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[Illustration: STREET IN THE NEW QUARTER OF CAIRO Page 151]
MENTONE, CAIRO, AND CORFU
BY
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
AUTHOR OF
"ANNE" "EAST ANGELS" "HORACE CHASE" ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1896
BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.
THE FRONT YARD, Etc. Illustrated. $1 25.
ANNE. Illustrated. $1 25.
EAST ANGELS. $1 25.
JUPITER LIGHTS. $1 25.
HORACE CHASE. $1 25.
CASTLE NOWHERE. $1 00.
RODMAN THE KEEPER. $1 00.
FOR THE MAJOR. Illustrated. $1 00.
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
PUBLISHERS' NOTE.
The substance of this collection of Miss Woolson's sketches of travel in
the Mediterranean originally appeared in HARPER'S MAGAZINE. "At Mentone"
was published in that periodical in 1884; "Cairo in 1890," and "Corfu
and the Ionian Sea," appeared in 1891 and 1892. As presented in this
volume, the two sketches last mentioned contain much interesting
material not included in their original form as magazine articles.
CONTENTS
PAGE
AT MENTONE 3
CAIRO IN 1890 149
CORFU AND THE IONIAN SEA 283
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
STREET IN THE NEW QUARTER OF CAIRO _Frontispiece_
AT MENTONE 5
THE OLD TOWN 9
A STREET IN THE OLD TOWN 13
RUE LONGUE BLOCKADED BY AN ARTIST 19
THE CORNICE ROAD, MENTONE 23
"TO ITALY"--PONT ST. LOUIS 27
THE PALMS OF BORDIGHERA 31
THE BONE CAVERNS 37
THE PROFESSOR DISCOURSES 43
THE WASHER-WOMEN 49
OIL MILL 55
A MEDITERRANEAN BOAT 60
BRINGING LEMONS FROM THE TERRACE 63
ON THE WAY TO L'ANNUNZIATA 69
THE MONASTERY OF L'ANNUNZIATA 74
CAPUCHIN MONKS 77
MONACO 83
STREET IN ROCCABRUNA 91
THE KING OF THE OLIVES 97
FEUDAL TOWER NEAR VENTIMIGLIA 102
DOLCE ACQUA 107
PIFFERARI 113
MONACO--THE PALACE AND PORT 117
ENTRANCE TO THE PALACE, MONACO 121
THE SALLE GRIMALDI, IN THE PALACE, MONACO 126
THE RIDE TO SANT' AGNESE 129
VIEW FROM SANT' AGNESE 134
FETE, VILLAGE OF SANT' AGNESE 137
VESTIGES OF ROMAN MONUMENTS 140
THE STATUE IN THE CEMETERY 143
CONTEMPORARY PORTRAIT OF CLEOPATRA 149
THE NILE BRIDGE, CAIRO 154
BEFORE THE LITTLE MOSQUE 158
TOMB-MOSQUE OF KAIT BEY 161
A SELLER OF WATER-JUGS, CAIRO 167
STATUE OF PRINCE RAHOTEP'S WIFE 172
THE WOODEN MAN 175
AN EGYPTIAN WOMAN 181
THE NILE--COMING DOWN TO GET WATER 187
THE DOCK AT OLD CAIRO 191
MOUCHRABIYEHS IN THE OLD QUARTER 195
INTERIOR COURT OF A NATIVE HOUSE, CAIRO 199
A DONKEY RIDE 205
AN ARAB CAFE 209
HEAD-PIECE 212
PORCH OF EL AZHAR 215
STUDENTS IN THE OUTER COURT, EL AZHAR 221
BEFORE THE SACRED NICHE 227
OUTER ENTRANCE OF THE CITADEL, CAIRO 233
A MECCA DOOR 237
THE ROAD TO CHOUBRA 239
GARDEN-HOUSE AT CHOUBRA, SHOWING PART OF THE LAKE NEAR CAIRO 243
THE KHEDIVE 247
CHIEF WIFE OF EX-KHEDIVE ISMAIL, WITH HER PRIVATE BAND 251
AN EGYPTIAN DANCING-GIRL 259
THE INUNDATION NEAR CAIRO 267
A MOHAMMEDAN CEMETERY, CAIRO 278
SOUVENIRS OF CAIRO 279
HEAD-PIECE 283
PART OF THE TOWN OF CORFU 287
THE PALACE 293
UNIVERSITY OF THE IONIAN ISLANDS 294
SMALL TEMPLE, MEMORIAL TO SIR THOMAS MAITLAND 296
STATUE OF CAPO D'ISTRIA 299
THE TOMB OF MENEKRATES 305
THE ISLET CALLED "THE SHIP OF ULYSSES" 311
VILLAGE OF PELLEKA 315
KING GEORGE OF GREECE 319
QUEEN OLGA OF GREECE 323
"MON REPOS," SUMMER RESIDENCE OF THE KING OF GREECE 327
IN THE GROUNDS OF THE NEW VILLA OF THE EMPRESS OF AUSTRIA 331
ALBANIAN MALE COSTUME 335
ALBANIAN FEMALE COSTUME 339
GALA COSTUME, CORFU 343
OLIVE GROVE, CORFU 351
AT MENTONE
I
"_Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluehen?_"
--GOETHE
It is of no consequence why or how we came to Mentone. The vast subject
of health and health resorts, of balancings between Torquay and Madeira,
Algeria and Sicily, and, in a smaller sphere, between Cannes, Nice,
Mentone, and San Remo, may as well be left at one side while we happily
imitate the Happy-thought Man's trains in Bradshaw, which never "start,"
but "arrive." We therefore arrived. Our party, formed not by selection,
or even by the survival of the fittest (after the ocean and Channel),
but simply by chance aggregation, was now composed of Mrs. Trescott and
her daughter Janet, Professor Mackenzie, Miss Graves, the two youths
Inness and Baker, my niece, and myself, myself being Jane Jefferson,
aged fifty, and my niece Margaret Severin, aged twenty-eight.
