THE EASTERN ENVIRONS OF MENTONE.
WHEN the Revolution came, France took possession of Mentone, and the brother
of the terrible Robespierre was sent thither "to represent the people, and
to guillotine the aristocrats." But fortunately the frontier was not far
off, and all the doomed persons fled across it before M. Robespierre could
arrive, so that when he came and took up his quarters in the Maison d'Adhemar,
he found very little to do. Meanwhile the little colony of royalists established
themselves at La Cuze, near the Pont St. Louis, just beyond the frontier, where
they lived very comfortably, safe within the republic of Genoa, but still in
sight of their own homes. People yet living at Mentone, hand down from the
recital of their parents, curious details of the lives of these exiles, who were
obliged to live in the most limited space in the maisonettes of the orange
gardens, though in the evening all the society met together to play at cards in
the principal villa. Among the royalists, was one old man, who had no family,
but only a faithful dog, with which he lived quite alone in a little cottage,
which still stands above an archway, near the wall overhanging the path by the
sea shore to the Rochers Rouges. One night he had been playing at cards as
usual, and returned home late with his faithful companion. But soon after the
dog returned to the villa, and going to each of the company in turn, by its
signs of distress endeavoured to attract their attention. They all decided that
something must have happened to its master Monsieur le Bour, as the solitary old
man was called, and on going to his cottage to look after him, they found that
he had fallen down on the floor in an apoplectic fit, of which he soon
afterwards died. The dog refused to leave his body, and even after he was
buried, remained by the grave of its master, from which nothing could entice it
away; and there, refusing all food, it eventually expired. Afterwards as the
French territory extended further along the Riviera, the emigrants were forced
to fly to Ventimiglia and finally to Taggia.
At this time the only road through Mentone was that which passed through the
Rue Longue, and along the terrace above which the English chaplain's house and
Maison Trenca, &c. are now situated. This road continued the whole way from
Nice to Genoa, passing sometimes along the sea shore, sometimes high up in the
mountains, in both of which situations, traces of it are still to be met with.
Madame de Genlis says of it, "En sortant de Nice cette route est
parfaitement bien nommée la Corniche; c'est en effet presque toujours une vraie
Corniche, en beaucoup d'endroits si etroite qu'une personne y peut à peine
passer. .... Depuis Monaco jusqu' à Menton l'on respire; le chemin est tres
beau. Cette derniere ville est agréable; elle est entree sur le bord de mer, et
l'on y trouve quantités des citronniers et d'oranges, dont l'air est embaumé."
Under the empire this was all changed. A military road from Nice to Genoa was
ordered by Napoleon shortly after his coronation in France, but it was only
constructed as far as Ventimiglia before his fall cut short its completion. The
road along the quay of Mentone was made at this time; but the most striking
memorial of the empire in these parts is the Pont St. Louis, one-mile-and-a-half
from Mentone, on the road to Genoa, crossing a frightful abyss between two
gigantic rocks, with a single arch of 22 metres span, at the height of 80
metres. The situation of this bridge is striking and romantic in the highest
degree, surrounded by tremendous precipices, while in the depth beneath, an old
aqueduct, winding along the surface of the rock, carries water from a cascade to
the orange gardens near it. The best view of this bridge is from below, where on
the terraces of the Villa Naylor, the heliotrope, hanging in masses from the
high walls, is in full flower even in December, and where the brilliant salvias,
plumbagos and roses with which the garden is filled, form a striking contrast to
the wild scenery beyond it.
This place, beautiful as it is, abounds in histories which are each more
dreadful than the other.
