Riviera Towns | Page 4

and mud. Twentieth-century merchandise stares out
at you from either side--Paris' hats and gowns, American boots,
typewriters, sewing-machines, phonographs, pianos. One of the oldest
corner buildings, which looks as if it needed props immediately to save
you from being caught by a falling wall, is the emporium of enamel
bathtubs and stationary washstands, with shining nickel spigots labeled
"Hot" and "Cold." These must be intended for the villas of the environs,
for surely no home in this old town could house a bathroom. Where
would the hot water and cold water come from? And where would it go
after you opened the waste-pipe?
But there are sewers, or at least drains, on the hillside. Grasse has
progressed beyond the gare-à-l'eau stage of municipal civilization.
Before your eyes is the evidence that you no longer have to listen for
that cry, and duck the pot or pail emptied from an upper window. Pipes,
with branches to the windows, come down the sides of the houses.
They are of generous size, as in cities of northern countries where much
snow lies on the roofs. Since wall-angles are many, the pipes generally
find a place in corners. They do not obtrude. They do not suggest zinc
or tin. They were painted a mud-gray color a long time ago.
After lunch, we strolled along the Boulevard du Jeu-de-Ballon, the

tramway street. In old French towns, the words boulevard and tramway
are generally anathema. They suggest the poor imitation of Paris, both
in architecture and animation, of a street outside the magic circle of the
unchanged which holds the charm of the town. But sometimes, in order
to come as near as possible to the center of population, the tramway
boulevard skirts the fortifications of the medieval city, or is built upon
their emplacement. It is this way at Grasse. One side of the Boulevard
du Jeu-de-Ballon is modern and commonplace. The other side
preserves in part the buildings of past ages. Here and there a bit of
tower remains. No side street breaks the line. You go down into the city
through an occasional arched passage.
We stopped for coffee at the Garden-Bar, on the modern side of the
boulevard. The curious hodge-podge opposite, which houses the
Restaurant du Cheval Blanc and the Café du Globe, had caught the
Artist's eye. The building, or group of buildings, is six stories high,
with a sky-line that reflects the range of mountains under which Grasse
nestles. Windows of different sizes, placed without symmetry or
alignment, do not even harmonize with the roof above them. Probably
there was originally a narrow house rising directly above the door of
the Cheval Blanc. When the structure was widened, upper floors or
single rooms were built on ad libitum. The windows give the clew to
this evolution, for the wall has been plastered and whitewashed
uniformly to the width of over a hundred feet, and there is only one
entrance on the ground floor. Working out the staircases and floor
levels is a puzzle for an architect. We did not even start to try to solve it.
The Artist's interest was in the "subject," and mine in the story the
building told of an age when man's individual needs influenced his life
more strongly than they do now. We think of the progress of
civilization in the terms of combination, organization, community
interest, the centralized state. We have created a machine to serve us,
and have become servants of the machine. When we thank God
unctuously that we live not as our ancestors lived and as the
"uncivilized" live today, we are displaying the decay of our mental
faculties. Is it the Arab at his tent door, looking with dismay and dread
at the approach of the Bagdad Railway, who is the fool, or we?

Backed up at right angles to the stoop of the Cheval Blanc was a
grandfather omnibus, which certainly dated from the Second Empire.
Its sign read: GRASSE-ST. CÉZAIRE. SERVICE DE LA POSTE. The
canvas boot had the curve of ocean waves. A pert little hood stuck out
over the driver's seat. The pair of lean horses--one black, the other
white--stood with noses turned towards the tramway rails. The Artist
was still gazing skylineward. I grasped his arm, and brought his eyes to
earth. No word was needed. He fumbled for his pencil. But to our
horror the driver had mounted, and was reaching for the reins. I got
across the street just in time to save the picture. Holding out cigars to
the driver and a soldier beside him on the box, I begged them to
wait--please to wait--just five minutes, five little minutes.
[Illustration: "A grandfather omnibus, which dated from the Second
Empire."]
"There is no place for another passenger. We are full inside," he
remonstrated.