"It was built by the Romans, on the boundary between Liguria and Gaul,
to commemorate a victory gained by Augustus Caesar over the Ligurians. It
was called Tropaeum Augusti, from which it has degenerated into Turbia.
Fragments of the inscription it once bore have been found on stones
built into the houses of the present village. The inscription itself is,
fortunately, fully preserved in Pliny, as follows: 'To Caesar, son of the
divine Caesar Augustus, Emperor for the fourteenth time, in the
seventeenth year of his reign, the Senate and the Roman people have
decreed this monument, in token that under his orders and auspices all
the Alpine races have been subdued by Roman arms. Names of the
vanquished:' and here follow the names of forty-five Alpine races."
At first we thought that the Professor was going to repeat them all; but
although no doubt he knew them, he abstained.
"The village behind the tower--we cannot see it from here--seems to be
principally built of fragments of the old Roman stone-work," said Lloyd.
"I have been up there several times."
"Then we do not see the Trophy as it was?" I said.
"No; it is but a ruin, although it looks imposing from here. It was used
as a fortress during the Middle Ages, and partially destroyed by the
French at the beginning of the last century."
"It must have been majestic indeed, since, after all its dismemberment,
it still remains so majestic now," said Margaret.
We were standing on the steps of the Casino during this conversation; I
think we all rather made ourselves stand there, and talk about Turbia
and the Middle Ages, because the evil and temptation we had come to see
were so near us, and we knew that they were. We all had a sentence ready
which we delivered impartially and carelessly; but none the less we knew
that we were going in, and that nothing would induce us to remain
without.
[Illustration: THE RIDE TO SANT' AGNESE]
From a spacious, richly decorated entrance-hall, the gambling-rooms
opened by noiseless swinging doors. Entering, we saw the tables
surrounded by a close circle of seated players, with a second circle
standing behind, playing over their shoulders, and sometimes even a
third behind these. Although so many persons were present, it was very
still, the only sounds being the chink, chink, of the gold and silver
coins, and the dull, mechanical voices of the officials announcing
the winning numbers. There were tables for both roulette and trente et
quarante, the playing beginning each day at eleven in the morning and
continuing without intermission until eleven at night. Everywhere was
lavished the luxury of flowers, paintings, marbles, and the costliest
decoration of all kinds; beyond, in a superb hall, the finest orchestra
on the Continent was playing the divine music of Beethoven; outside, one
of the loveliest gardens in the world offered itself to those who wished
to stroll awhile. And all of this was given freely, without restriction
and without price, upon a site and under a sky as beautiful as earth can
produce. But one sober look at the faces of the steady players around
those tables betrayed, under all this luxury and beauty, the real horror
of the place; for men and women, young and old alike, had the gambler's
strange fever in the expression of the eye, all the more intense
because, in almost every case, so governed, so stonily repressed, so
deadly cold! After a half-hour of observation, we left the rooms, and I
was glad to breathe the outside air once more. The place had so struck
to my heart, with its intensity, its richness, its stillness, and its
terror, that I had not been able even to smile at the Professor's
demeanor; he had signified his disapprobation (while looking at
everything quite closely, however) by buttoning his coat up to the chin
and keeping his hat on. I almost expected to see him open his umbrella.
"To me, they seemed all mad," I said, with a shudder, looking up at the
calm mountains with a sense of relief.
"It is a species of madness," said Verney. Miss Elaine was with him; she
had taken his arm while in the gambling-room; she said she felt "so
timid." Margaret and Lloyd meanwhile had only looked on for a moment or
two, and had then disappeared; we learned afterwards that they had gone
to the concert-room, where music beautiful enough for paradise was
filling the perfumed air.
"For those who care nothing for gambling, that music is one of the
baits," said Lloyd. "When you really love music, it is very hard to keep
away from it; and here, where there is no other music to compete with
it, it is offered to you in its divinest perfection, at an agreeable
distance from Nice and Mentone, along one of the most beautiful
driveways in the world, with a Parisian hotel at its best to give you,
besides, what other refreshment you need. Hundreds of persons come here
sincerely 'only to hear the music.' But few go away without 'one look'
at the gambling tables; and it is upon that 'one look' that the
proprietors of the Casino, knowing human nature, quietly and securely
rely."
