Something may now be specially said of the climate of Mentone, which as
yet is its sole attraction. The charm of the place is its fine air,
sunshine, and shelter during the winter months, and for these advantages
some petty annoyances may be endured. What will not any one rationally
disposed give for health, or a protraction of existence? A journey of
several days, much expense, an absence of months from home and from
valued friends, possibly professional inconvenience—what is all that
when weighed in the balance against a means of extending one’s length of
days, and making life a pleasure instead of a constant pain and anxiety!
Change of air and scene is in itself a good thing, as is universally
acknowledged; but doubly beneficial to the jaded and the enfeebled by
functional derangement is the substitution of a mild and exhilarating
for an inclement, humid, and depressing winter.
Evidently, large numbers do not need to be stimulated to winter in the
more sunny regions of the south of France. At several places, the
accommodation offered is barely sufficient for the demand. The crowd of
emigrants is of a very varied character. Fashion, ennui, and love of
gaiety seem to send quite as many abroad as absolutely bad health. The
greater proportion of persons, old and young, whom you see frequenting
the promenades, and driving about in open pony phaetons, have nothing
apparently the matter with them. Many of them, doubtless, have come
abroad for a bit of fun, for personal exhibition in a new field, or on
some other frivolous ground, satisfactory to their own conscience. It is
at all events certain that if weakened by bodily infirmity, they act as
if it were otherwise, disregarding alike the laws of health and the
counsels which are offered regarding the peculiar winter climate of the
Riviera.
To a stranger from a northern region, the striking thing about the
climate is, that during the day, while the sun brilliantly shines, there
is a feeling of, and a resemblance to, a fine autumn—say the heat of an
English September; but no sooner does the sun disappear below the
Mediterranean, than we are back in a minute to our old accustomed wintry
sensations. Why the atmosphere does not retain the heat imparted by the
sun’s rays is perfectly obvious. The air is so dry and thin that there
is little medium for retaining the warmth, and the heat generated
escapes in the clear sky overhead. What we have to expect, therefore, by
a winter sojourn in Mentone, is a species of summer while in the direct
rays of the sun, during daylight; and it is our own blame if we suffer
by neglecting the precautions suggested by the chills which settle down
immediately after sunset. It is, however, to be borne in mind, that the
cold of evening and night is only comparative. In an atmosphere so
rarefied, a temperature of 40° to 60° Fahr. feels more chilly than the
same degree of cold in Great Britain. The feelings and discreet
apprehensions are a better warning than a recollection of temperature
according to the scale of the thermometer. In the shade during the day
there is a sensation of bleakness, approaching to that felt at night.
Accordingly, to secure the full benefit of the climate, it is
indispensable to have rooms with less or more of a southern exposure. No
temptation of cheapness must induce the health-seeker to occupy
apartments facing the north, or under the shadow of buildings which
exclude the glow of sunshine. The sun rises earlier and sets later at
Mentone during winter than it does in England, a circumstance favourable
to invalids and outdoor promenaders.
If the weather be good, the sunshine from half-past ten to half-past
three o’clock is delicious, and with the clear sky all nature is joyous.
Sometimes the rays of the sun are so inconvenient, that many persons
walk about under the shelter of white cotton parasols lined with blue or
green, and with hats shrouded in white gauze. It is during such warmth
that the visitors pour forth to ramble along the Promenade, and make
short excursions on foot or on donkeys, or drive about in open
carriages. Those who prefer to remain within doors, throw the windows
open, from floor to ceiling, and so far enjoy the pleasures of fresh
air. The fire, if lit in the morning, is at these times allowed to die
out, and the inmates have the satisfaction of depending exclusively on
the wholesome warmth of the sun. To derive as much benefit as possible
from the open air without bodily exertion, loungers seat themselves on
benches (with backs) commodiously placed for public use on the
Promenade, near the margin of the sea, the surging of which on the
shingle diffuses saline particles in the atmosphere advantageous to some
classes of invalids.
