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119 pages

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A distant relative of the great American writer James Fenimore Cooper, Constance Fenimore Woolson emerged as an important female literary figure in the late-nineteenth century. In this fascinating volume, she recounts her extensive travels, offering readers a glimpse into a different era -- as well as the life of an independent woman during a time when those who took such liberties were often frowned upon.

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Travel writing

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juin 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775458470
Langue	English

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MENTONE, CAIRO, AND CORFU
* * *
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON

*
Mentone, Cairo, and Corfu First published in 1896 ISBN 978-1-77545-847-0 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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At Mentone Cairo in 1890 Corfu and the Ionian Sea
*
The substance of this collection of Miss Woolson's sketches of travel inthe Mediterranean originally appeared in HARPER'S MAGAZINE. "At Mentone"was published in that periodical in 1884; "Cairo in 1890," and "Corfuand the Ionian Sea," appeared in 1891 and 1892. As presented in thisvolume, the two sketches last mentioned contain much interestingmaterial not included in their original form as magazine articles.
At Mentone
*
I
" Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluehen? "—GOETHE
It is of no consequence why or how we came to Mentone. The vast subjectof health and health resorts, of balancings between Torquay and Madeira,Algeria and Sicily, and, in a smaller sphere, between Cannes, Nice,Mentone, and San Remo, may as well be left at one side while we happilyimitate the Happy-thought Man's trains in Bradshaw, which never "start,"but "arrive." We therefore arrived. Our party, formed not by selection,or even by the survival of the fittest (after the ocean and Channel),but simply by chance aggregation, was now composed of Mrs. Trescott andher daughter Janet, Professor Mackenzie, Miss Graves, the two youthsInness and Baker, my niece, and myself, myself being Jane Jefferson,aged fifty, and my niece Margaret Severin, aged twenty-eight.
As I said above, we were an aggregation. The Trescotts had startedalone, but had "accumulated" (so Mrs. Trescott informed me) theProfessor. The Professor had started alone, and had accumulated theTrescotts. Inness and Baker had started singly, but had firstaccumulated each other, and then ourselves; while Margaret and I, havingaccumulated Miss Graves, found ourselves, with her, imbedded in theaggregation, partly by chance and partly by that powerful forcepropinquity. Arriving at Mentone, our aggregation went unbroken to theHotel des Anglais, in the East Bay—the East Bay, the Professor said,being warmer than the West: the Professor had been at Mentone before."The East Bay," he explained, "is warmer because more closely encircledby the mountains, which rise directly behind the house. The West Bay hasmore level space, and there are several little valleys opening into it,through which currents of air can pass; it is therefore cooler, but onlya matter of two or three degrees." It was evening, and our omnibusproceeded at a pace adapted to the "Dead March" from Saul through astreet so narrow and walled in that it was like going through catacombs.Only, as Janet remarked, they did not crack whips in the catacombs, andhere the atmosphere seemed to be principally cracks. But the Professorbrought up the flagellants who might have been there, and they remainedup until we reached our destination. We decided that the cracking ofwhips and the wash of the sea were the especial sounds of Mentone; butthe whips ceased at nightfall, and the waves kept on, making a softmurmurous sound which lulled us all to restful slumber. We learned laterthat all vehicles are obliged, by orders from the town authorities, toproceed at a snail's pace through the narrow street of the "old town,"the city treasury not being rich enough to pay for the number of woodenlegs and arms which would be required were this rule disregarded.
The next morning when we opened our windows there entered theMediterranean Sea. It is the bluest water in the world; not a clear coldblue like that of the Swiss lakes, but a soft warm tint like that ofJune sky, shading off on the horizon, not into darker blue or gray,but into the white of opal and mother-of-pearl. With the sea came inalso the sunshine. The sunshine of Mentone is its glory, its riches, itsespecial endowment. Day follows day, month follows month, without acloud; the air is pure and dry, fog is unknown. "The sun never stopsshining;" and to show that this idea, which soon takes possession of onethere, is not without some foundation, it can be stated that the averagenumber of days upon which the sun does shine, as the phrase is, all daylong is two hundred and fifty-nine; that is, almost nine months out ofthe twelve. "All the world is cheered by the sun," writes Shakespeare;and certainly "cheer" is the word that best expresses the effect of theconstant sunshine of Mentone.