The Professor, having seen it all, had no words to express his feeling,
but walked across to call the carriages with the air of a man who shook
off perdition from every finger. And yet I felt sure, from what I knew
of him, that he had appreciated the attractions of the place less than
any one of us--had not, in fact, been reached by them at all. Those who
do not feel the allurements of a temptation are not tempted. Not a grain
in the Professor's composition responded to the invitation of the siren
Chance; they were not allurements to him; they were but the fantastic
phantasmagoria of a dream. The lovely garden he appreciated only
botanically; the view he could not see; abstemious by nature, he cared
nothing for the choice rarities of the hotel; while the music, the
heavenly music, was to him no more than the housewife's clatter of tin
pans. Yet I might have explained this to him all the way home, he would
never have comprehended it, but would have gone on thinking that it was
simply, on his part, superior virtue and self-control.
But I had no opportunity to explain, since I was not in the carriage
with him, but with Janet, Inness, and Baker. Margaret and Lloyd drove
homewards together in the phaeton; and as they did not reach the hotel
until dusk--long after our own arrival--I asked Margaret where they had
been.
"We stopped at the cemetery to watch the sunset beside my statue, aunt."
"Why do you care so much for that marble figure?"
"I do not think she is quite marble," answered Margaret, smiling. "When
I look at her, after a while she becomes, in a certain sense,
responsive. To me she is like a dear friend."
Another week passed, and another. And now the blossoms of the
fruit-trees--a cloud of pink and snowy white--were gone, and the winter
loiterers on the sunny shore began to talk of home; or, if they were
travellers who had but stopped awhile on the way to Italy, they knew now
that the winds of the Apennines no longer chilled the beautiful streets
of Florence, and that all the lilies were out.
"Why could it not go on and on forever? Why must there always come that
last good-bye?" quoted Mrs. Clary.
"Because life is so sad," said Margaret.
"But I like to look forward," said Janet.
"We shall meet again," said Lloyd.
"The world," I remarked, sagely, "is composed of three classes of
persons--those who live in the present, those who live in the past, and
those who live in the future. The first class is the wisest."
[Illustration: VIEW FROM SANT' AGNESE]
Our last excursion was to Sant' Agnese. This little mountain village was
the highest point we attained on our donkeys, being two thousand two
hundred feet above the sea. Its one rugged little street, cut in the
side of the cliff, had an ancient weather-beaten little church at one
end and a lonely chapel at the other, with the village green in the
centre--a "green" which was but a smooth rock amphitheatre, with a
parapet protecting it from the precipice below. From this "green" there
was a grand view of the mountains, with the sharp point of the Aiguille
towering above them all. It was a village fete day, and we met the
little procession at the church door. First came the priests and
choir-boys, chanting; then the village girls, dressed in white, and
bearing upon a little platform an image of Saint Agnes; then youths with
streamers of colored ribbons on their arms; and, last, all the
villagers, two and two, dressed in their best, and carrying bunches of
flowers. Through the winding rocky street they marched, singing as they
went. When they arrived at the lonely chapel, Saint Agnes was borne in,
and prayers were offered, in which the village people joined, kneeling
on the ground outside, since there was not place for them within. Then
forth came Saint Agnes again, a hymn was started, in which all took
part, the little church bell pealed, and an old man touched off small
heaps of gunpowder placed at equal distances along the parapet, their
nearest approach, I suppose, to cannon. When the saint had reached her
shrine again in safety, her journeyings over until the next year, the
procession dissolved, and feasting began, the simple feasting of Italy,
in which we joined so far as to partake of a lunch in the little inn,
which had a green bush as a sign over the narrow door--the "wine of the
country" proving very good, however, in spite of the old proverb. Then,
refreshed, we climbed up the steep path leading to the peak where was
perched the ruin of the old castle which is so conspicuous from Mentone,
high in the air. This castle, the so-called "Saracen stronghold" of
Sant' Agnese, pronounced, as Baker said, "either Frenchy to rhyme with
lace, or Italianly to rhyme with lazy," seemed to me higher up in the
sky than I had ever expected to be in the flesh.
