MONTE CARLO
All my life before going abroad I had been filled with a curiosity as
to the character of the Riviera and Monte Carlo. I had never quite
understood that Nice, Cannes, Mentone, San Remo in Italy and Monte
Carlo were all in the same vicinity--a stone’s throw apart, as it were;
and that this world is as distinct from the spirit of the north of
France as the south of England is from the north of England.
As Barfleur explained it, we went due south from Paris to Marseilles
and then east along the coast of the Mediterranean until we came to the
first stopping-place he had selected, Agay, where we would spend a few
days in peace and quiet, far from the hurry and flare of the café life
we had just left, and then journey on the hour or two more which it
takes to reach Monte Carlo. He made this arrangement in order that we
might have the journey through France by day, and proceed from Agay of
a morning, which would give us, if we had luck--and such luck usually
prevails on the Riviera--a sunlight view of the Mediterranean breaking
in rich blue waves against a coast that is yellow and brown and gold
and green by turns.
Coming south from Paris I had the same sensation of wonder that I had
traveling from Calais to Paris--a wonder as to where the forty odd
millions of the population of France kept itself. It was not visible
from the windows of the flying train. All the way we traveled through
an almost treeless country past little white lawns and vineyards; and
I never realized before, although I must have known, that these same
vineyards were composed of separate vines, set in rows like corn stalks
and standing up for all the world like a gnarled T. Every now and
then a simple, straight-running, silvery stream would appear, making
its way through a perfectly level lane and set on either bank with
tall single lines of feathery poplars. The French landscape painters
have used these over and over; and they illustrate exactly the still,
lonely character of the country. To me, outside of Paris, France has
an atmosphere of silence and loneliness; although, considering the
character of the French people I do not understand how that can be.
On the way south there was much badinage between Barfleur and Sir
Scorp, who accompanied us, as to the character of this adventure. A
certain young friend of Barfleur’s daughter was then resident at Lyons;
and it was Barfleur’s humorously expressed hope, that his daughter’s
friend would bring him a basket of cold chicken, cake, fruit, and wine.
It seems that he had urged Berenice to write her friend that he was
passing through; and I was hourly amused at Scorp’s biting reference
to Barfleur’s “parental ruse,” which he vindictively hoped would come
to nothing. It was as he hoped; for at Lyons the young lady and her
parents appeared, but no basket. There were some minutes of animated
conversation on the platform; and then we were off again at high speed
through the same flat land, until we reached a lovely mountain range in
the south of France--a region of huts and heavy ox-wains. It reminded
me somewhat of the mountain regions of northern Kentucky. At Marseilles
there was a long wait in the dark. A large number of passengers left
the train here; and then we rode on for an hour or two more, arriving
by moonlight at Agay, or at least the nearest railway station to it.
The character of the world in which Agay was located was delicious.
After the raw and cold of our last few days in Paris this satin
atmosphere of moonlight and perfume was wonderful. We stepped out of
a train at the little beach station of this summer coast to find the
trees in full leaf and great palms extending their wide fronds into the
warm air. There was much chatter in French while the cabby struggled
to get all our numerous bags into one vehicle; but when it was all
accomplished and the top lowered so that we could see the night, we set
forth along a long white road between houses which had anything but a
French aspect, being a showy development of things Spanish and Moorish,
and past bright whitewashed walls of stone, over which wide-leaved
palms leaned. It was wonderful to see the moonlight on the water, the
bluish black waves breaking in white ripples on sandy shores, and to
feel the wind of the South. I could not believe that a ten-hour ride
from Paris would make so great a change; but so it was. We clattered up
finally to the Grand Hôtel d’Agay; and although it possessed so fine
a name it was nothing much more than a country inn--comparatively new
and solidly built, with a charming vine-covered balcony overlooking the
sea, and a garden of palms in which one might walk. However, the food,
Barfleur assured us, would be passable. It was only three stories high
and quite primitive in its appointments. We were lighted to our rooms
with candles, but the rooms were large and cool, and the windows, I
discovered by throwing mine open, commanded a magnificent view of the
bay. I stood by my window transfixed by the beauty of the night. Not in
France outside this coast--nor in England--can you see anything like
this in summer. The air was like a caress. Under the white moon you
could see the main outlines of the coast and the white strip of sand
at the bottom. Below us, anchored near the garden, were some boats, and
to the right white houses sheltered in trees and commanding the wonders
of the water. I went to bed breathing a sigh of relief and feeling as
if I should sleep soundly--which I did.