As I said above, we were an aggregation. The Trescotts had started
alone, but had "accumulated" (so Mrs. Trescott informed me) the
Professor. The Professor had started alone, and had accumulated the
Trescotts. Inness and Baker had started singly, but had first
accumulated each other, and then ourselves; while Margaret and I, having
accumulated Miss Graves, found ourselves, with her, imbedded in the
aggregation, partly by chance and partly by that powerful force
propinquity. Arriving at Mentone, our aggregation went unbroken to the
Hotel des Anglais, in the East Bay--the East Bay, the Professor said,
being warmer than the West: the Professor had been at Mentone before.
"The East Bay," he explained, "is warmer because more closely encircled
by the mountains, which rise directly behind the house. The West Bay has
more level space, and there are several little valleys opening into it,
through which currents of air can pass; it is therefore cooler, but only
a matter of two or three degrees." It was evening, and our omnibus
proceeded at a pace adapted to the "Dead March" from _Saul_ through a
street so narrow and walled in that it was like going through catacombs.
Only, as Janet remarked, they did not crack whips in the catacombs, and
here the atmosphere seemed to be principally cracks. But the Professor
brought up the flagellants who might have been there, and they remained
up until we reached our destination. We decided that the cracking of
whips and the wash of the sea were the especial sounds of Mentone; but
the whips ceased at nightfall, and the waves kept on, making a soft
murmurous sound which lulled us all to restful slumber. We learned later
that all vehicles are obliged, by orders from the town authorities, to
proceed at a snail's pace through the narrow street of the "old town,"
the city treasury not being rich enough to pay for the number of wooden
legs and arms which would be required were this rule disregarded.
[Illustration: AT MENTONE]
The next morning when we opened our windows there entered the
Mediterranean Sea. It is the bluest water in the world; not a clear cold
blue like that of the Swiss lakes, but a soft warm tint like that of
June sky, shading off on the horizon, not into darker blue or gray,
but into the white of opal and mother-of-pearl. With the sea came in
also the sunshine. The sunshine of Mentone is its glory, its riches, its
especial endowment. Day follows day, month follows month, without a
cloud; the air is pure and dry, fog is unknown. "The sun never stops
shining;" and to show that this idea, which soon takes possession of one
there, is not without some foundation, it can be stated that the average
number of days upon which the sun does shine, as the phrase is, all day
long is two hundred and fifty-nine; that is, almost nine months out of
the twelve. "All the world is cheered by the sun," writes Shakespeare;
and certainly "cheer" is the word that best expresses the effect of the
constant sunshine of Mentone.
We all came to breakfast with unclouded foreheads; even the three fixed
wrinkles which crossed Mrs. Trescott's brow (she always alluded to them
as "midnight oil") were not so deep as usual, and her little countenance
looked as though it had been, if not ironed, at least smoothed out by
the long sleep in the soft air. She floated into the sunny
breakfast-room in an aureola of white lace, with Janet beside her, and
followed by Inness and Baker. Margaret and I had entered a moment before
with Miss Graves, and presently Professor Mackenzie joined us, radiating
intelligence through his shining spectacles to that extent that I
immediately prepared myself for the "Indeeds?" "Is it possibles?" "You
surprise me," with which I was accustomed to assist him, when, after
going all around the circle in vain for an attentive eye, he came at
last to mine, which are not beautiful, but always, I trust, friendly to
the friendless. Yet so self-deceived is man that I have no doubt but
that if at this moment interrogated as to his best listener during that
journey and sojourn at Mentone, he would immediately reply, "Miss
Trescott."
People were coming in and out of the room while we were there, the
light Continental "first breakfast" of rolls and coffee or tea not
detaining them long. Two, however, were evidently loitering, under a
flimsy pretext of reading the unflimsy London _Times_, in order to have
a longer look at Janet; these two were Englishmen. Was Janet, then,
beautiful? That is a question hard to answer. She was a slender,
graceful girl with a delicate American face, small, well-poised head,
sweet voice, quiet manner, and eyes--well, yes, the expression in
Janet's eyes was certainly a remarkable endowment. It could never be
fixed in colors; it cannot be described in ink; it may perhaps be
faintly indicated as each gazing man's ideal promised land. And this
centre was surrounded by such a blue and childlike unconsciousness that
every new-comer tumbled in immediately, as into a blue lake, and never
emerged.
"You have been roaming, Professor," said Mrs. Trescott, as he took his
seat; "you have a fine breezy look of the sea. I heard the wa-ash,
wa-ash, upon the beach all night. But _you_ have been out early,
communing with Aurora. Do not deny it."
The Professor had no idea of denying it. "I have been as far as the West
Bay," he said, taking a roll. "Mentone has two bays, the East, where we
are, and the West, the two being separated by the port and the 'old
town.' Behind us, on the north, extends the double chain of mountains,
the first rising almost directly from the sea, the second and higher
chain behind, so that the two together form a screen, which completely
protects this coast. Thus sheltered, and opening only towards the south,
the bays of Mentone are like a conservatory, and _we_ like the plants
growing within." (This, for the Professor, was quite poetical.)
[Illustration: THE OLD TOWN]
"I have often thought that to be a flower in a conservatory would be a
happy lot," observed Janet. "One could have of the perfumes, sit
still all the time, and never be out in the rain."