"As our interesting friend" (she meant the Professor) "is not here,"
said Mrs. Trescott, sinking in a breathless condition upon a Saracen
block, "there is no one to tell us its history."
"There is no history," said Verney, "or, rather, no one knows it; and to
me that is its chief attraction. There are, of course, legends in
stacks, but nothing authentic. The Saracens undoubtedly occupied it for
a time, and kept the whole coast below cowering under their cruel sway.
But it is hardly probable that they built it; they did not build so far
inland; they preferred the shore."
Our specified object, of course, in climbing that breathless path was
"the view."
Now there are various ways of seeing views. I have known "views" which
required long gazing at points where there was nothing earthly to be
seen: in such cases there was probably something heavenly. Other "views"
reveal themselves only to two persons at a time; if a third appears,
immediately there is nothing to be seen. As to our own manner of looking
at the Sant' Agnese view, I will mention that Mrs. Trescott looked at it
from a snug corner, on a soft shawl, with her eyes closed. Mrs. Clary
looked at it retrospectively, as it were; she began phrases like these:
"When I was here three years ago--" pause, sigh, full stop. "Once I was
here at sunset--" ditto. Janet, on a remote rock, looked at it, I think,
amid a little tragedy from Inness, interrupted and made more tragic by
the incursions of Baker, who would not be frowned away. Verney looked at
it from a high niche in which he had incautiously seated himself for a
moment, and now remained imprisoned, because Miss Elaine had placed
herself across the entrance so that he could not emerge without asking
her to rise; from this niche, like the tenor of _Trovatore_ in his
tower, he occasionally sent across a Miserere to Janet in the distance,
like this: "Do you ob--serve, Miss Trescott, the col--ors of the
lem--ons below?" And Janet would gesture an assent. Lloyd and Margaret
had found a place on a little projecting plateau, where, with the warm
sunshine flooding over them, they sat contentedly talking. Meanwhile
having neither sleep, retrospect, tragedy, Miserere, nor conversation
with which to entertain myself, I really looked at the view, and
probably was the only person who did. I had time enough for it. We
remained there nearly two hours.
[Illustration: FETE, VILLAGE OF SANT' AGNESE]
At last our donkey-driver came up to tell us that dancing was going on
below, and that there was not much time if we wished to see it, since
the long homeward journey still lay before us. So we elders began to
call: "Janet!" "Janet!" "Margaret!" "Mr. Verney!" And presently from the
rock, the niche, and the plateau they came slowly in, Janet flushed, and
Inness very pale, Baker like a thunder-cloud, Miss Elaine smiling and
conscious, Verney annoyed, Lloyd just as usual, and Margaret with a
younger look in her face than I had seen there for months. In the little
rock amphitheatre below we found the villagers merrily dancing; and some
strangers like ourselves, who had come out from Mentone later, were
amusing themselves by dancing also. Janet joined the circle with Baker,
and Inness, after leaning on the parapet awhile, with his back to the
dancers, gazing into space, disappeared. I think he went homeward by
another path across the mountains. Miss Elaine admired "so much" Miss
Trescott's courage in dancing before "so many strangers." She (Miss
Elaine) was far "too shy to attempt it." But I did not notice that she
was violently urged to the attempt. In the meantime Lloyd was looking at
an English girl belonging to the other party, who was dancing near us.
She was tall and shapely, with the beautiful English rose-pink
complexion, and abundant light hair which had the glint of bronze where
the sun shone across it. After a while, as the others came near, he
recognized in one of them an acquaintance, who turned out to be the
brother of the young lady who had been dancing.
When, as we returned, we reached the main street of Mentone, Margaret
and I, who were behind, stopped a moment and looked back. The far peak
of Sant' Agnese was flushed with rose-light, although where we were it
was already night.
