A sea-side health resort without a promenade for loungers along the beach can expect to do little good. What would Brighton have been without its Parades? The Promenade des Anglais has in a sense been the making of Nice. At Mentone, the working out the idea of a promenade was not thought of till it was too late to do the thing rightly on the Nicean principle. The villas and houses lining the south side of the main street were set down in such a way as not to leave a sufficiently commodious space next the sea, the view from which consists to a great extent of irregular outs and ins, and backs of dwellings of various heights. The blunder is irrecoverable. All that has been latterly effected is a Promenade about forty feet wide, retained by a sloping sea-wall, extending from the older part of the town on the east to the Borigo on the west, and forming an unbroken line except at the Carei, which foot-passengers cross by a wooden bridge. Styled the Promenade du Midi, because it faces the south, it is on the whole a creditable effort. It has been strongly represented that ‘they’ should extend the Promenade to Cap Martin, which is quite practicable, and certainly desirable, but whether ‘they’—or, to speak more plainly, the municipality—have means or spirit to undertake so large a public work is somewhat doubtful. Such as it is, the Promenade is a boon to visitors who dwell in the West Bay. If the weather be fine, they are out, as has been said, to enjoy the air and sunshine, also to walk about and exchange courtesies with acquaintances, to see the fisher-people in their picturesque costumes drawing their nets ashore, or to lounge on the seats, and as far as possible think of nothing but the beauty of the sky, and to be lulled with the ceaseless murmur of the waves.
Walking or driving, visitors prefer the Promenade, so far as it goes, for a thoroughfare east and west. It is not very well kept, but it is better than the main street, which one soon gets acquainted with, as it is the only continuous passage for traffic. At a central part of the street, where there is a cross entrance to the Promenade du Midi, will often be seen a mixed throng of loungers of the ouvrier and vetturini type, through which passengers have to thread their way. This place is evidently the favourite lounge for town gossip, where there is frequently something to excite critical remark in connection with the octroi. At this spot is the receipt of custom for duties on animals coming into the town for slaughter, and which must go through the preliminary ceremony of being weighed. One after the other is urged to walk on to the flat top of a steelyard, level with the ground, and scarcely distinguishable from the street. What the poor animals cannot rightly comprehend is the reason for making them stand on a particular spot and no other. Oxen—great horned beasts of a light dun colour, which have been driven from distant pasturages—are tolerably docile, and require little management. They stand stupidly with their heads bowed down, till the man in the adjoining office records their weight. Pigs—a dark-skinned race like the Hampshire brocks, but with long legs, and nearly as nimble as greyhounds—are more difficult to deal with. Disposed constitutionally to take their own way, they can by no artifice be persuaded to go or stand quietly on the machine. They move, they wriggle, they bolt. Then begins the popular merriment. The onlookers shout with laughter on seeing the abortive manœuvres of the drivers to bring their charge to a proper sense of obedience. One of the obstreperous pigs at length darts off in a state of indignation down the street, with twenty gamins full cry after it—the groups of loungers all the time frenzied with delight, and one of the sergents de ville, a merry personage who seems to spend his days in chatting and smoking, evidently relishes the contre-temps with all his accustomed humour.
It may not be thoroughly comme il faut for a visitor to notice such popular diversions, but then what is he to do? Getting some amusement from the harangue of a loquacious street charlatan, from the capers of a long-legged pig scornfully refusing to be weighed, or from the playing of a monkey on a miniature sham fiddle, seated on the hump of a peripatetic dromedary—is it not better than having no amusement at all? Mentone is a dull—a very dull—place. That is its reputation, and I am not going to deny or qualify the fact. The town has not yet got so far ahead as to have a regularly constituted system of public entertainments, such as one has the opportunity to fall back upon for recreation in Nice, Paris, or London. Nor does private society offer an equivalent which can with safety be embraced by professed invalids or the health-seeking sexagenarian. There are few natives with whom visitors are likely to make an acquaintanceship. Dinner-giving is not the custom of the place, and if it were, it would perhaps be so much the worse. We are to keep in mind that it is not very advisable to go out after sunset, which, in the depth of winter at Mentone, is about half-past four o’clock. If visitors can make up an agreeable society among themselves in the house in which they reside, they may be congratulated. The chances are against their being able to do so, in consequence of a difference in languages and tastes, as well as from the peculiarities of hotel usages already referred to. Unless visitors be specially fortunate, they will have to rely on themselves. The evenings will probably be dull. You may occupy a neatly-furnished room, provided with a wood fire, and a lamp on the table—a pair of candles being useless for reading—and that is what has to be looked forward to. No callers. The surging of the Mediterranean is heard outside. The moon and a sparkling planet shine on the waters. It is a beauteous scene, but you are alone in a strange land. Is it surprising that the heart should yearn for home, and for the friends whose companionship and sympathy count for so much in reckoning up the sum of earthly happiness?
