CANNES.

When we arrived at Cannes, we could see by an occasional glimpse through a chink in the obstructive blinds, that everything was bright and beautiful and gay in the sunshine. It was quite a new scene to us, and gave a charming idea of Riviera life.

Waiting the arrival of the Paris train at Cannes, there are often, besides the usual very long row of omnibuses, many private carriages and always carriages for hire. Relatives had preceded us by about eight or ten days, and we desired, if possible, to join them. Just outside the station, looking for one of them, I was at once besieged by porters wanting to take our petits bagages. I asked one by whom I was importuned, how much he demanded to carry them to our friends’ quarters, little more than half a mile off. ‘Five francs.’ I doubt if I thanked him sufficiently; and we drove off in one of the little carriages which were there waiting employment, the fare for which was 1 franc 50 centimes. The house in which our friends were was full, and we found accommodation in the neighbouring Hotel du Pavillon. This is a large, good, first-class hotel, frequented by English people, and is situated on the west bay, with a garden, such as most of the hotels at Cannes have, in which were palm and orange trees, the latter bearing their golden fruit. They sent for our heavy luggage, which had been lying for a week at the station, suffering no loss save that of a new rope which had been tied round one of the boxes, and which was feloniously stolen and theftuously away taken, as in Scotland Her Majesty’s advocate for Her Majesty’s interest would have charged the culprits if he had only known who they were.

Cannes is very picturesquely situated. The old town, which is not savoury, fortunately rests out of sight upon an elevation or ridge which is crowned by the cathedral church and two old towers, which give a distinctive mark to the place, and are seen in most representations of Cannes. From this height, and still better from greater heights behind the town, an admirable view is obtained all round. But taking our position on the ridge, we find the hill slopes down from it away to the south, and reaching the road below, extends seaward by a short projection, partly natural and partly artificial, forming a breakwater on one side, and pier on the other, terminated by a lighthouse. The ridge and this projection divide the waters into two distinct portions, constituting the east and west bays. About two to three miles to the southward, Les Isles de Lerins, two long strips of islands—Ste. Marguerite, with its fortifications fronting the town, and St. Honorat—lie stretched along, giving a natural shelter on the south to the little port of Cannes, and, except in the neighbourhood of the fort, both covered with tall pine trees. The harbour or port, surrounded on two sides by lofty houses, warehouses, and public buildings or hotels, is right under us, on the east side of the ridge, and does not aspire to receiving more than a few sloops or vessels of small burden and a large number of boats, apparently intended principally for pleasure sailing—although, if this be their purpose, the number seemed out of all proportion to the slender demand. On the north side of this bay, the new town—the business part of Cannes—has been built. The main street, long, and lined with numerous shops, runs through the centre of it, with streets branching off right and left. It is the highway to Nice, and forms part of the famous Corniche road, which proceeds from Marseilles to Genoa along the coast. Immediately behind the town, the ground rises, and at one part becomes a low hill crowned by a few straggling houses and solitary trees. A handsome promenade has been constructed along the beach, upon which a few of the best hotels and some magnificent villas, with their large interposing gardens full of exotic trees and plants, are situated, imparting a bright and gay look to the walk. About a mile and a half or two miles to the eastward of our point of view, we see a range of hills, the shoulder of which is called California. This range, covered with pine trees, affords shelter to Cannes from the east wind; and from its extremity at California, the hill slopes sharply down, and then the ground runs far out into the water, forming a projecting arm. The last portion, of level ground, called the Croisette, reaches to a point not far from the island of St. Marguerite, and constitutes a natural breakwater to the bay and harbour on the east side. Some miles farther to the eastward, the long, low, hilly, narrow, projecting promontory called the Antibes protrudes still more into the sea, and affords additional protection, while it creates another fine bay, greater in extent, in which a fleet of French men-of-war is often seen lying at anchor or at exercise.

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On the west side of the old ridge, the sea retreats in a large, beautiful bay, called the Gulf of Napoule,—or more commonly, the west bay,—the west boundary of which, several miles distant across the sea, is formed by the glorious range of mountains called the EstÉrels or Estrelles. These stretch out a long way seaward, and are always a picturesque feature in views of Cannes. They are covered principally with a rich dark green, which, I suppose, is due to the existence of pine forests; but in some parts, especially towards the ocean, they are bare, steep, and rocky. Irregular, and in some places even ragged-looking in outline, and varying in height, some of them are said to be as high as 4000 feet. Though much less extensive, they are to Cannes very much what the mountains of Mull are to Oban. Only they have not the constantly-changing aspect which confers so great a charm upon the Scottish hills. This is partly owing to the greater serenity of the atmosphere, three-fourths of the days being clear and sunny, without a cloud; but chiefly because the sun gets so soon round upon the mountains that they are early in the forenoon thrown into shade, giving no doubt a murkier and grander aspect, but making the separate markings less distinctly visible. The Estrelles have been photographed as in moonlight, in which they are very beautiful, but the moonlight effect so shown is a mere trick of the photographer.

