Although the season is winter, when most English gardens wear a doleful aspect, all around is gay with salvias, lavateras, geraniums, myrtles, pelargoniums, and other plants less or more in blossom. Specimens of the aloe and cactaceæ grow luxuriantly on the jutting points of the rocks. The mesembryanthemum is in great profusion on the terraces. Garden plants which with us are only small bushes, grow here to the dimensions of moderate-sized trees. The grounds are tended by a native gardener, who conducts the engineering of the ascending and descending pathways, and has the whole in charge during summer, when the rays of the sun blaze fiercely on the gray limestone cliffs. I ventured to suggest to the doctor the purchase of that time-worn ruined tower of the Grimaldis, which, amidst a group of olive trees, overhangs the entrance to the gardens. Cannot be done. The ruin, practically valueless, is held in heritage by six individuals, whose demands are too enormous to be dealt with. At an opposite corner of the gardens is a slip of flat ground bounded by a wall on the verge of the cliff, and here, at a projecting angle, stands a round pepper-box-looking turret, which in the olden time had been a watch-tower of the Grimaldis, commanding a fine view westwards as far as Cap Martin. From a flag-staff on its summit, the union jack—‘the meteor flag of England’—is unfurled on holiday occasions, and may have been seen incomprehensibly waving far overhead by travellers along the Corniche.
The level patch of ground which is so distinguished seems to form a kind of open drawing-room or lounge, for playing croquet, reading, and other recreations. At the inner side of it there is an arched alcove with a slight trickle of water, affording growth to ferns and some other plants; and here in the cool shade, swinging his hammock, Dr Bennet at certain hours indulges in the pleasures of a lazaroni existence. While his old friends the London physicians are driving through drizzling sleets and choking smoky fogs, he, by an intelligent if not compulsory restraint, is lolling in his hammock on the cliffs of Grimaldi, enjoying the pure air and sunshine in the midst of a little garden of Eden—the elegant pursuit of botanical science in a bland climate skilfully protracting a life which had formerly been in jeopardy. All cannot follow his example, nor is it desirable they should do so, but to how many professionals approaching their grand climacteric is the example, at all events, eminently suggestive?
The slopes to the sea-shore, after passing Grimaldi, if less picturesque, possess an interest from archæological circumstances. The land, rich and beautiful, had pertained to a number of families of distinction, each with a palazzo of old Italian architecture, the approach to which had been by lofty gateways, surmounted by heraldic devices, and opening on the old Roman way. As that way is now broken up, and all but impassable, the palazzos are in the awkward position of being left without a road. All that can be done is to make pathways down to them from the modern Corniche, and in a country where donkeys play so important a part in social economy, the absence of regular roads is perhaps not esteemed a serious inconvenience. If anybody wants to buy a palace with fifty to a hundred acres of land on the borders of the Mediterranean, here is his chance. Revolutions and what not have cleared out the old families. The actual proprietors are living somewhere in penury and obscurity; their palazzos are shut up, with boards in the windows instead of glass; and the only major-domo is a peasant dwelling in an outhouse, to take charge of the grounds. Several properties were pointed out to me (1869) as being for sale.
The idea of making an investment in Italy may not be pleasing. One never knows what may turn up. Possibly, this is being too sensitive. Distance is said ‘to lend enchantment to the view,’ but it sometimes also lends unnecessary apprehensions. On the spot, everything looks as composed and harmless as may be, and whatever political turmoils may occur, this cosy nook in the Riviera offers a retreat not likely to be molested. It is a great thing to acquire a palazzo and the importance of a seigneur for two or three thousand pounds—to make your own oil and wine, eat your own oranges and figs, and have boating and yachting to any imaginable amount. It is something in the catalogue of recommendations, that the authorities at the neighbouring town of Ventimiglia are delighted (and no wonder) to see Englishmen buying properties about them; any one, therefore, settling down in the neighbourhood, may expect to be treated with profound civility and consideration. Then, think of being within an hour’s drive of France—Mentone quite at hand, whence friends can come to see you on all occasions during the season, and the douaniers at the frontier giving no sort of trouble. I retain a vivid recollection of the richly-prolific grounds which environ these old and traditionally dignified palazzos. Peeping within the gateway, you see an enclosure exuberant in orange, citron, and fig trees, with vines trained from pillar to pillar over the silent approach. Amidst the foliage towers the old gray battered edifice, shut up, and sorrowful, with nothing to animate the scene but the swallows wheeling in their busy flight around the deserted mansion. My visit to these palazzos was in the month of January, when peas (probably raised for market) were in full bloom.
An English gentleman has bought one of these properties, the Palazzo of Orengo, near Cap Murtola, and renovated it in first-rate style. The mansion occupies a site so prominent as to command a view of Mentone. With the grounds and some water privileges, it was a cheap purchase. Even with cost of repairs, it was a prodigious bargain. Politely invited to the palazzo, we went in a hired carriage from Mentone, but unexpectedly found that it could not take us further than a point on the high-road overlooking the house, two hundred feet beneath. A walk down, and the use of a donkey up for Madame, made all easy. I was of course interested in the interior of the structure, with its white marble stairs, its inlaid floors, and loggia off the drawing-room, in the upper floor of the mansion. In every old palazzo two things appear to have been essential, a draw-well and a loggia. The draw-well is here situated at one side of the marble-paved entrance-hall; being, however, tastefully enclosed, it does not appear out of place. Without a loggia, it would be scarcely possible to exist in the heats of summer. At Orengo, the loggia is a square apartment, open on two sides, the roof being supported on pillars. Seated in this shady retreat, the family enjoy the pleasures of the open air, with a view of the gardens beneath and the adjacent sea-beach. A flight of steps on the side next the sea leads down to the original entrance to the grounds from the old Roman road, here distinctly traced, about twelve feet wide.
Conducted over the gardens, I had the pleasure of being shewn a variety of trees and shrubs natural to a tropical climate, and rarely seen in the open air in Europe. During the short ramble, I learned some facts regarding the antiquity of the water channels which one observes everywhere, and of the punctilious way in which custom and legal rights guard the privileges of the proprietors. The water for the grounds is led from a torrent, which at certain times turns a mill for pressing oil from the olives. In consideration of the priceless value of water, something like a grudge was felt that there was somewhere hereabouts a subterranean river which had its outlet in the sea, where it could be seen boiling up and running to waste. Nobody could tell where it came from. All that could be conjectured was that it found its way through the limestone rocks from some place far distant, it might be a hundred miles off. If that river could be but tapped, and diverted to some useful purpose, what visions of wealth for the neighbourhood! Perhaps, thought I, this may come about. What a prize for the Mentonians if they could manage to tap and impound a subterranean and ever-running river! A gold mine would be nothing to it.
Palazzo of Orengo.
Observing English newspapers on a table in the house, a talk ensued about the irregularities of the French postal system. On settling here, the Times was ordered from London viâ Mentone, but so frequently was it late in arriving, that at length the expedient was tried of procuring it by way of Turin and Genoa (some hundreds of miles about), and ever since it had arrived with regularity and despatch. I am glad to have at least one good thing to say of Italian administration, and were the circumstance properly known, it might shame the French into an improved system of forwarding English newspapers to strangers residing in their country. In the pleasant society at Orengo, a few hours sped quickly away. On our departure, after being hospitably entertained, a school of little girls, under charge of their mistress, stood awaiting us on the road. It was an agreeable surprise. At a signal, before entering our carriage, which had been in attendance at the village, they united in singing a hymn expressive of good wishes. Having concluded, they individually presented us with bouquets of sweet-scented violets, and kindly courtesied an adieu.