Chapter XIV Menton and the Frontier
Menton is more tranquil than Nice or Cannes, and, in many ways, more adorable; but it is a sort of hospital and is not conducive to gaiety to the extent that it would be were there an utter absence of Bath chairs, pharmacies, and shops devoted to the sale of nostrums and invalid foods. There is none of the feverish existence of the other cities of the Riviera here, and, in a way, this is a detraction, for it is not the unspoiled countryside, either, but bears all the marks of the advent of an indulgent civilization. One might think that one’s very existence in such a delightful spot might be a panacea for most of flesh’s ills, but apparently this is not so, at least the doctors will not allow their “patients” to think so.
Menton’s port is quite extensive and is well sheltered from the pounding waves which here roll up from the Ligurian sea, at times in truly tempestuous fashion. To the rear the Maritime Alps slope abruptly down to the sea, with scarce a warning before their plunge into the Mediterranean. All this confines Menton within a very small area, and there is little or no suburban background. In a way this is an advantage; it most certainly tends toward a mildness of the winter climate; but on the other hand there is lacking a sense of freedom and grandeur when one takes his walk abroad.
Just before reaching Menton is the garden-spot of Cap Martin, once a densely wooded “petite forêt,” but now threaded with broad avenues cut through the ranks of the great trees and producing a wonderland of scenic vistas, which, if they lack the virginity of the wild-wood as it once was, are truly delightful and fairylike in their disposition. Great hotels and villas have come, for the Emperor of Austria and the ex-Empress Eugénie were early smitten by the charms of the marvellously situated promontory, making of it a Mediterranean retreat at once exclusive and unique.
The panorama eastward and westward from this green cape is of a varied brilliancy unexcelled elsewhere along the Riviera. On one side is Monaco’s rock, Monte Carlo, and the enchanting banks of “Petite Afrique,” and on the other the white walls and red roofs of Menton.
Between Cap Martin and Menton the road skirts the very water’s edge, crossing the Val de Gorbio and entering the town via Carnoles, where the Princes of Monaco formerly had a palace. Modern Menton is like all the rest of the modern Riviera; its streets bordered with luxurious dwellings and hotels, up-to-date shop-fronts, and all the appointments of the age. At the entrance to the city is a monument commemorative of the voluntary union of Menton and Roquebrune with France.
Menton is a strange mixture of the old and the new. There are no indications of a Roman occupation here, though some geographers have traced its origin back through the night of time to the ancient Lumone. More likely it was founded by piratical hordes from the African coast, who, it is known, established a settlement here in the eighth century. Furthermore, the “Maritime Itinerary” of the conquering Romans makes no mention of any landing or harbour between Vintimille and Monaco, thus ignoring Menton entirely, even if they ever knew of it.
The town is superbly situated in the form of an amphitheatre between two tiny bays, and the country around is well watered by the torrents which flow down from the highland background.
After having been a pirate stronghold, the town became a part of the Comté of Vintimille, after the expulsion of the Saracens, and later had for its seigneurs a Genoese family by the name of Vento. In the fourteenth century it fell to the Grimaldi, and to this day its aspect, except for the rather banal hotel and villa architecture, has remained more Italian in motive than French.
Menton is not wholly an idling community like Monte Carlo and Monaco. It has a very considerable commerce in lemons, four millions annually of the fruit being sent out of the country. The industry has given rise to a species of labour by women which is a striking characteristic in these parts. Like the women who unload the Palermo and Seville orange boats at Marseilles, the “porteïris” of Menton are most picturesque. They carry their burdens always on the head, and one marvels at the skill with which they carry their loads in most awkward places. The work is hard, of course, but it does not seem to have developed any weaknesses or maladies unknown to other peasant or labouring folk, hence there seems no reason why it should not continue. Certainly the Mentonnaises have a certain grace of carriage and suppleness in their walk which the dames of fashion might well imitate.
