The great industry of San Remo necessarily consists in the cultivation of the olive tree; but one minor occupation is derived from the olive groves in the fabrication of articles of olive wood. That of San Remo is of a lighter colour and richer grain, and takes a higher polish than the olive wood of Sorrento. In the matter of inlaying, however, it does not appear to me that San Remo comes up to the better quality of Sorrento work, while the articles made are sold at a much higher price. The shopkeepers, I was told, consider the foreigners, and I suppose especially the English, as legitimate prey, and charge them more than the natives; nor do they ask high prices, as they do in other Italian places, with the intention of after abatement, but they stick to the price demanded, and are very stiff to move.
On one of the hill-slopes about a mile and a half out of town, we found a chocolate manufactory, the material for which comes all the way from Bordeaux.
The women when young are good-looking; many have the dark Italian eye, but, like the Mentone women, soon acquire, from the drudgery to which they are exposed, a hard-looking and dried-up appearance. They are treated as very beasts of burden, and are accustomed from early years to carry enormous loads upon their heads, far more so than at Mentone, and they glory in the amount they can carry. I have beheld one carrying an enormous log of wood on her head; and barrels, and every description of heavy articles, are constantly to be seen so carried. A lady told me she had a heavy oak table carried home to her house by her gardener’s wife, and it was thought nothing of. Such a thing as a rope and pulley, much less a crane to lift stones from the ground to the floors where masons are building a house, are utterly unknown. The women are employed as day-labourers, at something like a shilling a day, to carry the stones aloft on their heads. I have seen a woman, time after time, carrying a stone or a couple of uneven stones balanced, the one on the top of the other, on her head, up ladders nearly perpendicular, to a height of two storeys, to the stage where the masons were working. All they do is just to twist a handkerchief in a coil on the head, and then, with a most extraordinary power of balancing, they convey the load to where it is wanted. Men very seldom undertake the drudgery. If they do, they carry a lighter load, not, however, on their heads, but on the bent back or shoulders, protected by a sack. I have observed a woman carrying a stone on her head which it took four of them to lift. Their skulls and spines no doubt thicken and acquire some strange amount of hardy strength, but any nobler faculty must be crushed out of them; yet they never seem to feel their degradation, and would resent, I presume, the introduction of appliances by which their labour would be saved, and at the same time a means of livelihood taken from them.
Of all the instances, however, of this nature which I witnessed, the most marvellous was that of carrying a pianoforte on the head. On our second visit to San Remo, a lady informed me she had seen this sight. It seemed truly incredible, and perhaps, as she was an American, I was at first inclined to set it down to the national tendency to imaginative exaggeration. I looked anxiously for visual corroboration, seeing being in such a case believing, and I was not disappointed. The very day of leaving I had the good fortune to witness the scene, and was thus enabled to give full credit to the story. Happening to be in town, I met three women walking steadily along the street, their bodies erect, one in front and two behind, with the huge load of a heavy cabinet piano on their heads. I think each had one hand, at least, raised to steady it—a very painful exertion of itself to most people. Apparently, keeping pace together, this burden was sturdily carried as if it cost them no effort; while by their side marched a man in charge, who, I was thankful to observe (although, as I have read somewhere, it may be observed elsewhere, I think at Pompeii), carried no instrument of flagellation in his hand. Probably he would condescend to assist in raising the piano at starting, and in lowering it at its destination.