"I trust, Miss Trescott, you have not often been exposed to inclement
weather?" said the Professor, looking up.
_He_ meant rain; but Mrs. Trescott, who took it upon herself to answer
him, always meant metaphor. "Not yet," she answered; "no inclement
weather yet for my child, because I have stood between. But the time may
come when, _that_ barrier removed--" Here she waved her little claw-like
hand, heavy with gems, in a sort of sepulchral suggestiveness, and took
refuge in coffee.
The Professor, who supposed the conversation still concerned the
weather, said a word or two about the excellent English umbrella he had
purchased in London, and then returned to his discourse. "The first
mountains behind us," he remarked, "are between three and four thousand
feet high; the second chain attains a height of eight and nine thousand
feet, and, stretching back, mingles with the Swiss Alps. _Our_ name is
Alpes Maritimes; we run along the coast in this direction" (indicating
it on the table-cloth with his spoon), "and at Genoa we become the
Apennines. The winter climate of Mentone is due, therefore, to its
protected situation; cold winds from the north and northeast, coming
over these mountains behind us, pass far above our heads, and advance
several miles over the sea before they fall into the water. The mistral,
too, that scourge of Southern France, that wind, cold, dry, and sharp,
bringing with it a yellow haze, is unknown here, kept off by a
fortunately placed shoulder of mountain running down into the sea on the
west."
"Indeed?" I said, seeing the search for a listener beginning.
"Yes," he replied, starting on anew, encouraged, but, as usual, not
noticing from whom the encouragement came--"yes; and the sirocco is
even pleasant here, because it comes to us over a wide expanse of water.
The characteristics of a Mentone winter are therefore sunshine,
protection from the winds, and dryness. It is, in truth, remarkably
dry."
"Very," said Inness.
"I have scarcely ever seen it equalled," remarked Baker.
Margaret smiled, but I looked at the two youths reprovingly. Mrs.
Trescott said, "Dry? Do you find it so? But you are young, whereas _I_
have reminiscences. _Tears_ are not dry."
They certainly are not; but why she should have alluded to them at that
moment, no one but herself knew. There was a mystery about some of Mrs.
Trescott's moods which made her society interesting: no one could ever
tell what she would say next.
After breakfast we sat awhile in the garden, where there were palm,
lemon, and orange trees, high woody bushes of heliotrope, grotesque
growth of cactus, and the great gray-blue swords of the century-plant.
Before us stretched the sea. Even if we had not known it, we should have
felt sure that its waters laved tropical shores somewhere, and that it
was the reflection of those far skies which we caught here.
Miss Graves now joined us, with an acquaintance she had discovered, a
Mrs. Clary, who had "spent several winters at Mentone," and who adored
"every stone of it." This phrase, which no doubt sounded well coming
from Mrs. Clary, who was an impulsive person, with fine dark eyes and
expressive mobile face, assumed a comical aspect when repeated by the
sober voice of Miss Graves. Mrs. Clary, laughing, hastened to explain;
and Miss Graves, noticing Mrs. Trescott on a bench in the shade, where
she and her laces had floated down, said, warningly, "I should advise
you to rise; I have just learned that the shade of Mentone is of the
most deadly nature, and to be avoided like a scorpion."
[Illustration: A STREET IN THE OLD TOWN]
Mrs. Trescott and her laces floated up. "Is it damp?" she asked,
alarmed.
"No," replied Miss Graves, "it is not damp. It does not know how to be
damp at Mentone. But the shade is deadly, all the same. Now in Florida
it was otherwise." And she went into the house to get a white umbrella.
"Matilda's temperament is really Alpine," said Mrs. Clary, smiling. "I
have always felt that she would be cold even in heaven."
"In that case," said Baker, "she might try--" But he had the grace to
stop.
"What is it about the shade?" I asked.
"Only this," said Mrs. Clary: "as the warmth is due to the heat of the
sun, and not to the air, which is cool, there is more difference between
the sunshine and shade here than we are accustomed to elsewhere. But
surely it is a small thing to remember. The treasure of Mentone is its
sunshine: in it, safety; out of it, danger."
"Like Mr. Micawber's income," said Margaret, smiling. "Amount, twenty
shillings; you spend nineteen shillings and sixpence--riches; twenty
shillings and sixpence--bankruptcy."
A little later we went down to the "old town," as the closely built
village of the Middle Ages, clinging to the side hill, and hardly
changed in the long lapse of centuries, is called. The "old town" lies
between the East Bay and the West Bay, as the body of a bird lies
between the two long, slender wings.
"The West Bay has its Promenade du Midi, and the East Bay has its
sea-wall," said Mrs. Clary. "I like a sea-wall."
"This one does not _approach_ that at St. Augustine," said Miss Graves.
"Here is one of the fountains or wells," said Mrs. Clary. "You will soon
see that going for water and gossiping at the well are two occupations
of the women everywhere in this region. It comes, I suppose, from the
scarcity of water, which is brought in pipes from long distances to
these wells, to which the women must go for all the water needed by
their households. Notice the classic shapes of the jugs and jars they
bear on their heads. Those green ones might be majolica."