Isolation, less or more—a monotony in daily routine—what the world calls dulness—will have to be submitted to for the recurring hours of brilliant sunshine, and the possibility of reinvigorating a frame wasted by functional or organic derangement, or by a too assiduous pursuit of professional, or it may be needlessly self-imposed duties. What sacrifices, it has been asked, will not one make for the possibility of improved health? Curiously enough, many will make no sacrifices whatever. This I discovered during my last visit, and it is proper to speak plainly out on the subject. Numbers of people go abroad professedly for the benefit of their health. They have been advised to winter in the south of France or Italy, and no doubt they have been cautioned as to a mode of living suitable for effecting their cure. If quitting home be a sacrifice, that they make, but it would be hard to say what other privation they endure. They have probably never been accustomed to restrain their inclinations, and have lived in a perpetual holiday humour. Possibly, they are under the strange hallucination that mere climate is to do everything—that no care on their own part is necessary. Such is the most charitable view that can be taken of conduct that could be more frequently explained by a deficiency in self-control, and a heedless recklessness of consequences. They like gaiety, and will have it at all hazards. The pleasures of dressing, dancing, and evening amusements are what they alone greatly care for. Ladies bringing enormous boxfuls of fashionable attire, wish to shew it off somehow. Favoured with good looks, liveliness of manners, and a fair stock of jewellery, it may be possible to become that most envied of women, ‘the belle of the ball.’ Young gentlemen, however (and some not young), have also their aptitudes for amusements, which involve a necessity for going out in the evening.
Parties of twos and threes of this indiscreet order of invalids come to Mentone. Fun must be had, though the forfeiture of health, and even of existence, should be the penalty. Here arise some strange reflections as to wintering in Mentone. Several English medical practitioners reside in the town during the winter, among whom Dr J. Henry Bennet acts as consulting physician. It is customary for invalids on arrival to ask advice regarding their respective complaints from one or other of these professional gentlemen; but frequently the advice is not strictly followed, and fatal consequences ensue. The sunshine and azure skies tempt to take unjustifiable liberties. The more staid order of visitors of course remain in their hotels in the evening, there finding such slender means of amusement as these houses afford. Others, indifferent to what may ensue, and unable to resist temptations, accept invitations to dancing-parties, although perhaps aware that one of their lungs is already gone, and that the other is in process of decay. They have come to Mentone to have that one lung healed, and with care the object might be accomplished; but how is it possible to resist going to that delightful party! As well, they say, go into an infirmary at once! These perverse indiscretions cause the death of several visitors every year. Such conduct gives fair-play neither to the climate nor to the physician who is consulted. I was told of a young gentleman of fortune with lungs very much gone, who, two years ago, contrary to advice, attended a dancing-party. The result was very abrupt. He dropped down in the room, was carried out, and died in the passage. In that ‘Dance of Death’ he had finished the last atom of lung—gaily ended his days in the revelry of a waltz. Last season, a young lady, considered to be the reigning beauty, was pointed out as having only one lung, which it was alleged she was doing all in her power to get rid of. What is the use of invalids of this stamp coming to Mentone, unless it be for the pleasure of finishing their career abroad? Dr Bennet, with whom I had some conversation on the subject of climate and hygiene, spoke despondingly of these errors, and mentioned a number of cases which proved fatal, but might have been effectually cured had his professional advice been followed. But the same thing, I suppose, could be said by all medical men whatsoever. ‘I will die, and nobody shall save me.’