Dr Siordet, an English medical practitioner who has been resident on the
spot for several years, mentions in his small work, _Mentone in its
Medical Aspect_ (1863), that the ‘small daily range of temperature is
one of the most important features of Mentone.’ He instances the
greatest for two years as being 15°·5 Fahr., and that in another year it
was 23°; also stating that the range was least in the colder months. In
the tables which he quotes, the mean temperature of the winter months
for ten years was as follows: November, 54°; December, 49°; January,
48°·75; February, 49°; March, 52°·9. During my stay on both occasions I
hung up a thermometer outside one of the windows, with a southern
exposure, but shaded from the sun, and recorded its indications twice
daily, at eight o’clock morning, and three o’clock afternoon, and these
pretty much corresponded with Dr Siordet’s tables. Frequently, the
temperature ranged from about 40° in the morning to 60° or 65° at from
noon to three o’clock. In November and December the temperature in the
morning was often 58°, and beyond this it did not rise if the day became
overclouded. In our bedrooms without a fire, the temperature in the
mornings, on rising, between seven and eight o’clock, ranged throughout
the winter at from 50° to 60°—commonly at about 54°. With these
generally favourable features in the climate, it has to be emphatically
stated that there are great differences of weather in different winters.
The season of 1868–69 was immensely superior to that of 1869–70, but so
was it everywhere throughout Europe, also on the northern coast of
Africa, and at Malta. Though well sheltered from the northern blasts,
Mentone lies invitingly open to winds from the south, south-east, and
south-west, and these can be cold enough when the Atlantic is encumbered
with icebergs, or when other causes of atmospheric disturbance greatly
lower the temperature of the European continent and African coast.
While the vegetation of the district is a proof that the summers are
hot, and the winters on the whole mild, it is indisputable that the
mildness is sometimes broken in upon by days and weeks of cold weather,
in which few visitors, with any regard to health, venture out. At the
close of 1868 and beginning of 1869, the weather was beautiful; the
_jour de l’an_ as fine as could be desired, and the thoroughfares
crowded with holiday-makers. Let us contrast this state of things with
the weather twelve months afterwards. I quote from my notebook.
‘_Dec. 21._ Dull, overcast, bitterly cold wind; temp. 54°-55°.—_Dec.
22._ There has been a stormy night; sea tempestuous, has destroyed
tramway on the beach; morning dull; the Promenade flooded with
sea-water; temp. 53°-56°; snow on tops of the mountains.—_Dec. 23._
Fine; temp. 53°-65°; many people out looking at the havoc on the
beach.—_Dec. 24._ Fine; temp. 52°-62°.—_Dec. 25._ Dull, cold; temp.
50°-56°; a dismal Christmas Day; few people out; attempted a walk to the
Quai Bonaparte, but driven back by a cold stream of air down the
street.—_Dec. 26._ Dull, overcast, very cold; temp. 43°-41°; could not
venture out on account of the cold wind.—_Dec. 27._ Dull, overcast, very
cold; temp. same as yesterday; did not go out.—_Dec. 28._ Clear but
cold, with wind from south-east; mountain-tops white with snow; walked
out, and saw ice half an inch thick on pools in the Borigo and Carei;
temp. 40°–43°; am told that the temperature during the night has been
down to 26°.—_Dec. 29._ Clear and fine, but a cold wind; temp. 40°–63°;
children breaking the ice on the pools, and carrying pieces away.—_Dec.
30._ Cold but fine; ice still on pools; temp. 42°–43°.—_Dec. 31._ Clear
and fine; sun melting the ice; temp. 45°–55°.—_Jan. 1, 1870._ Dull,
cold, overcast, showers; temp. 39°–47°; minimum temp. by a registering
thermometer, north side of house, said to have been 34°·5; a miserable
_jour de l’an_ for the poor people; few out holiday-making; stalls of
books and toys, and a show of a fat boy at east end of Promenade, shut
up for want of customers; knife-grinder in disgust has left his wheel in
the rain, and retired for consolation to a neighbouring Débit de Vin.’
The extracts need not be continued.
For about a fortnight after New-year’s Day the weather was tolerable;
then, it became cold and frequently wet, until we left Mentone, at the
middle of February, to conclude the season at Nice. If we could have had
proper fires, the cold would have been of no account, for I walked about
almost daily, and sometimes made excursions; the torment consisted in
keeping up a sufficient degree of warmth while confined to the house.