We now turned up a paved ascent, and passing under a broad stone
archway, entered the "old town," through whose narrow, lane-like streets
no vehicle could be driven, through some of them hardly a donkey. The
principal avenue, the Rue Longue, but a few feet in width, was smoothly
paved and clean; but walking there was like being at the bottom of a
well, so far above and so narrow was the little ribbon of blue sky at
the top. Unbroken stone walls rose on each side, directly upon the
street, five and six stories in height, shutting out the sunshine; and
these tall gray walls were often joined above our heads also by arches,
"like uncelebrated bridges of sighs," Janet said. These closely built
continuous blocks were the homes of the native population, "old
Mentone," unspoiled by progress and strangers. The low doorways showed
stone steps ascending somewhere in the darkness, showed low-ceilinged
rooms, whose only light was from the door, where were mothers and
babies, men mending shoes, women sewing and occupied with household
tasks, as calmly as though daylight was not the natural atmosphere of
mankind, but rather their own dusky gloom. Outside the doors little
black-eyed children sat on the pavement, eating the dark sour bread of
the country, and here and there old women in circular white hats like
large dinner plates were spinning thread with distaff and spindle. Above
were some bits of color: pots of flowers on high window-sills,
bright-hued rags hung out to dry, or a dark-eyed girl, with red kerchief
tied over her black braids, looking down.
"It is all like a scene from an opera," said Janet.
"Oh no," said Mrs. Clary; "say rather that it is like a scene from the
Middle Ages."
"That is what I mean," said Janet. "The scenes in the operas are
generally from the Middle Ages."
"The chorus _always_," said Baker.
"It is a pity you cannot see the old mansion of the Princes," said Mrs.
Clary. "But I see the street is blockaded just now by the artist."
"By the artist?" said Janet.
"Yes; this one, a Frenchman, is rather broad-shouldered, and when he is
at work he blockades the street. However, the mansion is not especially
interesting; it was built by one of the later Princes with the stones of
the ruined castle above, and has, I believe, only a vaulted hallway and
one or two marble pillars. It is now a lodging-house. I saw dancing-dogs
going up the stairway yesterday."
From the Rue Longue we had turned into a labyrinth of crooked,
staircase-like lanes, winding here and there from side to side, but
constantly ascending, the whole net-work, owing to the number of arches
thrown across above, seeming to be half underground, but in reality a
honey-combed erection clinging to the steep hill-side.
"Dancing-dogs!" said Janet, pausing in the darkest of these turnings.
"Let us go back and see them."
But we all exclaimed against this; Mrs. Trescott's little old feet were
wearied with curling over the round stones, and Margaret was tired.
Inness and Baker offered to make dancing-dogs of themselves for the
remainder of the morning, and dogs, too, of a very superior quality, if
she would only go on.
The Professor, who, in his "winnowing progress," as Mrs. Trescott
called it, had fallen behind, now joined us, followed by Miss Graves.
"I have just witnessed a remarkably interesting little ceremony," he
began, "quite mediaeval--a herald, with his trumpet, making an
announcement through the streets. I could not comprehend all he said,
but no doubt it was something of importance to the community."
"It was," said Miss Graves's monotonous voice. "He was telling them that
excellent sausage-meat was now to be obtained at a certain shop for a
price much lower than before."
"Ah," said the Professor. Then, rallying, he added, "But the ceremony
was the same."
"Certainly," I said, with my usual unappreciated benevolence.
"I wonder what induced these people to build their houses upon such a
crag as this, when they had the whole sunny coast to choose from?" said
Janet.
The Professor, charmed with this idle little speech (which he took for a
thirst for knowledge), hastened by several of us as we walked in single
file, in order to be nearer to the questioner.
"You may not be aware, Miss Trescott," he began (she was still in
advance, but he hoped to make up the distance), "that this whole shore,
called the Riviera--"
"Let us begin fairly," I said. "What _is_ the Riviera?"
"It is heaven," said Mrs. Clary.
[Illustration: RUE LONGUE BLOCKADED BY AN ARTIST]
"It is the coast of the Gulf of Genoa," said the Professor, "extending
both eastward and westward from the city of that name. On the west it
extends geographically to Nice; but Cannes and Antibes are generally
included. This shore-line, then, has been subject from a very early date
to attacks from the pirates of the Mediterranean, who swept down upon
the coast and carried off as slaves all who came in their way. To
escape the horrors of this slavery the inhabitants chose situations like
this steep hill-side, and crowded their stone dwellings closely together
so that they formed continuous walls, which were often joined also by
arched bridges, like these above us now, and connected by dark and
winding passageways below, so that escape was easy and pursuit
impossible. It was a veritable--"
"Rabbit-warren," suggested Baker.
Inness made no suggestions; he was next to the Professor, and fully
occupied in blocking, with apparent entire unconsciousness, all his
efforts to pass and join Janet.
The Professor, not accepting, however, the rabbit-warren, continued: "As
recently as 1830, Miss Trescott, when the French took possession of
Algiers, they found there thousands of miserable Christian slaves,
natives of this northern shore, who had been seized on the coast or
taken from their fishing-boats at sea. There are men now living in
Mentone who in their youth spent years as slaves in Tunis and Algiers.
These pirates, these scourges of the Mediterranean, were Saracens,
and--"
"Saracens!" said Janet, with an accent of admiration; "what a lovely
word it is! What visions of romance and adventure it brings up,
especially when spelled with two r's, so as to be Sarrasins! It is even
better than Paynim."
I could not see how the Professor took this, because we were now all
entirely in the dark, groping our way along a passage which apparently
led through cellars.
"We are in an _impasse_, or blind passage," called Mrs. Clary from
behind; "we had better go back."
Hearing this, we all retraced our steps--at least, we supposed we did.
But when we reached comparative daylight again we found that Janet,
Inness, and Baker were not with us; they had found a way through that
_impasse_, although we could not, and were sitting high above us on a
white wall in the sunshine, when, breathless, we at last emerged from
the labyrinth and discovered them.