The next morning revealed a world if anything more wonderful. Now all
the whiteness and the brownness and the sharpness of the coast line
were picked out by a brilliant sun. The bay glittered in the light,
a rich indigo blue; and a fisherman putting forth to sea hoisted a
golden sail. I was astonished to find now that the houses instead of
being the drab and white of northern France were as like to be blue
or yellow or green--and always there was a touch of color somewhere,
blue window-sills ornamenting a white house, brown chimneys contrasting
with a blue one, the charm of the Moorish arch and the Moorish lattice
suggesting itself at different points--and always palms. I dressed
and went below and out upon the balcony and through the garden to the
water’s edge, sitting in the warm sun and tossing pebbles into the
water. Flowers were in bloom here--blue and yellow blossoms--and when
Barfleur came down we took a delightful morning walk up a green valley
which led inland between hills. No northern day in June could have
rivaled in perfection the wonder of this day; and we talked of the
stagey make-believe of Parisian night-life as contrasted with this, and
the wonder of spring generally.
“I should think the whole world would want to live here in winter,” I
said.
“The fact is,” replied Barfleur, “what are called the best people do
not come here so much nowadays.”
“Where do they go?” I asked.
“Oh, Switzerland is now the thing in winter--the Alps and all that
relates to them. The new rich have overdone this, and it is becoming a
little banal.”
“They cannot alter the wonder of the climate,” I replied.
We had a table put on the balcony at eleven and ate our morning fish
and rolls and salad there. I can see Sir Scorp cheerfully trifling with
the cat we found there, the morning sun and scenery having put him in a
gay mood, calling, “_Chat, chat, chat!_” and asking, “How do you talk
to a cat in French?” There was an open carriage which came for us at
one into which we threw our fur coats and blankets; and then climbed by
degrees mile after mile up an exquisite slope by the side of a valley
that gradually became a cañon; and at the bottom of which tinkled and
gurgled a mountain stream. This road led to more great trees at the
top of a range overlooking what I thought at first was a great valley
where a fog prevailed, but which a few steps further was revealed as
the wondrous sea--white sails, a distant pavilion protruding like a
fluted marble toy into the blue water, and here and there a pedestrian
far below. We made our way to a delightful inn some half way down and
back, where under soaring black pine trees we had tea at a little green
table--strawberry jam, new bread, and cakes. I shall never forget the
bitter assault I unthinkingly provoked by dipping my spoon into the
jelly jar. All the vials of social wrath were poured upon my troubled
head. “It serves him right,” insisted Barfleur, treacherously. “I saw
him do that once before. These people from the Middle West, what can
you expect?”
That night a grand row developed at dinner between Scorp and Barfleur
as to how long we were to remain in Agay and whether we were to stop
in or out of Monte Carlo. Barfleur’s plan was for remaining at least
three days here, and then going to a hotel not directly in Monte Carlo
but half way between Monte Carlo and Mentone--the Hôtel Bella Riva.
I knew that Barfleur had come here at the present time largely to
entertain me; and since I would rather have had his presence than the
atmosphere of the best hotel in Monte Carlo, it really did not matter
so much to me where we went, so long as it was comfortable. Scorp was
greatly incensed, or pretended to be, to think I should be brought here
to witness the wonders of this festive world, and then be pocketed in
some side spot where half the delicious life would escape me. “Agay!”
he kept commenting, “Agay! We come all the way to the south of France
to stop at Agay! Candles to light us to bed and French peasants for
servants. And then we’ll go to Monte Carlo and stop at some third-rate
hotel! Well, you can go to the Bella Riva if you choose; I am going to
the Palace Hotel where I can see something, and have a decent bed. I
am not going to be packed off any ten miles out of Monte Carlo, and be
compelled to use a street car that stops at twelve o’clock and spend
thirty francs getting home in a carriage!”
This kept up until bedtime with Barfleur offering solemn explanations
of why he had come here, why it would be advisable for us to refresh
ourselves at the fountain of simple scenery after the fogs of London
and the theatric flare of Paris. He had a fine argument for the Bella
Riva as a dwelling-site: it was just half way between Monte Carlo and
Mentone, it commanded all the bay on which Monte Carlo stood. Cap
Martin, with the hotel of that name, here threw its sharp rocky point
far out into the sea. A car-line passed the door. In a half-hour either
way we could be in either Mentone or Monte Carlo.
