Riviera Towns   By: Herbert Adams Gibbons (1880-1934)

by

HERBERT ADAMS GIBBONS

Illustrations by Lester George Hornby

New York Robert M. McBride & Company 1931

Copyright, 1920, by Robert M. McBride & Co.

Copyright, 1917, 1918, 1920, by Harper & Brothers

To

Helen and Margaret

Who Indulge

The Author and the Artist

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

We wish to thank the editors of Harper's Magazine for allowing the republication of articles and illustrations.

H. A. G.

L. G. H.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. GRASSE II. CAGNES III. SAINT PAUL DU VAR IV. VILLENEUVE LOUBET V. VENCE VI. MENTON VII. MONTE CARLO VIII. VILLEFRANCHE IX. NICE X. ANTIBES XI. CANNES XII. MOUGINS XIII. FRÉJUS XIV. SAINT RAPHÄEL XV. THÉOULE

ILLUSTRATIONS

"A grandfather omnibus, which dated from the Second Empire."

"The hill of Cagnes we could rave about."

"The houses in the courts were stables downstairs."

The river was swirling around willows and poplars.

"Down the broad road of red shale past meadows thick with violets."

Medieval streets and buildings have almost disappeared.

"The Old Town takes you far from the psychology of cosmopolitanism and the philosophy of hedonism."

"La Napoule, above whose tower on the sea rose a hill crowned with the ruins of a chapel. Behind were the Maritime Alps."

RIVIERA TOWNS

CHAPTER I

GRASSE

For several months I had been seeing Grasse every day. The atmosphere of the Midi is so clear that a city fifteen miles away seems right at hand. You can almost count the windows in the houses. Against the rising background of buildings every tower stands out, and you distinguish one roof from another. From my study window at Théoule, Grasse was as constant a temptation as the two islands in the Bay of Cannes. But the things at hand are the things that one is least liable to do. They are reserved for "some day" because they can be done "any day." Since first coming to Théoule, I had been a week's journey south of Cairo into the Sudan, and to Verdun in an opposite corner of France. Menton and St. Raphaël, the ends of the Riviera, had been visited. Grasse, two hours away, remained unexplored.

I owe to the Artist the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Grasse. One day a telegram from Bordeaux stated that he had just landed, and was taking the train for Théoule. The next evening he arrived. I gave him my study for a bedroom. The following morning he looked out of the window, and asked, "What is that town up there behind Cannes, the big one right under the mountains?"

"Grasse, the home of perfumes," I answered.

"I don't care what it's the home of," was his characteristic response. "Is it old and all right?" ("All right" to the Artist means "full of subjects.")

"I have never been there," I confessed.

The Artist was fresh from New York. "We'll go this morning," he announced.

From sea to mountains, the valley between the Corniche de l'Estérel and Nice produces every kind of vegetation known to the Mediterranean littoral. Memories of Spain, Algeria, Egypt, Palestine, Asia Minor, Greece and Italy are constantly before you. But there is a difference. The familiar trees and bushes and flowers of the Orient do not spring here from bare earth. Even where cultivated land, wrested from the mountain sides, is laboriously terraced, stones do not predominate. Earth and rock are hidden by a thick undergrowth of grass and creepers that defies the sun, and draws from the nearby mountain snow a perennial supply of water. Olive and plane, almond and walnut, orange and lemon, cedar and cork, palm and umbrella pine, grape vine and flower bush have not the monopoly of green. It is the Orient without the brown, the Occident with the sun.