After the revolution of 1789, bands of peasants and deserters formed
themselves into companies in the wild districts of North Italy, and were known
as "Barbets." These people, goaded on by misery, were accustomed to
rob and murder travellers, and then to hide themselves in the mountains, amongst
the ravines and rocks, where none could find them. It is said that one of these
Barbets, a peasant by origin, but a deserter from a regiment, took refuge behind
the Pont St. Louis, in a cavern, reached only by a tiny path in the rock, and
that from thence he attacked and plundered those who passed by. There, he was
one evening awaiting a visit from his betrothed, a young girl of Fregonia or
Ciotti, his native village, who, ignorant that her lover was an assassin,
frequently escaped unobserved from home in order to see him in his hiding place,
and console him by her loving words. "Whilst he was lying hidden behind a
rock, the Barbet heard a footstep coming along the little path, and saw a man
approach carrying a small portmanteau. The temptation was too great, and
throwing himself upon the unfortunate traveller, he murdered him in an instant.
But another scream echoed the death cry of his victim; it was that of the young
girl, who arrived at the moment of the fatal act, and having thus witnessed the
guilt of her lover, threw herself in despair from the top of the little path and
fell into the gulf below the Pont St. Louis. Her body was never found; the
Barbet was afterwards taken, but his fate is unknown.
The villa was also the scene of a sad calamity only three years ago, when a
young English girl, who had gone out with her sister to see the sunset, fell
from the rocks and was killed on the spot. The distress of her family was
aggravated by the difficulties which the Mentone officials threw in the way of
the removal of the body to the house before the inquest, which was to take place
on the following day, and which were only overcome by the personal interest with
the syndic of a family who had long been resident in the town. Another tragedy
occurred in the same garden, when an English child in a fit of passion, shot the
gardener's little son dead upon the spot.
A rugged path under the cliff below the road leads round the Rochers Rouges
to a platform whence there is a splendid view of the town, and of the mountains,
embracing the distant coast of France, the Estrelles and Antibes, with Monaco,
Mont Agel, Turbia, Monts Garillon and Baudon, St. Agnese and the Berceau. The
rocks themselves are exceedingly fine both in form and colour; they are
overgrown with wild rue, rosemary, euphorbia and delicate painted mallows. In
their caverns a great number of the bones of the stag, goat, horse, wild boar,
wolf, wild cat and rabbit have been discovered, with an immense quantity of
shells of the still existing kinds of fishes. These, and the number of fragments
of rude weapons in flint also discovered here, lead to the supposition that
these caverns must once have been inhabited by the Troglodytes, described by
Strabo and Pliny. This theory is expatiated upon in a pamphlet called "Les
Instruments Silex et les Ossements trouvés dans les Cavernes de Menton,"
by M. Forel, 1860.
On a stormy day, the waves dash up grandly beneath the cliffs in foaming
showers of spray, and the water rushing under the rocks, and being forced
upwards by the air through their little fissures, produces the most graceful
natural fountains.
Beyond the red rocks is a platform containing a little walled-in Gethsemane
of olive trees, which quite cover the ground with their black berries. Hence a
path winds up the hill to join the Riviera road. The old Genoa road, a mere mule
track, still exists in parts nearer the shore, but in some places it has been
entirely carried away by torrents-and landslips. Theresine says, that when this
was the highway to Genoa, accidents never ceased to occur here, and she herself
recollects the time when a month never passed without a man or a mule being
precipitated into the chasm beyond the Rochers Rouges, and being dashed to
pieces. One of the persons who fell into this frightful abyss, escaped and is
alive still, and employed on the new road above. One day, Mr. Newton, the
artist, was going by this path to his work, with the porter of his hotel
carrying a large picture before him. Suddenly, with a loud scream, both man and
picture disappeared into one of the chasms. "Were you not terrified for the
fate of your picture?" he was asked. "No," he said, "I was
so certain that the man must be dashed to pieces, that it never occurred to me
to think of the picture at all." However, the man was not at all hurt, and
came up grinning, while the picture had a large hole knocked through the middle
of it.