“Who wants to be in Mentone?” demanded Sir Scorp. “I would rather be
an hour away from it instead of half an hour. If I came to see Monte
Carlo I would not be bothering about Mentone. I, for one, will not go.”
It was not long before I learned that Scorp did much protesting but
equally much following. The patient silence of Barfleur coupled with
direct action at the decisive moment usually won. Scorp’s arguments
did result in one thing. The next morning, instead of idling in the
sun and taking a carriage ride over the adjacent range, we gathered
all our belongings and deposited them at the near-by station, while
Barfleur and I climbed to the top of an adjacent hill where was an old
water-pool, to have a last look at the lovely, high-colored, florescent
bay of Agay. Then the long train, with drawing-room cars from all parts
of Europe rolled in; and we were off again.
Barfleur called my attention as we went along to the first of the
umbrella trees--of which I was to see so many later in Italy--coming
into view in the occasional sheltered valleys which we were passing,
and later those marvels of southern France and all Italy, the hill
cities, towering like great cathedrals high in the air. I shall never
forget the impression the first sight of one of these made on me.
In America we have nothing save the illusion of clouds over distant
landscapes to compare with it. I was astonished, transported--the
reality was so much more wonderful than the drawings of which I had
seen so many. Outside the car windows the sweeping fronds of the palms
seemed almost to brush the train, hanging over white enclosures of
stone. Green shutters and green lattices; red roofs and bright blue
jardinières; the half-Italianized Frenchman with his swarthy face and
burning eyes. Presently the train stopped at Cannes. I struck out to
walk in the pretty garden which I saw was connected with the depot,
Barfleur to send a telegram, Scorp to show how fussy and cantankerous
he could be. Here were long trains that had come from St. Petersburg
via Vilna and Vienna; and others from Munich, Berlin and Copenhagen
with diners labeled “_Speisewagen_” and sleepers “_Schlafwagen_.” Those
from Paris, Calais, Brussels, Cherbourg bore the imposing legend,
“_Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits et des Grands Express
Européens_.” There was a long black train rumbling in from the south
with cars marked Tripoli, Roma, Firenze and Milano. You had a sense,
from merely looking at the stations, that the idleness and the luxury
of all the world was pouring in here at will.
In ten minutes we were off again--Barfleur expatiating solemnly on the
fact that in England a homely girl was left to her own devices with no
one to make anything of her, she being plain and that being the end of
it; while here in France something was done with the poorest specimens.
“Now those two young ladies,” he said, waving his hand dramatically in
the direction of two departing travelers,--“they are not much--but look
at them. See how smartly they are gotten up. Somebody will marry them.
They have been encouraged to buck up,--to believe that there is always
hope.” And he adjusted his monocle cheerfully.
Our train was pulling into the station at Monte Carlo. I had the usual
vague idea of a much-talked-of but never-seen place.
“I can hear the boys calling ‘Ascenseur,’” exclaimed Barfleur to Scorp
prophetically, when we were still a little way out. He was as keen for
the adventure as a child--much more so than I was. I could see how
he set store by the pleasure-providing details of the life here; and
Scorp, for all his lofty superiority, was equally keen. They indicated
to me the great masses of baggage which occupied the platforms--all
bright and new and mostly of good leather. I was interested to see
the crowds of people--for there was a train departing in another
direction--and to hear the cries of “Ascenseur” as predicted--the
elevators lifting to the terrace in front of the Casino, where the
tracks enter along a shelf of a declivity considerably above the
level of the sea. It is a tight little place--all that I had expected
in point of showiness--gay rococo houses, white and cream, with red
roofs climbing up the sides of the bare brown hill which rises to La
Turbie above. We did not stop, but went on to Mentone where we were
to lunch. It was charming to see striped awnings--pink and white and
blue and green--gay sunshades of various colors and ladies in fresh
linens and silks and men in white flannels and an atmosphere of outing
generally. I think a sort of summer madness seizes on people under
such circumstances and dull care is thrown to the winds, and you plan
gay adventures and dream dreams and take yourself to be a singularly
important person. And to think that this atmosphere should always be
here, and that it can always be reached out of the snows of Russia and
the bitter storms of New York and the dreary gray fogs of London, and
the biting winds of Berlin and Paris!
We lunched at the Admiralty--one of those _restaurants celebrés_ where
the _haute cuisine_ of France was to be found in its perfection, where
balconies of flowers commanded the _côte d’azure_.