She was giving her ideas on the
subject and ended up a glowing rhapsody in this way: "And, oh, our Holy
Father, the Pope, will be there on a great golden throne, smiling at
the faithful; with big bunches of our angelic garlic under his chair
to give to each of his flock as St. Peter brings them to him." If that
idea of Paradise were presented to many good Christians, I fear their
faith might be shaken, for of all the sickening, clinging odours, a
whiff of garlic-scented air is the worst.
This old town is nearly devoid of interest. There are even no curio
shops, and after one walk the average English tourist comes back to
his hotel to "take a tub," and leaves its mysteries undisturbed in
future. To any one, however, brave enough to pick his way through the
overhanging alleys and dark streets, up to the very top of the hill,
an old church presents itself, the "Madonna della Costa," where there
is a wonderful picture of the Virgin which is supposed to be a certain
cure for leprosy. (The method of applying the cure is an unsolved
mystery.)
Most people here go to Mentone to get gloves and stockings, and smuggle
them back over the frontier to avoid paying the absurd prices asked in
San Remo. The new town is built at the foot of the hill and consists
of two streets, with a few good shops, where the tradesmen speak bad
French and charge enormous prices for the necessaries of life. On each
side of this new town stretch the English and German colonies, the
English settling at the west end and the Teutons preferring the east.
Ever since the Emperor Frederick lived in a villa here the east end has
been a resort for patriotic Germans who want the warm breezes of the
Riviera, but do not care to enjoy them on French territory. It is not
the most pleasant part of the town, and English and Americans are very
chary of settling there, as the more aristocratic west end turns the
cold shoulder to the unfortunate villa holders and dwellers in hotels
and _pensions_ at the east end, and has a tendency to consider them
doubtful or _déclassé_.
The west end has all the best hotels and _pensions_ as well as villas
scattered along the pretty Promenade overlooking the sea and bordered
with wide-branching date palms. The Promenade ends in lovely gardens,
and both Promenade and gardens are called after the late Empress of
Russia, who spent a winter here early in the seventies. The Promenade
is used as a scene for "church parade" after service on Sunday mornings
by the English colony, and every afternoon, from four onward, one may
meet the world and his wife there. The municipal band plays twice a
week in the public gardens, but the performance--a rather poor one--is
attended mainly by Italians. The language of San Remo is a curious
_patois_ made up of Ligurian Italian--very different to the pure
_Lingua Toscana_ of Florence, and the bastard French heard in Nice and
Cannes.
Five days in every week are bright and sunny, one of the remaining
two is usually cloudy and the other rainy. The average temperature is
fifty-two degrees in winter. The winds are hardly ever troublesome,
as the high chain of hills behind the town act as a natural barrier.
Among the many bad shops there is one really good one: Squire's, the
English chemist's, who dubs himself (but by real Letters Patent) "Court
Chemist to the late German Emperor and to H. R. H. the Prince of Wales."
When the late Emperor Frederick was ill here in '88 at his villa and
all his affairs and correspondence were in confusion, his much-loved
wife, the popular Empress Victoria (who looks so much like her mother,
the Queen of England) used to have all her English letters sent to the
villa enclosed in this chemist's prescription envelopes, to keep them
safe from Bismarck's spies; for the relations, never very cordial,
between the grim Chancellor and the Illustrious Lady were then at a
dangerous tension and the friends of the Empress claimed that he did
not scruple to confiscate her private letters from the English Court
when he could get hold of them. The young Princesses were very fond
of taking long walks in the endless olive groves about San Remo, and
sketching the town from either of the two high rocks that shut in the
bay on each side.
A pretty peasant girl in a small fruit shop near the Emperor's villa
made a small fortune by selling mouldy pears and sour oranges to
enthusiastic British tourists who thronged the shop, because the
Empress Victoria had made a lovely study of her in oils, which has
appeared in a London exhibition.
