MENTON
In architectural parlance the cornice is the horizontal molded
projection crowning a building, especially the uppermost member of the
entablature of an order, surmounting the frieze. The word is also used
in mountaineering to describe an overhanging mass of hardened snow at
the edge of a precipice. In the Maritime Alps it has a striking
figurative meaning. There are four _corniches_--the main roads along
the two sections of the Riviera, Menton to Nice and Théoule to
Saint-Raphaël, where the mountains come right down to the sea and
nature affords no natural routes. The Grande Corniche and the Petite
Corniche run from Nice to Menton, and the Moyenne Corniche from Nice to
Monte Carlo. The Corniche d'Or or Corniche de l'Estérel is the new
road from Théoule to Saint-Raphaël. The word is incorrectly used, for
the most part, concerning the two coast roads, the Petite Corniche and
the Corniche l'Estérel. For although these beautiful roads do at many
points stand high above the sea, they descend as often as possible to
connect with the coast towns. But the analogy with the architectural
term is perfect in so far as the Grande Corniche and the Moyenne
Corniche are concerned. At every point these wonderful roads,
undisturbed by tramways and unbroken by towns (except La Turbie on the
Grande Corniche and Éze on the Moyenne Corniche), you feel that you are
traveling along a horizontal molded projection above temples built with
hands and the activities of humankind.
From Nice to the Italian frontier the railway, darting in and out of
tunnels, keeps near sea level. A small branch climbs from Monte Carlo
to La Turbie. The tramway from Nice to Menton follows the Petite
Corniche, with a branch to Saint-Jean on Cap Ferrat.
For tourists, Nice is the center of the Riviera, the place to come back
to every night after day excursions. Everything is so near that this
is possible. Nice is the terminus of railways and tramways east and
west. It is the home of the ubiquitous Cook. You can buy all sorts of
excursion tickets, and by watching the bulletin posted in front of the
Cook office on the Promenade des Anglais, it is possible to "cover" the
Riviera in a fortnight. But this means a constant rush, perched on a
high seat, crowded in with twenty others, on a _char à banes_, and only
a kaleidoscopic vision of Mediterranean blue, hillside and valley green
and brown, roof-top red, wall gray and mountain white. At the end of
your orgy, instead of distinct pictures, you carry away an impression
of the Riviera in which the Place Masséna is a concrete image and the
rest no more than dancing bits of colored glass. Saint-Raphaël and
Menton are the luncheon breaks of two days, and the Grande Corniche is
a beautiful vague mountain road over which you whizzed.
And yet there are those who go to the Riviera every year for a daily
ride over the Grande Corniche, and who dream during ten months of two
months at Menton!
Sitting with our legs daggling over the stone coping at the entrance of
the port in Nice, the Artist and I figured out--on the basis of just
time for a glimpse and a few sketches--how long it would take us to
wander through the Riviera. Reserving March and April each year, we
discovered that the allotted three score and ten, seeing that we had
already come to half the span, would be inadequate. And there were
other parts of the world! So we decided to see what we could, eschew
the "day excursions," draw on the memories of former years, and let it
go at that. Grande Corniche and Moyenne Corniche would be explored
afoot on sunny days and gray; shelter would be sought at Menton; and on
the return to Nice, Monte Carlo and Villefranche would be the only
tramway stops for us.
To Ventimiglia, as if he foresaw what part of the Riviera would
eventually fall to France, Napoleon I was the builder of La Grande
Corniche. His engineers, planning for horse-drawn vehicles in an age
when time was not money, made the ascent easy by striking inland for
several kilometers up from the valley of the Paillon and circling Mont
Gros and Mont Vinaigrier. For the first two miles you have Nice and
Cimiez below you. Then the road turns, passes the observatory of
Bischoffsheim (who won posthumous fame by his having built the house
where Wilson lost the battle of Paris in 1919), and goes over the Col
des Quatre Chemins. Here begins the matchless succession of views of
the loveliest portion of the Riviera coast. Below you is the harbor of
Villefranche, between Montboron, which hides Nice, and Cap Ferrat
jutting far into the sea with Cap de l'Hospice breaking out to the
left. The sea is always on your right as you continue to climb.
Ancient Éze is on a lower hill midway between you and the
Mediterranean. If you have made an early start from Nice, La Turbie
will come most conveniently in sight a little before noon.
The only town of the Grande Corniche high up from the sea is on the
line given in ancient maps as the frontier between Gaul and Italy, and
it is evident that the Roman road followed here the route chosen by
Napoleon. For here the Senate raised the _trophaeum Augusti_ to
commemorate the subjugation of the Gauls and the new era of
tranquillity from invasion for the Empire. On its site one of the most
interesting medieval towers in southern France was the ruin par
excellence of the Riviera until a few years ago. It is now "restored"
so well that it leaves nothing to the imagination--a crime quite in
keeping with the spirit of the new age of the "movies." Its architect
wanted you to see at a glance just what it used to be. You feel that
he would have put arms on the Venus de Milo! As we stood there, a
guide came up and began to tell us the history of the tower. We moved
over to the terrace. From Montboron to Bordighera the Riviera lay
below us, a panorama which commanded silence. Up came the guide
fellow, and started to name each place.
