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.
[Illustration: MANY CLOTHES-LINES WERE FILLED.]
"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."
[Illustration: I. WINDS AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.]
[Illustration: II. FOLLOWS THE SHORE OF THE SEA.]
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."
[Illustration: WE LUNCHED IN MENTONE.]
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.
[Illustration: THROUGH THE PARK THAT SURROUNDS THE CASINO.]
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 Cafe 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."
[Illustration: THE POPULAR PROMENADE OF THE CITY.]
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.
* * * * *
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