The fishing quarter of Menton is one of the most picturesque on the whole Riviera, with its rues-escaliers, its vaulted houses, and the walls and escarpments of the old military fortification coming to light here and there. It is nothing like Martigues, in the Bouches-du-Rhône, really the most picturesque fishing-port in the world, nor is it a whit more interesting than the old Catalan quarter of Marseilles; but it is far more varied, with the life of those who conduct the petty affairs of the sea, than any other of the Mediterranean resorts.
Menton is something like Hyères, a place of villas quite as much as of hotels, though the latter are of that splendid order of things that spell modern comfort, but which are really most undesirable to live in for more than a few days at a time.
Not every one goes to the Riviera to live in a villa, but those who do cannot do better than to hunt one out at Menton. Menton is almost on the frontier of Italy and France, and that has an element of novelty in every-day happenings which would amuse an exceedingly dull person, and, if that were not enough, there is Monte Carlo itself, less than a dozen kilometres away.
When one thinks of it, a villa set on some rocky shelf on a wooded hillside overlooking the Mediterranean, with an orange-garden at the back,—as they all seem to have here at Menton,—is not so bad, and offers many advantages over hotel life, particularly as the cost need be no more. You may hire a villa for anything above a thousand francs a season, and it will be completely furnished. You will get, perhaps, five rooms and a cellar, which you fill with wood and wine to while away the long winter evenings, for they can be chill and drear, even here, from December to March.
Before you is a panorama extending from Cap Martin to Mortala-Bordighera, another palm-set haven on the Italian Riviera, which once was bare of the conventions of fashion, but which has now become as fashionable as Nice.
You can hire a servant to preside over the pots and pans for the absurdly small sum of fifty francs a month, and she will cook, and shop, and fetch and carry all day long, and will keep other robbers from molesting you, if you will only wink at her making a little commission on her marketing.
She will work cheerfully and never grumble if you entertain a flock of unexpected tourist friends who have “just dropped in from the Italian Lakes, Switzerland, or Cairo,” and will dress neatly and picturesquely, and cook fish and chickens in a heavenly fashion.
To the eastward, toward Italy, the post-road of other days passes through the sumptuous faubourg of Garavan and continues to Pont Saint Louis, over the ravine of the same name. Here is the frontier station (by road) where one leaves gendarmes behind and has his first encounter with the carabiniers of Italy.
Anciently, as history tells, the two neighbouring peoples were one, and even now, in spite of the change in the course of events, there is none of that enmity between the French and Italian frontier guardians that is to be seen on the great highroad from Paris to Metz, via Mars la Tour, where the automobilist, if he is a Frenchman, is lucky if he gets through at all without a most elaborate passport.
The traveller from the north, by the Rhône valley, has come, almost imperceptibly, into the midst of a Ligurian population, very different indeed from the inhabitants of the great watershed.
At Pont Saint Louis one first salutes Italy, coming down through France, having left Paris by the “Route de Lyon,” and thence by the “Route d’Antibes,” and finally into the prolongation known as the “Route d’Italie.” It is a long trip, but not a hard one, and for variety and excellence its like is not to be found in any other land.
The roads of France, like many another legacy left by the Romans, are one of the nation’s proudest possessions, and their general well-kept appearance, and the excellence of their grading makes them appeal to automobilists above all others. There may be excellent short stretches elsewhere, but there are none so perfect, nor so long, nor so charming as the modern successor of the old Roman roadway into Gaul.
The Pont Saint Louis was built in 1806, and crosses at a great height the river lying at the bottom of the ravine. Once absolutely uncontrollable, this little stream has been diked, and now waters and fertilizes many neighbouring gardens.
By a considerable effort one may gain the height above, known as the “Rochers Rouges,” and see before him not only the sharp-cut rocky coast of the French Riviera, but far away into Italy as well.
All this brings up the Frenchman’s dream of the time when France, Italy, and Spain shall become one, so far as the control of the Mediterranean lake is concerned, and shall thus prevent Europe from returning to the barbarianism to which the “égoïsme britannique et l’avidité allemande” is fast leading it.
Whether this change will ever come about is as questionable as the preciseness of the accusation, but there is certainly some reason for the suggestion. Another decade may change the map of Europe considerably. Who knows?
The End