"It does not seem as if we could have been there," I said. "It looks so
far away."
"Yes, we have been there," said Margaret; "we _have_ been there. But
already it _is_ far, far away."
[Illustration: VESTIGES OF ROMAN MONUMENTS]
Mrs. Trescott found a letter awaiting her which made her decide to go
forward to Florence on the following day. A great deal can happen in a
short time when there is the pressure of a near departure. That evening
Janet, who was dressed in white, had a great bunch of the sweet wild
narcissus at her belt. I do not know anything certainly, of course, but
I _did_ meet Inness in the hall, about eleven o'clock, with a radiant,
happy face, and some of that same narcissus in his button-hole. He went
with the Trescott's to Florence the next day. And Baker, with disgust,
went to Nice. Soon afterwards Verney said that he felt that he required
"a closer acquaintance with early art," and departed without saying
exactly whither. "Etruscan art, I believe, is considered extremely
'early,'" remarked Mrs. Clary.
The Professor was to join the Trescotts later; at present he was much
engaged with some cinerary urns. Miss Elaine, who was to remain a month
longer with her mother, remarked to me, on one of the last mornings,
that "really, for his age," he was a "very well preserved man."
Margaret and I remained for two weeks after Mrs. Trescott's departure.
We saw Mr. Lloyd now and then; but he was more frequently off with the
English party.
One afternoon I went with Margaret to watch the sunset from her favorite
post beside the statue. She sought the place almost every evening now,
and occasionally I went with her. We had never found any one there at
that hour; but this evening we heard voices, and came upon Lloyd and the
English girl of Sant' Agnese, strolling to and fro.
"I have brought Miss Read to see the view here, Miss Severin," he said;
and then introductions followed, and we stood there together watching
the beautiful tints of sky and sea. The English girl talked in her
English voice with its little rising and falling inflections, so
different from our monotonous American key. Margaret answered
pleasantly, and, indeed, talked more than usual; I was glad to see her
interested.
After a while Lloyd happened to stroll forward where he could see the
face of the statue. Then, suddenly, "Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Strange
that I never thought of it before! Do come here, please, and see for
yourselves. There is the most extraordinary resemblance between this
statue and Miss Read."
Then, as we all went forward, "Wonderful!" he repeated.
Margaret said not a word. The English girl only laughed. "Surely you
_see_ it?" he said.
"There may be a little something about the mouth--" I began.
But he interrupted me. "Why, it is perfect! The statue is her portrait
in marble. Miss Read, will you not let me place you in the same
position, just for an instant?" And, leading her to a little mound, he
placed her in the required pose; she had thrown off her hat to oblige
him, and now clasped her hands and turned her eyes over the sea towards
the eastern horizon. What was the result?
The only resemblance, as I had said, was about the mouth; for the
beautifully cut lips of the statue turned downward at the corners, and
the curve of Miss Read's sweet baby-like mouth was the same. But that
was all. Above was the woman's face in marble, beautiful, sad, full of
the knowledge and the grief of life; below was the face of a young girl,
lovely, fresh, and bright, and knowing no more of sorrow than a
blush-rose upon its stem.
"Exact!" said Lloyd.
Miss Read laughed, rose, and resumed her straw hat; presently they went
away.
[Illustration: THE STATUE IN THE CEMETERY]
"There was not the slightest resemblance," I said, almost with
indignation.
"People see resemblances differently," answered Margaret. Then, after a
pause, she added, "She is, at least, much more like the statue than I
am."
"Not in the spirit, dear," I said, much touched; for I saw that as she
spoke the rare tears had filled her eyes. But they did not fall;
Margaret had a great deal of self-control; perhaps too much.
Then there was a silence. "Shall we go now, aunt?" she said, after a
time. And we never spoke of the subject again.
"Look, look, Margaret! the palms of Bordighera!" I said, as our train
rushed past. It was our last of Mentone.
CAIRO IN 1890
I
[Illustration: CONTEMPORARY PORTRAIT OF CLEOPATRA
On the wall of the Temple at Denderah.--From a photograph by Sebah,
Cairo.]