On this subject the writer of the little guide-book I have already referred to (San Remo as a Winter Residence), makes these observations (p. 26):—
‘The inhabitants of both sexes, but more particularly the women, are very good-looking, especially those from the country. You see most lovely faces amongst the girls from fifteen to twenty-five; they have as a rule good figures also, and neat feet and legs. They walk remarkably well, with a firm easy step, holding themselves erect. This results from their always carrying burdens on their heads, with which they go along at a quick steady pace, uphill or down, on rough roads or smooth, without ever raising a hand to support them, unless very large or clumsy in form. You seldom see a woman without something on her head; if she has not her bundle or her panniken, she will place the pad there on which she carries them. But this constant bearing of weights on the head has another and less admirable result, which is that the women very soon lose their beauty and their youth. I am told that it is quite usual for a woman to carry 100 kilogrammes on her head (220 lbs.) up to the mountains, and this every day; she will also bring a heavy bundle of grass or something back again. The men walk beside them empty-handed, or oftener still ride the mules and donkeys. Almost all the carrying is done on women’s heads. If a man has to transport a heavy weight, he takes his wife with him to carry it. I ordered a wooden horse for my saddle; the joiner who made it brought it home certainly, but on his pretty little wife’s head, not his own. The men consider it a disgrace to carry anything, a parcel even, and a woman’s highest ambition is to keep her husband in perfect idleness. A friend of mine, an English lady, was riding on a donkey one very hot day, accompanied by my servant Giovanni, a San Remese, who was, of course, trudging on foot by her side, and reflecting the heat of the day on her face. As they went along, they met a party of country people coming down from the mountains. In passing, a man, one of the party, stopped and spoke earnestly to my servant, who gave a laughing reply. When they had passed, my friend asked what the man had said. “Oh,” replied Giovanni, “he was telling me I ought to make you get off the donkey, and ride myself instead.” We had lectured him so often on the disgrace of the men taking their ease while the women worked so hard, that he quite entered into the facetiousness of the man’s proposition, an Englishwoman being in the case.’
In the redress of these women’s wrongs, might not an excellent field for the operations of the Women’s Rights Association be found?
Photographs are not cheap in San Remo; but one photographer (P. Guidi), under the direction of Signor Panizzi, has produced a large collection, numbering, I think, upwards of 150 specimens, size of nature, of the botany of San Remo. These are beautifully coloured from the plants themselves, and form a valuable and interesting illustration of the flora of the district.
We remained in San Remo from Saturday till the following Wednesday. The weather having been wet and disagreeable, we were by no means sorry when, the Wednesday morning proving fine, we resolved to quit a place where we had felt far from comfortable, and to proceed to Genoa by railway. I had, on arrival, exchanged at the banker’s a circular note, for which i got at the rate of 27·20 francs or lire per £ in Italian paper money. It was my first experience of this kind of money, and although it brought a premium of 22 francs per £10, the bundle of little notes was at first by no means assuring. However, I soon began to find it extremely convenient as well as profitable to exchange into paper. I paid the hotel bill and the railway fares both in paper, even although in the former case there was a notice up in the hotel requiring (although paper is a legal tender) visitors to pay in gold; and everywhere afterwards in Italy, paper was received as full value for what it represented. We had here for the first time to pay for all registered luggage according to weight. Putting railway fare and luggage cost together, however, the expense was, especially reckoning a deduction of 9 per cent. by use of paper, moderate. The fare first-class from San Remo to Genoa was 15 francs each, adding proportion of charge for luggage, nearly 3 francs[27] additional for each, say 18 francs or 15s., and deducting exchange, 13s. 4d. for a journey of about eighty-five miles, which is probably about a shade more than the average at home for second-class fare for a similar distance. However, the cost necessarily varies according to the quantity of luggage registered. To most Italians, who register none, it would be so much less; to many ladies who cannot travel without innumerable dresses, so much more.
Upon escaping from San Remo, the railway leaves the coast line and keeps a little inland—at least it nowhere cuts off any of the coast towns from the sea; nor could it well do so, as nearly all are built close upon the beach. It therefore proceeds rather behind them or through their outskirts; and, partly owing to this and partly to the numerous—vexatiously numerous—tunnels through which the railway is, from the hilly nature of the country, constrained to run, the views had, of the towns at least, cannot be equal to what is obtained by driving along the Corniche road. These Italian towns are exceedingly picturesque, both in appearance and in situation, and there can be no doubt that one misses much by travelling by rail, although it must be added that the route between San Remo and Genoa by no means equals that between Nice and San Remo. Clear, pleasing photographs of the towns on the line are published, and may give one some idea of them; but they are not, with one or two exceptions, the views seen from the railway. All views from railway carriage windows, however, even where no ogre sits to pull down the blinds, labour under disadvantage, and are too transient, and often too detached and interrupted, to enable passengers to catch and retain in memory general views of any place which a railway passes. On this occasion we had the carriage to ourselves, and eagerly availed ourselves of the opportunity to draw up blinds and gaze out right and left.