"I am about to commit murder," I cried.
"I'll save you the bother by telling him to chase himself with this
franc," said the Artist, pulling out the coin. "If only the restorer
of the Tower of Augustus were around, he'd come in for a franc too."
La Turbie is not a town to hurry away from after lunch. Its old
gateways and leaning houses brought out the Artist's pencil. I tried
to explore the paths up the Tête du Chien. _Défense de pénétrer_--and
then selections from the Code about how spies are treated. The same
fate met me on the Mont de la Bataille. France may love Italy just
now--but she is taking no chances! As far as I could judge, every high
slope was fortified. I had tea at one of the hotels perched above the
town, counted my money, and suggested to the Artist that we slip down
to Monte Carlo for the night.
The next morning we took the little railway back to La Turbie and
continued our walk. From La Turbie the Grande Corniche makes a gradual
descent behind the principality of Monaco to Cabbé-Roquebrune, and
joins the Petite Corniche at Cap Martin. Three miles farther on the
Promenade du Midi leads into Menton. This is the most beautiful
stretch of the Grande Corniche; and it is paralleled by no other road,
as the new Moyenne Corniche ends at Monte Carlo. The view is before
you as you go down. The vegetation becomes more tropical. You are
nearer the sea, and the feeling of _dolce far niente_ gets into your
bones as you approach Cap Martin.
Mont Agel's limestone side gives you back the heat of the sun. It is a
radiator. No wonder lemons flower all the year round, and you discover
on the same tree buds, flowers, green and yellow fruit. No wonder the
palms are not out of their setting as at Cannes and Nice. Locusts,
flourishing where there is seemingly no ground to take root in, live
from the air, and give forth pods that almost hide the leaves in their
profusion. The undergrowth of myrtle and dwarf ilex above becomes
aloes and sarsaparilla and wild asparagus as we go down to the sea. We
have left the cypresses and cork-trees, and eucalyptus struggles in our
nostrils with orange and lemon. Even the ferns are scented! The
Artist looks with apathetic eye on the rocks and ruined castle of
Roquebrune. When we reach Menton we are willing to sink into
cane-seated rockers on the Hôtel Bristol porch, call for something in a
tall glass with ice in it, and let the morning walk count for a day's
journey.
The tourists who know Menton only as a mid-day luncheon break have
robbed themselves of an experience that no other Riviera town offers.
The Promenade des Anglais at Nice is interesting in the sense that the
Avenue des Champs-Elysées is interesting. The Mediterranean is
accidental--an unimportant accessory. The Promenade du Midi at Menton
is another world. And this other world, with its other world climate,
reveals itself to you with increasingly keen delight, as you ride (you
do not walk at Menton) around Cap Martin, up the mountain to old
Sainte-Agnès, in the gorge of Saint-Louis, along the Boulevard du
Garavan, and out to the Giardino Hanbury. You say _giardino_ instead
of _jardin_ because Mortola is just across the Italian frontier. The
eccentric Englishman chose this spot, without regard to political
sovereignty present or future, as the best place to demonstrate the
catholicity of the Riviera climate to tropical flora. I simply mention
these drives; for you do not ride at Menton any more than you walk.
The man who wants to keep his energy and work on the Riviera must not
go farther east than Nice.
But why another world? And another world even from that of the rest of
the French Riviera? It is partly the climate and the consequent flora,
but mostly the light. The general aridity of the Riviera, with the
prevalence of everbrowns and evergreens, strikes unpleasantly at first
the visitor from the North. Sunshine and riotous colors of flowers and
blossoming trees do not make up for the absence of water-fed green.
When it rains, the Northerner's depression cannot be fought off. The
chill gets to his soul as well as to his bones. He prays for the sun
he has come south to seek. But when the sun returns, the dust annoys
him. The high wind gets on his nerves.
The casual tourist, whose stay is brief, even if he has come in the
most favorable season, is "not so sure about the Riviera, you know."
He is impatient with himself because, after the first vivid impression,
panoramas and landscapes leave him unsatisfied. There is no
compensation for the absence of water-fed green in the canvas of nature
_until one becomes responsive to other colors_. I do not mean
particular patches of color in flowers and blossoms. These are of a
season. Often they pass in a week. The sun that gives rich life kills
quickly. The glory of south lands, especially along the sea, is the
constant changing of colors. These colors you will drink in only when
by familiarity you have become sensitive to lights and shadows.
If you stay long enough at a place like Menton you will be ready for
Southern Italy and Greece. You will be able to drink in the beauty of
landscapes without foliage. And when you have acquired this sense,
your own country will be a new world to you. Never again, as long as
you live, will you tire of any landscape.
The sun veils and unveils itself more often and more quickly and more
unexpectedly at Menton than at any place on the Riviera. And the
setting for watching the changes is perfect. Menton can say, in the
words of the old sundial,
"Son figlia del sole,
Eppure son ombre."