Riviera Towns | Page 2

no prevailing tone of bare, baked earth to modify them
into brown and gray. On the Riviera one does not have to give up the
rich green of northern landscapes to enjoy the alternative of brilliant
sunshine.
As we rode inland toward Grasse, the effect of green underground and
background upon Oriental foliage was shown in the olives, dominant
tree of the valley and hillsides. It was the old familiar olive of Africa
and Asia and the three European peninsulas, just as gnarled, just as
gray-green in the sun, just as silvery in the wind. But its colors did not
impress themselves upon the landscape. Here the olive was not master
of all that lives and grows in its neighborhood. In a landscape where
green replaces brown and gray pink, the olive is not supreme. Its own
foliage is invaded: for frequently rose ramblers get up into its branches,
and shoot out vivid flashes of crimson and scarlet. There is also the
yellow of the mimosa, and the inimitable red of the occasional
judas-tree. Orange trees blossom white. Lilacs and wisteria give the
shades between red and blue. As if in rebellion against too much green,
the rose-bushes put forth leaves of russet-brown. It is a half-hearted

protest, however, for Grasse rose-bushes are sparing of leaves.
Carefully cultivated for the purpose of bearing to the maximum, every
shoot holds clusters beyond what would be the breaking-point were
there not artificial support. Nature's yield is limited only by man's
knowledge, skill and energy.
As we mounted steadily the valley, we had the impression that there
was nothing ahead of us but olives. First the perfume of oranges and
flowers would reach us. Then the glory of the roses would burst upon
us, and we looked up from them to the flowering orange trees.
Wherever there was a stretch of meadow, violets and daisies and
buttercups ran through the grass. Plowed land was sprinkled with
mustard and poppies. The olive had been like a curtain. When it lifted
as we drew near, we forgot that there were olives at all!
The Artist developed at length his favorite theory that the richest colors,
the sweetest scents were those of blossoms that bloomed for pure joy.
The most delicate flavors were those of fruits and berries that grew
without restraint or guidance. "Nature is at her best," he explained,
"when you do not try to exploit her. Compare wild strawberries and
wild asparagus with the truck the farmers give you. Is wisteria useful?
What equals the color of the judas-tree in bloom? Do fruit blossoms,
utilitarian embryo, compare for a minute with real flowers? Just look at
all these flowers, born for the sole purpose of expressing themselves!"
All the while we were sniffing orange-blossoms. I tried in vain to get
his honest opinion on horse-chestnut blossoms as compared with apples
and peaches and apricots. I called his attention to the fact that the
ailanthus lives only to express itself, while the maple gives sugar. But
you can never argue with the Artist when he is on the theme of beauty
for beauty's sake.
From the fairyland of the valley we came suddenly upon the Grasse
railway station, from which a funiculaire ascends to the city far above.
Thankful for our carriage, we continued to mount by a road that had to
curve sharply at every hundred yards. We passed between villas with
pergolas of ramblers and wisteria until we found ourselves in the upper
part of the city without having gone through the city at all.

We got out at the promenade, where a marvelous view of the
Mediterranean from Antibes to Théoule lies before you. The old town
falls down the mountain-side from the left of the promenade. We
started along a street that seemed to slide down towards the cathedral,
the top of whose belfry hardly reaches the level of the promenade.
Before we had gone a block, we learned that the flowers through which
we had passed were not blooming for pure joy. Like many things in this
dreary world of ours, they were being cultivated for money's sake and
not for beauty's sake. Grasse lives from those flowers in the valley
below. We had started to look for quaint houses. From one of the first
doors in the street came forth an odor that made us think of the type of
woman who calls herself "a lady." I learned early in life at the barber's
that a little bit of scent goes too far, and some women in public places
who pass you fragrantly do not allow that lesson to be forgotten. Is not
lavender the only scent in the world that does not lose by an overdose?
The Artist would not enter. His eye had caught a fourteenth-century
cul-de-sac, and