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 Mediterranean1 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 flare2 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 realized256 before, although I must have known, that these same vineyards were composed of separate vines, set in rows like corn stalks and standing3 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 perfectly4 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 illustrate5 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 badinage6 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 vindictively7 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 animated8 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.
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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 fronds9 into the warm air. There was much chatter10 in French while the cabby struggled to get all our numerous bags into one vehicle; but when it was all accomplished11 and the top lowered so that we could see the night, we set forth12 along a long white road between houses which had anything but a French aspect, being a showy development of things Spanish and Moorish13, and past bright whitewashed14 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 ripples15 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 clattered16 up finally to the Grand Hôtel d’Agay; and although it possessed17 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 primitive18 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 caress19. Under the white moon you could see the main outlines of the coast and258 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 indigo20 blue; and a fisherman putting forth to sea hoisted21 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 ornamenting22 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 pebbles23 into the water. Flowers were in bloom here—blue and yellow blossoms—and when Barfleur came down we took a delightful24 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—the259 Alps and all that relates to them. The new rich have overdone25 this, and it is becoming a little banal26.”
“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 trifling27 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 exquisite28 slope by the side of a valley that gradually became a cañon; and at the bottom of which tinkled29 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 wondrous30 sea—white sails, a distant pavilion protruding31 like a fluted32 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 wrath33 were poured upon my troubled head. “It serves him right,” insisted Barfleur, treacherously34. “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 three260 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 incensed35, or pretended to be, to think I should be brought here to witness the wonders of this festive36 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.261 “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 belongings37 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 marvels38 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 sweeping39 fronds of the palms seemed almost to brush the train, hanging over white enclosures of stone. Green shutters40 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 depot41, Barfleur262 to send a telegram, Scorp to show how fussy42 and cantankerous43 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 sleepers44 “Schlafwagen.” Those from Paris, Calais, Brussels, Cherbourg bore the imposing45 legend, “Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits et des Grands Express Européens.” There was a long black train rumbling46 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 expatiating47 solemnly on the fact that in England a homely48 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 specimens49.
“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 buck50 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, was263 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 declivity51 considerably52 above the level of the sea. It is a tight little place—all that I had expected in point of showiness—gay rococo53 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 linens54 and silks and men in white flannels55 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 dreary56 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 cuisine57 of France was to be found in its perfection, where balconies of flowers commanded the côte d’azure.
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1
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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4
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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5
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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6
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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7
vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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8
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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9
fronds
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| n.蕨类或棕榈类植物的叶子( frond的名词复数 ) | |
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10
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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11
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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12
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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13
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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14
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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16
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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17
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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18
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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19
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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21
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
ornamenting
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| v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的现在分词 ) | |
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23
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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24
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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25
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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26
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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28
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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29
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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30
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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31
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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33
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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34
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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38
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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41
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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42
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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43
cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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44
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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45
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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46
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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47
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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48
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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49
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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50
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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51
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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52
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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53
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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54
linens
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| n.亚麻布( linen的名词复数 )；家庭日用织品 | |
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55
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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56
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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cuisine
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| n.烹调，烹饪法 | |
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