"That looks like a cemetery," said Mrs. Trescott, disapprovingly,
disentangling her lace shawl from a bush. "You _said_ it was a castle."
She addressed the Professor, and with some asperity; she did not like
cemeteries.
"It was the castle," explained our learned guide; "the castle erected in
1502, by one of the Princes, upon the site of a still earlier one, built
in 1250."
"That Prince used the ruins of his ancestors as his descendants
afterwards used his," observed Margaret, referring to the mansion in the
street below.
"Possibly," said the Professor. He never gave Margaret more than a
possibility; although a man of hyphens and semicolons, he generally
dismissed her with an early period. "These old arches and buttresses,"
he continued, turning to Mrs. Trescott, "were once part of the castle.
Turreted walls extended from here down to the sea."
"What they did once, of course I do not know," said Mrs. Trescott,
implacably, "but now they plainly enclose a cemetery. Janet! Janet! come
down! we are going back." And she turned to descend.
"The cemetery is a lovely spot," said Mrs. Clary, as we lingered a
moment looking at the white marble crosses gleaming above us, outlined
against the blue sky.
[Illustration: THE CORNICE ROAD, MENTONE]
"Some other time," I answered, following Mrs. Trescott. For the quiet,
lovely gardens where we lay our dead had too strong an attraction for
Margaret already. She was fond of lingering amid their perfume and their
silence, and she sought this one the next day, and afterwards often
went there. It was a peculiar little cemetery, alone on the height, and
walled like a fortress; but it was beautiful in its way, lifted up
against the sky and overlooking the sea. On the eastern edge was a
monument, the seated figure of a woman with her hands gently clasped,
her eyes gazing over the water; the face was lovely, and not
idealized--the face of a woman, not an angel. Margaret took a fancy to
this white watcher on the height, and often stole away to look at the
sunset, seated near it. I think she identified its loneliness somewhat
with herself.
We went through the labyrinth again, but by another route, not quite so
dark and piratical, although equally narrow. Miss Graves liked nothing
she saw, but walked on unmoved, save that at intervals she observed that
it was "deathly cold" in these "stony lanes," and "_must_ be unhealthy."
Mrs. Clary's assertion that the people looked remarkably vigorous only
called out a shake of the head; Miss Graves was set upon "fever." It was
amusing to see how carefully all the houses were numbered, up and down
these break-neck little streets, through the narrowest burrows, and
under the darkest arches. Here and there some citizen wealthier than his
neighbors had painted his section of front in bright pink or yellow, and
perhaps adorned his Madonna in her little shrine over the door with new
robes, those broadly contrasted blues and reds of Italy, which American
eyes must learn by gradual education to admire; or, if not by education,
then by residence; for he will find himself liking them naturally after
a while, as a relief from the unchanging white light of the Italian day.
We came down by way of the square or piazza on the hill-side, to and
from which broad flights of steps ascend and descend. Here are the two
churches of St. Michael and the White Penitents, whose campaniles, with
that of the Black Penitents beyond, make the "three spires of Mentone,"
which stand out so picturesquely one above the other, visible in profile
far to the east and the west on the sharp angle of the hill.
"The different use of the same word in different languages is droll,"
said Margaret. "French writers almost always speak of these little
country church-spires as 'coquettes.'"
"There is a Turkish lance here somewhere," said Inness, emerging
unexpectedly from what I had thought was a cellar. "It is in one of
these churches. It was taken at the battle of Lepanto, and is a
'glorious relic.' We must see it."
"No," said Janet, appearing with Baker at the top of a flight of steps
which I had supposed was the back entrance of a private house, "we will
not see it, but imagine it. I want to go homeward by the Rue Longue."
"Now, Janet, if you mean those dancing-dogs--" began Mrs. Trescott.
"I had forgotten their very existence, mamma. I was thinking of
something quite different." Here she turned towards the Professor. "I
was hoping that Professor Mackenzie would feel like telling me something
of Mentone in the past, as we walk through that quaint old street."
"He feels like it--feels like it day and night," said Baker to Inness,
behind me. "He's a perfect statistics Niagara."
"Look at him now, gorged with joy!" said Inness, indignantly. "But I'll
floor him yet, and on his own ground, too. I'll study up, and _then_
we'll see!"
But the Professor, not hearing this threat, had already begun, and begun
(for him) quite gayly. "The origin of Mentone, Miss Trescott, has been
attributed to the pirates, and also to Hercules."
"I have always been _so_ interested in Hercules," replied that young
person.
[Illustration: "TO ITALY"--PONT ST. LOUIS]
"Mythical--mythical," said the Professor. "I merely mentioned it as one
of the legends. To come down to facts--always much more impressive to a
rightly disposed mind--the first mention of Mentone, _per se_, on the
authentic page of history, occurs in the eighth century. In A.D. 975 it
belonged to the Lascaris, Counts of Ventimiglia, a family of royal
origin and Greek descent."
"Are there any of them left?" inquired Janet.
"I really do not know," replied the Professor, who was not interested in
that branch of the subject. "In the fourteenth century the village
passed into the possession of the Grimaldi family, Princes of Monaco,
and they held it, legally at least, until 1860, when it was attached to
France."
"He is really quite Cyclopean in his information," murmured Mrs.
Trescott.
But the Professor had now discovered Inness, who, with an expression of
deepest interest on his face, was walking close at his heels, and
writing as he walked in a note-book.
"What are you doing, sir?" said the Professor, in his college tone.
"Taking notes," replied Inness, respectfully. "Miss Trescott may feel
willing to trust her memory, but _I_ wish to preserve your remarks for
future reference," and he went on with his writing.
The Professor looked at him sharply, but the youth's face remained
immovable, and he went on.