The season was indisputably an impeachment of the reputed climate of
Mentone. The natives, who consider the district a sort of earthly
paradise, were much discomfited—the shopkeepers in despair. The
carriages which used to be open were sometimes seen shut up as closely
as if they had been driving up Regent Street. The keeper of our hotel
(an aged Italian with ear-rings) vehemently declared that he had never
known such bad weather in all his experience—‘_Jamais, jamais, jamais!_’
Our only resource in the cold weather were the wood fires, feebly
supplemented by bits of coal. By all our expedients we could not raise
the temperature of our salon above 63°; the _sensation_ of cold being
several degrees below that point. My fingers were at times too cold to
write, and we were fain to sit with hands and feet close to the
imperfect fire, which it required some dexterity to manage; for any
awkwardness with the tongs, which are mechanically on the sugar-tongs
principle, might have laid the whole in ruin. Yet from these brushes of
cold we suffered no ill effects. There was inconvenience, but not
injury. Cold days now and then, even to the extent of benumbing the
fingers, do no great harm. What kills in England is protracted cold,
accompanied with damp and a thick atmosphere. We experienced no fogs;
the air was comparatively light and dry—so dry as to have a visible
effect on the skin, and to suggest that there was a more than usual
exhalation from the system. The snow and mists never descended below the
tops of the distant mountains. The hills and gardens remained green. The
only damage to vegetation was the blight of exposed exterior branches of
some of the lemon, orange, and other trees. At Nice, as I afterwards
observed, there were similar marks of injury. The frost had not been
general. The low temperature of 32°, or under, occurred principally in
the openings of the valleys, where the pools were operated on by
currents of cold air. Had the frost been severe and extended over the
district, the lemon and citron trees, which are peculiarly delicate,
must have perished. Mingled with the troublesomely cold and wet weather
there were fine June-like days, when all was joyous, as befitted the
ordinary character of a southern winter. What we endured from the
intermittent cold of the season of 1869–70 was not for a moment to be
compared to what was experienced at home. And this is the way to
estimate a wintering at Mentone. We have to think not so much of what we
have enjoyed, as what we have escaped.
Visitors are apt to make mistakes regarding the climate of Mentone.
Expecting too much from it, they neglect the precautions which are
necessary. Dr J. H. Bennet, the principal authority on the climate,
says: ‘It should never be forgotten that in winter the heat is sun-heat,
and that the air, barring its influence, is usually cold. Warm clothes
and woollen outer garments should be used.’ Dr Siordet says on the same
subject: ‘Too much stress has, perhaps, been laid on the excellence of
the climate of Mentone, and the expectations of visitors have thereby
been unduly raised. No greater mistake could be made than to expect here
perpetual sunshine and a perfectly equable temperature; a certain number
of rainy days do occur, as my weather-table shews; a moderate amount of
cold must be anticipated and provided for.’
Dr Edwin Lee in his _Notice of Mentone_ (1862) is less explicit on this
point. Speaking of the infrequency of frost, he says: ‘According to the
account of an influential resident (M. de Montleon), it appears that
during twenty-seven years the thermometer descended only three times
below the freezing-point (in three successive winters).’ No one can
doubt that so low a temperature as 32° is rarely reached. I have never
seen it below 39°. But what visitors have to contend with is not a
particularly low degree of cold according to the thermometer, but an
occasional chilliness and wintry feeling, for which warm clothing is
necessary in the open air, and a good fire becomes desirable within
doors.
The cold which is endured at times in a sitting-room may not be
injurious to health, but it is exceedingly unpleasant, and greatly
poisons the enjoyment of a wintering in the south. It may look like a
heresy to speak with disrespect of wood fires. They answer well enough
for a short time in the morning and evening; but are a poor expedient in
days successively cold, wet, and boisterous. Movable grates with coal
fires should therefore be supplied when wanted on occasions of this
kind. It is perhaps too much to expect that hotel and pension keepers
will voluntarily remedy the deficiency. They have a superstitious
veneration for wood fires, and regard with traditional complacency the
practice of supplying _paniers de bois_ at 2·50—the more the merrier, so
far as their feelings are concerned. Cold weather is to them the opening
of a brisk trade in timber. French visitors who do not know much about
coal, and perhaps have a hatred of it, submit without murmuring to these
venerable usages. The English, as it may be supposed, have their growl,
and look on the whole thing as a downright imposition. It will not
surprise me, therefore, to hear that the 2·50 usage gets into disrepute.
On calling to see some acquaintances at the Hôtel du Pavillon on what
happened to be a cold day, I found a coal fire of proper proportions in
the salon de lecture, which I accepted as a step in the right direction.
As regards those who wish to hire ready-furnished residences, they have
the remedy in their own hands. I would recommend them to procure a few
movable small fire-grates. If they cannot be procured on the spot
(regarding which Willoughby may be consulted), they may be had from
Paris. There is a store for the supply of such things under the arcade
in front of the Palais-Royal. Coal is imported into Mentone, and can be
had in any quantity. It is not Wallsend, but it will do.