We all came to breakfast with unclouded foreheads; even the three fixedwrinkles which crossed Mrs. Trescott's brow (she always alluded to themas "midnight oil") were not so deep as usual, and her little countenancelooked as though it had been, if not ironed, at least smoothed out bythe long sleep in the soft air. She floated into the sunnybreakfast-room in an aureola of white lace, with Janet beside her, andfollowed by Inness and Baker. Margaret and I had entered a moment beforewith Miss Graves, and presently Professor Mackenzie joined us, radiatingintelligence through his shining spectacles to that extent that Iimmediately prepared myself for the "Indeeds?" "Is it possibles?" "Yousurprise me," with which I was accustomed to assist him, when, aftergoing all around the circle in vain for an attentive eye, he came atlast to mine, which are not beautiful, but always, I trust, friendly tothe friendless. Yet so self-deceived is man that I have no doubt butthat if at this moment interrogated as to his best listener during thatjourney and sojourn at Mentone, he would immediately reply, "MissTrescott."
People were coming in and out of the room while we were there, thelight Continental "first breakfast" of rolls and coffee or tea notdetaining them long. Two, however, were evidently loitering, under aflimsy pretext of reading the unflimsy London Times , in order to havea longer look at Janet; these two were Englishmen. Was Janet, then,beautiful? That is a question hard to answer. She was a slender,graceful girl with a delicate American face, small, well-poised head,sweet voice, quiet manner, and eyes—well, yes, the expression inJanet's eyes was certainly a remarkable endowment. It could never befixed in colors; it cannot be described in ink; it may perhaps befaintly indicated as each gazing man's ideal promised land. And thiscentre was surrounded by such a blue and childlike unconsciousness thatevery new-comer tumbled in immediately, as into a blue lake, and neveremerged.
"You have been roaming, Professor," said Mrs. Trescott, as he took hisseat; "you have a fine breezy look of the sea. I heard the wa-ash,wa-ash, upon the beach all night. But you have been out early,communing with Aurora. Do not deny it."
The Professor had no idea of denying it. "I have been as far as the WestBay," he said, taking a roll. "Mentone has two bays, the East, where weare, and the West, the two being separated by the port and the 'oldtown.' Behind us, on the north, extends the double chain of mountains,the first rising almost directly from the sea, the second and higherchain behind, so that the two together form a screen, which completelyprotects this coast. Thus sheltered, and opening only towards the south,the bays of Mentone are like a conservatory, and we like the plantsgrowing within." (This, for the Professor, was quite poetical.)
"I have often thought that to be a flower in a conservatory would be ahappy lot," observed Janet. "One could have of the perfumes, sitstill all the time, and never be out in the rain."
"I trust, Miss Trescott, you have not often been exposed to inclementweather?" said the Professor, looking up.
He meant rain; but Mrs. Trescott, who took it upon herself to answerhim, always meant metaphor. "Not yet," she answered; "no inclementweather yet for my child, because I have stood between. But the time maycome when, that barrier removed—" Here she waved her little claw-likehand, heavy with gems, in a sort of sepulchral suggestiveness, and tookrefuge in coffee.
The Professor, who supposed the conversation still concerned theweather, said a word or two about the excellent English umbrella he hadpurchased in London, and then returned to his discourse. "The firstmountains behind us," he remarked, "are between three and four thousandfeet high; the second chain attains a height of eight and nine thousandfeet, and, stretching back, mingles with the Swiss Alps. Our name isAlpes Maritimes; we run along the coast in this direction" (indicatingit on the table-cloth with his spoon), "and at Genoa we become theApennines. The winter climate of Mentone is due, therefore, to itsprotected situation; cold winds from the north and northeast, comingover these mountains behind us, pass far above our heads, and advanceseveral miles over the sea before they fall into the water. The mistral,too, that scourge of Southern France, that wind, cold, dry, and sharp,bringing with it a yellow haze, is unknown here, kept off by afortunately placed shoulder of mountain running down into the sea on thewest."
"Indeed?" I said, seeing the search for a listener beginning.
"Yes," he replied, starting on anew, encouraged, but, as usual, notnoticing from whom the encouragement came—"yes; and the sirocco iseven pleasant here, because it comes to us over a wide expanse of water.The characteristics of a Mentone winter are therefore sunshine,protection from the winds, and dryness. It is, in truth, remarkablydry."
"Very," said Inness.
"I have scarcely ever seen it equal