"These three little towns, then, Mentone, Roccabruna, and Monaco, have
belonged to the Princes of Monaco since the early Middle Ages."
"Those dear Middle Ages!" said Mrs. Clary.
The Professor gravely looked at her, and then repeated his phrase, as if
linking together his remarks over her unimportant head. "As I
observed--the early Middle Ages. But in 1848 Mentone and Roccabruna,
unable longer to endure the tyranny of their rulers, revolted and
declared their independence. The Prince at that time lived in Paris,
knew little of his subjects, and apparently cared less, save to get from
them through agents as much income as possible for his Parisian
luxuries." (Impossible to describe the accent which our Puritan
Professor gave to those two words.) "His little territory produced only
olives, oranges, and lemons. By his order the oranges and lemons were
taxed so heavily that the poor peasant owner made nothing from his toil;
his olives, also, must be ground at the 'Prince's mill,' where a higher
price was demanded than elsewhere. Finally an even more odious monopoly
was established: all subjects were compelled to purchase the 'Prince's
bread,' which, made from cheap grain bought on the docks of Marseilles
and Genoa, was often unfit to eat. So severe were the laws that any
traveller entering the principality must throw away at the boundary line
all bread he might have with him, and the captain of a vessel having on
board a single slice upon arrival in port was heavily fined. This state
of things lasted twenty-five years, during which period the Prince in
Paris spent annually his eighty thousand dollars, gained from this poor
little domain of eight or nine thousand souls." The Professor in his
heat stood still, and we all stood still with him. The Mentonnais,
looking down from their high windows and up from their dark little
doors, no doubt wondered what we were talking about; they little knew it
was their own story.
"A revolution made by bread. And ours was made by tea," observed Janet,
thoughtfully.
"We need now only one made by butter, to be complete," said Inness.
Again the Professor scrutinized him, but discovered nothing.
[Illustration: THE PALMS OF BORDIGHERA]
_I_, however, discovered something, although not from Inness; I
discovered why Janet had wished to pass a second time through that Rue
Longue. For here was the French artist sketching the old mansion, and
with him (she could not have known this, of course; but chance always
favored Janet) were the two Englishmen, the respectful gazers of the
breakfast-table, sketching also. There were therefore six artistic eyes
instead of two to dwell upon her as she approached, passed, and went
onward, her slender figure outlined against the light coming through the
archway beyond, old St. Julian's Gate, a remnant of feudal
fortification. Artists are not slack in the use of their eyes; an
"artistic gaze" is not considered a stare. I was obliged to repeat this
axiom to Baker, who did not appreciate it, but looked as though he would
like to go back and artistically demolish those gazers. He contented
himself, however, with the remark that water-color sketches were "weak,
puling daubs," and then he went on through the old archway as
majestically as he could.
"One of the features of Mentone seems to be the number of false windows
carefully painted on the outside of the houses, windows adorned with
blinds, muslin curtains, pots of flowers, and even gay rugs hanging over
the sill," said Margaret.
"And then the frescos," I added--"landscapes, trees, gods and goddesses,
in the most brilliant colors, on the side of the house."
"_I_ like it," said Mrs. Clary; "it is so tropical."
"You commend falsity, then," said Miss Graves. "_What_ can be more false
than a false rug?"
We went homeward by the sea-wall, and saw some boys coming up from the
beach with a basket of sea-urchins. "They eat them, you know," said Mrs.
Clary.
"Is that tropical too?" said Janet, shuddering.
"It is, after all, but a difference in custom," observed the Professor.
"I myself have eaten puppies in China, and found them not unpalatable."
Janet surveyed him; then fell behind and joined Inness and Baker.
Some fishermen on the beach were talking to two women with red
handkerchiefs on their heads, who were leaning over the sea-wall. "Their
language is a strange patois," said the Professor; "it is composed of a
mixture of Italian, French, Spanish, and even Arabic."
"But the people themselves are thoroughly Italian, I think, in spite of
the French boundary line," said Margaret. "They are a handsome race,
with their dark eyes, thick hair, and rich coloring."
"I have never bestowed much thought upon beauty _per se_," responded the
Professor. "The imperishable mind has far more interest."
"How much of the imperishable M. do you possess, Miss Trescott?" I heard
Inness murmur.
"Breakfast" was served at one o'clock in the large dining-room, and we
found ourselves opposite the two English artists, and a young lady whom
they called "Miss Elaine."
"Elaine is bad enough; but 'Miss Elaine'!" said Margaret aside to me.
However, Miss Elaine seemed very well satisfied with herself and her
Tennysonian title. She was a short, plump blonde, with a high color, and
I could see that she regarded Janet with pity as she noted her slender
proportions and delicate complexion in the one exhaustive glance with
which girls survey each other when they first meet. We were some time at
the table, but during the first five minutes both of the artists
succeeded in offering some slight service to Mrs. Trescott which gave an
opportunity for opening a conversation. The taller of the two, called
"Verney" by his friend, advised for the afternoon an expedition up the
Cornice Road to the "Pont St. Louis," and on "to Italy."
"But that will be too far, will it not?" said Mrs. Trescott.
"Oh no; to Italy! to Italy!" said Janet, with enthusiasm. Verney now
explained that Italy was but ten minutes' walk from the hotel, and Janet
was, of course, duly astonished. But not more astonished than the
Professor, who, having told her the same fact not a half-hour before,
could not comprehend how she should so soon have forgotten it.
"And if we _are_ but 'ten minutes' walk from Italy'--a phrase so often
repeated--what of it?" said Miss Graves to Margaret. "We are simply ten
minutes' walk from a most uncleanly land." Miss Graves always wore a
gray worsted shawl, and took no wine; in spite of the sunshine,
therefore, she preserved a frosty appearance.