To the north of Cannes, and about three or four miles inland, the village of Cannet lies upon rising ground; and, I presume, from being away from the sea, it is preferred by some invalids to Cannes. Farther off, and distant about nine or ten miles from Cannes, the town of Grasse, famous for its manufacture of perfumes, is built among gardens devoted to the culture, for their essences, of roses, orange trees, heliotropes, and other odoriferous plants. Indeed, Cannes itself manufactures perfumes, and around are some gardens filled with a short or stunted species of acacia, growing to about the size of a large gooseberry bush, and bearing globular yellow flowers from which perfume is extracted. Beyond Grasse, the landward panorama is bounded on the north by distant mountain chains.

It is at all times difficult to realize a place from description, even with the aid of the pictorial art; but perhaps from this short delineation it may be perceived that there is a marked character about the site, locality, and features of Cannes. But when to the natural formation the glorious colouring is added which it derives from the brilliant blue of the ocean and the scarcely less brilliant blue of the sky in the bright sunny days which usually mark the weather; the rich varied greens of the abounding foliage; the tropical character of the gardens; and the enlivening effect produced by the often fanciful forms of the houses, painted in luminous whites and yellows picked out upon their jalousies with green and other contrasting tints, and glowing in their red-tiled roofs, it will at once be seen that there must be a signal beauty and picturesqueness about the landscape which cannot fail to arrest the eyes of those to whom this phase of scenery is new.

But Cannes was never a town of any importance until Lord Brougham took up his residence there. It happened in the year 1831 that his lordship was detained at Cannes by the prevalence somewhere of a pestilence. He was so much struck with the natural features of the landscape and the suitability of the place for winter residence, and so impressed, that he soon thereafter acquired ground on the west bay, where he built a house, to which he used regularly every winter to resort, and where, on 7th May 1868, he died. His example brought many English people to the locality, and Cannes is now in the winter season such a place of fashionable resort for English and Scotch families, that it may be regarded as completely an English colony, there being but a sprinkling of other nationalities. It is accordingly in both bays studded with villas, and filled with numerous large hotels, the latter said to number upwards of fifty. There are no less than three English (Episcopal) churches, and in the west bay, near the town (the handsome gift of Sir John M’Neill, who has a residence in the suburbs), a Scotch Presbyterian church. There are also both French and German churches. The population of Cannes has increased wonderfully since Lord Brougham led the fashion to it, and it is now, I believe, considerably over 10,000. A monument has been erected to his lordship in the cemetery where he is buried, and a marble bust of him has, on a long square pillar pedestal, been placed in the public gardens of the west bay. When we were last at Cannes (November 1877), it was proposed by the municipal authorities to hold a centenary celebration of the birth of Lord Brougham as the virtual founder of the town; and this festival has since (April 1879) been held, lasting four days. Nor is it any wonder that the Cannais should feel themselves under a debt of gratitude to the great English, or rather Scottish, lord. The following paragraph from an account of the fÊte, contained in the Scotsman of 4th April 1879, speaks for itself:—

‘It is a matter of unquestionable fact, that, since the days of Lord Brougham’s example to his countrymen, prosperity has flowed steadily in upon the fortunate people of Cannes. Those of them who were lucky enough to possess land, have had golden opportunities, and must have made ample fortunes out of the weak-chested but strong-pursed stranger to whom this winter climate is simply a necessity of life. The price of ground here, fit to build upon, is almost fabulous. Eight to ten thousand pounds an acre is a common rate for small lots near the town, and a site was quite recently sold, in the principal boulevard, at the enormous rate of £19,200 per acre. Even in the remotest suburbs, outside the cab radius, nothing available for building can be had under 10 francs a metre, or £1600 an acre.’