As a contrast to these instances of thoughtlessness, we have opportunities of recognising cases in which the utmost care is taken to derive the fullest possible benefit from the climate. The anxiety shewn by relatives for the recovery of some young person under their charge is matter for daily and interesting remark. It may be the case of a boy affected with phthisis in its early stage—the hope of a family in a decline. With what solicitude is the pallid youth wheeled out to the Promenade; there, under the shelter of a white parasol, to breathe the fine air wafted from the Mediterranean. How, on any symptom of a cold wind, is his Bath-chair drawn aside to a protecting wall! What means are taken to amuse him by conversation, and observations on natural phenomena! How, at the proper hour, the attendant wheels him home, and remarks made as to the circumstances which amused the passing hours! In one case of this kind, we took especial interest. It was that of a French gentleman who day after day brought out his partially paralysed child to enjoy, and, if possible, benefit by, the animating sunshine. Towards the end of the season there was a visible improvement in the languid countenance; and at our departure we ventured to hope that parental care had not been unblessed or unavailing.
If the irregularities to which I have adverted admit of any excuse, it will be in the deficiency of rational and available amusement. At Nice, there is a military band which plays almost daily in the Jardin Public, much to the gratification of the visitors. There is nothing of this kind at Mentone, neither, as may be gathered from previous remarks, does there exist any means of genial or social intercourse on a scale worth speaking of. The English-speaking population are scattered about among the hotels and villas, and are generally unknown to each other; while the obligation of not venturing over the door after dark, if one has any regard to health, is in itself an insuperable difficulty. In these circumstances, it would greatly contribute to the pleasure of a winter sojourn at Mentone were a few mutual friends, with similarity of tastes, to sojourn at the same establishment. It is pleasant to note that croquet parties are getting into vogue among the younger class of visitors. The turf—if there be turf at all—is not what English players are accustomed to; but if the weather be good, the deficiency is not of serious import. The introduction of croquet is something, at anyrate, set agoing in the way of wholesome recreation and companionship. More may follow.
It is fortunate for invalids that there is good medical attendance at Mentone, in consequence of English practitioners residing at least for the season in the place. The fees expected are said to be higher than what most persons are in the habit of paying at home. On this point, I am unable to offer any personal experience. I believe napoleon fees are common, but more is given for special consultations. I cannot say whether things are conducted on the rigorous business principle which a lady a few years ago experienced at Nice. A medical practitioner to whom she gave a sovereign for a piece of advice, said he would call again next day, which he did, and before leaving said ‘it was proper she should understand that for every visit he expected a fee of a napoleon.’ The money was paid. If this was a trifle too exigeant, we may perhaps be reminded that the English practitioners have but a limited field of operation, and further, that they must have been put to the inconvenience of procuring a diploma from the University of France. Both at Nice and Mentone there are druggists who dispense medicines according to the authorised British pharmacopœia, at whose establishments English assistants are employed. All sorts of patent medicines with which we are familiar are seen on their counters, but high in price, on account (as is alleged) of custom-house and octroi duties.
Mentone is pretty nearly destitute of means of intellectual recreation. What can be furnished in the way of books is not much. Therein lay my chief privation. There was nothing within doors to fall back upon to relieve the tedium caused by the absence of accustomed resources; and doubtless this species of desolation will press heavily on the more thoughtful class of visitors. At the Hôtel de Ville, there is a Bibliothèque Publique, consisting of a roomful of books in French and Italian literature, including some old encyclopædias and historical works, which may be consulted daily by persons studiously disposed. Strangers have little recourse to this collection of books, for besides that they are not the kind of works ordinarily wanted, they are not given out. Let us, however, give credit to the municipality for maintaining an establishment so meritorious. Not many towns in Great Britain, of only 6000 inhabitants, keep up a free consulting library for public use.
For reading, visitors chiefly depend on a circulating library kept by Papy, a bookseller in a central situation in the main street. The library consists of a collection of English books, mostly of a light kind, not particularly new, and of works in other languages; though limited in point of choice, the library is gladly hailed by visitors as something better than no library at all. Papy also offers the attractions of a reading-room, in which will be found copies of the Times, Standard, Illustrated London News, Punch, and Galignani, and several French and German papers. The subscription for the reading-room is five francs per month, or eight francs for reading-room and library; and for a longer period, less in proportion. Papy is a civil fellow; he speaks no English, but here, as elsewhere, a very little French is sufficient for visitors to procure all they want. The shop (which is open on Sundays, to accommodate the French and Germans) is a considerable resort for books and stationery. There is another bookseller in the town, Giordan, who circulates the Tauchnitz editions. Near his shop is the photographic establishment of M. Noack, whose productions are of an unusually high order. Few parties quit Mentone without carrying away some of his views of the neighbouring scenery.