After breakfast Miss Elaine introduced herself to Mrs. Trescott. She had
met some Americans the year before; they were charming; they were from
Brazil; perhaps we knew them? She had always felt ever since that all
Americans were her dear, dear friends. She had an invalid mother
up-stairs (sharing her good opinion of Americans) who would be "very
pleased" to make our acquaintance; and hearing Pont St. Louis mentioned,
she assured Janet that it was a "very jolly place--very jolly indeed."
It ended in our going to the "jolly place," accompanied by the two
artists and Miss Elaine herself, who smiled upon us all, upon the rocks,
the sky, and the sea, in the most amiable and continuous manner. This
time we were not all on foot; one of the loose-jointed little Mentone
phaetons, with a great deal of driver and whip and very little horse,
had been engaged for Mrs. Trescott and Margaret. This left Mrs. Clary
and myself together (Miss Graves having remained at home), and Inness,
Baker, the Professor, Verney, and the other artist, whose name was
Lloyd, all trying to walk with Janet, while Miss Elaine devoted herself
in turn to the unsuccessful ones, and never from first to last perceived
the real situation.
We went eastward. Presently we passed a small house bearing the
following naive inscription in French on the side towards the road: "The
first villa built at Mentone, in 1855, to attract hither the strangers.
The sun, the sea, and the soft air combined are benefactions bestowed
upon us by the good God. Thanks be to Him, therefore, for His mercies in
thus favoring us."
"Mentone is said to have been 'discovered by the English' in 1857," said
Mrs. Clary. "Dr. Bennet, the London physician, may be called its real
discoverer, as Lord Brougham was the discoverer of Cannes. From a
sleepy, unknown little Riviera village it has grown into the winter
resort we now see, with fifty hotels and two hundred villas full of
strangers from all parts of the world."
The Professor was discoursing upon the climate. "It is very beneficial
to all whose lungs are delicate," he said. "Also" (checking off the
different classes on his fingers) "to the aged, to those who need
general renovating, to the rheumatic, and to those afflicted with gout."
"Where, then, do I come in?" said Janet, sweetly, as he finished the
left hand.
"Nowhere," answered the Professor, meaning to be gallant, but not quite
succeeding. Perceiving this, he added, slowly, and with solemnity, "But
the fair and healthy flower should be willing to shine upon the less
endowed for the pure beneficence of the act."
[Illustration: THE BONE CAVERNS]
Baker and Inness sat down on the sea-wall behind him to recover from
this. The two Englishmen were equally amused, although Miss Elaine,
who was walking with them, did not discover it. However, Miss Elaine
seldom discovered anything save herself. We now began to ascend, passing
between the high walls of villa gardens along a smooth, broad, white
road.
"This is the Cornice," said Mrs. Clary; "it winds along this coast from
Marseilles to Genoa."
"From Nice to Genoa," said the Professor, turning to correct her. But by
turning he lost his place. Inness slipped into it, and not only that,
but into his information also. In the leisure hour or two before and
after "breakfast," Inness had carried out his threat of "studying up,"
and we soon became aware of it.
"The genius of Napoleon, Miss Trescott," he began, "caused this
wonderful road to spring from the bosom of the mighty rock."
"Before it there was no road, only a mule track," said the Professor
from behind.
"I beg your pardon," said Inness, suavely, "but there was a road, the
old Roman way, called Via Julia Augusta, traces of which are still to be
seen at more than one point in this neighborhood."
"Ah!" said the Professor, surprised by this unexpected antiquity, "you
are going back to the Roman period. I have omitted that."
"But I have not," replied Inness. "The Romans were a remarkable people,
and all their relics are penetrated with the profoundest interest for
me. I am aware, however, that other minds are more modern," he added,
carelessly, with an air of patronage, which so delighted Baker that he
fell behind to conceal it.
"The Cornichy, Miss Trescott, as we pronounce the Italian word (Corniche
in French), is almost our own word cornice," pursued Inness, "meaning a
shelf or ledge along the side of the mountain. It was begun by Napoleon,
and has been finished by the energy of successive governments since the
death of that wonderful man, who was all governments in one."
"You surprise me," said Janet, breaking into laughter.
"Not more than you do me," I said, joining her.
The Professor (who had rather neglected the Cornice in his Cyclopean
information) gazed at us inquiringly, surprised at our merriment.
"The best description of the Cornice, I think, is the one in Ruffini's
novel called _Doctor Antonio_" said Mrs. Clary. "The scene is laid at
Bordighera, you know, that little white town on the eastern point so
conspicuous from Mentone. Of course you all remember _Doctor Antonio_?"
Presently our road wound around a curve, and we came upon a wild gorge,
spanned by a bridge with a sentinel's box at each end; one side was
France and the other Italy. The bridge, the official boundary line
between the two countries, is a single arch thrown across the gorge,
which is singularly stern, great masses of bare gray rock rising
perpendicularly hundreds of feet into the air, with a little rill of
water trickling down on one side, trying to create a tiny line of
verdure. Below was an old aqueduct on arches, which the Professor
hastened to say was "Roman."
"The Romans must have been enormous drinkers of water," observed Baker,
as we looked down. "The first thing they made in every conquered country
was an aqueduct. What could have given the name to Roman punch?"
"Do you see that narrow track cut in the face of the rock?" said Mrs.