The Corniche road runs westward through, for upwards of two miles, a nearly continuous line of charming villas, and thence on to Napoule, upon the west of the bay of that name. Upon the right or east side of this road, about half a mile from the old town ridge, which may be said to bound on the west the town proper, the villa of Lord Brougham may be seen standing at the top of a gentle slope, where it commands a beautiful view of the bay and the Estrelles, though exposed to the west winds. It is of good size, but nothing remarkable. We did not, however, see the interior, nor does it seem to be shown to strangers. In being enclosed by an iron railing towards the road, it offers an exemplary exception to the rule, as nearly all the villas in that direction are enclosed by high walls which shut out the sight of the grounds within, and make the road for a long stretch dull walking. Nor is there a footpath except for a short way, although one was, when we were last there, in progress of formation, and very needful too, as after rain the road is particularly muddy, so that walking in that direction is not always inviting. But generally on an afternoon, when the occupants of the villas are out driving, their gateways are left open, and passers-by get glimpses into fascinating gardens exuberant with palm and other tropical trees, which, freed from their unsightly enclosing walls, would so enliven the way without the privacy of the inhabitants being really disturbed.

One of the most delightful residences in this neighbourhood is the chateau of the Duke of Vallombrosa. This Italian nobleman asked, as the sole recompense of services rendered to the King of Italy, the title which he now bears. His villa is in the castellated style, and stands upon an eminence—a very picturesque object in the landscape, and seen from all parts round. The grounds attached to the house—extending, I suppose, to at least eight or ten acres, and the oldest about Cannes—are, in the duke’s absence, open to visitors. To those who have not previously seen any gardens of the kind, it appears a sort of fairy-land, if such a term can be applied to a place where much of the timber is gigantic. The vegetation is rich, luxuriant, tropical, and the place looks delicious on a sunny day, under the cool shelter afforded by the trees from the rays of the sun, while here and there a fountain sends up its refreshing stream of water. Below the battlemented castle terrace, a shady grotto has been built—a cool retreat in hot weather, perhaps too cool to be safe. This garden contains many lofty specimens of a tree recently introduced into the Riviera, and everywhere to be seen there, called the Eucalyptus. A relic of the Eocene period,[17] when everything was on a huge scale, it shoots up with amazing rapidity, apparently something like ten feet in a year, and I believe ultimately reaches sometimes a height of nearly 500 feet. I have seen it stated in a colonial paper that the largest known, grown in (I think, speaking from recollection) New Zealand, has reached the height of 480 feet, and is claimed to be the highest tree in the world. Probably it is not of great age, as the growth of the Eucalyptus is much more rapid than that of the Californian trees. As it matures, it changes the form of its leaf from what it was when young, and sheds its bark. It possesses some very health-bringing properties, or is an antidote to what is insalubrious, and bears a beautiful white flower. In the duke’s gardens some of these trees are very lofty. They were, I presume, planted about twelve or fifteen years previous to our visit, and appeared to be then considerably over 100 feet.

A hill called the Croix de Garde slopes up behind the Villa Vallombrosa, or rather to the northward. It is several hundred feet high, and its summit, crowned with pine trees, commands an extensive prospect, and forms a delightful walk to those who are able to make the ascent. The view comprises the bays and all that I have already described. A little iron cross, inserted in a stone upon the top, to which no doubt some legend attaches, gives its name to the height.

The Corniche road below, running between the lines of villas, conducts to a little village called Verviers, about three miles from town. Here there is a large forest of umbrella pines bordering the coast, furnishing opportunities of study to the artist and to the photographer, and where one can enjoy a forenoon’s rambling about. The railway cuts the forest off from the shore, and flanks the beach all the way till it arrives close upon Cannes, and must therefore operate injuriously to the amenity. So far as the villas are concerned, they have, by means of bridges or otherwise, communication with the sea. Fortunately, however, for Cannes, the railway leaves the coast about half a mile from town, and passing through a tunnel proceeds by the back of the town, where the station is.

From near the point where the railway diverges from the shore, the public promenade on the west bay commences. This is lined by palm trees, but the dust and the sea air together seem inimical to their development. The main promenade is that which, commencing with the harbour, runs eastward to the point of Croisette, a distance of from two to three miles. It is a great resort of visitors both on foot and in carriages. A band of music plays alternate days on the east and west bays. In each of these bays there are bathing establishments of a construction peculiar to the Riviera, being somewhat of the nature of the Lacustrian dwellings. They are simply wooden sheds for undressing and dressing in, resting upon poles stuck firmly into the beach, with depending ladders to enable the bathers to descend to the water. As the beach shelves very rapidly down, I presume that bathers who cannot swim must always be in charge of an attendant or be tied by a rope; but whether it was that the bathing may have taken place at an early hour, I have hardly ever seen any person indulging in a bath at Cannes during our brief visits, although the temperature is seldom such throughout the winter as to forbid the exercise to persons in good health either at this or at other parts of the province. I have seen at Nice (a colder place than Cannes) people bathing towards the end of November. By a strange fatality, for one can hardly suppose it to be the result of deliberate arrangement, we observed that close by each of the bathing establishments a drain has been run into the sea, the same practice occurring also at Biarritz. These drains are so odoriferously disagreeable as to make it unpleasant to walk along the promenade, while one would think that some parts of Cannes ought in consequence to be unhealthy. At all events, they must to a certain extent nullify the good got from residence at this otherwise agreeable and fashionable watering-place.