Continuing this path with difficulty, on turning the corner of the
promontory, one reaches a quaint dilapidated building, with a solitary palm tree
and some old cypresses beside it, which still retains traces of rich ancient
colour around its windows and doorways, and which has an open loggia covered
with frescoes. This is the Palazzo Orenga, which formerly belonged to the noble
Genoese family of that name, by whom it was built, and who are now extinct. Its
present possessor, Signor Granducci, a wild-looking figure, with shaggy uncombed
locks, a red cap with a hood over it, and a long blue cloak which covered him
all over, received us with great kindness when we went there, showing us all
over the house and into the loggia, whose arches frame an exquisite view of
Bordighera. The fine old rooms were in the last stage of decay, the frescoed,
ceilings having in many places fallen in, and having been replaced by a rough
roof of timber, which was insufficient to keep out the wet. The poor old Signor
accompanied us when we went away, down the rocky slope, which was quite perfumed
by the wild lavender, now (January) in full bloom. He asked us many questions
about politics, for his isolation was evidently never broken by a newspaper.
Especially was he anxious to know whether there was likely to be a war in Italy
this year, because he said, "Si les Autrichiens arrivent, ils nous
enverront en Paradis." "Well," was the answer, "if they only
do that, it will not be much harm." "Mais Monsieur, je ne suis
pas trop pressé," muttered the old Signor.
Above the palazzo is the village of St. Mauro, which in French ought to be
rendered St. Maur, not St. Maurice, as it has been called since the annexation.
Beyond the brown ruined tower, which stands on the point above the Rochers
Rouges, a line of white houses is seen, among the olive-trees above the road. It
is worth while to climb up to them, for they form the village of Grimaldi, whose
broad sunny terrace is as thoroughly Italian a scene as any in the Riviera, for
it is crossed by a dark archway, and lined on one side with bright houses, upon
whose walls yellow gourds hang in the sun, with a little church, painted pink
and yellow, while on the other is overshadowed by old olive-trees, beneath which
is seen the broad expanse of sea, here deep blue, there gleaming silver white in
the hot sunshine. Children in bright handkerchiefs and aprons, are always
playing about in Grimaldi, and the constant burden of their song, "Tanta di
gioia, tanto di contento," while we were drawing there, gave a pleasant
idea of their condition. Beyond Grimaldi the path becomes steeper, and being
much exposed, is like a forcing-bed under the hot rays of the sun in the middle
of the day. But we were quite repaid for the fatigues of our walk when we
reached the top, as the scenery there is almost Alpine, in its bold rocky
foregrounds, beneath which yawns the deep black chasm of St. Louis, with a huge
cliff frowning above. The cries of the birds, too, and the shouts of the
goat-herds were quite like those of Switzerland. Half-way up the gorge an
aqueduct winds along the face of the rock, which is often used as a foot-path,
though it is none of the safest. The other day, as a lady was walking along here
to see the view, she suddenly became giddy from the unguarded height on which
she was resting; she caught at the nearest stone to support herself, when, to
her horror, it gave way, and, in an instant, she was deluged by a perfect
torrent of water, which rushed out above, behind, and around her; for the stone
she had seized for safety, had been the plug of the aqueduct.
Happily, the gentleman who was with her, had presence of mind to throw
himself on his face, and to hold her feet, to prevent her being carried away,
and thus they supported themselves till the first fury of the water had
subsided. A winding path now skirts the hill to Ciotti Inferiore, where a broken
stone arch frames a picturesque view of the Berceau. Above, on the scorched
rock, is Ciotti Superiore, a quaint cluster of houses, while the church, quite
separated from its village, stands further off on the highest ridge of the
mountain. From behind the rock, at the back of the church, the sea-view is truly
magnificent, embracing the coast, with its numerous bays, as far as the
Estrelles, which turn golden and pink in the sunset; the grand mountain
barriers, with all the orange-clad valleys running up into them; and St. Agnese
rising out of the blue mist, on its perpendicular cliff. Close at hand a huge
projecting rock breaks the whole view, and lights it up with its varied fringe
of golden green fir-trees. Ciotti is certainly one of the most striking places
near Mentone, and has a wild mountain character of its own that is quite
peculiar, yet, even in this high situation, the most lovely narcissus and pink
carnations were blooming in January, and a little "Carita" begging
girl, was enchanted to sell us a large bunch of them for one soldo, while we
were drawing.