Clary, pointing out a line crossing one side of the gorge at a dizzy
height. "It is a little path beside a watercourse, and so narrow that in
some places there is not room for one's two feet. The wall of rock
rises, as you see, perpendicularly hundreds of feet on one side, and
falls away hundreds of feet perpendicularly on the other; there is
nothing to hold on by, and in addition the glancing motion of the little
stream, running rapidly downhill along the edge, makes the path still
more dizzy. Yet the peasants coming down from Ciotti--a village above
us--use it, as it shortens the distance to town. And there are those
among the strangers too who try it, generally, I must confess, of our
race. The French and Italians say, with a shrug, 'It is only the English
and Americans who enjoy such risks.'"
"It does not look so narrow," said Janet. Then, as we exclaimed, she
added, "I mean, not wide enough for one's two feet."
"Feet," remarked Inness, in a general way, as if addressing the gorge,
"are not all of the same size."
We happened to be standing in a row, with our backs against the southern
parapet of the bridge, looking up at the little path; the result was
that eighteen feet were plainly visible on the white dust of the bridge,
and, naturally enough, at Inness's speech eighteen eyes looked downward
and noted them. There were the Professor's boots, the laced shoes of the
younger men, the comfortable foot-gear of Mrs. Clary and myself, the
broad substantial soles of Miss Elaine, and a certain dainty little pair
of high-arched, high-heeled boots, which, small as they were, were yet
quite large enough for the pretty feet they contained. I thought Miss
Elaine would be vexed; but no, not at all. It never occurred to Miss
Elaine to doubt the perfection of any of her attributes. But now Mrs.
Trescott's phaeton, which had started later, reached the bridge, and the
gorge, path, and aqueduct had to be explained to her. Lloyd undertook
this.
"I wonder how many girls have thrown themselves off that rock?" said
Janet, gazing at an isolated peak, shaped like a sugar-loaf, which
stood alone within the ravine.
"What a holocaust you imagine, Miss Trescott!" said Verney. "How could
they climb up there, to begin with?"
"I do not know. But they always do. I have never known a rock of that
kind which has succeeded in evading them," answered Janet. "They
generally call them 'Lovers' Leaps.'"
After a while we went on "to Italy," passing the square Italian
custom-house perched on its cliff, and following the road by the little
Garibaldi inn, and on towards the point of Mortola.
"This is the Italian frontier," said Verney. "In old times, during the
Prince's reign, no one could leave the domain without buying a passport;
any one, therefore, who wished to take an afternoon walk was obliged to
have one. But things are altered now in Menton."
"Are we to call the place Menton or Mentone?" asked Janet. "We might as
well come to some decision."
"Menton is correct," said the Professor; "it is now a French town."
"Oh no! let us keep to the dear old names, and say Men-to-ne," said Mrs.
Clary.
"_I_ have even heard it pronounced to rhyme with bone," said Verney,
smiling. Inness and Baker now looked at each other, and fell behind, but
after a few minutes they came forward again, and, advancing to the
front, faced us, and delivered the following epic:
Inness:
"What shall we call thee? Shall we give our own
Plain English vowels to thee, fair Mentone?"
[Illustration: THE PROFESSOR DISCOURSES]
Baker:
"Or shall we yield thee back thy patrimony,
The lost Italian sweetness of Mentone?"
Inness:
"Or, with French accent, and the n's half gone,
Try the Parisian syllables--Men-ton?"
We all applauded their impromptu. The Professor, seeing that poetry held
the field, walked apart musingly. I think he was trying to recall, but
without success, an appropriate Latin quotation.
The view from the point above Mortola is very beautiful. On the west,
Mentone with its three spires, the green of Cap Martin; and beyond, the
bold dark forehead of the Dog's Head rising above Monaco.
"Do you see that blue line of coast?" said Verney. "That is the island
where lived the Man with the Iron Mask."
"Bazaine was confined there also," said the Professor.
But none of us cared for Bazaine. We began to talk about the Mask, and
then diverged to Kaspar Hauser, finally ending with Eleazer Williams, of
"Have we a Bourbon among us?" who had to be explained to the Englishmen.
It was some time before we came back to the view; but all the while
there it was before us, and we were unconsciously enjoying it. On the
east was, first, the little village of Mortola at our feet; then
fortified Ventimiglia; and beyond, Bordighera, gleaming whitely on its
low point out in the blue sea.
"Blanche Bordighera," said Mrs. Clary; "it is to me like
paradise--always silvery and fair. No matter where you go, there it is;
whether you look from Cap Martin or St. Agnese, from Ciotti or
Roccabruna, you can always see Bordighera shining in the sunlight. Even
when there is a mist, so that Mentone itself is veiled and Ventimiglia
lost, Bordighera can be seen gleaming whitely through. And finally you
end by not wanting to go there; you dread spoiling the vision by a less
fair reality, and you go away, leaving it unvisited, but carrying with
you the remembrance of its shining and its feathery palms."
"Is it palmy?" asked Janet.
"There are probably now more palms at Bordighera than in the Holy Land
itself," said Verney, who had wound himself into a place beside her. I
say "wound," because Verney was so long and lithe that he could slip
gracefully into places which other men could not obtain. Lloyd was not
with us. He had not left his post of duty beside the phaeton, which was
coming slowly up the hill behind us; but I noticed that he had selected
Margaret's side of it.
"Palms would grow at Mentone, or at any other sheltered spot on this
coast," said the Professor, at last abandoning the obstinate quotation,
and coming back to the present. "But the cultivation is not remunerative
save at Bordighera, where they own the monopoly of supplying the palm
branches used on Palm-Sunday at Rome."
"Excuse me," said Inness; "but I think you did not mention the origin of
that monopoly?"
"A monkish legend," said the Professor, contemptuously.