Near the point of Croisette, there is a large orange garden which has been dignified with the name of the garden of the Hesperides. The oranges are cultivated for sale, and the trees are covered with the yellow fruit. In all the private gardens orange trees grow, and sometimes, though rarely, lemons, which I understand do not flourish at Cannes so well as elsewhere in the Riviera—a symptomatic sign indicative of a colder climate; for the lemon is a very delicate tree, requiring warmth and shelter, and being injured or killed by frost. There are also many arbutus trees in the gardens, bearing rich red soft berries nearly an inch in diameter, which are edible, and become ripe about November or December, and are sometimes, I have been informed, put down as dessert at hotel tables. The oranges do not ripen till February, although the fruit is on the trees all the year round.

At Croisette there is a depÔt for the sale of the earthenware, tinted with a peculiar blue or with a livid green, of which many fancy articles are made in the neighbouring town of Vallauris; but the stuff is brittle, and it is not advisable to purchase for bringing home any articles with slender handles—they break so easily off, while they can be bought at home in china shops.

One of the favourite drives is to California, upon the slope of which some new large hotels have been built, from which the views must be fine; but the situation, though healthy, is rather inconveniently distant from the town, and involves a pull up hill, which perhaps puts walking up beyond the power of invalids. We drove there on the 18th November. The sun had risen gloriously in the morning. There was not a speck of cloud on the sky. The day was broiling hot, and it was difficult to realize that we were no longer in July, but in a time of year when at home we should have had cold wintry weather. So warm, indeed, had we felt it at Cannes, that we were under the necessity of throwing off the extra clothing we had donned at Paris and Lyons. The road is steep, and the ascent fatiguing to horse and man, to the point where the reservoir, which supplies Cannes with water, is placed. Here we left the carriage and climbed to the top of the hill over above, the view from which amply repaid the exertion. Had we gone to a farther height, we should have seen the Alpes Maritimes; but from the height at which we arrived, the view was magnificent, the Estrelles lying straight out to the west, Antibes to the east, and the Lerins lying, to appearance, almost below us to the south. In a glowing sunshine such as we then had, the Mediterranean is always of a brilliant deep blue, while the sky is also of a rich blue of a lighter shade. One can hardly realize the beauty of the scenery beheld on such a day without having previously witnessed another like it. Such days would live in our recollection even more than they do, were they not, during several months’ residence in the Riviera, of so frequent occurrence.

During the winter season, there is, for the accommodation of visitors, a tiny steamer, perhaps about the magnitude of Fulton’s first steamboat, mayhap the identical one, which, for a fare of 2 francs (return ticket), crosses to the islands of Ste. Marguerite and St. Honorat. We resolved to spend a forenoon on Ste. Marguerite, and, with about twenty or thirty passengers on board, crossed, leaving at eleven o’clock and returning at four. The boat stopped at a little quay below the high walls of Fort Monterey. Here we got out, and the whole party landing, went up to see the fort, which is doubly famous as the place where Bazaine was confined and from which he escaped, and where ‘the man in the iron mask’ was so long imprisoned. Like some other French forts, it is not at present occupied by soldiers, though a regular fortification in masonry, and capable of affording protection against vessels seeking to attack Cannes. A man placed as resident in the fort accompanied us to the rooms which had been occupied by Bazaine. The suite of apartments was extensive, and bore anything but the appearance of a prison-house. Except for the involuntary confinement, one might regard it as a charming residence; and in its recent occupation was a public remonstrance against the barbarity of laws which imprison convicted persons who have hitherto enjoyed a good social position in the same cells as ordinary criminals, to whom such cells are in truth more comfortable than their own miserable dirty homes. We were then taken to the spot where it is said that Bazaine escaped by descending the wall and rock. The height is not great, and a descent in the daylight would be no great achievement. It would no doubt be more difficult and perhaps dangerous in the dark, and it is even alleged that the Marshal was allowed to walk out by the gate. There is no great improbability in this story, seeing that the French had gained all they wanted by a condemnation of this officer as a scapegoat for their want of success. The room in which the ‘man in the iron mask’ was confined, was much more like a prison—a cell with massive thick walls. We saw the hole through which he is said to have dropped the billet which was picked up by a fisherman.