"The way to Egypt is long and vexatious"--so Homer sings; and so also
have sung other persons more modern. A chopping sea prevails off Crete,
and whether one leaves Europe at Naples, Brindisi, or Athens, one's
steamer soon reaches that beautiful island, and consumes in passing it
an amount of time which is an ever-fresh surprise. Crete, with its long
coast-line and soaring mountain-tops, appears to fill all that part of
the sea. However, as the island is the half-way point between Europe and
Africa, one can at least feel, after finally leaving it behind, that the
Egyptian coast is not far distant. This coast is as indolent as that of
Crete is aggressive; it does not raise its head. You are there before
you see it or know it; and then, if you like, in something over three
hours more you can be in Cairo.
The Cairo street of the last Paris Exhibition, familiar to many
Americans, was a clever imitation. But imitations of the Orient are
melancholy; you cannot transplant the sky and the light.
The real Cairo has been sacrificed to the Nile. Comparatively few among
travellers in the East see the place under the best conditions; for upon
their arrival they are preoccupied with the magical river voyage which
beckons them southward, with the dahabeeyah or the steamer which is to
carry them; and upon their return from that wonderful journey they are
planning for the more difficult expedition to the Holy Land. It is safe
to say that to many Americans Cairo is only a confused memory of donkeys
and dragomans, mosquitoes and dervishes, and mosques, mosques, mosques!
This hard season probably must be gone through by all. The wise are
those who stay on after it is over, or who return; for the true
impression of a place does not come when the mind is overcrowded and
confused; it does not come when the body is wearied; for the descent of
the vision, serenity of soul is necessary--one might even call it
idleness. It is during those days when one does nothing that the reality
steals noiselessly into one's comprehension, to remain there forever.
But is Cairo worth this? is asked. That depends upon the temperament. If
one must have in his nature somewhere a trace of the poet to love
Venice, so one must be at heart something of a painter to love Cairo.
Her colors are so softly rich, the Saracenic part of her architecture is
so fantastically beautiful, the figures in her streets are so
picturesque, that one who has an eye for such effects seems to himself
to be living in a gallery of paintings without frames, which stretch off
in vistas, melting into each other as they go. If, therefore, one loves
color, if pictures are precious to him, are important, let him go to
Cairo; he will find pleasure awaiting him. Flaubert said that one could
imagine the pyramids, and perhaps the Sphinx, without an actual sight of
them, but that what one could not in the least imagine was the
expression on the face of an Oriental barber as he sits cross-legged
before his door. That is Cairo exactly. You must see her with the actual
eyes, and you must see her without haste. She does not reveal herself to
the Cook tourist nor even to Gaze's, nor to the man who is hurrying off
to Athens on a fixed day which nothing can alter.
THE NEW QUARTER
(One must begin with this, and have it over.) Cairo has a population of
four hundred thousand souls. The new part of the town, called Ismailia,
has been persistently abused by almost all writers, who describe it as
dusty, as shadeless, as dreary, as glaring, as hideous, as blankly and
broadly empty, as adorned with half-built houses which are falling into
ruin--one has read all this before arriving. But what does one find in
the year of grace 1890? Streets shaded by innumerable trees; streets
broad indeed, but which, instead of being dusty, are wet (and over-wet)
with the constant watering; well-kept, bright-faced houses, many of them
having beautiful gardens, which in January are glowing with giant
poinsettas, crimson hibiscus, and purple bougainvillea--flowers which
give place to richer blooms, to an almost over-luxuriance of color and
perfumes, as the early spring comes on. If the streets were paved, it
would be like the outlying quarters of Paris, for most of the houses are
French as regards their architecture. Shadeless? It is nothing but
shade. And the principal drives, too, beyond the town--the Ghezireh
road, the Choubra and Gizeh roads, and the long avenue which leads to
the pyramids--are deeply embowered, the great arms of the trees which
border them meeting and interlacing overhead. Consider the stony streets
of Italian cities (which no one abuses), and then talk of "shadeless
Cairo"!
THE CLIMATE