Another permanent memorial of the visit of the Royal Family to San Remo
is the constant appearance of the highly-gilt arms of the Hohenzollerns
over most of the shops in the new town, which, one and all, describe
themselves as "Court Grocer to the Emperor Frederick"; "Court Bootmaker
to the Imperial Family," when possibly the _chef_ may have bought some
candles from the one and the Emperor's valet may have been measured for
a pair of boots at the other. I have even seen the advertising card of
one "Guiseppa Candia, Court Laundress to the German Empress."
The English set in San Remo is charming and very hospitable when one
comes with letters of introduction. The leading English physician, Dr.
Freeman, and his wife are always ready to extend the courtesies of
the place to fresh arrivals; and any visitor at the English Club will
easily recall the jovial person of Mr. Benecke. But when one comes
without letters or other credentials, the English colony can be very
freezing; as a third-rate American author found some years since, when,
with his wife, he tried to take the town by storm.
The country round about San Remo is full of pleasant walks. Ospedaletti
is only two miles away, and one may take a charming walk there and
back in the afternoon. It is an interesting place, albeit a dreary
one, for it is the monument of a great failure. Some years ago a
great International Company bought up all the land along the lovely
bay, built splendid hotels and shops, made good roads and put up the
magnificent Casino still to be seen there. The shares were at a high
premium and every one was sure the company would make a huge fortune,
and so it would if it had not neglected the trifling formality of
obtaining the consent of King Humbert to the establishment of a large
gambling hell in his dominions. The result was that he stepped in at
the last minute and intimated that while he had no objections to a
Casino, he was not prepared to allow games of chance. Of course, this
ruined not only the company, but the place, for Ospedaletti's only
_raison d'être_ was in the Casino, and the Casino's in the roulette
table. The hotels and shops are all closed now and the beautiful
building is gradually falling to pieces from decay. The roads are all
overgrown, and a few poor Italian families are the only representatives
of the gay world that was to make Ospedaletti a successful rival of
Monte Carlo.
Then, beyond, is the town of Bordighera, an Anglo-Italian resort nearer
the frontier and especially loved by consumptives. George McDonald, the
Scotch author, has a beautiful house there and his daughters are famous
in the tennis courts along the Riviera. Bordighera is a garden of palms
and supplies all the churches of Rome on Palm Sunday.
A more interesting walk from San Remo is to take the Corniche road
as far as the Pietra Lunga on the east side of San Remo, and then to
strike inland through the olive groves until one finds the dreary
village of Bussana, a place totally destroyed by the earthquake of
1886. The ruins of the quaint old church are still shown (with the
inevitable monogram of the Virgin on everything), where a service was
being held when the first shock came on that eventful Sunday. The
peasants say there are still bodies hidden under the massive masonry
and swear that the place is haunted. This was the earthquake that
startled Cannes early on the same morning, when walls were falling
and people flying from the hotels and houses in various stages of
undress. The Prince of Wales was there then on his yearly visit to the
Riviera, and one of his valets rushed in to call him at five o'clock
for the hotel walls had fallen at the back, and there was danger that
the others might go. But the Prince only scolded the valet sleepily
for waking him and refused to get up in spite of the man's entreaties,
finally turning over and going to sleep again amid the noise of falling
chimneys and crashing walls. It is needless to say that H. R. H. was
not injured and that the other walls did not fall.
The local government of San Remo is vested in the Syndic, the jovial
_Cavvaliere_ Bartolomeo Aquasciati, who is practically elected for life
and who has an almost despotic authority over the civil affairs of the
town; while the _Sous Prefect_ is at the head of the police and ranks
above the Colonel of the regiment of Bersaglieri (or sharpshooters) now
here.
San Remo is particularly suited, on account of its peculiarly
antiseptic climate, to persons troubled with throat complaints, and
several really wonderful cures have been wrought by its balmy air.
Living is much cheaper than in Cannes, Nice or Mentone; there is
capital medical advice available, and very pleasant society. The old
rhyme that applies to Zante:
"Zante, Zante,
Fior di Levante,"
might be paraphrased to suit San Remo, for it is certainly the _fine
fleur_ of the Riviera.
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