There has been placed in this fort one of those semaphores which are studded along the coast of France, by which signals are or used to be made, and which, before the introduction of the electric telegraph, were no doubt useful. From the battlements we had a clear view of the magnificent landscape before us, which embraced on the extreme right distance the snowy peaks of the Maritime Alps. We left the fort, and wandered over the island and through the trees, with which the greater part of it is covered, lunched al fresco, and enjoyed our forenoon very much. It is an island we could have wished transported, with all its surroundings and its sunshine, to our own shores.

We spent fifteen days on this occasion at Cannes. It is a nice place for winter residence for those who are in good health; but I doubt whether, notwithstanding the records of the thermometer, it be sufficiently warm—at least, whether it affords sufficient shelter—for delicate invalids, being apparently a good deal more open to north and west winds than some other places in the Riviera. Before we arrived, there had been not a little rain, and the roads were very dirty. While we remained, we had still more; but the usual weather all along the Riviera is dry and fair, and it is of dust one has most to complain. There is no river meriting the name debouching within the limits of the town, although their insignificant beds are speedily filled when heavy rain falls.

Like most places on the Riviera, there is abundance of marble used in the houses and hotels. It is not altogether without its drawbacks and its dangers. Stair steps are of marble, and it is requisite to be careful in descending. On one occasion I slipped upon a marble step and fell on my back, and might, had the fall been more direct, have received permanent injury; but in the winter time carpets are usually laid on the stairs.

It is said that there are snakes and venomous green lizards. We never saw any snakes, and though there are plenty of lizards running nimbly about and up the walls, diving out of sight into hiding holes, yet sometimes leaving a little of their long tails sticking out, I cannot vouch for these being either venomous or innocuous. They look pretty gentle creatures, and one is rather savage to see men and boys throwing stones at them.

A real pest, however, to which all are exposed at Cannes and kindred places, is the plague of the mosquitoes, which abound in hot weather. We were told they were off by the 1st of November, but we found upon arrival at Cannes, and throughout our stay there, that this insect plague was in full force. It is a small gnat, with long legs and yellowish-brown wing. The first thing that we did was to kill as many as we could see resting on ceiling, walls, or bed, and this is best effected by coming quickly down upon them with a damp towel; but they are very agile, and unless the arm be vigorous and prompt, they escape the swish. They are also remarkably knowing and cunning, and soon discover when an enemy is bent on their destruction, when they manage unaccountably to disappear. Nay, even without attack made, they will hide themselves during the day, conscious that they will get a good feed during the night. Every now and then they came buzzing about you with a peculiar hum, which becomes more loud just when the insect is about to strike. This it does by driving its proboscis like a lancet into the skin, extracting a drop of blood, and leaving behind, I fancy, a minute drop of poison or other cause of irritation, producing a small red mark. Most people do not suffer inconvenience from the bite itself beyond the mark it leaves, and with which the brow, a favourite point of attack, soon gets dotted over. One lady at Cannes was so severely bitten that she could hardly see, her eyes being nearly closed by the effects of the bites, so much so as to prevent her coming to the table. Another lady was so affected by the bites that the parts bitten rose in large swellings, requiring her to consult a doctor, by whom they were lanced; and the cure was tedious, leaving long after marks on the skin. But the great annoyance which they occasion is their tormenting vicious hum, revealing their presence, and showing that at any moment they may be down upon you. If you wake through the night and hear this hum, it is impossible to get any further sleep. If there be anything worse than a mosquito humming about you, it is to have two of them; but one is enough to keep you lively, and furnish you with incessant employment; and where one is, there are generally plenty more. Apparently the mosquito, like the king, never dies, for as fast as one is slain another reigns in his stead. All sorts of remedies for the bite are prescribed, but we found that prevention is better than cure; and the most effectual prevention, besides taking care to close windows early and not to light a candle before closing, was to burn a pastille, specially prepared for the purpose, by placing it on an iron shovel, and just before bed-time carrying it burning round the room and holding it within the bed curtains. The smoke of it appears to stupefy the insect, although it does not kill it; and in the morning the mosquitoes, evidently wanting to get out to breathe the fresh air and take their revenge at night, fly in a sickly condition to the windows, where, or elsewhere about the room, they are easily killed. When killed, a bloody streak is left, indicating they have been fed somewhere. One extraordinary circumstance is that, although the fecundity of this creature is enormous,[18] yet those which find their way into rooms are comparatively few, and it puzzles one to know where the rest go to. I believe the insect’s existence is not so much due to great heat as to bad drainage. We found Cannes to be worse than Mentone, and HyÈres worse than Cannes; but by Christmas-time, when cold weather has set in, they nearly vanish, although, when a fire is lighted, sometimes they are either attracted or revived, but are then in a weakly condition.